DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Tim Winston’s not looking so good now,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Don’t let Maeve know. She was a friend once.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ Isaac said, although he knew it would not remain a secret. It was a murder enquiry; the truth is always revealed.

  The relationship between Brad and Rose, Isaac knew, would be strained when it became known that the father of one had been paying the sister of another for sex. Isaac personally wished he hadn’t found out; professionally, it was another line of enquiry.

  Chapter 9

  Gladys Robinson could not be regarded as a credible witness: the ease with which she had accused Maeve Winston of giving herself to their teacher when they had been younger, ignoring or even condoning the abuse of her daughter. However, regardless of what anyone thought of her, she had made a serious accusation about Tim Winston.

  It was early afternoon the next day when Isaac and Wendy met with the man. Isaac had broached the subject in the morning with Winston, and he had agreed to come into Challis Street.

  Sheepishly, the man sat across from the two police officers in the interview room.

  ‘A disturbing development,’ Isaac said. He was prepared for a reaction. Hopefully, it would not be outright denial, the man indignant and storming out of the police station, huffing and puffing, threatening legal action. Wendy hoped he wasn’t involved, purely for Rose’s sake.

  ‘I’m willing to help, not sure that I can,’ Winston said. He wore a suit, a white shirt and a blue tie.

  ‘Tell us about Janice Robinson,’ Isaac said.

  ‘There’s not much to tell.’

  ‘You used to see her?’

  ‘We don’t live far from them, and sometimes we’d see them at the shops, not that I spoke to them much, just the usual courtesies.’

  ‘No wish to associate?’

  ‘Why? Do you keep in contact with those you went to school with?’

  ‘Mr Winston, we have reason to believe that you have seen Janice Robinson more recently,’ Isaac said, ignoring Winston’s previous response, a question with a question.

  Wendy sensed a feeling of panic across the table.

  ‘Not for five or six years. The last time she was wearing a school uniform, hanging out with a group near McDonald’s.’

  ‘What were they doing?’

  ‘The usual. Playing with their phones, smoking, flirting with the boys.’

  ‘Incorrect behaviour?’

  ‘We’ve all been there. I didn’t think much about it. I only looked because I recognised Janice, the spitting image of her mother at that age.’

  ‘You took out Gladys Robinson?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘I’m not sure I’d call it that; nothing official. We’d meet up, watch a movie, and then I would walk her home. We were young, finding our way.’

  ‘You were a good student, hoping to improve yourself; Gladys was never going to be up to your standard.’

  ‘We were fourteen, fifteen. I don’t think I gave it too much thought, not Gladys, that is.’

  ‘We’re deviating,’ Isaac said. ‘The reason that you had an intimate relationship is not what we’re here for.’

  ‘Intimate? I’d hardly call it that. Gladys was putting it about something dreadful. I would have been a fool not to take advantage,’ Winston said, a man too much at ease in the interview room.

  ‘Back of the bike shed, the cinema?’

  ‘Something like that, although I don’t ever remember a bike shed.’

  ‘If you had had sex with the mother,’ Isaac said, ‘why then the daughter?’

  ‘Janice? Is this what this is about? Are you accusing me of murdering her?’

  A calmer reaction than expected.

  ‘Paying for her doesn’t make you a murderer.’

  ‘I deny it.’

  ‘That’s your prerogative. However, you’ve not answered the question. It could be an aspersion, a slanderous accusation made against you, but we still need to check, to know the truth.’

  ‘Maeve?’ Winston said. The previous cockiness was no longer apparent. Wendy could see the sweat beads on his forehead, the shaking of his left hand as it rested on the table.

  ‘No guarantees. Not in a murder investigation. We need to isolate you from the murder scene, and for that we need a sample of your DNA, a strand of hair.’

  ‘I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘We’re not accusing you. To be honest, we don’t think you did it. There was a lot of blood at the murder scene, and we saw you later that day. Unless you’re a methodical man, a good planner, it’s unlikely you could have pulled it off.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have done that. The sight of blood.’

  ‘Germ phobia? Cleanliness freak?’

  ‘An accident when I was a child, three days in the hospital.’

  ‘Not good enough, but we’ll accept it for now. The DNA?’

  ‘If you want.’

  ‘When did you start paying Janice for her time?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘I can’t just deny it, and you leave it at that?’ Winston said.

  ‘If you do, then we will need to check further, follow up on your movements, talk to your wife as to whether she has any suspicion that you’ve been with another woman.’

  ‘Maeve hasn’t known up till now.’

  ‘Which is yes. You did pay for Janice Robinson’s services.’

  ‘Two, possibly three times.’

  ‘The truth,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Every week on a Thursday at seven in the evening. Maeve was always out with friends, a regular get-together at a restaurant, and Rose would be busy with schoolwork.’

  ‘Any reason why Janice?’

  ‘If you think it was a substitute for her mother, you’d be mistaken. Janice was agreeable to look at, and her price was reasonable. Nothing more than that.’

  ‘Did she know who you were?’

  ‘She did, not that we’d talk about it. It was sex, nothing more.’

  ‘How long did these sessions last for?’

  ‘Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. There were no meaningful discussions. I didn’t ask her about why she whored, nor did I ask her about her family. I should be regretful, but I’m not. A man’s got needs. Sometimes they aren’t satisfied.’

  ‘Is this why you don’t want Rose associating with Brad Robinson?’

  ‘She’s fifteen, what do you think?’

  ‘We’re asking the questions,’ Isaac said.

  ‘She’s still too young. Okay, I was with her boyfriend’s mother when we were both under sixteen, but that doesn’t mean I would agree to my daughter doing the same.’

  ‘It doesn’t help that you’ve known Brad’s mother and sister.’

  ‘That’s not the point. We want better for Rose, that’s all. We don’t want her with a family that has never amounted to much. Brad’s better than the others, but he’s tarred with the same brush. In time, he’ll revert to type, and I don’t want Rose to be dragged down, to get pregnant before her time.’

  ‘Why not put her in a better school?’

  ‘There are no guarantees. Young people push boundaries. It’s for us to guide them.’

  The man was a good parent, both Isaac and Wendy conceded. He was, as is so often the case, a hypocrite, who had taken advantage of Janice Robinson’s degradation, and she had only been six years older than Rose, only two years older when she had first sold herself. Yet, he wanted to protect his daughter at all costs.

  He hadn’t murdered Janice, that much was known, but he was guilty of other crimes, not criminal, but moral.

  Isaac was willing to give the man the benefit of the doubt; Wendy wasn’t. To her, he was a typical example of selective reasoning, able to absolve himself from his wrongdoings but not to give others their chance, to see Brad Robinson as suitable for his daughter. Although he had been right on one score: Rose was still a child, even if she wanted to be an adult.

  ***

  The village of Godstone in Surrey was mentioned in the Domesday Book of 1086,
although it was named Wachelstede back then, and then in 1248 it was recorded as Godeston, suggesting an etymology of the Old English personal name Goda, who was the daughter of Aethelred The Unready, and ‘tun’, which is loosely translated as farm.

  As to why a former king of England would be unready, Larry Hill wouldn’t have known or have cared.

  It was his third visit in as many days to the last address from the store in Knightsbridge.

  Number 156 High Street, Godstone, a detached two-storey house, was well maintained, not cheap to purchase, and within commuting distance of London.

  Larry had taken up his position in a coffee shop across from the house, not at the White Hart, the closest pub.

  Yet again, he asked the waitress if she had seen anyone at the house; the answer always the same. ‘Not for a few weeks, but then, they keep to themselves, never come in here, barely give you the time of day.’

  ‘Describe them.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can. He looked older than her, although I couldn’t be sure. Just average, I suppose.’

  The local police hadn’t been able to help, nor had the estate agent who had leased the house to them; average was the most oft-quoted description. The agent, a garrulous man, told Larry that they had come into his office seven months previously, taken one look around the house, and had deposited funds into his account and set up an automatic credit for each month.

  ‘We’re managing it for them, not that there’s much to do, as they’re not here too often.’

  The photo of the dead woman rang no bells with anyone; they had all been clear that the woman at the house had been blonde, tanned and under thirty. Either way, those in Godstone had seen the man’s face, the woman shielding her face when anyone looked her way.

  On his first visit, Larry had knocked on the door of the house, checked around, looked in the windows, and spoken to the local police; on his second, he had obtained a warrant and the house had been opened by the estate agent. Inside, no sign of habitation, no food in the fridge or the pantry. The beds were not made up, yet outside the house, the lawn was mown, and in the garage at the side of the house, a late-model BMW.

  Larry believed that crime was the most likely reason for the place being leased. There was a forwarding address for the mail, but that had drawn a blank.

  Janice Robinson was now occupying more of Homicide’s time than the Jane Doe. Larry was glad of the opportunity to be on his own, to use his initiative. It was clear that the village would offer no more clues, but why an expensive car was in the garage concerned him.

  Only one group of people had money to waste: drug people. Not those taking them, like the Robinsons’ daughter, but those who imported and sold them, and they were dangerous, and usually none too subtle about who they killed and how.

  The possibility remained that the woman in the village and the body in the cemetery were one and the same. And if she had been in the village with an older man, that suggested a relationship: adulterous, platonic, or otherwise.

  Larry finished his coffee and headed back to London; village life had never suited him, too quiet. The hustle and bustle of the metropolis was more to his taste, even though the coffee he had just drunk was excellent, and the pub sold his favourite beer. Not that he would taste it this time; he had the bit between his teeth and there was something he needed to check out.

  ***

  Winston’s admission that he had paid for Janice Robinson's services hadn’t advanced the murder enquiry; its only function was to cause embarrassment and a probable end to the burgeoning romance of Brad and Rose, who still met at the school, snatched moments during the breaks, whispered conversations.

  At the school, a low-key police presence, two police constables aiming to blend in; failing miserably.

  One of the two, Constable Ecclestone, complained whenever Wendy spoke to him. ‘A rabble and they’re trading drugs in the playground. In my day…’

  In his day, Wendy knew, they would have been doing precisely the same, but now weapons were a more significant issue, especially knives and knuckle dusters. The miserable and negative constable was right, but that was something to deal with another day.

  ‘Anyone strange?’ Wendy said. ‘Remember, we’ve got two murders now. We don’t want a third, or you and I will be up before the chief superintendent, and he doesn’t appreciate failure.’

  ‘I heard that he and DCI Cook are friends.’

  ‘You’ve heard right. However, in the superintendent’s office, it’s business, not pleasure. Have you seen anything?’

  ‘Robinson’s mother was here, not for long, and the girl’s father waited outside for her, said a few words and left.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘At 2.46 p.m. today, not long before you arrived.’

  ‘Any idea what they were talking about?’

  ‘I couldn’t get that close. It looked serious, but there was no shouting.’

  ‘Their children see a murder, and then Brad’s sister dies.’

  ‘I knew her.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Not as a client; no help needed there.’

  Wendy squirmed at the man’s comment. Why was it, she thought, that men wanted to brag to female police officers? What was different? Or was it shock value, the fact that a female police officer had seen it or heard it all before, and they wouldn’t say anything or react? Whatever it was, she didn’t like it.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Before she was up at Sunbeam Crescent, she used to hang out down by the canal. There’s a dark stretch down there where the street lights don’t penetrate. They used to think they were safe from us, but they weren’t. We knew their tricks, and we’d pick up one or two of a weekend to let them know it as well.’

  ‘Not all of them?’

  ‘What would it achieve? Some of them were too far out of it to know what was going on, no money to pay the fine either. But Janice, she was smarter than most. She always came willingly, fronted the magistrate, fluttered her eyes, wiggled her hips, cried about her habit and a mother who didn’t understand.’

  ‘Assuming half of what you just said is true, what’s the point of the story?’

  ‘Nothing. She’d get a fine, a slap on the wrist, be back in another month or two. Sometimes we’d not arrest her.’

  ‘A knee-trembler up against a wall?’

  ‘Not us,’ Ecclestone said. ‘Nothing like that.’

  If he didn’t, Wendy knew, he would have been unique. She didn’t believe him for one minute.

  ***

  Isaac entered the gates of Maidstone Prison. It’s main claim to fame was that its exterior had been used in the opening sequences of the TV comedy series Porridge. It was Category C, a closed prison for those who couldn’t be trusted in an open prison but were unlikely to escape. It wasn’t his first time in the place, but the first time visiting Jim Robinson.

  Suspects for the murder of his sister were worryingly few. Apart from Winston, nobody else had been found, and Wendy’s attempt at a door-to-door on the street of Janice’s bedsit had turned out to be as Larry had described – a waste of time, in that those who knew something weren’t talking, and those who didn’t were only too ready to waste police time.

  It was clear that Jim Robinson was regarded well in prison and where the two men met was more pleasant than the usual meeting room assigned at most prisons. They shook hands, went through the usual pleasantries, spoke about the weather. Jim was adamant that he was going straight this time. Isaac took the ‘going straight comment in the manner given but didn’t believe he would. Jim Robinson, for all his charm and good intentions, was a habitual criminal and not very good at that. However, that was not the reason for the visit.

  ‘Jim, your sister. I need to know what happened in your home,’ Isaac said. He had already given a carton of cigarettes to the man who didn’t smoke but could use them as collateral, and a box of chocolates, Jim’s favourite, which the prisoner would keep for himself.

  ‘Our mother, you’ve me
t her,’ Jim said as he opened the chocolates, took one for himself, offered one to Isaac which he declined. He could buy them at any supermarket, Jim couldn’t.

  ‘Unable to cope?’

  ‘And some. Our father, when he was around, kept the place under control, but he was a hard man, a bastard, in that he’d drink and then start getting violent. Hit me a few times, as well as Brad, and Mum had more than a few black eyes.’

  ‘Did he abuse Janice?’

  ‘Not Janice. Don’t believe our mother; not that she was innocent on all counts.’

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘Some of the men in the house weren’t there out of love. Brad was too young to understand, and Janice could be naïve, even when she started to develop, but I was older.’

  What did you do about it?’

  ‘There wasn’t much I could do when I was younger, and later I ended up spending more time away, courtesy of Her Majesty.’

  ‘Your father looked at Janice as more than a daughter?’

  ‘I told you, don’t listen to my mother. If he had looked at Janice, it would have been out of admiration, not lust. His problem was that he would get drunk and then violent. I dealt with him that night, never saw him again, no idea where he is.’

  ‘No idea?’

  ‘I’d prefer not to know, and I haven’t seen him, not since that night.’

  ‘Where can I find him? It’s important.’

  ‘Not sure why, but try Canning Town, out to the east of the city.’

  ‘A phone number, address?’

  ‘Ask around. I only heard that he was there, can’t remember who told me and that’s the truth. Why’s this important?’

  ‘Apart from one customer who’s not the murderer, we haven’t anyone else to pin her death on.’

  ‘She was always going to come to an unfortunate end, our Janice. Our mother was right about that, one of the few times, though.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Janice was gullible, used to watch that nonsense on the television, get herself upset, want to do something about it.’