DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

meeting the commissioner. He had run across him once before at a course, where the new commissioner, as Davies was then, had given a rousing speech about modern policing, the need to maintain cordial relations with the general public, and above all to be professional. Davies’s speech had been well received; all those attending had shaken his hand, had the obligatory photo taken with him. At the time, Larry had thought him to be a breath of fresh air, the sort of person to shake up the stuffy and regimented police force. However, since joining the Challis Street Homicide team he’d re-evaluated Davies, and after the DCI Caddick incident, where Caddick had temporarily occupied Isaac Cook’s seat, he had decided that Commissioner Alwyn Davies was tarred with the same brush as they all were: looking out for those who sucked up to them, discarding those who just got on with their jobs.

‘DCI Cook will need our support,’ Wendy said. Larry knew that she had a soft spot for the man, young enough to be her son. He had to admit that his admiration for Isaac had grown by leaps and bounds ever since he had brought him into the department. At his other station, he had been dealing with a senior who wanted his people to show him the necessary deference, even when the man, a moderate performer, did not justify it. But Isaac Cook gave his team the direction they needed, was willing to listen to suggestions, as well as criticism if valid, and supported them at every opportunity.

‘Let’s go,’ Larry said. The commissioner was due in the next thirty minutes, and he knew he’d be making a beeline for Homicide.

***

It was one of Gordon Windsor’s team that found suitable quality fingerprints. For the previous two murders, there had been no proof, other than poor-quality fingerprints, of who had committed the act. But imprinted in Harold Hutton’s blood, a set of fingerprints that could be used. The crime scene team took special care in making a copy and uploading it to a laptop.

‘We’re running a check on the fingerprints,’ Windsor said on the phone to Isaac. The DCI could tell that the man was excited. Down the corridor, no more than five minutes away from Homicide, the foreboding presence of the commissioner. Isaac had seen Davies before, never met him, and he did not like the look of him. He thought the man looked devious and menacing, although Isaac wasn’t sure if that was his own prejudice. Regardless, the commissioner was about to come in the door, and his department was on its best behaviour: files correctly labelled, everyone at their desk, casually glancing at the man who could make their lives miserable, although his tenure in the job was shaky. Another terrorist attack, foiled this time, had saved him for another day, but the media, always desperate for someone to blame, had chosen Alwyn Davies.

The man who walked into Homicide, midway between Fraud and Administration, was initially pleasant. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Cook, pleased to meet you,’ Davies said as he shook Isaac’s hand. Alongside the man stood Detective Chief Superintendent Richard Goddard, resplendent in his police officer’s uniform, the gold rings around the cuffs of his jacket.

‘One of our best,’ Goddard said. Isaac could see the signs between the commissioner and his DCS: the frowning, the raising of an eye, the subtle hand gestures. It was clear that Goddard was trying his best, but Davies was not biting.

‘There’s been a few problems, DCI,’ Davies said. It was evident the man did not intend to leave in a hurry.

Bridget came over. ‘A cup of tea, Commissioner?’ she asked.

‘Don’t mind if I do, milk, two sugars,’ the man’s reply. Isaac was annoyed; he had been trying to keep the visit short, and there was Bridget playing hostess, aiming to get through to the man with a cup of tea. Goddard continued to act as though he was interested in what Davies had to say.

‘Harold Hutton?’ Davies said. It was clear that the man was well informed, further confirmation that someone was slipping him updates. ‘You’ve got a decent set of fingerprints.’

‘We’re attempting a match,’ Isaac said.

‘The man’s been giving you the runaround,’ Davies said. He was holding his cup of tea in one hand and had sat down at one of the desks. Down the corridor, the other recipients of his visit to Challis Street waited. Isaac had seen them out of the corner of his eye. He’s not here for you, he thought.

‘That’s true,’ Isaac said. Best act of defence, Isaac thought, was to defer to the man’s superior wisdom.

‘So what are you doing?’

‘We’ve an all points out on the man.’

‘But you don’t know who he is.’

‘He’s changed his appearance, and why he was living as a tramp for so many years makes no sense.’

‘Hutton’s going to make a difference. I’m going to be asked to give answers about what we are doing to catch his murderer,’ Davies said.

‘It’s not common knowledge yet.’

‘It is where it matters. I knew the man, can’t say I liked him, but he had influence, even if his politics were suspect.’

‘That’s as maybe, Commissioner, but we can only work on evidence. We’ll place special focus on the man’s death, bring in extra people if needed,’ Isaac said. Goddard visibly shrank at Isaac’s faux pas.

‘I’d say they are needed now,’ Davies said.

‘I’ve complete confidence in DCI Cook and his team,’ Goddard said.

‘That’s what you said when that mad woman was on the loose, and what happened there? How many did she kill? Nine or ten?’

‘We stopped her in the end.’ Isaac attempted to defend himself and the department.

‘Only because I acted and brought in DCI Caddick. That man sharpened you up.’

Isaac could feel the tension building in him. Not only was the commissioner singing the praises of