Fuentes’ death didn’t ring true. No body and the syndicate’s warning was diluted, and supposedly there had been others, but who were they?’
Challis Street Police Station was responsible for the area, and there was a lot more crime going on that they didn’t know about, or at least they didn’t know about in the Homicide Department.
There had been a time in the past when a visit from Richard Goddard was always welcome, but those times were long past. ‘What’s this I hear about Vicenzo Pinto?’
‘What did you hear, sir?’
‘That your star witness is dead.’
‘We have no proof.’
‘Yet again, a laughingstock. You have a witness to the murder, and he walks out of the courtroom.’
‘He satisfied the requirements for bail.’
‘Only because you watered the charge down. It’s not that lawyer of his, pretty and female, is it?’
‘I resent that aspersion,’ Isaac responded.
‘We’ve had this conversation before. Did you go easy on Pinto because of her?’
‘No.’
‘Very well, but why didn’t you charge him with murder?’
‘The man had no criminal record, and he checked out. I could hardly charge him with murder, knowing full well that any half-smart lawyer would have had him out of here in twelve hours.’
‘You could have held him for longer.’
‘We still don’t know he’s dead,’ Isaac said.
‘You believe him to be dead though.’
‘I’m willing to concede that possibility.’
‘Good God, man. How can I protect you?’
The man’s interested in his own future, not in justice, Isaac thought.
Wendy, sensing the mood in Isaac’s office, kept her distance. She had news to tell him, but it could wait.
‘What are you doing to find Pinto?’ Goddard asked.
‘We have an APW out for him.’
‘What are they looking for, the man or a body?’
‘Both. Unless confirmed otherwise, we’ll focus on both.’
‘And if he’s dead?’
‘We’re back to square one.’
‘This Jamaican friend of yours, any help?’
‘He’s no friend of mine.’
‘What’s he got to say?’
‘Pinto’s dead. Another drug dealer is also probably dead.’
‘They’re not corpses down the morgue?’
‘No.’
‘I need this wrapped up,’ Goddard said before storming out of the office.
‘Rough, sir?’ Wendy asked when she came into Isaac’s office.
‘All the time,’ Isaac replied.
‘He’s under a lot of pressure.’
‘So are we. Anyway, what do you have?’
‘A trace on O’Shaughnessy’s phone.’
‘And?’
‘O’Shaughnessy’s phone call to Rasta Joe was made five days after DI Hill intended to arrest him.’
‘Where was the call made?’
‘Local.’
‘Can you be more precise?’
‘Bayswater. Only accurate to within fifty metres.’
‘A needle in a haystack,’ Isaac said.
‘There are literally hundreds of potential locations, and tens of thousands of people.’
‘Any more calls from O’Shaughnessy’s number?’
‘We’re going through them now. He’s not made any calls for the last few days.’
‘Which means?’
‘He’s using another phone.’
‘Trace all his phone calls; see if you can find any reference to Pinto. Also, any phone calls to his boss.’
‘A long night for Bridget and I,’ Wendy said.
‘A long night for all of us,’ Isaac replied, knowing full well that the murder of Dougal Stewart, the assumed murder of Vicenzo Pinto, were not to be the last.
***
Vicenzo Pinto, strung up as if he was a piece of meat, was barely conscious. The savage beating had almost killed him. ‘Please, let me go. I never told them anything.’
‘So how did they find out my address?’ an angry Devlin O’Shaughnessy said.
Outside it was late, and Pinto did not know where he was, although it was only four miles from the sanctity of his parents’ house. He had not enjoyed himself there, what with his mother fussing and his father lecturing about how he had wasted his life. Pinto, if he had been in a position to contemplate it, would have said that his father was a right one to talk, knowing his father’s predilection for gambling in his youth.
Steve Walters, Devlin’s offsider, stood to one side of Pinto. ‘You remember what we did to Dave?’
‘Please. I told them nothing.’
‘How come you’re out on bail?’
‘My lawyer, she was excellent.’
‘I would have said she was a miracle worker,’ O’Shaughnessy said. ‘I rob a supermarket, and I’m slammed inside for ten years, and there’s no bail for me. Either your lawyer’s screwing the black police inspector or you’ve done a deal.’
‘I swear that I’ve not made a deal,’ Pinto said. The derelict warehouse was cold and miserable, even O’Shaughnessy and Walters would admit that, but they had the benefit of clothes; Pinto did not.
‘We want the full story.’ Walters, a shorter man than his dismembering colleague, worked out at a gym in Notting Hill. His muscles bulged under his shirt.
‘I did nothing,’ Pinto panted. His feet were barely touching the ground, his arms were stretched, his wrists securely bound. ‘They had nothing on me.’
‘Their Forensics department took the car we gave you apart.’
‘They knew about Dave and that I threw him in the canal.’
‘Then why release you?’
‘I’m still charged with drug trafficking and the illegal disposal of a body.’
‘No one gets bail for drug trafficking,’ O’Shaughnessy said, punching his fist into the desperate man’s chest.
‘Before you die, you’ll tell us everything,’ Walters said.
‘Please let me down. I’ll talk.’
‘What we want is the truth. Once down, you will lie, but believe me, strung up there you will tell only the truth. All you need to worry about now is whether your death will be soon, or whether we’ll keep you strung up for another two
