‘Billy Devon, where is he now?’
‘He’s at work.’
‘Good. We’ll get him out of this trouble and then consider him for managerial training.’
‘He’ll not let you down.’
‘And the mother’s murderer?’
‘We’re still working on that.’
Isaac left Loeb’s office and went next door to where the PA sat. The two of them went through the details of what was required. Ann, in her mid-thirties, dark-haired, interested Isaac. Forty-five minutes later, he left the office. In that time, the money needed to pay off Negril Bob had been organised, the troublesome manager at Billy’s store had been immediately transferred to another, and Billy was running the store as acting manager. Isaac spoke to Billy briefly to let him know what was happening. He also tried to phone Charisa, but her phone was not answering.
That weekend, if his work permitted, Isaac and Ann were meeting in Brighton for a meal. All in all, Isaac considered that his trip to Brighton had been successful.
***
Larry Hill felt guilt, Isaac felt a degree of sadness, and Wendy had shed a tear. All because a gang leader by the name of Rasta Joe had been found dead in an alleyway not far from Paddington Station. He wasn’t the first member of a gang to meet a violent death, for that had already happened to Samuel Devon, but Rasta Joe was different. Isaac had gone to school with him, even sang in the church choir every Sunday with him, and whereas one had chosen crime and the other had decided on the law, there was a bond that time could not diminish.
Larry assumed that he had died as a result of his association with him. They had become infrequent drinking buddies, and even if nothing was said that was controversial, the idea of a police officer and a gang leader was anathema to many. Wendy had shed a tear, not because she had known the man, but because her DCI and her DI had, and both of them were upset by his sudden death.
Goddard, their chief superintendent, was in the office on first hearing of the death, which was as well, as Isaac and Larry were heading off to the crime scene. ‘You knew this man?’ he said.
‘I went to school with him.’
‘Is this going to be the start of a gang war?’
‘We don’t know. We’ll have a clearer idea later today.’
‘Okay. Keep me posted, and Davies is on the warpath again.’
‘I thought that Jeremy Brice had clipped his wings,’ Isaac said. Both he and Larry were halfway out of the door, only hesitating at the name of their nemesis.
‘He had, but Davies is a fighter. He’ll go for broke, bring in whoever, and see where it all lands. If his timing is right, you’ll solve the current investigations just in time for his man to take your seat and claim the success.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Larry said.
‘What’s fair got to do with it. This is the real world. That fool Davies is no doubt phoning up right now will be packing his bags in the next day or so, and getting ready to take your position.’
‘We need to go to the crime scene, sir,’ Isaac said.
‘What’s holding you?’
‘Thank you,’ Isaac said. ‘We’ll talk when we return.’
***
Neither of the two men was prepared for the savagery of Rasta Joe’s death. Seeing him lying there, covered in blood, the knife wounds clearly visible on his semi-naked body, Isaac could only think back to the cherubic little black boy that had been his childhood friend. Larry could just see the man who was willing to talk as long as he was primed with beer.
The two men approached the body, remembering to put on shoe protectors and gloves. Gordon Windsor, the CSE, was due on the scene within the next twenty minutes. A group of onlookers were being kept at a distance by a couple of uniforms.
‘Did he die here?’ Larry asked.
‘I’d say so, judging by the blood.’
One of the uniforms came over. ‘I’ve got a witness,’ he said.
Isaac and Larry left the dead man lying on the ground and walked over to the witness. Isaac could see that the man was dishevelled, probably homeless, almost certainly drunk. Not the ideal witness, he’d have to admit, but it was better than none.
‘What did you see?’ Larry asked.
‘I was walking up here last night. It was late, close to midnight. I saw the car pull up.’
‘Did they see you?’
‘Not me. I know how to stay hidden.’
‘Why were you up here?’
‘Sometimes I spend the night here.’
Isaac asked one of the uniforms to organise the man a coffee and something to eat.
The three men sat down on some old wooden crates stacked in a corner.
‘What did you see?’ Isaac asked.
‘I was up past that bin.’
Isaac and Larry looked; there was a bin thirty feet away.
‘It was dark, could you see anything?’
‘I could hear them arguing. The dead man was pleading for his life, the other men attacking him.’
‘You could have called for help?’
‘Not me, and besides, the only way out was past them. If I had moved, they would have killed me as well.’
‘What was said? Do you remember anything?’
‘They called the man Rasta Joe, the others, I don’t know what their names were.’
‘Was there a leader?’
‘There was one, the others called him Negro.’
‘Negril Bob?’
‘That’s it. It’s an odd name.’
‘It’s the name of a place in Jamaica.’
‘That’s why I couldn’t understand everything they said.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They spoke with a strange accent.’
Isaac mimicked the Jamaican style of speech.
‘You’re not one of them, are you?’
‘Not me, but we know who they are. Did they say why they killed him?’
‘Not that
