‘And you want to go?’
‘You said that you grew up around here, what do you think?’
‘You seem very calm,’ Isaac said. He was enjoying chatting with the woman; in some ways she reminded him of the woman who had come over to London from Jamaica after a holiday fling he had had there some months earlier. It hadn’t amounted to much. One day she was phoning to say she was coming to London on a business trip; two weeks later, she was on his doorstep looking for accommodation. He had put up with the situation for a week before telling her that he was a police officer, and her being in England for an extended period, even working, without a visa was a criminal offence, and he could not be a party to it.
He remembered her hints for him to marry her. The problem had resolved itself when he had dropped her off at the airport for the return flight to Jamaica.
‘I’m not calm,’ Charisa Devon said. ‘She was my mother, but what am I meant to do? I’m responsible for my younger brother now, and he’s a handful.’
‘Your father?’
‘I’ve no idea. He may be here or in Trinidad. He disappeared when I was five.’
‘If you get married, what about your brother?’
‘He can come and live with us, at least for short periods of time. My boyfriend is American. Once I get a visa, I’ll go there.’
‘Difficult?’
‘Not too difficult. We just need to convince them that I’m not using marriage as a way of beating their immigration laws.’
‘Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?’
‘My boyfriend’s got a place. I’ll be fine. When will you be finished with the flat?’
‘It’ll be a police scene for some time. Do you want to move back in?’
‘Once I’ve removed my belongings, I’ll never go back. Too many memories, and it was a dump anyway. This other woman, what about her?’
‘White, rich, house in Holland Park.’
‘Instead of a dump in Notting Hill.’
‘That’s about it.’
‘It’s still tough in this country.’
‘It’s tough for everyone. Colour is not the defining criteria,’ Isaac said.
‘That’s what I tell Samuel.’
‘And he talks back to you in a Caribbean accent?’
‘Born and bred around here, but yes. They think it makes them sound important, not that it does. How did you avoid it, the gangs?’ the young woman asked.
‘I didn’t understand the lifestyle, and certainly not ganja. I preferred to study.’
‘The same as me, but Samuel, he’s not interested, and Billy, he’s honest, although he’s not academic. It’s up to me to look after them.’
‘From America?’
‘Not so easy, but I’ll try.’
From down the road a television crew approached. ‘Please excuse me,’ Isaac said to Charisa. ‘I need to be at the other house. You see the camera down there?’
‘I see it.’
‘They’ll want to interview you. I suggest that you don’t talk to them at this time.’
‘Not me. My boyfriend’s picking me up in two minutes. He doesn’t like it around here.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘His colour stands out.’
‘White?’
‘Not that it matters to me, but yes, he’s white. There are some around here who don’t like an educated white man.’
‘There are some around here who don’t like a black police inspector, as well.’
‘Samuel’s friends wouldn’t. Be careful with them.’
‘I will. You’ve got my details. Just phone me at any time for help, also Bridget Halloran in my office. She’ll advise you of the situation and about your mother.’
A car drew up alongside them, and a young man in his twenties opened the passenger door. ‘I can’t park here,’ a voice with an American accent said.
‘Don’t worry, this is Detective Chief Inspector Cook,’ Charisa said.
‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Troy Hall.’ The two men shook hands. ‘Is Charisa okay?’
‘She will be. It’s a shock for her.’
‘She’s tough. I’ll make sure she’s okay.’
The young woman got in, buckled her seat belt and went off in her boyfriend’s car.
‘DCI Cook,’ the interviewer from one of the commercial television stations said.
‘No comment.’
‘The woman, what can you tell us?’
Isaac beat a hasty retreat: too many questions, too early in the investigation.
Chapter 2
The distance from one murder scene to the other was not far. One location was lower socio-economic; the other was at the higher end of wealthy. Isaac parked his car outside the terrace house of Amelia Brice, a uniform removing the bollards on the side of the road to let him in. Inside the house there was apparently plenty of money to spare, judging by the décor. Before he had walked through the house to the murder scene, he was accosted by a man in his sixties.
‘What are you doing to find who did this?’ the man, dressed in a suit, his grey hair cut short, said. He seemed familiar to Isaac.
‘We’re investigating both murders.’
‘I’m interested in my daughter, not anyone else.’
Isaac remembered where he knew him from. The man was often on television or on the radio, bellyaching. An ardent critic of anything and anyone who didn’t pander to his view of the world. Jeremy Brice, Isaac knew, would be well-connected and he was guaranteed to be on the phone to Commissioner Davies, the head of the Met, in no time. After that, there’d be a phone call to Superintendent Goddard, who in turn would arrive in Isaac’s office to pass on the complaint, followed by the motivational talk on how his department needed to shape up and he was expecting an early arrest.
‘This is a police investigation. Both murders will be investigated thoroughly,’ Isaac said.
‘My daughter has been murdered. You need to be out there with a team of people combing the streets. If I was in
