‘What type of drugs?’
‘Cocaine. On both occasions, she got off with a hefty fine and community service.’
‘The penalty, at least for a second offence, would be custodial,’ Isaac said.
‘She put up an ardent defence: the death of her mother, break-up of a long-term romance.’
‘True?’
‘The mother had died, that much was correct. As for the romance, that’s unknown. Anyway, she had a Queen’s Counsel defending her.’
‘The father’s money?’
‘Probably.’
‘Bridget, what do we have on the father?’ Isaac asked, although he knew of the man, everyone did.
‘Jeremy Brice, social commentator. He’s on the television every night from 6 p.m. to 7 p.m. He’s not so controversial there. From 10 a.m. to midday, his programme on the radio is the highest rating in that timeslot. The man is known for his critical views of the police force in this city, its inability to deal with terrorism, and the government’s current immigration policy. Not only that, he’ll get on the bandwagon of any cause that will get him ratings.’
‘He’s the only one who can get the politicians to give a straight answer,’ Wendy said.
‘Is there any more on Amelia Brice?’ Isaac asked.
‘There’s more in my report, but I’ll let you all read that on your own.’
‘What can you tell us about Christine Devon?’
‘Christine Devon, forty years of age, born in Trinidad, arrived in this country twenty-one years ago. A British citizen, she has no criminal record. Her occupation is listed as a housewife, although she’s been working as a cleaner for the last ten. She paid her taxes on time. Three children: Billy, nineteen. Charisa, eighteen, and Samuel, fifteen.
‘Billy had a couple of run-ins with the law three years ago, petty hooliganism. Apart from that, the children are clean. The two eldest children have been in the station, so we know them. Samuel is missing, presumed dead.’
‘Any luck with him?’ Isaac asked.
‘We’re still looking,’ Wendy said. ‘We know where he was one day ago, but since then, nothing.’
***
Jeremy Brice, known to millions, was not the sort of person to sit quietly on any issue, and being told by a police officer that the investigation was progressing along established lines did not satisfy him. Isaac had tried to be diplomatic with him on the two occasions they had met, but each time the conversation had degenerated into Brice wanting to take control. Isaac, as the SIO, did not intend to give it to him, and now the man was bending the ear of Commissioner Davies, the belligerent leader of the Met, and well-known antagonist of DCI Isaac Cook and his senior.
Even though his daughter had only been dead for a short period of time, and not yet buried, Brice had been on the airwaves berating the police and their incompetence, revealing more than he should have about how his daughter had died. Isaac had listened a few times, realised that he was subjective with the truth. There was no mention of his daughter’s predilection for cocaine and the dubious company that she sometimes kept.
‘The man’s a bore,’ Commissioner Davies had said on the phone to Goddard. The superintendent thought that made two, but kept the observation to himself. ‘Deal with Brice, and get Cook involved. You’re a wet fish in dealing with the public. At least Cook, not that he’s much good as a police officer, knows how to communicate.’
Richard Goddard thought the man’s comments were offensive, but all he needed to do was to bide his time, and the commissioner would be out on his ear, due to his poor record of achievement.
‘Look here, Superintendent,’ Brice said as he sat in Goddard’s office, ‘my daughter’s been killed, then cut up by your pathologist, and your man here is refusing to give me her body to bury. What right does he have?’
‘This is a criminal investigation,’ Goddard said. He was sitting in his high-backed leather chair behind his desk. Brice and Isaac were seated on the other side.
‘Your daughter’s body is to be released in two days,’ Isaac said.
‘Why was I not told?’
‘Your office was informed.’
‘No one told me.’
‘You would have received notification according to the procedure. I suggest you contact your office to confirm it.’
‘If they’ve failed to tell me, then they’re for the high jump, I can tell you that.’
‘Mr Brice, why have you felt the need to contact Commissioner Davies and to insist on a meeting here in Superintendent Goddard’s office?’ Isaac asked. Goddard cringed, knowing they’d get negative criticism on Brice’s radio show if Isaac put the man on the spot.
‘You weren’t available.’
‘My phone is on twenty-four hours a day. I put it to you again, why did you not phone me?’
‘You’ve got some nerve, questioning me. Don’t you know who I am? Don’t you realise that I could destroy your career?’
‘DCI, I suggest you desist. Mr Brice is an important man. It is not for you to put him on the spot,’ Goddard said.
Isaac thought that his senior was wrong in taking the soft approach, so did Brice. He leant over, gave Isaac a hearty pat on the back. ‘Good man, someone who’s willing to stand up and be counted.’
Isaac wasn’t sure what to say; his senior was equally confused. ‘Our best officer,’ Goddard said, the only words he could think of.
‘DCI, what can you tell me about my daughter’s death?’
‘Probably not a lot more than you already know. We believe it was professional, the same as the other woman.’
‘The black woman? Sorry, if that sounded racist,’ Brice said.
‘That’s our description of her,’ Isaac conceded.
‘Are the deaths related?’
‘We know they are. There’s clear evidence that both murders were committed by the same person, which raises other questions.’
‘Such as?’
‘Where Christine Devon lived
