‘A man’s home is his castle, haven’t you heard? That’s a mess you made outside. I hope the police force has the funds to clean it up.’
Isaac doubted if they did, but that wasn’t the point. No adverse reaction from Naughton.
The man was smooth, but that was what Larry had been told in Godstone. Isaac was sure the two men were one and the same.
‘Your colleague may as well come in here. If it’s a guided tour you want, I’d be happy to oblige.’
‘A few questions answered would be preferable.’
The young lady at the door came in with Larry. He received the same cordial welcome, asked to sit down, have a drink.
‘Analyn, our housemaid, looks after the children,’ Naughton said as Isaac watched the woman walk out of the door. ‘Legal. I have all the papers.’
One of the questions Isaac would have wanted to ask, but would not at the present time, was whether Analyn had the papers or Naughton did and if the woman was free to leave if she wanted to.
‘We found your address in a box buried in a cemetery in Kensal Green,’ Larry said. ‘Does that come as a surprise?’
‘Why would someone do that? It makes no sense to me.’
It did to Isaac; he’d met men similar to Naughton before, men who maintained a distance, financing crime, creaming the profits off the top, never sullying themselves with the sordid details.
‘Three deaths so far; all interconnected, all pointing to this house,’ Isaac said.
‘I don’t see how. It’s only my wife and myself. The children are not here at present, on holidays.’
‘Analyn?’
‘She’s been with us for over a year. Comes and goes as she pleases.’
‘Mr Naughton, we can’t ignore the address in the box,’ Isaac said.
‘I’m afraid you must. As you can see, there is nothing of interest here, just myself and Analyn in the house at present.’
‘Your wife?’
‘Tomorrow. A trip to Paris with friends, Eurostar. You should try it if you haven’t already.’
‘We checked the house before we came here, never found a mention of your name.’
‘You won’t. My business and personal interests are structured on advice from my financial advisor and my legal team. Now, if you don’t mind, I would appreciate it if you leave.’
‘What is your occupation, Mr Naughton?’ Isaac asked. ‘Where does the money come from to afford this house?’
‘Independent means. And next time you intend to make an unscheduled visit, don’t.’
‘We weren’t sure you were here.’
‘And that, Chief Inspector, is a lie. That address you found, not that I can explain it any more than you can, caused you to believe that this house was a den of iniquity, a house of low repute, a drug baron’s hideout. Am I correct?’
Isaac saw no reason to lie, not to a master criminal; that was indeed what he thought the man was. ‘It was either drugs or women destined for brothels.’
‘Instead of a family home.’
‘As you say,’ Isaac said as he and Larry retreated from the house. The enthusiastic handshake on arrival was not repeated on their departure.
Chapter 12
Bill Ross phoned Isaac two days later, told him to get over to Canning Town Police Station.
Larry went with Isaac. The last resort police station, he had heard it referred to, where the least ambitious, the most ruthless and politically-incorrect police officers wound up. To him, it was his sort of place; a place where true policing could be done, instead of the fussing and fretting, the constant concerns over his drinking and his bad habits.
Bill Ross, Larry could see, had maintained some dignity, but the duty sergeant when he and Isaac entered the hallowed sanctum of the station had taken one look at them, looked at their warrant cards, looked down at DCI Isaac Cook. ‘I’ve heard of you,’ he said, not recognising Isaac’s seniority, only seeing his colour.
Racism, religious bigotry and poor education weren’t only out on the street; they were alive and well in the police station.
In Canning Town, a depressed mood pervaded, so sharp it could almost be sliced with a knife. Outside the station: graffiti everywhere, a lone man walking down the street, two women pushing prams, covered from head to toe in black.
England to him was fish and chips, a pint of beer, each to their own, mind your own business.
Yes, Larry thought, Canning Town was somewhere he could make a difference, not in Notting Hill or Bayswater or Holland Park, and even the gangs up there were becoming gentrified with their illicitly-gained affluence, now put into honest pursuits.
‘Inspector Ross,’ Isaac said.
‘He’ll be out in a minute,’ the sergeant said.
Canning Town Police Station was equipped for twice the number of police officers, but few wanted to be there, and coercion was oft used; postings for the most miserable and disreputable, those who did no credit to the Met.
Bill Ross burst through the door behind the duty sergeant. ‘A result,’ he said, ‘and you must be Larry Hill,’ warmly grabbing Larry’s hand and shaking it. ‘A low-life, out back in the interview room. You’ll want to see him, no doubt.’
‘Certainly,’ Isaac said. ‘A confession?’
‘Sometimes it’s as easy as picking fruit off a tree,’ Ross said. ‘We pulled him in last night for public drunkenness, not sure why we do, as they claim a deprived childhood, discrimination, no money, and so on.’
‘Then why?’ Larry asked.
‘We need to maintain our quota. The superintendent, he’s a stickler for performance, after us every other day.’
‘We’ve got one of our own,’ Larry said.
Enough of the banter, Isaac thought. Time to see what Bill Ross had.
In the interview room, a youth of nineteen, in a hooded jacket with the hood pushed back.
‘Your name?’ Ross said. Isaac
