Outside in the reception area of the police station, Gary Frost was conspicuous by his absence.
A full team of uniforms had been mobilised, even bringing in more manpower from Challis Street, to look for Hector O’Grady. The last that had been known of him was that he had gone out fishing, not unusual in itself, the man at the boat shed said. ‘Hector, he’s keen, even when the weather’s not good. No doubt he takes some liquid refreshments to keep him warm. Always brings the boat back in good condition, even cleans it for me. And yes, he took it out yesterday, not a good day, but the fish should have been biting, not that I’d eat them myself, too small mainly, but Hector, he would have. Tough guy from what I’ve been told, but when the boat never came back, that’s when I started worrying.’
The evidence about the boat was still coming through; another fisherman had seen it sink into the water. The detective inspector who resented Emily Matson usurping him, especially with the trip to Brussels, had been assigned to look for O’Grady. It had been a direct order from his superintendent, a directive he accepted graciously, although he had been seething behind his clenched teeth. ‘Don’t you worry, Superintendent. Always pleased to help a fellow officer.’
On the river, the local coastguard, the Thames River Police, and a couple of men who worked at the boat shed where the boat had come from trawled up and down in the vicinity of the area identified as O’Grady’s most likely destination. Each boat used GPS to keep to their path as they crisscrossed an area of five square miles. The tide was on the turn as they moved up and down, ideal for finding something, but another two hours and a stiff breeze from the east would come up, and if anything was floating, then the chances were that it would be lost.
In the station, Emily Matson followed the correct procedure, informed Ainsley Caxton of his rights, asked everyone to state their name, and in the case of the two police officers their rank. An immediate rebuff came from Sharman, stating on the record that his client was not guilty of any crime. Isaac had briefed Emily beforehand to take the blustering, the rhetoric, in her stride and to keep focussed. She heeded the advice, but she still felt unnerved by a man in a three-piece Savile Row suit, a man who had practised law for as long as she had been alive, a man who knew all the tricks, and a man who was very expensive, more expensive than Caxton could afford, but Frost could.
Isaac knew that Frost was not protecting Caxton for Caxton’s benefit. He could see that the heat needed to be raised on Frost, and soon. The surveillance of the man was tighter now, and it was known that he was in Greenwich. Isaac and Wendy left the police station and drove the short distance to the man’s penthouse, the man himself answering the intercom on the door this time.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook, Detective Sergeant Wendy Gladstone, Challis Street, Homicide. We have a few questions for you.’
‘I’m not talking to the police without my lawyer being present.’
‘An innocent man would let us in, but maybe you’re not. Sharman’s going to be busy for some time with Caxton, no doubt he’ll weasel him out of there, but how about you, Mr Frost?’
The latch on the door released. ‘Come up, I’ve nothing to hide.’
Isaac turned to Wendy. ‘He’s feeling vulnerable. O’Grady’s not here, and Caxton’s under pressure. We can break this case yet.’
‘Gilbert Lawrence?’
‘The pieces are falling into place. Deal with this, then we raise the heat on the others. Ralph’s still not in the clear, neither is his sister. And as for Jill Dundas, a nasty piece of work behind that façade, she will still need further questioning. Once we start solving one case, everyone’s nerves will become ragged.’
‘Of course, I’m supporting Caxton. He’s been with me for years,’ Frost said. He was standing at the window of the penthouse, staring out at the river. The weather was looking increasingly wild.
‘Hector O’Grady, what can you tell us about him?’
‘He’s been with me for three years. A good man, and his not being here is out of character.’
‘How did you manage when they were in Belgium?’ Isaac said.
‘And when was that, Inspector?’ Frost said. He moved to the other side of the room, sat down on a sofa, beckoned the two police officers to make themselves comfortable. Wendy thought him to be an attractive man, not that it didn’t make him guilty.
‘When they killed Samuels. We’ve got the dates, the time that O’Grady phoned you. An error using your number. Arrogance on your part, I suppose, believing that you could thumb your nose at the Belgian police.’
‘I receive a lot of phone calls. No doubt some of them are from overseas. It doesn’t, however, prove that Caxton and O’Grady were in Belgium. I knew Samuels, I’ll not deny that. From what I was told, he had skipped the country, owing me and others money.’
‘You didn’t pursue him?’
‘I tried to find him, but with no success.’
‘And if you had?’
‘The man knew the conditions of the loan.’
‘Violence?’
‘Not me. That’s not how I operate.’
‘It is, so don’t give me your nonsense. You use violence as one of the conditions of default. Kneecapping, trussing a man up and beating him senseless, following another overseas and murdering him,
