Isaac chose the only option possible. At the far end of the top floor corridor in Challis Street, the sign on the door prominently displayed: Superintendent Caddick. Inside, the man sat at his desk. Isaac saw that the bookcase had been moved, and the desk no longer sat in front of the large window; it was now to one side. ‘What is it, DCI?’ Caddick said.
‘Our primary witness to the murder of Rasta Joe is dead,’ Isaac said. He was standing, no invite to take a seat.
‘Murdered?’
‘The evidence points to the cause of death as being natural.’
‘What does this mean? Caddick asked. Isaac could only reflect as he stood there that behind the desk was a man less experienced than him, less educated, less professional, and now he was answering to him, following his orders if they were given.
‘It means that our case against Negril Bob is substantially weakened.’
‘Does that mean you cannot arrest him now?’ Caddick said. Isaac could see the man enjoying himself.
‘If those two we’ve arrested stick to their story, then we can.’
‘How likely is that?’
‘The word will soon get to them.’
‘In prison?’
‘Someone will have a phone. They probably know already.’
‘So what are you going to do, or do you need me to deal with it?’
‘I came to inform you. We don’t need assistance.’
‘You’ve charged two people with murder, and now you’re telling me the evidence is flimsy. What kind of policing is that?’
‘It’s good policing. Negril Bob is guilty of the murders of Rasta Joe and Samuel Devon.’
‘And you can’t prove either?’
‘There is no evidence for either murder that will hold up.’
‘And there are two other murders. That’s four in total, and you’ve not got a firm conviction against any of them.’
‘That is correct, sir,’ Isaac said. He realised that it grated on his nerves when he had to acknowledge his senior’s status. Once outside Caddick’s office, he phoned Richard Goddard.
‘Three months maximum. That’s all I can give you,’ Isaac said.
‘It’s not possible to put a time against this. There’s not much I can do here in Public Relations.’
***
Jeremy Brice was not sure why he had agreed to meet George Happold. He knew one thing about the man: he did not like him. He knew it to be mutual from Happold’s side as well.
‘Why are we meeting?’ Brice asked. It was early evening in an upmarket restaurant in Mayfair.
‘I’ve been visited by the police,’ Happold said. The two men had shaken hands on meeting. Brice had asked for financial assistance from him once in the past when he had considered buying the radio station where he broadcast every Tuesday and Thursday. Happold had refused.
The reasons were unclear, but Brice found out the truth in time; the man was advising a rival bid, providing financial support as necessary. In fact, Happold had done him a service in refusing, as the radio station continued to haemorrhage money, not on account of his programme, but because the advertising revenue generated was now being diverted online.
‘Gwen was friends with Amelia, as was Quentin. What did you expect?’ Brice said.
‘What have you told them? The truth?’
‘What they need to know. My daughter’s been murdered. Are you implicated?’
‘Brice, I’ve asked you here to discuss the matter, not to listen to your accusations. What would I gain from her death?’
‘You’re a private man, and Gwen and Amelia would talk. What if Gwen said something untoward, indiscreet? How far would you go to protect your bank, your family name, your peerage?’
‘Not as far as murder, that’s for sure.’
‘Happold, you’ll not convince me. You’re a wolf clothed in sheep’s clothing.’
‘And that’s the way it will stay. Better than being a sheep in wolf’s clothing.’
‘Touché,’ Brice said.
The two men ordered their meal, a vintage red wine to complement it.
‘Amelia was frightened of Quentin,’ Brice said. The two men, dissimilar in many ways, alike in others, clinked their glasses before drinking.
‘Amelia was always dramatic,’ Happold said. ‘Are you sure, or was she exaggerating?’
‘I’ll grant you that she could gild the lily, not like Gwen, straight up and down with her.’
‘Both women had their faults, but I’ll not allow anything to be said about my daughter,’ Happold said.
Brice was aware of Happold’s unswerving belief in his daughter. He knew it to be well-founded. He had always enjoyed Gwen’s company, an articulate and smart woman, whereas Amelia was whimsical and carefree. Their friendship was a consternation to many people, but the two women were as thick as thieves for many years.
‘Nor against mine,’ Brice said. ‘What’s the real reason for our meeting tonight?’
‘I will require your confidence,’ Happold said. He poured himself another glass of wine, topped up Brice’s glass.
‘You have it.’ After so many years of dealing with politicians and his influence with them, Brice had heard many secrets, knew of a few too many indiscretions, whether financial or sexual. Not once had he used that knowledge to his financial advantage, although some would have paid handsomely for his information, and never once had he mentioned anything to a third party, and especially to those who listened and watched him every week on the radio and the television.
‘Good man,’ Happold said. The meal was finished, the plates were taken away. Both men had a glass of port in their hands. ‘I’m an ambitious man, and this ongoing concern over Amelia’s death is affecting the possibility of my peerage.’
‘It may prevent it.’
‘You’ve heard something?’
‘I hear a lot of things, but
