DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

son she had seen three weeks previously when he had been on one of his frequent visits. She remembered the joy that he had given her when he had told her how successful his business had become. He had told her about where he lived and how he preferred to be on his own. She regretted that he had not married and given her grandchildren, but she knew the anguish that had driven him to London.

‘I’ll not last for much longer,’ she said, desperately sad at the loss, aware of her own mortality; the stroke last summer, and now the inability to walk more than a few paces. She was sixty-eight, but life had been tough, and Giuseppe had offered to take her to London and look after her and to make sure that she received the best medical care. Once, eleven years ago, she had visited him, the one time she had left her Italy, and she only remembered the cold and the rain, and the fact that she did not understand what everyone was saying. Not that they were unfriendly, on the contrary, but she was a village woman, as was her mother, and her mother before that.

Her husband had died five years previously, and Giuseppe had visited to organise the funeral and to say a few words praising his father and mother for giving him life, and for caring for him. He had said that he wanted to stay, but his mother knew that it was just words for her, and he had never been a farmer. He had been destined for more, and she had seen him achieve that.

Around her in the farmhouse, her brothers and sisters, the ones still alive, as well as half the village. It had been a good life, the woman had to admit. She raised herself from her chair to make sure that everyone had something to eat and drink. A sudden pain in her chest and she slumped back in the chair. Ten minutes later the village doctor pronounced her dead.

***

Early morning in the office, DCI Cook’s mandatory practice: the six o’clock meeting during a murder investigation. The others in the team had no trouble agreeing, only with complying. Bridget Halloran had worked late the previous night dealing with the paperwork, and setting up the reporting structure that a bureaucratised police force demanded. Not that she complained, as she enjoyed her work immensely and had great respect for her DCI. It had been two in the morning when she had left the office, and a twenty-minute drive, less than three hours sleep, and then back to the office.

Isaac could see that Bridget was suffering, as were the others, as was he. He had only slept for one hour. He’d lain in his bed for longer, but the events had been churning over in his mind. Wendy Gladstone, the ever-loyal sergeant, yawned. Larry Hill was another person who had had a late night, but his had been tinged with alcohol and Nicolae Cojocaru.

‘Thanks for making it,’ Isaac said. ‘I needn’t tell you the seriousness of what we have here.’

‘We understand, sir,’ Wendy said. ‘Why can’t the villains let us have a good night’s sleep?’ she said by way of lightening the sombre tone of the room.

‘We’ll ask them sometime, but in the meantime, what do we have? Larry, you first.’

‘The word is that it’s someone from overseas aiming to muscle in.’

‘Cojocaru?’

‘I met with him yesterday, not that I intended to. Most times the man keeps out of the way, but he wanted to talk.’

‘Update us on what he said.’

‘His arrival in the area has changed the pecking order amongst the criminals.’

‘What about the West Indian gangs? You were friendly with them before.’

‘They’re still there, but they’re maintaining a lower profile. Cojocaru is the most savage we’ve come up against, and according to the man, someone else is out there that frightens him.’

‘Keep in contact with him, find out what else he knows, and keep us updated as to where you are. That man kills, whether you’re a police officer or a gang member.’

‘I know that. With the West Indians, I felt safe enough, but with Cojocaru, I don’t.’

‘Wendy, what do you have?’ Isaac said. He’d noticed that the woman’s arthritis had been troubling her less in the last few weeks, a sign that the weather was improving, and early-morning frosts had not been seen for some time.

‘I’m working through the others in the salon. You’ve met with the more significant people, so I’ve concentrated on the other two hairdressers, Baz, short for Barry, Hepworth and Frank Boswell. Hepworth was Australian, and I’ve got the local police in Sydney dealing with informing his family and interviewing them. If there’s any need, I’ll set up a video link from here, but the man seems clean. His father was English, and Barry Hepworth had an English passport, no immigration issues. The man paid his taxes, and Briganti’s books seem to be in order. Frank Boswell seems to be clean as well. He’s English, born in Liverpool. From what we know so far, he came from a middle-class family, the father is an accountant, his mother teaches at a local school. Nothing on him other than drunken driving a few years ago, and he’d been apprehended once for buying cocaine off the street. He was probably still snorting it, and Forensics and Pathology will confirm if that’s the case. I’ll go up to Liverpool if we find any negatives against him. Sal Maynard is of more interest. Her family has had more than its fair share of run-ins with the law. One of her uncles had been in Maidstone prison for five years for theft, cars mainly.’

‘Delve into the others with Bridget,’ Isaac said. ‘Anything untoward and we’ll follow up.’

‘Cojocaru could be leading us down the garden path.’

‘What do you mean?’ Isaac