Chapter 14
There were days when Isaac Cook wondered if it was worth it. His team were working at full stretch, following all the procedures, and still receiving criticism about what they were doing, or at least, what he was doing.
He knew he was working hard, although there were three murders unresolved and one murderer still at large. It was as if Big Greg was playing them for fools. Wendy was now confident that his first name was Malcolm, after another homeless man had told her that he had once said that was his name. The board in the Homicide department now had a picture of Malcolm pinned up alongside a description of Big Greg, as well as a grainy photo that had been taken from a CCTV camera close to Arbuthnot’s house. Not that the picture had helped much, as the man’s face was not visible, concealed as it was under a baseball cap.
And to top it off, Commissioner Davies was paying a visit to Challis Street. That was not unusual in itself, as the man made a point of visiting one or two of his stations every month, but Isaac knew that it was not purely social, an attempt at rallying the troops or boosting morale – although that was pretty low in Homicide at the present time.
There had been another murder, this time Harold Hutton, a man well known in government circles, an advocate for scientific research. His throat had been cut. When the news had come through, Isaac realised that there’d be hell to pay.
Larry had been first on the scene after Hutton’s wife had found the body. Gordon Windsor had quickly identified the cause of death, or at least the implement, a razor-sharp knife, the sort that can be purchased in any high-quality kitchen shop.
‘Violent,’ Gordon Windsor’s only comment as he knelt close to the body. A pool of blood was settling on the floor, the gash in the man’s neck visible, a clear sign that his head had been yanked back to intensify his distress as his life oozed from him.
Wendy had been in the office when the phone call came through. She was out at the crime scene no more than five minutes after Larry. She took one look at the body and retreated. ‘The murderer?’ she asked Larry when he came out ten minutes later.
‘Our friend.’
‘Conclusive?’
‘Windsor will confirm, but it looks to be him.’
‘The super’s going to be peeved with this. The man was a member of parliament.’
‘Have you phoned DCI Cook?’
‘He knows,’ Wendy replied.
‘Not the best day for this to happen, is it?’
‘I can’t see how our DCI can head Commissioner Davies off on this one. That’s three murders now, and we’re no closer to solving the case.’
‘Hutton had cameras in the house. We’re checking now.’
‘Would Big Greg have known that?’
‘Probably not, they’re well concealed.’
‘Who told you about them?’
‘His wife. She’s in the next room.’
‘We’d better talk to her.’
It was a large house that reflected the status of the man. He was a vocal defender of the need for more money to be spent in the area of scientific research. Larry knew him as a blowhard, always sounding off on the television about his own importance. Wendy had seen him once or twice, always switched over to another channel. She remembered that the man had had an irritating, whining voice; it always reminded her of a foghorn, its handle slowly being cranked.
Hutton’s wife sat in a chair in a room apparently reserved for guests, not used otherwise. A policewoman sat with her, the family doctor administering care. ‘She’s suffered a relapse, a minor heart attack,’ he said.
Wendy looked at the expression on the woman’s face. It was clear that she was not conscious of her surroundings. Wendy had seen the same look on her mother’s face when she was dying. The doctor, a short man, pudgy around the waist, bald, had been kind in his estimation of his patient’s condition. ‘We’ll not get anything out of Mrs Hutton,’ Wendy said to Larry.
‘When can we talk to Mrs Hutton?’ Larry asked the doctor.
‘Her condition is terminal. Her son and daughter are on their way over.’
‘Shouldn’t she be in a hospital?’ Wendy asked.
‘It’s too late for that, and besides, I’ve known the family for years. This is where they’d choose for her to pass away, next to her husband.’
‘Have you seen Mr Hutton?’ Larry asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘Don’t then. There’s not much you can do in there.’
‘It’s what’s caused the relapse. I thought she’d last another few months, but the shock…’
Larry and Wendy left the room and walked out of the front door of the house. The usual crowd was forming, smartphones at the ready, recording every event. Wendy thought them ghoulish, or maybe they didn’t know what had happened in the house.
‘We should be able to put a name to the murderer now,’ Larry said. It was early afternoon, and the two police officers were meant to be at Challis Street for the visit of Alwyn Davies, not that either of them had any great desire to meet him. Wendy saw nothing to be gained for her: her retirement was approaching, and the rank of sergeant was as far as she was going to go. Larry still harboured hopes of making a chief inspector once Isaac moved on, and he had been attempting to study, ensure he had more qualifications to back up his promotion, although he was not too keen on
