‘Very well,’ Rasta Joe said as he finished off his glass of beer, looking for another to be ordered. ‘The word is that Samuel Devon was killed by Negril Bob, on the order of Samuel’s gang.’
‘Harsh.’
‘They’re not the Boy Scouts. Devon had become smart, creaming off the drugs and the money.’
‘How much?’
‘A few thousand pounds.’
‘Negril Bob mentioned twenty-two thousand pounds.’
‘He wants his commission.’
‘Anyway, what’s the deal?’
‘Devon’s gang or Negril Bob kills him, and then the other gang use Negril Bob to get back the lost money.’
‘Would he take Devon’s sister as payment in lieu?’
‘Of course he will. I’ve seen her, she’s attractive.’
‘What do you suggest we do?’ Larry asked.
‘You’re asking me? I’m not the police.’
‘You know how these people think.’
‘Get her out of the area.’
‘And her brother?’
‘If he doesn’t pay, they’ll continue to pressure him. He’s easier to deal with.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They can force him into crime. He can always burgle a shop or a house.’
‘The sister?’
‘You know what she can offer.’
‘Unfortunately, I do.’
It was past ten in the evening. Larry ordered the two men another pint each.
***
Jeremy Brice, the father of a murdered daughter, had been hesitant to use his position to disparage the efforts of the police. The first that Isaac and his team heard of a change was when Bridget came into the office. ‘It’s the father. He’s on the radio, and he’s complaining about us.’
‘What is he saying?’ Isaac asked. The man had been pleasant enough in the dealings that the department had had with him, although his on-radio manner was full of pontificating and putting politicians and senior government officials on the spot, even the prime minister. None of them would refuse to talk to him, such was his ability to sway public opinion.
The prime minister could hold his own, and some of his ministers could too, but most came away from a Brice debate chastened and feeling as though the world was about to cave in, which in the case of a few, it had. The man had a team of ten people behind him sourcing the stories, checking the facts, as well as a couple of sharp lawyers who would instruct him as to how far he could go.
Bridget turned up the volume on the small radio she carried in her hand.
The voice of Jeremy Brice was loud and clear. ‘Commissioner Davies, you’ve come in for a lot of criticism for the handling of the latest terrorist attacks in London.’
‘We’ve a team of highly-competent professionals at the Met,’ Davies replied.
‘Is it true that you have replaced the head of Counter Terrorism Command with someone that you personally knew.’
‘I have the utmost confidence in the man.’
‘Unfortunately, the public does not. There have been calls for you to resign, the previous head of Counter Terrorism Command to be given your job, and a new man assigned to deal with terrorism.’
‘I am unable to comment on the Met’s operations.’
‘That’s nonsense. You are aware that it has been mentioned in the Houses of Parliament on more than one occasion.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Commissioner, your first truthful answer. Let me be the first to congratulate you, at least on that.’
‘I do not appreciate your sarcasm,’ Davies said.
Isaac could see trouble up ahead. Davies would feel the need to react, and it was clear that Brice was being fed inside information.
Brice chose to ignore Davies’s comment. ‘The previous commissioner had placed his faith in the leadership of Counter Terrorism, and the first thing that you did was to start bringing in your people. Why is this? Were you attempting to shore up your position, surround yourself with lackeys? And what about the death of my daughter, Amelia? I’ve been reluctant to talk about this before, out of sorrow for her death and that of the other woman, Christine Devon.’
‘We have a competent team working hard to solve the tragic death of your daughter,’ Davies said.
‘No doubt they’re hardworking, but my daughter’s death is still unsolved. How long will you allow this to continue? How long will you reward sycophancy? You’ve been given a job to do, that of the senior police officer in this city, and my listeners are asking questions, as are our political masters. Commissioner Davies, I have decided to speak at this time for the good of all of us, and for my daughter. It is time for you to stand up.’
On the other end of the phone line, an inwardly seething man spoke calmly. ‘Mr Brice, your aspersions are ill-founded. Terrorism is not an easy issue to address, you must know that. Our activities are reducing the numbers of attacks, the recent changes in the law have given us more powers to act. Believe me, we will deal decisively with those who wish to undermine the values of this country; who believe that they have a right to murder.’
‘My daughter, what are you going to do there? It is my right as a grieving father to ask. And don’t tell me that you’re going to bring in someone to take over the investigation. I know what happened the last time. In the end, it was Detective Chief Inspector Cook, the man that you replaced, who brought the woman to justice, not your man.’
Isaac sat back in his seat at the conclusion of Brice’s interview with Commissioner Alwyn Davies.
‘Hell,’ Larry said. ‘What’s next?’
‘Detective Chief Superintendent Richard Goddard,’ Isaac mumbled.
Chapter 12
After Jeremy Brice’s on-air interview with Commissioner Davies, the atmosphere inside Homicide was tense, as if they were waiting for the sword of Damocles to appear above their heads. Bridget, the
