DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1, стр. 354
***
Gordon Windsor was in Isaac’s office. The commissioner had left, and a relative normality had returned to Challis Street Police Station. Isaac was pleased to see the crime scene examiner, a man he regarded as a friend, although his visits to the office were rare.
‘We’ve been able to match some of the fingerprints,’ Windsor said.
‘Great. There’s a name?’
‘No name, just a match.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘All details of the fingerprint’s identity have been blocked on the database.’
‘Who could do that?’
‘It would need a court order, possible security implications.’
‘Any way to break it?’
‘Not a chance. The password would be encrypted. We’ll never get through.’
‘Your suggestion?’ Isaac asked.
‘The man worked for the government. There’s a reference number. You’ve some influential contacts, people who operate behind the scenes.’
‘I know some, not sure if I trust them.’
‘You’ve no alternative. Either you get the password, or else I can’t get you a name.’
‘Leave it with me. I’ll make a few phone calls.’
Isaac sat down and considered the situation after Windsor had left. He knew that McTavish, the former government whip, had the contacts, could even get him an answer within hours, but he no longer trusted the man. His DCS would know some other people.
Whatever way Isaac looked at it, he could see that obtaining the password had an inherent risk, possibly more damaging than the murders so far. Experience told him that once the security organisations become involved, MI5, MI6, then deaths start escalating. Some of those would become classified as well, possibly the three known murders too.
Isaac phoned his DCS, explained the situation and the need to maintain confidentiality. He assumed that Goddard would contact McTavish, but there was no alternative; they needed a confirmed name for the murderer.
Two hours later, Goddard phoned back with an update. ‘The password’s been removed.’
‘Angus McTavish?’ Isaac asked.
‘I’ve other contacts. Someone owed me a favour.’
‘He’ll keep quiet?’
‘I hope so.’
Isaac walked over to Bridget. He passed on the information, let her log on to Fingerprints as she was more computer savvy than him. ‘Malcolm Woolston,’ she said.
‘Is there an address?’ Isaac asked.
‘According to this, he died eleven years ago. Are you certain this man is the murderer?’
‘Any addresses?’
‘There’s one for where he worked.’
‘That’ll do. And update the all points. Do you have a photo?’
‘It’s old, but I’ll use it,’ Bridget said.
***
Ed Barrow did not appreciate the presence of two police officers in his office. He had just made a phone call to resolve the problem, and now he was being questioned about the same subject. The situation was precarious, he knew that. One wrong word, one incorrect response, and the police would smell a rat. His best response, he thought, was to be as honest as he could while bypassing the details, claiming privileged knowledge, although he wasn’t sure if any of it would work.
And then, what about his wife? What if she found out that her long-dead husband was back and he was killing people? Would she believe him, or would she believe the police? He had seen her looking at her first husband’s photo on more than one occasion; there was even a framed picture in their bedroom of father and daughter. The child had only been six months old then, and now she was married with a child of a similar age. What if the officers questioned her? What would she say? What could she say?
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook,’ Isaac said. He was glad to be out of the office. Wendy was chasing up on Malcolm Woolston’s whereabouts, working with Bridget to access bank accounts, driving licence records, anything that could give them a clue as to where the man was. Larry was with Isaac; both had shown their IDs.
‘What can I do for you?’ Barrow asked.
Isaac looked at the man before responding, aiming to get his measure: his body language, perspiration on the forehead, any tell-tale signs that the man was about to lie.
‘Malcolm Woolston,’ Isaac said, watching for the response.
Too measured, too calculating, too calm, Isaac thought as he observed the man.
‘It’s a long time since I’ve heard that name mentioned. The man’s dead; tragic accident.’
‘Accident? I thought it was suicide,’ Isaac said.
‘You’re right, a suicide. They only ever found his clothes and a clear indication that he had swum out from the beach.’
‘But no body?’
‘Why the interest? It’s been ten, eleven years.’
‘You should know; you married his widow.’
‘There’s a few years separation between the two events. Malcolm had been declared legally dead before we married.’
‘With no body?’
‘It’s all in the judge’s summation. The water temperature was close to freezing, the man would have succumbed to the cold within a short period of time, and there was an outgoing tide. The evidence was not disputed.’
‘And his wife?’
‘She was upset for a few years, but time moves on.’
‘And then you married her?’
‘You make it sound indecent. Malcolm and I were good friends, as was Gwen, my wife. It only seemed natural that I should be there for her; I even walked their daughter down the aisle some years later.’
‘Tell us about Malcolm Woolston,’ Larry said. He’d taken the opportunity to look around the office. It all seemed functional: a desk, Barrow’s chair with its back to the window, a bookcase in one corner, a computer terminal and a printer on another desk. The man apparently appreciated the finer things in life. On the wall was what appeared to be