***
It was early in the morning, Isaac Cook’s preferred time, not Wendy Gladstone’s, and definitely not Larry Hill’s. Wendy was more of an evening person, Larry was suffering the pangs of hunger. At home it was his wife feeding him healthily; in the office it was his DCI, who had been firm that his DI needed to shed weight. Larry would have to admit that the two of them, a formidable team, were having an effect. So far, he was down two inches on the waist, and he thought if it continued, he’d need to wear braces or buy clothes more suited to his thinner frame. And now, his house, adequate for him, had become too small for his wife, and there was an extension planned, more encumbrance on his mortgage. He didn’t want it, his wife did, and he knew who would win.
It was strange, Larry thought, that he had no trouble dealing with a villain, showing him who was in control, but with his wife, he was a total wimp. But then, he didn’t love the villain, he loved his wife, and even if they fought sometimes, there was still the making up, and the reduced weight had done wonders for his libido.
If his wife continued to push him to control his weight, Larry knew he’d endure it, but there were still two murders to solve, and working from early in the morning until late at night required more than small portions. It was alright for his DCI, he knew. The man was well over six feet, could eat as much as he liked, and the weight never went on. Even though his DCI would complain about the extra pounds, it was nothing. For Larry, he knew, it was that extra pint of beer, that full English breakfast, and the next day the difference would be noticeable, and he’d get the cold shoulder from his wife.
He’d avoided the full English breakfast as much as possible for the last month, even missed the waitress who would ask for details of their latest murder investigation, only to be shocked when he told her. But most of all he missed the pub and its beer. The last time he had met with Rasta Joe, attempting to unravel why a fifteen-year youth by the name of Samuel Devon had needed to die, he had kept his consumption down to three pints, though it hadn’t stopped Rasta Joe drinking six. Larry had not been satisfied with the gang leader’s replies, either. The man continued to act ignorant about who had killed the youth. Larry had tried to pin him down but had not succeeded. Either the dreadlocked man did not know, which seemed unlikely, or he was scared or involved. Larry did not discount either of the last two options, although hoped it was the first.
In fact, all of Larry’s contacts were reluctant to talk about Samuel Devon, which was disturbing. If his death concerned the gangs, then something was going on, and that something could get worse.
***
Shirley O’Rourke sat in the kitchen of her house. On a table in the corner she laid out her papers, the ones the police had not taken. There in front of her was the evidence the police wanted.
Once, one of her cleaners had knocked over a Ming vase, shattered it into pieces. It had already been insured for ten times its value after it had developed a large crack six months after the insurance company had valued it. Shirley O’Rourke, an honest woman, expected the owner to be livid, but on the contrary, he had suggested that if the cleaner said it was an accident, then he would claim the full value from the insurance company, and divide the profit. Shirley had needed time to consider the proposal.
‘Five thousand pounds if you agree,’ he had said. Back then, two hundred pounds a week after expenses was a decent return.
‘Agreed,’ she had said, and since then she had not looked back, not until now, and it was time to protect herself.
Along the way, she had gathered a couple of husbands, both dispensed with, a child, now thirty-one and married, and an offshore bank account. The next day she would put into place her exit strategy, but first, she needed to waylay the police investigation.
It was two in the afternoon when she arrived at Challis Street. She had brought her lawyer with her, an imperious little man with horn-rimmed spectacles. Isaac thought that he would not have looked out of place as a character with a monocle in a P.G. Wodehouse farce.
The interview room had been booked, ready for the woman’s arrival. Wendy, with Isaac, represented the police; Shirley O’Rourke and Peregrine Woodley sat on the other side of the table. Isaac went through the formalities, advised the woman of her rights.
‘Mrs O’Rourke, you are here of your own free will to make a statement,’ Isaac said.
‘I thought it was best to clear the air.’
‘There are anomalies in your accounts,’ Wendy said.
‘It is clear that I have taken advantage of tax loopholes, as any person in business is entitled to do. The fact that I have probably been more aggressive than others does not in itself constitute a crime. No doubt Inland Revenue will want to conduct a full audit of my financial records after you have seized them.’
‘Does that concern you?’ Isaac asked.
‘Of course it does. A tax audit is always unpleasant.’
‘Have you committed any criminal wrongdoing in your tax avoidance?’
‘Not criminal, but they’ll find something, they always do. The deaths of these women are going to cost me plenty.’
‘Is your financial well-being more important than us bringing their murderer to justice?’
‘Don’t go putting words into my mouth. That’s not what I said.’
‘My client is here to
