‘Part of your gang?’
‘Don’t look, you’ll not notice them.’
Larry knew full well that a black man in London did not look out of place, although there were certain areas where a white man would. He was aware that Rasta Joe had supplied the information necessary to pressure Hughenden, but without proof, the man would slide out from under.
Chapter 13
Alex Hughenden had walked from the Challis Street Police Station a confident man. He knew they had nothing on him, although he had allowed them to get under his skin a few times. He determined to take care not to let it happen again. He could never understand why others allowed themselves to be caught, although greed seemed likely. He had always been careful to keep his criminal activities at a moderate level, knowing full well that the occasional illegal activity would not be visible.
Over the years he had made a fortune, but was always careful to conceal it: no rash purchases of expensive cars, no overt signs of obscene wealth. The houses he had purchased could be seen as the wise investments of a successful businessman and certainly within the realms of possibility from the takings of his jewellery shop. It was small, but it only dealt in the best, to an exclusive clientele who were more concerned with the beauty of the object than its cost. Nevertheless, they would always brag to their socially-paranoid acquaintances about how much they had paid; almost a badge of honour to show that money meant little to them.
He knew these people for what they were, and he did not like them very much. He much preferred the humble people at his church. Hughenden had grown up in a strictly Methodist God-fearing family: the patriarch, the manager of the local bank. He had advised the young Alex well. ‘Look after your money, invest wisely and don’t show it off to others. They will only be jealous.’
His father had forgotten one lesson, don’t get involved in crime, which is what the young Alex did as soon as he was able to figure the percentages on the deal.
‘To give you a good religious grounding,’ his father had said when the young Alex had complained at being sent to a cold and dusty boarding school. Two years later, when he was ten, Alex learnt the truth during an unexpected visit to his father’s bank. He had caught him sitting on his desk with his personal assistant kneeling in front of him. His father had made light of the matter, said he had a stomach ache and she was attempting to massage the sore area.
Young Alex, only ten and unknowledgeable of such matters, remembered later the magazines of some of the older boys at the school and then realised what he had just seen.
From that day on, the relationship between father and son had deteriorated, and no more was mentioned about what had occurred. His mother, oblivious to her hypocritical bigot of a husband, went to her grave believing in him totally. Alex had wanted to tell her when he was older, but never did. He knew he had made the right decision in at least ensuring that one member of his family was blissfully ignorant of the realities of life.
His mother had believed in good and bad, heaven and earth, and her husband. Her son had only one belief, the percentage and what was in it for him. He knew that at the church he was as insincere as his father, but he never cheated them, and he certainly did not indulge in blowjobs with his secretary, not that he had one, and although the lady who helped him at the weekend was attractive, he never made a play for her.
Hughenden was a celibate man. The roughness of O’Shaughnessy had tempted him, although he knew full well what the man’s reaction would be, and besides, he liked his life the way it was: alone and self-contained.
***
Wendy, alerted by Larry after his conversation with Rasta Joe, maintained her vigil, although she could not stay indefinitely waiting for the first sign of criminal intent on Hughenden’s part, and besides it could be weeks, months before he made a move.
She was sitting in a café opposite observing his shop, but there were only so many cups she could drink in a day.
Larry joined her. ‘Anything?’ he asked.
‘What do you expect? That he’s buying stolen jewellery every five minutes?’ Wendy said tersely. The caffeine was starting to get to her, and her DI’s breath stank.
‘Of course not. What do you suggest?’
‘What are we trying to achieve? I thought we were after a murderer, not someone who deals in stolen goods.’
‘We need a lever on our man opposite. He’s squeaky clean, too clean, and he knows something.’
‘No criminal record?’
‘Nothing of importance, and that’s bugging us. Hughenden’s fencing stolen jewellery, and he’s too smart by half. He made mincemeat of DCI Cook and me.’
‘He’s the Mister Big?’
‘Not sure, but probably not. It would need more than one individual.’
‘Hughenden doesn’t fit the bill?’ Wendy asked.
‘The man rarely travels out of the country, and it would need personal meetings to pull off the scale of the drugs being imported.’
‘We can’t sit here indefinitely. If you want to get this man, we need to research stolen goods, known thieves. Then we might stand a chance. I could work with Bridget on this,’ Wendy said.
‘I’ll concentrate on where O’Shaughnessy has gone. If we can find him, then he may rat on Hughenden. Either we wrap this up soon, or DCI Caddick is back.’
‘I suggest we work overtime then. Nobody wants him back in the office.’
‘Agreed.’
‘If you don’t mind my bluntness, DI,’ Wendy said, ‘buy some mints, the strong ones, or your wife is going
