THE LONDON DRUG WARS (3 page)

Brookes scratched his temple. “If it
was someone else how would they know she was here on her own? How often are
there students here during the day?”

“Hardly ever; if we’re not at
lectures most of us study in the library.”

Brookes frowned. “I wonder what made
her come home that afternoon.”

Sarah shook her head.

“Did she always catch the bus?”

“If the weather was really nice she’d
sometimes walk.”

Finally Brookes said, “OK Sarah; like
you, I’m not completely happy about this case. I’ll keep digging. If you hear
anything or if anything else occurs to you give me a ring.” He handed her his
card.

Next he re-interviewed each of the
other students living in the house; none could add anything important to what
he had already discovered about Amanda’s life or death. Finally, walking back
to his car, he phoned the number he had for Peter Robins’ mobile. There was no
reply and it went to answerphone mode. He left a message and his number, asking
the man to call him.

His next stop was The Princess
Alexandra, a pub in Mare Street. One of his young DCs, Mark Briggs, was having
a farewell party; he was being promoted and moving to Plaistow in nearby
Newham. Arriving, Brookes saw the party was already in full swing. Making his
way to the bar where Briggs was standing surrounded by friends Brookes held out
his hand, saying “Congratulations Mark; we’ll be sorry to lose you but our loss
is Plaistow’s gain.”

Briggs was a sturdy man in his late
twenties; married with two young children, he was keen to get on. He smiled and
took Brookes hand. “Thanks boss, kind of you to turn up. What are you
drinking?”

“I think I could manage a pint of
Tetley’s, thank you.”

He spent five
minutes talking to Briggs then excused himself and went over to a table near
the window where DS Brigid Jones sat with two other women detectives, nodding
hello to several other of his team of detectives on the way. Arriving at the
table he smiled and said, “Good evening ladies. Brigid, how’s the case going? I’m
missing you.”

Brigid Jones was Brookes’
investigative partner but was currently giving evidence at a case at the Old
Bailey. She returned his smile. “Don’t say that sir, people will start to talk.
The case is dragging on, they haven’t called me yet.”

He lifted his glass and swallowed the
remaining contents. “OK, I’m off. Don’t want to cramp your style. Goodnight
ladies.”

Walking back to the bar, he deposited
his glass on the counter and said his goodbyes after offering to buy Briggs a
drink, which offer he politely refused. On his way to the door he nodded his
goodbyes to the other detectives. He knew that, whilst his detectives welcomed
his presence, they would relax once he’d gone; they were naturally a little
inhibited with him looking over their shoulders. There was a fine balance that
he walked between work and play with his team and he was careful not to step
over it.

On
his way home he stopped at his local kebab shop and ordered a ‘Donner’ that he
would eat at home. He loved the lamb even though he knew this was probably not
the healthiest way to eat it. As usual he would dine alone.

“
If you prick us do we not bleed?

If you tickle us do we not laugh?

If you poison us do we not die?

If you wrong us will we not revenge?
”

– William Shakespeare:
The Merchant of Venice

Brookes arrived at his office early
the next morning and, after checking his messages and answering those that were
urgent, he made another attack on his correspondence. It was only later in the
morning that he was able to return to his investigation. Next on his list was
Amanda’s tutor, Dr Liza Rushmore. He found her in her office on the second
floor of the science building on the university campus. At first glance she
appeared to be a severe woman of around forty who wore no make-up and a
no-nonsense expression on her face.

She invited him to sit in the chair
the other side of her desk, putting a solid barrier between them, and offered
no refreshments. From her gruff greeting Brookes guessed he was in for a
difficult time. He decided to take the initiative away from her and go straight
onto the attack. “How many of your students die of heroin overdoses Doctor
Rushmore?”

She opened her mouth then closed it
again. After a long moment she said, “This is the first?”

“How many of them commit suicide?”

“Again this is the first one; why are
you asking these questions?”

Ignoring her, Brookes continued the
offensive. “She was not an addict was she?”

“As far as I know, no, she wasn’t.”

“Don’t you think it’s a strange way
for her to have killed herself under the circumstances?”

Rushmore did not answer immediately.
After a long moment her facial expression softened into a smile. “I see what
you’re doing Superintendent; you are being intentionally provocative. Now would
you like to try a different strategy?”

He returned her smile. “The question
remains, don’t you think the manner of her suicide was unusual?”

“Under the circumstances, yes, I do.
She was certainly not an addict, I would have read the signs. In fact I doubt
very much she even took drugs. You know I was her tutor and we had tutorials
once a month. I take my tutorship seriously, especially in the student’s first
year as, in most cases, this is their first extended period away from home. I
think I knew her well enough to have noticed any serious depression or drug
dependency.”

“How did she perform, as a student I
mean; was she up to scratch?”

Rushmore smiled again. “Scratching is
not part of the curriculum Superintendent. But if you mean was she keeping up
with the course work the answer is yes. She was not brilliant but she was an
above average student.”

Brookes unaccountably found himself
warming to this woman. What he had first seen as a plain face was in fact an
attractive one when animated, and he had succeeded in bringing it to life. “I’d
be interested in your theory as to why she did what she did, Doctor Rushmore.”

“Might it not be more appropriate to
ask if she actually did what everyone seems to think that she did? Has it
occurred to you someone else might have killed her?”

“What makes you say that?”

She smiled at him again. “Isn’t that
a question Sherlock Holmes might ask?”

“He would probably wonder why you
keep answering my questions with a question of your own.” He paused then added,
“OK can we stop fencing now and get back to my investigation? Have you any
thoughts on why she might have taken her own life?”

“The answer is an emphatic no. Which
is why I asked the question about the involvement of someone else.”

Brookes sighed, shaking his head; he
visibly relaxed. This woman was having a strange effect on him. An effect that
had little to do with his investigation. He decided to be honest with her. He
said, “I am fast coming round to that point of view. Having dealt with a few
suicides I can see no evidence of any serious depression or even a reason for
one. I’m not at all happy with the note she left on her computer either. But
neither can I find any evidence of anyone else’s involvement or even a motive
for anyone wanting her dead.”

Rushmore looked at her wristwatch.
“You poor man, you look as if you need a drink. Its approaching lunchtime now,
let me buy you one in the pub around the corner. We can talk some more there.”

Brookes was somewhat surprised by the
offer but could find no argument to raise against the suggestion. Without
further ado they left the campus and walked to the Dog and Duck that was,
literally, around the corner.

They found an empty table in a
secluded part of the bar and, good as her word, she went to get him a pint of
best bitter and a gin and tonic for herself. Sitting down, she said, “I’m
pleased you are not one of those detectives who hides behind officialdom. You
actually seem almost human.”

“Cut me and I shall bleed. Who said
that, someone famous wasn’t it?”

“Actually it was ‘prick me’ and it
was a question. ‘Will I not bleed?’ But that’s most unusual, a police detective
who misquotes Shakespeare?”

“I would think it’s more unusual for
one to quote him properly unless it were Morse and, sadly, he’s dead. But I
don’t think that’s any more strange than a doctor of chemistry who reads Conan
Doyle.”

She smiled. “I see we’re fencing
again. What do you do in your spare time?”

“Take my witnesses out for a pint.”

“I see, so you’ll buy me a few
G&Ts then get me to admit the crime.”

He smiled. “Either that or take
advantage of you.”

“You’d better make the next one a
double then.”

He shook his head. “I thought all you
professors were dry and boring people.”

“Only in episodes of Morse. Now I’ll
ask you again, what do you do when you are not detecting?”

He pulled a face. “Occasionally I go
out to dinner; I listen to music sometimes; oh, and I read a lot.”

“Don’t tell me, detective novels.”

“Strangely enough, no; science
fiction mostly.”

“And music?”

“Leonard Cohen, the singing poet. Now
it’s my turn. What do you do with your spare time?”

“I could be clever and say take
handsome detectives out for drinks. But I won’t. I too like music, mostly
classical. I’m not sure about Leonard Cohen though, he’s a miserable so-and-so
isn’t he? And I have an eighteen-year-old daughter who’s still at home. Oh, and
I love cooking.”

“That sounds interesting because I
love eating.”

“Clearly we are made for each other.”

He gave her a serious look. “You seem
very bold. Are you always this way?”

 She returned the look then smiled.
“No, far from it. But you had an immediate effect on me. Tell me Mister
Brookes, do you believe in chemistry. I mean between two people.”

“Yes. And I felt it too. I think it’s
time you started using my first name, it’s John.”

“Pleased to meet you John, I’m Liza.”

They spent the next hour getting to
know each other and fencing. Then, after escorting her back to the university
campus, Brookes returned to his office. Safely tucked into his wallet was her
business card with home and mobile phone numbers thereon. He had a smile on his
face as she had agreed to see him later that week. He made a mental note to
book a table at his favourite restaurant.

His small suite of offices was on the
second floor of Hackney Police Station
next to
the CID general office, which he looked into in passing.
Catching the eye of Detective Sergeant Bill Moore, his office manager, he said,
“Anything for me Bill?”

“There’s a stack of messages on your
desk boss, the Chief Super’s looking for you and Brigid is in the canteen.”

As he opened the door of his own
office he said over his shoulder, “Great, send her in when she comes back.” As
it transpired, her absence at court had been fortuitous as far as his love life
was concerned as he’d been alone when interviewing Liza Rushmore.

Arriving in his office he sat down on
his swivel chair and picked up the pile of messages. Going through them, he saw
that most were routine and could wait; one however, couldn’t. Picking up the
phone he got through to New Scotland Yard and the office of Deputy Assistant
Commissioner Alan Groves. The phone was answered by Groves’ personal assistant.
Brookes said, “Hi Phyllis, is he in?”

“Yes sir, I’ll put you through.”

Groves came on the line. “John, where
have you been all morning? I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I was interviewing witnesses then a
doctor of chemistry took me out to lunch. She made me an offer I couldn’t
refuse.”

“A doctor of chemistry? You be bloody
careful she doesn’t doctor your beer. What’s the latest on the Bronchi case?
I’m getting flack from the Commissioner.” He referred to the Russian gang
leader who controlled the illicit drug trade in the East End of London and,
according to a witness, had been seen clubbing another man to death in a local
business park.

“There is no case sir. There was no body
at the alleged murder scene when my team got there, although there were traces
of blood. And now the witness
who reported it
has disappeared off the face of the Earth.”

“Well what are you doing to catch up
with the bastard? Give me something to tell the Commissioner.”

Brookes sighed into the phone.
“Without a body or a reliable witness it’s not easy. But I’ve got a team of six
on it full-time. They’re watching the Russian’s every move. And I’m liaising
with Arthur Bolton’s squad. We know Bronchi’s clever but he has to make a
mistake sometime soon.” Detective Chief Inspector Bolton was the head of the
drug squad at New Scotland Yard.

“Why won’t you take my offer John?
The Home Secretary wants this man put away. Apparently the PM is up in arms
about the drug dealers and insists we make it a priority. I’ll give you a full
team and a free rein. Bring this man down.”

Brookes had no ambition to head up
one of the Yard’s specialist squads under the direct eye of the Commissioner
and the press. Like many of his calling he did not seek the limelight and had a
strong dislike of the media. He knew however, that in the end he would have to
do as he was told.

He answered diplomatically. “I’m
considering your offer sir but there are one or two things I’d like to clear up
here first.”

“OK, I’ll tell the boss-man you’re on
top of it. Raid one of his dealers or something, give the boss a crumb to keep
the Home Secretary happy.”

Brookes laughed into the phone.
“Bring her down here and I’ll show her what we’re up against. Tell her she can
come on a raid with us.”

“You know I might just do that John.
OK keep in touch.”

Brookes put the phone down and looked
up to see Brigid Jones standing in the doorway. He smiled. “Come in Brigid, how
did it go at court?”

“Changed his plea to guilty when he’d
heard all the evidence, remanded for sentencing; the judge wants a
psychiatrist’s report done on him. Personally I think he’s as mad as a hatter.”
She referred to a man charged with causing actual bodily harm to his wife.
After a pause she added, “I see the DAC is trying to tempt you away again.”

“Yes but I’m happy where I am.”

“How did your enquiry go this
morning?”

He scratched his head. “I’m even more
convinced she didn’t kill herself but I still haven’t a clue as to who did or
why. We need to visit a pub though, The Butchers Block. Apparently the barman
is supplying cannabis to the students. If it’s only the weed we won’t make too
much fuss but we need to check it out. Get DI Brown to get someone to make some
discreet enquiries about a barman named Simon. Apparently he sells cannabis to
the students who use the pub. But tell him to see me first though, I don’t want
this man to know we are interested in him.”

She nodded, writing in her notebook.

He asked, “What else have we got on
our plate?”

“You mean apart from Ivan the
Terrible sir? Nothing pressing.” She referred to Ivan Bronchi, the Russian drug
dealer.

“Oh yeah, him. You’ll be pleased to
know the Home Sec. is chasing the Commissioner, who’s chasing Groves, who’s
chasing me to screw the bastard down. I don’t know why we’re lumbered with it,
the Yard have got a whole bloody squad to chase these drug dealers. Why can’t
we leave it to them?”

“Good question sir. But politics are
above my pay grade, I’ll leave them to you.”

“Thanks, I knew I could rely on you
for support.”

Brigid rolled her eyes at him but
made no other reply.

“One thing we can do is see what our
surveillance team have come up with. Get Fred Middlemiss to drop off the
surveillance logs for me to look at.” Middlemiss was the detective sergeant in
charge of the observation team. He added, “Tell him we need to show we’re doing
something. We’ll have to organise a raid, get him to pick his spot and set it
up.”