‘A reputation?’
‘Stuck up, nose in the air, looking down at us, even at school. She’s done well for herself, so has he. Brad could do worse than their daughter.’
‘This may take a while,’ Larry said, aware that the mother wanted to talk. She had lived in the area all her life and was a good source of local knowledge, someone who might know something.
The four sat down at a small table, the mother having dragged a damp cloth across its surface first.
Wendy had no objection to the mother being present, as she was clearly not obstructionist.
‘He doesn’t want me to see Rose again,’ Brad said. ‘Blames me for what happened.’
‘You can’t blame the man,’ Larry said. ‘It was his daughter.’
‘He’s right, I know that, but I want to see her again. He reckons our family is bad news, more than our being out together late at night.’
‘Tim Winston’s right,’ Gladys Robinson said. ‘But Brad’s not like the rest of us. He’s never been in any trouble, not likely to be. He’ll be the one to save this family.’
‘Your other son?’ Larry said.
‘He takes after his father. He’ll be in and out of prison till the day he dies, which won’t be too long, not with his drink driving record, and the people he goes around with.’
‘Local gangs?’
‘Violent individuals. Cross them, and you’re dead. Jim’s a good-hearted man, give you the shirt off his back, but trouble and he go together, and then there’s his and Brad’s sister, my daughter.’
‘Janice?’ Wendy said.
‘I was wild at her age, but back then, it was alcohol more than drugs. A few pills, uppers, downers, but never the hard stuff, but Janice, she had this boyfriend that was dealing drugs, not that you’d know it, smooth as he was, used to bring me flowers. He talked her into injecting herself, instantly addicted. I read somewhere that some people don’t get addicted, but she did soon enough. Pretty as a child, close to Brad and to me, but she changed, hardened, and now she’s out on the street selling herself. How do you think that makes a mother feel? Knowing that her daughter is prostituting herself.’
‘Not good,’ Wendy replied, although they were there to discuss murder, not to solve the Robinson family’s problems, not that they could if they wanted to. Jim Robinson was known to Larry, and Janice was known to Wendy. The mother had only spoken the truth.
‘As sensitive as we are to your situation, Mrs Robinson, it’s Brad we need to talk to,’ Larry said, turning the subject back to the reason for being in the house.
‘We saw nothing,’ Brad said.
‘We realise that, but it’s the minor details that are important, the details that are only remembered sometime after the event. The woman was killed not long before you and Rose walked by, possibly five minutes, maybe less. You said that you saw a man walk by.’
‘Just before Rose screamed, not that we could tell you anything about him.’
‘We believe he was the murderer, not that we can be one hundred per cent.’
‘It was dark; we didn’t see him, not in detail, not that we were looking either. Rose was freaking out, so was I, but I never admitted it to her.’
‘We haven’t been able to identify the woman other than to age her at between thirty-five and forty-four, white, probably English, with a tattoo on her leg.’
‘They’ve all got them around here, even Janice, but then, she’s got more of almost everything,’ the mother said.
Neither Larry nor Wendy felt the need for the mother to elaborate on Janice. If the woman was doing it rough, that was for social services and others more skilled in bringing fallen women back from the brink. It was outside the scope of Homicide, and Wendy, sympathetic to the woman’s plight, knew that well enough, although Larry knew she would do something when she had an opportunity.
‘Here’s our dilemma,’ Larry said, looking directly at Brad. ‘You and Rose saw the man, the only two who did. We’ve not found anyone else, not yet, who can remember either him or the woman.’
‘Dilemma?’ Brad said.
‘We don’t want to be alarmist, but the man who committed the crime could be a local, the same as the woman probably is, or he was a professional brought in to kill her because she knew something. Which brings up another problem: how did he manage to get her in the cemetery and by that grave of her own free will?’
‘We don’t understand, or at least I don’t,’ Gladys Robinson said.
‘What Inspector Hill is saying,’ Wendy said, ‘is that there are inconsistencies in the woman’s death. The most common reason for a murder in such a place is rape, especially when a female is killed, but that wasn’t the case, and a knife in the back is usually accompanied by violence, a tussle, but there had been none, which means the woman knew her killer, and if she’s local, then that means he’s probably local too. And Brad and Rose are the only two who could possibly identify him.’
‘But we didn’t see him,’ Brad said for the second time.
‘He doesn’t know that,’ Larry said. ‘We need you to be careful, to go to school, to come home. We’ll keep a uniform outside the house at night for the next few nights, but whatever you do, don’t go out at night, attempt to meet up with Rose.’
‘I want to see her.’
‘At school,’ Wendy said.
‘Not there. I need to talk to her, to apologise for the trouble she’s in.’
‘Chivalrous,’ Larry said. ‘We’re meeting with Rose later. We’ll put you forward as a man of good morals and decent to a fault.’
‘Don’t overdo it,’ Gladys said. ‘He was still up to mischief. Tim Winston’s not going to go for it if you paint Brad as a saint; he’s not that, never has been, never will be, but you’ll not see him in trouble with the police.’
‘Describe the man,’ Wendy said. ‘Distinguishing features, the way he walked, a smell of aftershave, of sweat, of alcohol, of anything.’
‘I can’t. We told you all we could.’
‘Enter our numbers into speed dial on your phone. Phone us at any time, day and night, if you remember anything, see anyone suspicious,’ Larry said.
‘A ride to the school?’ Wendy said a smile on her face.
‘Not with you. Sorry, more than my life’s worth,’ Brad replied.
Chapter 4
Tim Winston was not in the mood to hear that Brad Robinson was a fine young man; it had been his underage daughter that the sixteen-year-old was attempting to lead astray.
The Winston family home wasn’t far away from the Robinsons’, only five minutes by car, but it was a vast improvement. No discarded motorcycle next door, no look of decay, but a two-storey semi-detached house, freshly painted inside and out, the aroma of air freshener throughout.
Winston’s anger was palpable, which both the police officers thought under the circumstances to be understandable.
Even so, Tim Winston and his wife invited Larry and Wendy into the living room, offered them tea and asked them to make themselves comfortable.
‘You can’t understand how disappointed we are with Rose,’ Maeve Winston, the young girl’s mother, said.
Wendy looked over at Rose, and although she had spent time with her at the murder scene, it was the first time she had seen her in the light. A fresh-faced and pretty fifteen-year-old; no one would have thought her to be older.
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ Rose said. ‘It won’t happen again.’
Maeve Winston looked across at her daughter, managed a weak smile. ‘I hope not, scared us half to death when you told us where you were.’
‘I can appreciate that the situation in the house is not the best,’ Larry said. ‘However, we need to follow through on the events at the cemetery.’
‘I told you all I know,’ Rose said. She looked as though she had been crying, lecturing from her parents most likely the cause. Not that it would help in the long run, Wendy knew, although it might make her think twice.
‘We’ve met with Br
ad Robinson,’ Larry said. ‘He’s not been able to help us much more. We need to see if you can help with anything, no matter how insignificant.’
‘That name is not to be mentioned in this house,’ Winston said, a man quick to anger.
‘Unfortunately, it’s a murder enquiry,’ Wendy said. ‘We must conduct our investigation, regardless of your dislike of the young man.’
‘How is he?’ Rose asked timidly.
‘He’s fine, sorry for what happened.’
‘Dislike is not the word I would use,’ Winston said. ‘Not only was he with our daughter late at night, but he was also planning something that we disapprove of, especially at Rose’s age.’
‘I don’t think we should talk about this in front of Inspector Hill and Sergeant Gladstone,’ Maeve Winston said.
‘Don’t worry about us,’ Wendy said. ‘I’ve been there, know the anguish that you both feel, Rose’s awkwardness. However, it doesn’t alter the fact that she and Brad Robinson probably saw the murderer.’
‘We only saw a man walk by. I can’t tell you any more than that,’ Rose said.
‘Let’s focus on him,’ Larry said as he sipped his tea and helped himself to a biscuit from the tray in front of him.
‘Do we need to go over this now? Rose is still traumatised,’ Tim Winston said.
‘You gave the two of them a ride back last night. Did they say anything to you?’
‘Neither of them spoke, which was as well. I was relieved to have Rose in the car, and as for the other one, it seemed the right thing to do; not sure why as he didn’t live far away.’
‘I understand that you knew his mother?’
‘We both did, Maeve and me, went to school with her, friends once.’
‘So you know of the family?’
‘Trouble, all of them,’ Maeve Winston said.
‘I’d agree that his mother hasn’t fared well,’ Wendy said, ‘and the eldest children have fallen on hard times, but the youngest hasn’t been in any trouble, nor has his mother.’
‘We hoped for better for our daughter,’ Tim Winston said.
Judging by the Winstons’ apparent affluence, Wendy didn’t understand why their daughter was at the same school as Brad. The area had more than enough schools for those who could pay, and most parents would seek an alternative to government-funded education if they could.
‘That can be debated at another time, Mr Winston,’ Larry said. ‘What’s important is what Rose can tell us. Now, Rose, you’re walking through the cemetery, not looking around, graves to each side, and a man walks by.’
‘We were almost out of the park, and we could see the bus stop on the other side of the road. He was wearing a hat, the collar on his jacket turned up.’
‘Jacket or overcoat?’ Wendy asked.
‘I can’t be sure. He wasn’t much taller than Brad; I can remember that.’
‘Anything distinctive about the clothing?’
‘Not that I could tell. I wasn’t looking that closely, and it was only afterwards, when you were asking, that we remembered him.’
‘Anything else?’ Wendy said.
‘He may have limped.’
‘May or did?’
‘Did. He nearly bumped into Brad, although he didn’t say anything.’
‘Does it help?’ Tim Winston asked.
‘It could,’ Larry said.
‘Is your day busy at school today?’ Wendy asked Rose.
‘After two o’clock I should be free, although I’ve got homework to do later. Why?’
‘We need you and Brad down at the cemetery. We need to recreate that evening, for the two of you to walk through with us, no shyness on your part, none on his.’
‘I can’t allow this,’ Tim Winston said. ‘Rose has suffered from this. I don’t think she wants to be reminded.’
Rose looked over at her father. ‘It’s fine, Dad. I can handle it, if it helps.’
The love of a daughter for her father, a father for his daughter, apparent in how they spoke to each other, how they caught each other’s gaze.
‘Very well. Either Maeve or I will need to be there,’ Winston said.
‘Make it your wife,’ Larry said. ‘We need Rose to act naturally, exactly as she did last night. We don’t want you there intimidating her.’
‘I can’t say I’m happy about this, but we’ll go along with you.’
‘We still don’t know who the dead woman was, no identification apart from a Buddhist chant tattooed on her leg. All indications are that she was there with the man voluntarily, no sign of a struggle. Which means one of two things: she was a local, and the man is possibly a local as well, or, and the most unlikely, the murder was an assassination, although why she was with her killer is unclear. So what we have is a local who has killed once, and may well kill again, and could be nervous that he was seen, or a professional who doesn’t want loose ends.’
‘Is that a convoluted way of saying that our daughter is a possible target?’
‘We don’t think there is any reason for concern. Needless to say, we’re anxious to wrap this case up as soon as possible.’
***
Kate Baxter worked late the first day she had been tasked with finding out what she could about the clothes and the footwear the dead woman had been wearing. Constable Ecclestone, who had been assigned to work with her, had lasted less than fourteen hours before he found himself outside the Robinsons’ house the first night. He’d not be coming back into Homicide, other than as a minor player, if that, and Kate preferred to work on her own. She was, it was soon discovered, almost as much a computer geek as Bridget, and the two women had hit it off almost immediately.
Kate Baxter had been duly pleased with herself when she had narrowed down the sandals the dead woman had been wearing to a discount shoe shop.
Wendy, on her return from visiting Brad Robinson and Rose Winston, picked the young constable up from outside the police station; a special dispensation for Baxter in that she wasn’t to wear her uniform. An ambitious woman, she recognised the trust that was being placed in her, the chance for advancement, the impetus it gave her to complete a degree that had been proving difficult due to a faltering romance and the time she had been spending to keep it alive.
‘I checked out Forensic’s report,’ Kate said. ‘They had checked the clothing and the shoes, nothing special with them, except they said the sandals had little wear and were new. That was the lead. If they were last year’s stock, which I found out they were, then where had the woman purchased them? I buy clothes and shoes in the discount stores myself.’
Wendy didn’t reply, not wanting to interrupt the constable, although she always checked out such places herself, sometimes bought there.
‘I’ve spoken to the manager. She’s waiting for us, so it’s a good idea I’m not wearing a uniform.’
‘Factory seconds, old stock, stolen, is that what you’re thinking?’ Wendy said.
‘Could be. Who knows where it all comes from. I suppose most of it’s legal, the same as in a pawnbroker, but you can never be sure, can you?’
‘Never, but that’s not what we’re interested in today. Focus on the sandals, not where they came from, and try not to look like a policewoman, if we ever can.’
‘I’ll try, but I love my job; I’m proud of what I do.’
Wendy parked the car down a sidestreet. She placed a sign inside the windscreen identifying the vehicle as police. Nobody would give it a ticket.
Brompton Road, Knightsbridge. The most prominent building was Harrods, the department store that Wendy sometimes walked around with Bridget of a weekend, buying little apart from a coffee and something to eat in the cake section. Opposite it on the other side of the busy road was Shoe Seconds, a threadbare store with the merchandise stacked in boxes, a couple of sales assistants, a concrete floor and six chairs for customers trying on the shoes. It gave the appearance of having just opened or being about to close, but the website for it and a chain of six others with the
same name, spread out across the city, was professional.
The closing down sign, all stock must go, the giveaway prices painted in bold letters on the shop's window were an illusion, as were the prices, Wendy could see that when she picked up some of the merchandise. The first shoe, the bargain to get people into the shop, literally falling apart, the sole separating from the upper, a sales assistant on hand to show another shoe, this time much better, the price indicative of that. It was, Wendy knew, a ploy to get people in the door with whatever means they had at their disposal and then the hard sell. The sales assistant, pushy and mildly annoying, spoke with a strong accent, Spanish, Wendy thought. It was the sort of place that blew out the customers as fast as it could if they weren’t spending, the sales assistants even quicker if they didn’t make the grade, and Wendy’s sales assistant wasn’t going to last long, too ready to leave her alone after she had said she was only looking.
Kate Baxter, undeterred, made it through the locals and the tourists – always looking for a bargain that wasn’t – and out through the door at the rear.
‘Can I help you?’ An indignant woman sat there, her feet up on a chair, her shoes cast to one side of her on the floor.
‘Constable Kate Baxter. We spoke.’
‘I could have sent you what information we had, and besides, one of our other stores could have sold the shoes.’
‘Not the colour, I checked.’
‘Seeing you’re here, pull up a seat. I’ve been on my feet all morning, and the concrete floor may be a breeze to clean, but it does play havoc on my ankles.’
Wendy walked through to the back, saw the two women sitting there. She introduced herself and took the third chair.
‘A madhouse out the front,’ Wendy said.
‘That’s the quiet time,’ the manager said.
Wendy judged the woman to be in her forties, thinner than was healthy, a wedding ring on her left hand, a dramatic tattoo on her upper left arm, not as professionally inked as the chant on the dead woman’s leg.
‘You’ve worked here for a long time?’
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2 Page 124
