‘Criminal then?’
‘He sang in the church choir.’
‘What changed?’
‘Ganja and gangs.’
‘And you, sir?’ Wendy asked.
‘Joining a gang was for losers.’
Larry changed the subject. ‘There’s still Rodrigo Fuentes. According to Rasta Joe, he got on the wrong side of the syndicate. We should still follow up on him. It may lead somewhere.’
‘Pinto had mixed feelings when he was granted bail,’ Isaac said. ‘The man had given us valuable evidence. The syndicate would want him dead.’
‘That’s the word on the street,’ Larry reminded him. ‘So far, Dougal Stewart’s death is the only one we can confirm.’
‘Rodrigo Fuentes. What do we know about him?’
‘Not much. According to Rasta Joe, he operated in the area, importing drugs from South America, and selling to whoever was willing to pay his price.’
‘And he’s believed dead?’ Isaac asked.
‘May not be true, but we should check.’
‘And Devlin O’Shaughnessy and his offsider, Steve. Did we ever get a name for that man?’
‘Steve Walters. Bridget identified him off a photo that Pinto had. We’ve an APW out for both of them, but they could be anywhere.’
‘Even six feet under,’ Isaac said.
‘Or floating down the Thames,’ Wendy added.
***
Rasta Joe, a man who had deliberately distanced himself from the police before, was now very accessible. Larry had suggested meeting with Isaac, and the man had agreed. Not that Isaac was pleased when he had been informed that they were to meet that day, but out of the city. ‘It’s too dangerous for me to meet you in public,’ Rasta Joe had said.
‘You can always come down the police station,’ Larry said.
‘They’ll have someone watching. No one’s safe, not even me.’
‘Why? What have you done?’
‘I’ve met you.’
‘Have they contacted you?’
‘I can sense they’re watching.’
‘Sense them?’ Larry asked.
‘You’d not understand.’
Larry knew that a Rastafarian believed in the power of ganja to discover their inner consciousness, but he supposed that if Rasta Joe was feeling the effects of the drug, he might well have thought he had the ability to sense something that was not there. Not that it concerned Larry. He had the all clear to take Isaac with him.
The three men met in Guildford, a small town to the south of London.
‘Rasta Joe, this is DCI Cook,’ Larry said as the men met in the back room of a local pub.
‘How are you, Isaac?’
Fine. And you, Joseph?’
‘DCI Cook said that he knew you.’
‘We were friends back then,’ Rasta Joe said.
‘And now?’ Larry asked.
‘A lot of water under the bridge since then,’ Isaac said.
‘Your boss is right,’ Rasta Joe said, talking to Larry. ‘We don’t see eye to eye.’
‘Now’s not the time to rake up the past,’ Isaac said.
‘Did you find the man who grassed on them?’ Rasta Joe asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘The word on the street is that he’s dead.’
‘What else does the street say?’
All three men had a pint in their hand. Isaac remembered the last time he had met Joseph Brown, the choir boy. Back then he had been a decent person, but now he was scum. Isaac did not like his fellow Jamaican, but this was not the time to show ill feeling. Whatever the future held for Isaac and the current case, it seemed that Rasta Joe was to be an integral part of it.
Rasta Joe waited for Larry to bring him another pint. The frightened man was still able to enjoy himself at the police’s expense. ‘Whoever’s running this organisation, he’s got powerful friends, and nobody’s safe, not even the police.’
‘What do you interpret that to mean?’ Larry asked.
‘You need to be scared, the same as me.’
‘Were we mentioned directly?’
‘That’s not how they operate. It’s by veiled threats, intimidation, a dead body in the canal.’
‘But they mentioned Pinto?’
‘Not directly. Only that the person who had grassed had been dealt with, and anyone else that crosses them can expect the same.’
‘Did they say where he had been killed? What had happened to the body.’
‘You’ll find him soon enough,’ Rasta Joe said.
‘I thought Rastafarians didn’t drink alcohol,’ Isaac said. He had left the majority of the conversation to Larry; he had not forgiven his fellow Jamaican for what had happened in the past.
Larry had noted his DCI’s disdain for the man sitting opposite. He would ask him later what it was about.
‘I don’t hold with all their views.’
‘You’re heavy on the ganja,’ Larry said.
‘I happen to like it.’
‘Coming back to your earlier statement, that we’ll find him soon enough,’ Isaac said.
‘They intended to make an example of Pinto. A warning to others.’
‘I would have thought Dougal Stewart would have been sufficient.’
‘Short memories out on the street. They need reminding on a regular basis.’
‘Every two weeks?’ Isaac said.
‘Maybe not so often, but Pinto’s a special case.’
‘Why are you frightened?’ Larry asked Rasta Joe.
‘As I said, I’ve been seen with you.’
‘Did they contact you?’
‘I received a phone call.’
‘Who was it?’
‘That bastard Devlin.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He told me not to take out any life insurance.’
‘Where did he phone from?’
‘No idea.’
‘We may be able to trace it,’ Isaac said, anxious to get back to London. If Pinto was dead, they needed to find him soon, as well as Rodrigo Fuentes. He knew that if they didn’t act quickly, Rasta Joe might be added to the list as well as his DI, Larry Hill.
***
DCS Goddard was in Isaac’s office on his return. He was not in a good mood, which was not unusual since Commissioner Alwyn Davies had assumed the top position at the Met. Isaac would have preferred not to have seen his DCS. There was a phone number
