‘Do what you want. I’ll not be around to see it.’
‘Why? Are you going somewhere?’
‘Galbraith will get me out.’
‘He’s that good, is he?’ Isaac asked.
‘He said you went to school with him.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Then you know he’s a smart man. He’ll deal with your charging me. Down on your arrest quota this month, are you?’
Isaac could see that the man had nothing to lose and was baiting him.
‘My client is innocent of all crimes,’ Galbraith finally spoke after his client had said his piece.
‘Mr O’Shaughnessy will have his day in court,’ Isaac said. ‘How he’s going to wriggle out of either murder when his fingerprints are everywhere is hard to see.’
‘You do know Acklam Road?’ Larry asked O’Shaughnessy.
‘I drive down it sometimes,’ O’Shaughnessy answered in a vague, disinterested manner. ‘What about it?’
‘Do you own or lease a garage there?’
‘Not likely. The bastards will steal anything up there.’
‘Then why did you leave Pinto in a freezer in one of the garages.’
‘That is a prejudiced question,’ Galbraith said. ‘Mr O’Shaughnessy does not need to answer.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t,’ Isaac said, ‘but his fingerprints are all over the place, and there are shoe prints as well. We’re aiming to match them with footwear that Mr O’Shaughnessy owns. He may have disposed of the bloodied footwear from murdering Pinto, but we’ve got all the records we need. Also, there are tyre marks in the driveway. We will be checking them as well. One way or the other, regardless of whether your client wishes to talk, we’ve got him. You know that.’
Galbraith sat still, looking Isaac straight in the eyes. He’s got enough evidence, he thought.
‘I’ll answer,’ O’Shaughnessy said. ‘Three words, maybe four. I’ve got nothing more to say.’
‘That’s six,’ Isaac replied.
‘Always so smart, aren’t you? I’m dying, and you’re going to slam me up in prison for the last few years of my life. You’re a bastard and whatever I say will make no difference. Do what you like. I’ll say no more.’
Isaac could see that they had drawn a blank with the man, although he was guilty as charged. ‘Alex Hughenden is involved,’ he said.
‘In what?’ O’Shaughnessy asked.
‘The importation and selling of large quantities of illegal drugs.’
‘You’re after him as well. He’s a successful man, you’re just a policeman. Jealous, are you?’
‘Did he give you the orders to kill three men?’
‘Why do you keep reiterating the same old tired questions? Galbraith, do I have to sit here?’
‘If you have no more to say, then no.’
‘Okay. I’ve got no more to say.’
‘So be it,’ Isaac reluctantly agreed and terminated the interview.
Outside, his senior, DCS Goddard, asked what he thought.
‘Fifty years ago, he wouldn’t have had to worry about another five years with cancer.’
‘Capital punishment, last hanging in 1964.’
‘Yes, that’s it. The man’s guilty and no smart defence lawyer, certainly not Galbraith, will get him off.’
***
Later that day, Wendy phoned in. Pinto’s father had formally identified the body. In the meantime, there was still the unresolved matter of Alex Hughenden. Len Donaldson insisted on being present when he was interviewed again. Larry, for once at a loose end, went home early. He had not seen his children for three days as he arrived home late and left early. He knew his wife would be pleased to see him.
Hughenden was known to be at his shop. Sergeant Wendy Gladstone and DCI Len Donaldson went to pick him up. The front door was locked when they arrived even though it was still early afternoon. Wendy remained at the front while Donaldson went around the back.
‘What the –?’ Donaldson shouted on arriving at the back door.
Wendy, hearing the commotion, rushed to join him.
‘It’s not looking good,’ Donaldson said.
‘We need some uniforms.’ Wendy took out her phone and called for a crime scene to be set up.
The two police officers entered through the back door. There was a general sense of chaos, with one chair upended and a box of bracelets spilled over the floor.
‘We should wait in case someone else is here,’ Wendy said. Donaldson chose to ignore her.
He moved along through the small corridor towards the front of the shop. He knew something was wrong; he could sense it. Two uniforms arrived within five minutes. Wendy phoned Isaac to update him. He recommended caution, but Donaldson, a man desperate to break the drug syndicate, was throwing caution to the wind.
‘Up here,’ he shouted back. ‘The man’s here.’
Wendy moved forward, unsure of what she was going to find, but conditioned by her work in Homicide to the sight of a dead body, although she had not wanted to see the dismembered torso of Dougal Stewart.
‘At least two hours, I’d say.’ Donaldson looked a disappointed man.
‘How did he die?’ Wendy asked, looking at the man sitting in a chair. He looked as if he was asleep.
‘Look at his neck.’
On closer examination, Wendy could see the piano wire wrapped around the man’s throat. ‘Not a good way to go,’ she said.
‘What that man could have told us,’ was Donaldson’s only comment.
***
The situation at Challis Street had become frenetic. They had started with a torso in Regent’s Canal, and now they had four bodies. Only two of them had the name of a murderer against them – Devlin O’Shaughnessy – and that man was not willing to talk.
One thing was clear to Isaac: whoever had murdered Alex Hughenden, it was not O’Shaughnessy; the man had a cast iron alibi as he was locked up in a prison cell.
‘His death is inconvenient,’ Donaldson said on his return to Challis Street Police Station.
‘Any ideas?’
