In the doorway was the dead man, his head drooped forward, almost as if he was sleeping. ‘Another one,’ Windsor, the CSE, said. The area was bathed in light, a floodlight to the rear of the two men.
‘Anything you can tell me?’ Isaac asked.
‘Male, approximate age fifty to sixty. His general health, his teeth, would indicate that he’s been living rough for a long time.’
‘The cause of death?’
‘A knife to the heart. It doesn’t look professional.’
‘Why?’
‘It looks hurried. As if they had decided at the last moment to kill him. I’d say they were after Larry first, then saw the man up here, realised that they may have been talking.’
‘Then why not kill Larry?’
‘I’ll leave that up to you,’ Windsor said. ‘I can only give you the facts.’
Isaac walked back down to Larry’s car. Grant Meston, Windsor’s deputy, was checking it.’
‘Anything, Grant?’
‘Two men, not very strong.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Judging by the reports from the hospital, and from what we can see here, Larry should have been dead, or at least seriously concussed with some broken bones. I just phoned the hospital, the man’s back up on his feet.’
‘We breed them tough in Homicide,’ Isaac said. ‘What else can you tell me?’
‘We’ve found some fingerprints on the car.’
‘ In our database?’
‘The two you initially arrested for the murder of Rasta Joe, but this time the prints are clearer.’
‘Negril Bob?’
‘Not him, but his colleagues.’
Isaac instinctively picked up his phone to call Larry, before realising that he was in the hospital. Instead, he phoned Caddick to get him off his back. ‘We’ve got proof this time,’ Isaac said. The reply from his superintendent was not congratulatory, not that Isaac cared.
Back at Challis Street, Isaac organised a couple of police cars and an armed response team. The addresses of the two men that they wanted to arrest were known. One location, not far from where Christine Devon had been murdered, was vacant. The second place, a third-floor flat close to Paddington Station, was occupied. Negril Bob’s car was parked in the street. One of the police cars was parked in front of it to prevent it being used if anyone attempted to escape. Two armed response men stood outside the door to the flat, another held a battering ram in case the door did not open. Outside, in the floor’s passageway, a group of people started to gather. The flats were upmarket. The residents were not used to seeing the police. Isaac shuffled them back, as did the uniforms. Downstairs, another police officer waited in case the men inside the flat got that far.
‘This is the police. Come out with your hands in the air,’ one of the armed response officers shouted. Isaac stood to one side, wearing a bullet-proof vest.
‘We’ve done nothing wrong,’ a voice said from inside the flat.
‘Open this door.’
The door opened. ‘Cook, good to see you,’ Negril Bob said. He was dressed casually: an open-necked shirt, a pair of shorts. Inside the flat, Isaac could see women.
‘We are here to arrest Morris Beckford and Marcus Roots,’ Isaac said.
‘They’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘We can prove that they were at a crime scene earlier.’
‘You’ve got nothing on them. Leave us alone.’
‘Are they here?’
‘They’re busy. We’re having a party. Ditch your friends and come and have some fun. There are enough women to go around,’ Negril Bob taunted.
‘Morris Beckford and Marcus Roots,’ Isaac said again.
‘Give them five minutes to finish up.’
‘With what?’
‘You know what they’re busy with.’
Isaac knew, but it did not alter the fact that the men were wanted for murder. One of the armed response men, sensing activity in the flat, pushed past Negril Bob. Two other armed response team members followed straight after. Outside in the passageway stood another two officers, their weapons raised.
‘You bastards,’ Negril Bob shouted.
Inside the flat, the first door had been flung open, a naked woman jumping from the bed, a semi-clothed man attempting to follow her, only to be roughly held by a police officer. The man was flung down on the bed, his hands clasped behind his back as the handcuffs were applied. In the other room, a man hurriedly dressed, a gun in his hand. He fired, the bullet only just missing one of the armed response team and lodging itself in the wall next to the kitchen. ‘Stand back,’ the lead officer shouted. ‘The man is armed and hostile.’
At the entrance to the flat, Isaac stood with Negril Bob. ‘You bastard, your own people,’ the gang leader said.
‘My people are law-abiding,’ Isaac said.
Inside the flat, another shot. ‘Man down,’ an armed response officer shouted.
Two minutes later came the all clear. Isaac entered the flat, with Negril Bob now in handcuffs. Morris Beckford was sitting in a chair in the living room; two women were near to him, although unrestrained. Another two women sat on the other side of the room, one that Isaac knew by sight.
In the second bedroom lay the body of a man, his face visible. ‘He’s only wounded,’ one of the officers said. ‘He took a shot.’
‘I thought you’d shoot to kill,’ Isaac said.
‘It was a judgement call. There was a woman in there with him. If he had shot again, then I would have killed him. There’s an ambulance on the way.’
Wendy was on the way over; she’d deal with the statements from the women.
