‘Good. Take your partner out today. Make sure he doesn’t come back.’
‘Can I ask why?’
‘It is better that you don’t know. And make sure that he rents the boat and picks you up somewhere else, somewhere you will not be seen.’
‘Are there more?’
‘The first must be today. The others, if there are to be any, we will discuss after you return.’
Frost, a man who did not procrastinate, felt calmer, confident that he was making the right decision. Two previous decisions were proving troublesome, he knew that. First, the murder of Samuels, motivated more by the man’s intransigence about paying the interest, although he had repaid the principal, done as a warning, and then lending money to the weak and insignificant son of Gilbert Lawrence.
Another phone call from his informer. ‘Tomorrow afternoon.’ Two words only, but it was enough for Frost. The police were getting closer, and he could not hold them at bay indefinitely. Whatever he did, he needed to ensure his survival, Caxton’s if he could, but if he couldn’t, then he would have tried. Frost logged onto his laptop, checked his bank accounts. He started transferring money out of the country: somewhere warmer, somewhere that not too many questions were asked, somewhere he did not want to go, but freedom was better than the alternatives.
By the time he had finished two hours had passed. He had seen the boat go by on the Thames. It was not a large boat but sufficient for two. In the small cabin, dressed in wet weather gear, was Hector O’Grady. Further down the river, close to where Caxton had parked his car, O’Grady would pull in before the two men headed out into deeper water, a fishing spot that both knew. Fishing was a passion of O’Grady’s, and Caxton had been out with him on a few occasions, invariably bagging more fish.
‘Unusual for the boss to let us off for a few hours,’ O’Grady said.
Caxton looked over at the man he regarded as a friend. The water was choppy, the beer was cold, and both men had to admit to enjoying themselves. A container ship went past, its wake rocking the small boat. O’Grady’s rod started to move, a fish testing the bait, and then the rod bent further, the fish hooked.
‘I’ve got one,’ O’Grady said. He started reeling in the line, the fish fighting him, Caxton to one side leaning over the stern of the boat, a net in his hand ready to scoop up what had been caught.
‘Keep the net there,’ O’Grady shouted.
Caxton took two steps back and drew a small gun from his pocket. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘The boss wants you out.’ He pulled the trigger and shot twice, one in the back and another in the man’s neck, his aim deflected by the rocking of the boat.
Lying prostrate on the boat’s decking, his fishing rod discarded, O’Grady gasped, ‘Why?’
‘It’s nothing personal,’ Caxton said. He retook aim and shot O’Grady through the brain. He then pulled up the anchor, secured it firmly to the body of his former partner and then threw him over the side. With the man sinking to the bottom of the river, Caxton started the engine on the boat and headed for shore. Once he was within ten yards of it, he turned the boat around and pointed its bow out into deeper water. He then took his gun and shot two holes in the wooden hull, before enlarging them with a safety axe that had been secured to a bulkhead. He set the throttle to maximum, the engine revving, the boat gaining momentum. He then jumped over the side of the boat and swam to shore, although he almost didn’t make it as the cold water sapped his strength. Ashore, he made for his car, felt on top of the front offside tyre, and retrieved a key. He started the engine and turned on the heater. On the back seat, dry clothes and a towel.
Chapter 31
The number that O’Grady had phoned from the village of Herzele in Belgium had been traced back to Gary Frost. Even more evidence for the case against him. The content of the conversation that had lasted for less than one minute was not known.
A sorry-looking man was brought into Greenwich Police Station at two in the afternoon. He had not resisted when Emily Matson took him into custody on suspicion of murder, as well as the grievous bodily harm of Ralph Lawrence. The kneecapped man was still not willing to talk. The evidence in both cases was dependent on Caxton admitting that he was guilty, and Larry had been with her when the arrest was made. There was no sign of Hector O’Grady, and the low-key surveillance of the two men had missed his disappearance.
Technically the murder of Steve Samuels was the responsibility of the Belgian police force, and Inspecteur Hougardy was on his way to England, although he wouldn’t be present in Greenwich for the first interview with the man who had been detained. The proof was flimsy, purely a chain of events leading to an inevitable conclusion, and although Caxton and O’Grady had been identified by two people in Herzele, another in the hotel in Brussels where they had checked in under false names, there were no fingerprints, no forensic evidence. Emily would be conducting the interview, her first of a murderer. Larry would also be in the interview room, and Isaac would be outside, chafing at the bit, knowing that he would go in harder than the other two, although he hoped that Larry had learnt enough by now to get Caxton flustered and to make the man contradict himself.
Alongside Caxton sat the offensive figure of Edward Sharman, which surprised Isaac, not sure how the man, a singularly ill-mannered and belligerent person, had
