‘Chloe,’ he called out through the open door. Caddick’s secretary came in.
‘You wanted me,’ she said. Caddick had brought her in from his previous station. The opportunity to appoint someone local had been there, but who in the Met could be trusted. Chloe, he knew, was as loyal to him as she was to her job.
‘Wendy Gladstone. We’ve got to remove Cook’s support mechanism.’
‘A medical?’
‘When’s it due?’
‘Two months.’
‘Bring it forward. Four weeks’ time, and then I want her retired due to health reasons.’
‘You’ll need to give her notice of the medical.’
‘Then do it today and make the appointment. I want a full check-up, no letting her pass because she’s getting old. After that, we’ll go for Larry Hill. He’s not looking so good.’
‘He looks fine to me,’ Chloe said.
‘He was badly beaten before. It must have had some effect.’
‘Can’t you just remove DCI Cook?’
‘It’s better to follow the procedure, and besides, I need him to wrap up the murder of James Holden.’
‘And the women who’ve been killed.’
‘Two whores. They don’t matter.’
‘Be careful. Helen Langdon was well connected.’
‘How? She murdered Adamant, bedded Saint Holden, destroyed his reputation. There’ll not be much interest in her.’
***
James Holden had been a complicated man. A man whose inner demons tormented him, the occasional urge to give in to temptation. Violet, his wife, had recognised it early in their marriage; she had decided not to allow it to destroy the love she had for the man, the inherent goodness in him.
After the first time, and each and every time after that, he had come to her and confessed. Not that she wanted to hear, but she knew that with honesty comes respect, even love. And now the facts were out. He had been with another woman, a now-dead prostitute by the name of Daisy, and there it was, emblazoned across the television. She had seen the black policeman, Isaac Cook, waylaid on his way out of the building where the woman had died. His inability to avoid making a statement, offering the usual platitudes: unable to make a comment at this stage, investigations are ongoing, charges will be laid soon.
Violet wondered who the charges would be laid against. Would it be her son? He had the anger, but why a prostitute of no importance? And there was Helen. She had a past history, and somehow it was tied to this other woman. It concerned Violet, having seen her son John’s fits of violence as a child, the pulling off of a butterfly’s wings, the senseless killing of a cat that had strayed into the garden, the embarrassment of explaining to the neighbours that she and James were not sure where they had gone wrong.
Violet remembered John’s anger when Helen had rejected him. She realised the signs were there all along, the glances between James and Helen, brushing against each other in the office, the whispered conversations. She had wanted to confront her husband, but she had not. After all, hadn’t he been honest in the past. And now, the man was dead, as was Helen. Was it the first time James had slept with Helen? Violet thought, and why had Helen not wanted her son? He was a man more her age, a man who would have given Helen children, yet the woman had wanted older men, men with one foot in the grave. Men who would die from a hammer blow to the head, and now from a bullet. If Helen had not died, Violet would have thought her responsible for James’s demise. It could not be her, but it could be John. She hoped it was not.
***
‘Aberman’s next-door neighbour identified Helen Langdon,’ Isaac said. It was 6 a.m. in the office, a good time for Isaac to lay out the plan for the day, not so good for the others.
‘Inconclusive, guv. The neighbour is getting on a bit, and any woman covered up could have been mistaken for Helen Langdon,’ Larry said.
‘That’s why we’re not placing emphasis on it for the present moment, and where’s the tie-in?’
‘Wendy, apart from your medical, what have you got?’
‘I can’t pass it, and you know it.’
‘You will. You’re on an exercise routine. We’ll get you fit. How’s your blood pressure, lung capacity?’
‘Fine. I had myself checked out a few months back, no serious damage. It’s arthritis, that’s what it is. I just can’t move as fast as before.’
‘Fast enough for this department.’
‘It’s our superintendent, isn’t it?’ Wendy said.
‘He’s weakening my base, going for the kill,’ Isaac said.
‘You don’t intend to let him win, do you?’
‘Not this time. We fight fire with fire. How’s your health, Bridget?’
‘Fine, but I’m not up for a medical.’
‘Every morning, you’ve got to take a one-hour walk with Wendy, and easy on the food. No more hamburgers, greasy chips. From now on, it’s salads and eating healthily, chicken if you're desperate.’
‘Me, as well?’
‘Bridget, you’re to set Wendy an example.’
‘Don’t worry, Wendy. We’ll get you through this,’ Bridget said to her friend.
A period of magnanimity existed in the office, only to be disturbed by Caddick coming in the door. ‘DCI, what’s going on?’
‘We’ll talk later,’ Isaac said to his team.
‘One more murder. Is that right?’ Caddick said as he sat down on a chair in Isaac’s office.
‘We know the woman had been an acquaintance of Helen Langdon.’
‘Did she kill Langdon and Holden?’
‘She’s not involved.’
‘Then why has she been killed?’
‘It was in my report.’
‘Too busy last night to read it. Give me the shortened version,’ Caddick said.
That’s what I gave you, you pompous fool, Isaac thought. Instead, he said, ‘Before Helen Langdon married Gerald Adamant, she worked in a club.’
‘What sort?’
‘Gentlemen’s.’
‘Strip joint?’
‘Yes.’
‘Call it what it is. Don’t go giving me the