‘He was shot.’
‘I know.’
‘And yet you come to this house knowing full well that whoever shot him could be watching this house.’
‘In the event of Ben’s death, this house belongs to me. It was in the divorce settlement.’
‘Your husband disappears for years, and you were never suspicious?’
‘What could I do? And besides, I had no need of the house. I was, am, comfortable with what I’ve got, and I don’t have the searing ambition that Ben had, but now the house is here, and I’d like it back.’
‘He was killed in the house.’
‘I know, and probably I’ll sell it.’
‘Can you prove the house is yours?’
‘Yes, I can. Slater and my solicitor drew up the agreement. I have a document at home signed by both parties.’
***
On the fourth day of staking out Ugly Pete’s house, he appeared. By that time the two teams that had been rotating to watch the house were bored, and if it had not been for one of the men looking over towards the house at the last minute of their shift, they would have missed him.
Ugly Pete’s house, 34 Victoria Street, Croydon, was not everyone’s idea of a desirable residence. It was on the rougher side of the area and getting rougher. On the footpath outside, a broken chair had been dumped for the council to pick up. Inside the front gate were an old bicycle, a discarded child’s toy.
Isaac and Larry drove over to the man’s house, even though it was one o’clock in the morning. At the back of the house, two uniforms waited. Out front, an armed response team. The man inside was known to be dangerous and probably armed.
Sergeant Gaffney of the Specialist Firearms Command knocked on the door – no response. He hit it harder the second time. A window opened upstairs. ‘What do you want?’ a gruff voice said.
The light of a street lamp shone in the man’s face. ‘I can see why they call him ugly,’ Larry said.
‘Police,’ Gaffney said.
‘Can’t a man have a good night’s sleep?’
‘If you open this door, we can resolve this in a few minutes.’
The head at the upstairs window pulled back. ‘He’s getting ready to make a run for it,’ Isaac said.
Gaffney gave the instruction. ‘This man is regarded as extremely dangerous.’ With that, another officer took hold of a battering ram and slammed it into the front door. It opened with no difficulty. A man was coming down the stairs in a hurry. ‘Police,’ one of the officers shouted. A short scuffle, an attempt to draw a weapon, and then Ugly Pete was handcuffed and in the back of a marked police car.
‘Where to?’ the driver of the car asked.
‘Challis Street Police Station. Put him in one of the holding cells for now,’ Isaac said.
He and Larry entered Ugly Pete’s house and looked around, careful not to disturb anything. Downstairs was spartan and not clean. Upstairs, only one of the rooms had a bed. It was dirty; the sheets had not been changed for some time.
‘We need a weapon,’ Larry said. ‘I’ll stay and check the place.’
‘Do we need the crime scene examiners here?’ Isaac said.
‘Not yet. There’s been no crime here except against good taste.’
***
‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ Ugly Pete said. He was in an interview room. He had accepted legal aid. Wendy had one conviction against him, his lack of hygiene; the man stank of body odour and stale beer.
‘Your full name,’ Isaac said.
‘Peter Foster.’ Isaac could tell the man had not shaved or showered for several days. His face was marked, the result of childhood acne, his nose twisted to one side. He was also short, matching the description that Gus and Mrs Hawthorne had given.
Isaac was sure that Ugly Pete was Ben Aberman’s killer, but he didn’t look to be the sort of person to admit to anything. The only witnesses on that night were the old lady next door – and it had been dark, and her eyesight would not have been that good – and Gus, the Dixey Club’s doorman.
‘Mr Foster, you are aware of the Dixey Club?’
‘Not me.’
Isaac leant over to the man’s solicitor. ‘I suggest you advise your client to answer questions when given. We know that Mr Foster frequents the area near to the club. A denial does not assist his case.’
‘What case is this?’ Ugly Pete said.
‘You’ve been informed. The murder of Ben Aberman.’
‘Who?’
‘Mr Foster, we can confirm that you were at a house in the village of Bray when Ben Aberman was killed. We have two witnesses who will confirm that.’
‘Was I? That’s news to me.’
‘Ben Aberman, the owner of the Dixey Club, was beaten and tortured in that house. He was then shot, a bullet in the head.’
‘What’s that to do with me?’
‘We have a witness who will testify that you shot the man, and then you buried him in the garden of the house.’
‘Not me. I’ve killed no one.’
‘Are you going to continue to deny your knowledge of this house?’
‘I’ve never been there.’
‘Stupidity is not a defence,’ Wendy said.
‘If you’ve no proof, then why is my client here?’ the legal aid said.
‘Ben Aberman had a woman. She called herself Helen.’
‘I don’t know her either,’ Foster said.
‘She was a dancer at the club. She was recently shot in a hotel in Bayswater, together with a man. Also, she had a friend, Daisy, who was murdered.’
‘Are you trying to pin all of them on me?’ Ugly Pete said.
‘Not all. You did not kill the two in the hotel, nor Daisy. Those killings required a person of stealth. You’re not stealthy, more brute muscle. Another two murders, Aberman’s solicitor and his receptionist. Yet again, you could not have done
