Still, Ross was adamant: today he was leaving early.
He got as far as his car before one of the officers in a patrol car rang. ‘We’ve just found another one of your hoodies,’ he said.
So much for an early night, Ross thought, annoyed at the inconvenience of another low-life impacting on his family life. Disgruntled, angry, but still a police officer, he shrugged his shoulders, got into his car, started the engine, and drove out to the location given. No need for the GPS in the car, the area was well known to him, as it was to the other police officers at Canning Town Police Station.
Three blocks from the Durham Arms, the patrol car waited. They had already set up a preliminary area with crime scene tape, listened to invective from a drunk sitting on the ground nearby, been jeered at by a car of local hooligans driving by, the two-finger salute and foul language their limitations.
Bill Ross got out of his car, made sure he had gloves on and shoe protectors and made his way into the factory compound long since vacated, not due to the economy but because it just wasn’t viable to continue trading in the area. It was a case of vandalism, theft, or pay the extortionists for protection.
The body, face down, was clearly visible in a corner of the forecourt.
‘It’s one of your hoodie friends,’ the patrol car officer, a sergeant formerly from Liverpool, still with a strong scouse accent, said.
At least I’ll be home early after all, Ross thought. No point in worrying too much about who killed this one. It wasn’t the first that he had seen, nor would it be the last if he stayed in the area much longer. It was a gang conflict, either a fight between the dead man and one of his hoodie gang for leadership or a battle between rival gangs.
Ross had three duties to deal with before he left. First, he had to phone the crime scene team, make sure that they would be down in due course to conduct their investigation, and second and most important, he would need to phone Isaac Cook to tell him that Waylon Conroy, the gang leader, was dead. He knew that he wouldn’t be phased that the man had died of multiple knife wounds.
There was a third item to conduct, but he wasn’t going to do it, not that day; family life was more important. He phoned a sergeant in the police station, informed him of the facts, gave the address. Someone else could inform Conroy’s mother that her son was dead.
As Ross got into his car, he knew of one certainty: tomorrow would be quiet, and criminal activity would be low, the one good thing that Waylon Conroy had done in his short life. In death, not in life, he had provided some cheer and goodness, but it wouldn’t last long.
***
The team at Challis Street Police Station took the death of Waylon Conroy in their stride. As far as they were concerned, it was a local matter for the police in Canning Town, as was the death of Warren Preston, and whereas Hector Robinson’s death was still integral to their case, it was Conroy and his gang who had killed him.
The reason for Robinson’s death was important, more so than who had committed it, and for that they had one name, Ian Naughton, and regardless of how much they tried, the man remained elusive.
Larry met with Spanish John at a pub in Notting Hill. He knew he would drink more than he should and he would be confined to the sofa that night, but as he had explained to his wife, who was not sympathetic to his dilemma, and to his DCI, who while understanding the problem still had to deal with it, he drank not only to loosen the tongues of the local villains but also because he enjoyed the taste of beer too much.
However, regardless of his trepidations and the flak that was coming his way, Larry sat down in the corner of the pub. On the other side of the table, the frightening presence of Spanish John. Akoni, his brother, sat close by. He was cordial, Larry conceded, but he wasn’t an impressive figure, not in comparison to his brother.
‘We’ve been looking,’ Spanish John said.
‘And?’ Larry’s reply. When dealing with men such as Spanish John, Larry knew not to push too much; it was best to let them talk first. After all, the man was a criminal who should be in prison for his activities, but was not, due to ensuring that others did the dirty work, and if challenged by the police, he’d retreat, allow his lawyers to deal with it.
Spanish John’s original focus had been on the body on the grave, now identified as Amanda Upton. The phone call forty-five minutes earlier from the gangster, asking Larry to meet with him, had been unexpected.
‘I’ve got an address for you,’ Spanish John said as he downed his pint of beer; his brother looked into space, kept sipping at his drink. If it hadn’t been for his smarter brother, he would have survived through petty crime, largely friendless, ignored by most. But to those in the pub and out on the street, being the brother of an important man came with its perks, and long after Spanish John and Larry had gone, the brother would continue to receive free drinks and the cordiality of others. One thing Larry knew was that it didn’t pay to get on the wrong side of a major crime figure, nor did you upset his family. Retribution was swift, and although this time they had Conroy’s body in Canning Town, bodies weren’t always found, or if they were, the state of decomposition, the condition of the body, made identification virtually impossible, other than by DNA.
Early in his time at Challis Street Police Station, there had been a dismembered, headless torso in the water at Little Venice on Regent’s Canal, a barking dog alerting its owner to it, much to her consternation and the interrupted ardour of a man and his wife in a houseboat alongside.
‘Whose?’ Larry asked. ‘We’ve found out the name of the victim at the cemetery, although not a lot more, and certainly no idea as to why she was there.’
‘Cathy Parkinson dead?’
‘A question or do you know the answer?’ Larry said as he started on his third pint. He was still sober, careful with his speech. But the opportunity to drink more than his usual two pints was pleasurable, and he wasn’t sure if he could stop before the inevitable end of night debacle where he’d stagger out of the pub, hail a taxi and receive curt words from his wife.
‘Confirmation. I knew her, not well, not as well as Janice. The same person that killed Janice?’
‘Different modus operandi. Janice’s death was clean, no sign of sexual activity, no usable evidence from the CSIs nor Forensics; Cathy Parkinson’s death was messy, not that we’ve got a lot from it yet. If it’s the same person, they're playing us for suckers.’
‘And Amanda Upton’s was carefully done. No amateur there,’ Spanish John said. Larry could see that he was enjoying sparring with him; a game of one-upmanship. Leverage a probability, to ensure that the police looked the other way from certain activities.
Larry wasn’t in a position to either give or deny the man what he almost certainly wanted. That was the problem, not only at Challis Street Police Station but throughout the country. The villains had influence and power, and they couldn’t always be ignored. Sometimes the more immediate gain outweighed the greater good, and the recent deaths were definitely immediate.
‘Either it was a professional or someone who knew where to place the knife. You seem remarkably well-informed.’
‘I keep my ear to the ground, and besides, I’ve got you further information on the woman.’
‘Amanda?’
‘Yes.’
‘What is it?’
‘Firstly…’
Larry was ready for the favour. He wasn’t sure how he would respond, but Amanda Upton was only second in importance to Analyn and Ian Naughton.
‘I’ve got an address,’ Spanish John said. ‘More than you have, I assume.’
It wasn’t the rub, not yet, or was the gangster baiting him, Larry thought. Whatever it was, he needed to ease back on the alcohol. He needed his wits about him, and strangely, after the first two pints, he had found that the flavour wasn’t as good as he had expected. He hoped it was because his need for alcohol was abating, but he thought it was probable that as a connoisseur of the fermented hop, he was not enamoured of the beer dispense
d in the pub.
Akoni, Spanish John’s brother, swayed on his seat, oblivious to the conversation, only making the occasional guttural sound to indicate that he was listening. He was on his sixth pint, and the need to leave the table and circulate was foremost on his mind. He was a sociable man with little charisma, but an easy drunk’s friend, and the pub was rapidly filling, the general hubbub of people talking and laughing, some arguing over near the bar. It was a place that Spanish John liked, he would have admitted if asked, as it afforded him a degree of anonymity, a chance to mingle, to not look over his shoulder all the time. Although close to the entrance of the pub, in the bar, a heavy, a club bouncer when he wasn’t looking after his charge, and out on the street, a late-model Mercedes, a couple of men lounging nonchalantly on the bonnet smoking cigarettes and perving at the occasional dolly bird that walked by, making inappropriate comments, receiving scowls from some in return, a smile from others.
Spanish John looked over at his brother. ‘Leave us to it,’ he said.
Akoni walked away, headed for the loudest group, those drinking the most.
‘Inspector Hill, I’ll level with you. You’re not a bad sort, not for a police officer, but normally people like you and I don’t get on well.’
‘We can’t ignore each other, your people and mine. Sometimes we need to come together for the common good.’
‘I know you were friends with Rasta Joe and he trusted you, and Isaac Cook was at the same school as me, one year above.’
‘Where’s this leading?’
‘Someone’s killing people for no apparent reason, and it brings focus on the area, something that neither of us wants or needs.’
And definitely not an increased police presence, Larry knew that.
Spanish John continued. ‘What did Mary Wilton tell you?’
‘She’s critical to the investigation in that all the dead women were involved with her establishment at one time or another.’
‘Except for Amanda, who never sold herself there.’
‘Amanda? The first name suggests that you knew her.’
‘Not personally. Did you find out where she lived?’
‘Not yet. Apparently, confidentiality was a prerequisite of her line of business.’
‘High-class whore, intimate friend to the rich and famous, to the secretive and the infamous.’
‘At least that’s what Mary Wilton believed she was. Apparently, Amanda was frightened, probably in too deep with the wrong people,’ Larry said.
‘Amanda Upton had a place in Marylebone,’ Spanish John said. ‘No idea why you haven’t found it, but then maybe you and your chief inspector aren’t as smart as you think you are.’
Larry wasn’t going to bite. ‘We’re smart enough to have found someone who would for us, aren’t we?’ he said.
‘Touché.’
‘The address?’
‘Akoni’s in trouble again.’
‘You want a favour?’
‘He’s an idiot; that’s confidential, between you and me, but blood is thicker than water, even if I think he’s as thick as two short planks.’
‘What’s he done?’
‘Don’t worry, it’s not important. I can deal with it or a smart lawyer can. Just remember, you owe me one.’
‘I can’t break the law, just put a word here and there if I have to, but don’t expect me to overlook your more serious criminal activities.’
‘An honest cop. Do you get a medal for that?’
‘I sleep easy at night, but apart from that, just a modest salary, index-linked superannuation.’
‘Sometimes, I wish I’d taken the easy road, but I didn’t. Of all those at that school, some are dead, one’s a politician, another’s a chief inspector, the majority are slaving away in menial jobs, and some are important men in their community.’
‘Which one are you?’
‘The latter, and I don’t like to be crossed. If you’ve got anything on me, anything that can stick, you let me know, and I’ll back off.’
‘Don’t ask me to interfere if it’s too serious to ignore.’
‘Number 256, Glentworth Street, Marylebone. On the second floor, an apartment. She lived there in London. Do you know the street?’
Larry did, a two-minute walk from the Sherlock Holmes museum on Baker Street.
‘How did you find the place?’
‘Someone I know.’
‘And the other women, Hector Robinson?’
‘Plus a couple of hoodies in Canning Town.’
‘Yes,’ Larry said.
‘I can’t help you there. The hoodies are perfectly capable of killing each other, no help needed there from outsiders. As to Janice and Cathy, they’re probably tied in with Amanda.’
‘Mary Wilton?’
‘She’s been around a long time. No doubt she knows more than she’s letting on, but you can never be sure.’
‘There are two others that need finding. Ian Naughton and Analyn, no surname for her.’
‘Sorry, can’t help. I’ve done as much as I can,’ Spanish John said as he got up from his chair and walked out of the pub, the heavy following him. Over near the bar, the man’s insignificant brother was propping himself up with one arm on the counter, holding on to a glass with the other.
Larry picked up his beer, took one sip and put the glass back on the table. He’d not be sleeping on the sofa that night.
Chapter 21
Even though it was after eleven in the evening, and Larry hadn’t made it home, such was Isaac’s enthusiasm to act on Spanish John’s information that he, Wendy, and Larry found themselves outside Amanda Upton’s residence. It was definitely upmarket, but then again it was Marylebone, and the name came with a premium if you were buying property there. A row of elegant red-brick apartment blocks, each storey interspersed with a layer of white stone, rose up five floors. A local estate agent had been roused from his sleep. As the managing agent, he had a set of keys, and though reluctant, he had listened as he was told of the circumstances of the late-night visit and had arrived at the address five minutes after the police.
At the windows of the adjoining properties, a rustling of some of the curtains, as well as a couple of residents standing outside asking questions. Wendy had spoken to them, asked if they knew the woman on the second floor. None did, and as always, she received the obligatory response that it was a quiet neighbourhood, never any trouble, no wild parties.
Any further information Wendy could give to the locals regarding Amanda Upton would wait until they had confirmation that it was her place of residence, and then the following morning a door-to-door would commence.
The estate agent opened the imposing two-doored entrance to the building, Isaac and Larry following him in. All three were wearing nitrile gloves and shoe protectors. So far, the crime scene investigators were not at the scene but would be notified if and when their presence was required.
Inside, a lift, but the three walked up the stairs, keeping to the middle of the stairway, which was also a thoroughfare for the other residents in the building. At the door of the apartment, the agent, a man fatter than any man had a right to be, and attempting to catch his breath, knocked on the door. After a couple of attempts, he turned the key and entered, setting off the burglar alarm.
Isaac found the alarm’s control panel soon enough, and entered 000 onto a keypad, disabling the alarm. So much for security, he thought.
The agent held back, as he had been told. It was an impressive residence, Isaac had to concede. Three bedrooms, the first with an en suite, a designer kitchen, upmarket furniture, the lair of a successful woman, which Amanda Upton had been.
Larry, unable to curb his interest, joined Isaac in the apartment and looked out of the front window. He could see Wendy talking to a group of locals.
By the time Isaac and Larry left the apartment, it was after one in the morning. Two crime scene investigators had arrived in the interim and would continue their work. A fingerprint on a wine g
lass in the kitchen had been matched to the woman at the grave, confirmed as Mary Wilton’s daughter from a photo that she had of her and Amanda Upton, and the handwriting from a letter that the mother had handed over and a diary in the apartment would be compared, although it looked to be a formality.
On the street, a uniform stood, and a sign had been placed outside the building stating that it was a place of interest to the police.
Wendy had a list of people who had some recollection of the woman from a photo she had shown them, although no one could remember speaking to her. She phoned Kate Baxter, checked on her movements for the next couple of days. Competent and in demand, she was working with Fraud, although she expressed a desire to be with Homicide if she could. Gwen Pritchard was free, and even though she had been woken from a deep sleep, she was excited at the prospect of once again working with Homicide.
If, as seemed probable, Amanda Upton had made sure to keep her activities secret, it would come as a shock to some in the building that the woman had been a high-class prostitute.
***
Larry arrived at Amanda Upton’s apartment at eight in the morning, the agent having supplied a key. Inside, as the night before, or more correctly, earlier that day, nothing had been disturbed. The CSIs had completed their work, so Larry only needed to wear nitrile gloves.
In the main living area, a photo on display of a young girl and an older woman; without question, Amanda and her mother in happier times. Larry methodically walked through the apartment, casting his eyes around, aiming to understand how the woman had moved, what her nature was: tidy, obsessive, casual about where she placed her things. In the bedroom, the probable place for secrets to lie hidden, he took a seat close to the door. He then moved over to the wardrobe, slid one of the mirror-fronted doors to one side. The labels on the neatly hanging clothes were all designer labels, and not all of them had been purchased in England.
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2 Page 140
