Deadlock Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Graham Ison from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Graham Ison from Severn House

  Brock and Poole Series

  BREACH OF PRIVILEGE

  ALL QUIET ON ARRIVAL

  LOST OR FOUND

  GUNRUNNER

  MAKE THEM PAY

  RECKLESS ENDANGERMENT

  EXIT STAGE LEFT

  SUDDENLY AT HOME

  The Hardcastle Series

  HARDCASTLE’S BURGLAR

  HARDCASTLE’S MANDARIN

  HARDCASTLE’S SOLDIERS

  HARDCASTLE’S OBSESSION

  HARDCASTLE’S FRUSTRATION

  HARDCASTLE’S TRAITORS

  HARDCASTLE’S QUARTET

  HARDCASTLE’S RUNAWAY

  DEADLOCK

  Graham Ison

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY

  This eBook edition first published in 2018 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2018 by Graham Ison.

  The right of Graham Ison to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8799-3 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-925-2 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-981-7 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  ONE

  It was five minutes to nine on a Tuesday morning in June, the eleventh to be precise, and I was about to drink my second cup of coffee of the day. I knew that my Murder Investigation Team was next on the list for any homicide that occurred in our area, and I was the detective chief inspector leading that team. But London being the lawless city it is, I didn’t have long to wait.

  Detective Sergeant Colin Wilberforce, the incident room manager, came into my office clutching some sort of electronic gizmo in his large hands. ‘We’ve got one, sir. Female found in Richmond Park,’ he announced. A slight smile crossed his craggy features, and he tugged at his cauliflower ear, doubtless the result of many scrums while playing rugby for the Metropolitan Police.

  ‘Whereabouts in Richmond Park, Colin?’

  ‘The Isabella Plantation, sir.’ Wilberforce handed me a sheet of paper. He knew that I only dealt in paper; computers, clever telephones and other related toys were another world as far as I was concerned, and one I did not wish to explore. ‘DI Ebdon’s assembling the team, and Dave Poole is ready and waiting with the engine ticking over. And by the way, sir,’ he said, glancing back at his electronic device, ‘John Appleby’s replacement has just arrived. A suave-looking finger by the name of Harvey.’

  ‘At last. We’ve only been waiting since last August. Tell Miss Ebdon to take him with her. Nothing like going in at the deep end.’

  ‘He’s supposed to report to the commander at ten o’clock, sir.’

  ‘He’s had a lucky escape, then. If the commander asks where Harvey is, tell him DI Ebdon’s taken him out for some hands-on experience.’

  ‘Really, sir?’ Wilberforce grinned. He obviously read a double entendre into my comment where I had not intended one to exist. ‘I wonder if the commander will know what that means,’ he muttered, half to himself.

  ‘Watch it, Sergeant Wilberforce!’ I said sharply.

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  I waited until he’d left the office before I laughed.

  The Homicide and Major Crime Command is divided into three groups, each of which covers a specific area of the Metropolitan Police District. The wedge-shaped piece to which I belong, HMCC West, is responsible for all the major villainy committed from the hinterland that is Hillingdon right the way down to Westminster. And if you imagine that Westminster is relatively crime-free, think again. There is nowhere in London that is now free of murder and mayhem, despite what our politicians may believe. It’s a fool’s paradise to think that the passing of an Act of Parliament will eradicate wrongdoing. Nevertheless, poor, overworked retainers like us have to enforce the law, regardless of race, colour or creed, and without fear or favour. And these days without adequate resources, thanks to our political masters who reside in cloud cuckoo land.

  The Isabella Plantation is a forty-acre area of woodland gardens in the middle of Richmond Park, but this usually tranquil spot was now alive with police activity. Or to be accurate, police inactivity.

  An inspector, clutching the indispensable clipboard, waggled a pen in Dave’s direction. ‘You shouldn’t park that car on the grass, you know.’

  Having recognized the inspector as a product of the forcing process known as accelerated promotion, Dave made a pantomime of looking under the car.

  ‘I don’t think so, sir,’ he said. ‘I make a point of never running over a grass. That, of course, is CID language for an informant,’ he added by way of explanation.

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Harry Brock, HMCC West,’ I said, intervening before Dave got himself into trouble. I was not in the best of moods, having left my second cup of coffee untouched on my desk. ‘And my sergeant will park wherever I tell him to park, Inspector.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ The inspector gave up on the matter of grass desecration and pointed his pen at Dave. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Colour Sergeant Poole, ditto, sah!’ said Dave, affecting a Jamaican sing-song accent, rocking his head from side to side and trying to look like a recently emancipated slave.

  The inspector, confronted by a black detective sergeant making racial jokes about himself, swallowed hard and wrote down Dave’s name. He was clearly at a loss to know whether Dave’s comment breached the sacred rules of diversity, and wisely remained tight-lipped.

  I should explain that Dave Poole is of Caribbean origin although he was born in Bethnal Green, where his grandfather, a medical doctor, had set up in general practice on his arrival from Jamaica in the fifties. Dave’s father is an accountant, but Dave, after obtaining a good English degree at Lon
don University, joined the Metropolitan Police in what he described as a moment of madness. He somewhat provocatively refers to himself as the black sheep of the family for having decided not to pursue a professional career, but claims that he redeemed himself by marrying Madeleine, a petite principal dancer with the Royal Ballet.

  The diminutive, short-haired Detective Inspector Jane Mansfield, a member of the Homicide Assessment Team and known as a HAT DI, was standing just behind the blue and white tape now surrounding the murder scene.

  ‘What’s the SP, Jane?’ I asked, borrowing a term familiar to the horseracing fraternity but used by CID officers as shorthand to find out what had happened so far.

  ‘A woman walking her dog came across the body at about half past seven, guv’nor. It was just a yard or two inside the plantation. Initial examination indicates that she was strangled, but there are no overt signs of sexual assault.’

  ‘Where is this witness?’ I asked.

  ‘She was pretty shaken up, so I sent her home with a woman officer. I’ve obtained a short statement, but it might be as well to leave her for an hour or two before you interview her.’ Mansfield referred to her clipboard. Another clipboard! ‘She’s Annette Kowalska who lives just outside the Kingston Gate,’ she said, and added the woman’s full address and telephone number.

  ‘Is she Polish, Jane?’

  ‘I didn’t ask. She spoke perfect English. She could be second generation Polish, or just married to a Pole. Or both.’ The tone of Mansfield’s reply implied that the woman’s nationality didn’t matter a damn at this stage of the investigation or, come to that, at any stage. And she was right, of course.

  ‘Is the pathologist here yet?’

  ‘Dr Mortlock arrived about ten minutes before you did. He’s camping out over there.’ Mansfield pointed at the canvas screens surrounding the body.

  ‘I didn’t see his car.’ It was impossible to miss Henry Mortlock’s Mercedes with its distinctive maroon livery.

  ‘We had to send a car for him. He said he wasn’t sure of the way, and didn’t fancy driving here from Chelsea in the rush hour anyway.’

  ‘He’s just being his usual idle self,’ commented Dave sarcastically. ‘There doesn’t seem to be much traffic around here, anyway.’ He waved a hand in the air to take in the entire park.

  ‘Probably because the uniforms have closed the park,’ said Mansfield. ‘Much to the annoyance of those commuters who drive through it to get to work. Incidentally,’ she continued, turning to me, ‘the park was open yesterday from seven in the morning until ten o’clock last night.’

  ‘Thanks for that, Jane. I’d better have a look at the body, I suppose.’

  ‘The CSM has placed stepping plates between those tapes, guv.’ Mansfield pointed to two narrow white tapes leading from where we were standing to the canvas screen surrounding my next dead body. It was a comment that caused me to remind Mansfield that this was not the first murder I’d investigated. I suppose I shouldn’t have snapped, but I resent people trying to tell me my job. Linda Mitchell, the crime-scene manager, better known as the CSM, was extremely good at her job, and the delineated pathway would have been the first part of the murder scene to have been examined.

  Dave and I crossed the few yards to the canvas screens just as Henry Mortlock emerged.

  ‘Ah, good morning, Harry. Decent of you to drop by,’ said Mortlock sarcastically.

  ‘And good morning to you, too, Henry.’

  Mortlock is a rotund man about five foot seven inches tall, and has recently affected pince-nez in place of the wire-framed antique spectacles he previously wore. But like the first set of glasses, this new set looks as though it has been moulded to his face. At first sight, he appears to have all the characteristics of the amiable family doctor in whom one can confide, but this belies the sharp temper he displays when confronted by people who annoy him. And they consist of the few who fail to understand his brief summary of the cause of death or – and these are the worst offenders – those who question his professional assessment of the situation.

  ‘My initial opinion is that she was manually strangled,’ announced Mortlock tersely. ‘There are thumb marks on the back of the neck and fingermarks each side of the laryngeal prominence and just below the jawline. When I open her up, I’ll probably find damage to the thyroid cartilage. Furthermore, I think she was probably strangled from behind. There are no signs of sexual interference, unless you think that a missing brassiere comes into that category.’

  ‘Perhaps she wasn’t wearing a bra in the first place?’ suggested Dave. ‘Some women don’t bother these days.’

  ‘It comes as no surprise to me that you’re an expert on ladies’ underwear, Sergeant Poole,’ commented Mortlock drily. ‘And, in particular, the removal thereof.’

  ‘Time of death, Henry?’ I asked.

  ‘All things considered, I’d say between twelve and fifteen hours ago.’

  ‘Just before the park closed, then,’ said Dave.

  ‘All right to let the crime-scene experts loose, Henry?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, I’ve finished here, Harry. I’ll let you know further particulars once I’ve got her on the slab and carved her up. It’s ruined my hopes of a round of golf this afternoon.’

  ‘There’s a golf course here in the park, Doctor. Why don’t you pop in there for a quick round now? I’m sure they’d be happy to lend you some mallets to play with.’ Dave was in one of his pathologist-baiting moods this morning.

  ‘Good God, Sergeant Poole! Do you seriously think I would play on a public course?’ Mortlock was clearly outraged at that suggestion, and that he should play with someone else’s clubs. ‘I suppose my chauffeur’s here somewhere,’ he said, glancing around. He picked up his bag of ghoulish instruments and went on his way whistling some obscure operatic aria. At least, I presumed that’s what it was.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ Kate Ebdon, one of the DIs on my team, is a flame-haired Australian. She has an impressive record as a detective, having served most of her time in the East End of London before coming to HMCC via the Flying Squad. Most of the time she is attired in jeans and a white shirt, much to the consternation of our beloved commander, who thinks that promotion to inspector automatically makes her an officer and a lady, and that she should dress accordingly. That said, she can ‘tart herself up’, as she puts it, when occasion demands, such as appearances at the Old Bailey, where her shapely figure, attractively dressed, has been described by more than one defence counsel as affording the prosecution an unfair advantage.

  ‘There’s not much to do here, I’m afraid, Kate. According to Jane Mansfield, there were no witnesses that we know of.’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s it, then,’ said Kate dismissively. ‘If that’s what Mansfield said, there’s no point in looking for any.’ I’d sensed on previous occasions that some sort of enmity existed between Ebdon and Mansfield, but I’d never discovered the reason, and didn’t care enough to ask.

  ‘There are no houses within sight of the scene, so there are no house-to-house enquiries to be made. Dave and I will speak to the woman who found the body, and once the crime-scene experts have finished we can wrap it up here.’

  ‘Has the victim been identified yet?’ asked Kate.

  ‘Not yet. The forensic people have only just been let loose on the body.’

  ‘By the way, I’ve got our new DC with me.’ Kate turned and beckoned to a twenty-something man who was talking to Jane Mansfield, and what’s more was making her laugh. Most unusual. ‘Steve, come and meet the guv’nor.’

  Steve Harvey was wearing a suit and a tie. His leather shoes were polished, and his hair was a decent length. Such an ensemble was most unusual by today’s generally accepted standards of slovenliness.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, guv.’ Harvey held out his hand. ‘I understand that John Appleby was a good copper and very popular.’

  ‘Yes, on both counts,’ I said.

  Harvey nodded. ‘I reckon I’ve got a lot to live
up to.’

  ‘Don’t even try,’ said Dave. ‘Just do your own thing. I’m DS Dave Poole. Welcome to the madhouse.’

  ‘Thanks, Dave.’

  Dave Poole reacted sharply to that. ‘I understand you’ve come from the Flying Squad.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘I don’t know what the procedure is there, Harvey, but in this elite outfit, constables call sergeants by their rank. Capisce?’

  ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

  ‘Stick with Miss Ebdon for the time being, Steve,’ I said. ‘She’s a damned good investigator and you’ll learn a lot about homicide from her.’ After a pause, I added, ‘And don’t upset Sergeant Poole. He’s the best sergeant I’ve ever worked with.’

  ‘I seem to have got off on the wrong foot, sir,’ said Harvey ruefully. ‘Perhaps I’d better go out and come in again.’

  ‘No need for that,’ said Dave. ‘You can buy me a drink.’

  ‘We’ve got an ID for the victim, Harry.’ Linda Mitchell emerged from the screens. As usual, she was attired in a mob cap and coveralls designed to prevent contamination of the scene, and didn’t look old enough to be the grandmother of a young woman who had just become engaged. ‘She’s Rachel Steele, aged twenty-five, and her address is 25 Superior Drive, Camden Town.’

  ‘Superior Drive in Camden Town, Linda? You’ve got to be kidding.’

  ‘One of my team lives in that neck of the woods and knows the area well. Apparently it used to be called Asylum Road, but that’s not considered quite the thing in these days of political correctness. Consequently, they changed it to Superior Drive, added to which it’s been gentrified.’

  ‘How did you identify her so quickly?’ I asked.

  ‘Her shoulder bag contained a wallet with a driving licence and credit cards. She also had about a hundred pounds in cash and a set of house keys.’

  ‘Robbery wasn’t the motive, then,’ I mused aloud.

  ‘That would appear to be the case, sir,’ said Dave, emphasizing the honorific. He always called me ‘sir’ whenever I made a stupid comment.