He pulled open the drawers of an antique chest of drawers, only to find the woman’s underwear neatly folded, some of it wrapped in tissue. This was a methodical person, he knew, not the sort of person who would leave sensitive information visible, not the sort of person to have died for an indiscretion.
Ian Naughton figured large in the mind of Homicide, and he was seen as a strong possibility for the murder of the woman. But that brought issues. Firstly, Rose Winston had said the man had a limp, although that was being discounted for the present. It had been dark, and both she and Brad Robinson had romance on their minds, and it could have been that the murderer had just stumbled.
It did not assist in the death of Janice Robinson either. Her murder had been carefully done, with little blood and no evidence, and the man had not had sex with her. After all, Isaac reasoned, if Naughton could act as cool as a cucumber when the police were ready to break down his door, then he was a controlled man, an impassive personality, offering a veil of blandness.
However, Cathy Parkinson’s murder had been anything but. For one thing, she had been knifed repeatedly, the blood splattering on two of the walls in the hotel room that doubled as her home and her business. And then she had been strung up from the shower pipe sticking out of the wall. Why the woman had been hanged made no sense as she would have already been dead. It was as if a statement was being made, but there was no way that the man could have left without his clothing having blood on it, and he had had sex with her. Two diametrically-opposed murders: one neat and tidy, the other messy and bloody. Which brought in the unresolved question as to who was sitting in the back of the BMW when one of the two white men arranged the death of Hector Robinson with the now-deceased Waylon Conroy and his gang.
Inside a bedside cabinet he found a passport in the name of Amanda Upton, a good likeness of the dead woman, close to five thousand American dollars, an equivalent amount in Euros, and a plane ticket for Paris, dated two days after she had died. Which meant that someone had been waiting for her in the French capital, a man most likely, someone that she would have provided with her services: accompanied him to the opera, wined and dined with him, bedded him.
Apart from that, Larry could find no secret compartment, no safe behind the books on a shelf, no notebook taped to the underside of a drawer.
Chapter 22
On the second floor of the building in Marylebone there were two apartments: Amanda Upton’s and another that was owner-occupied. From the street, the building looked small to have two apartments on each floor, but it stretched down the narrow block, an extension that had been done forty years previously, before the tightening of building regulations.
Wendy knocked on the door of the other apartment, and it opened immediately. All the residents in the building had been previously informed by a couple of constables that they would be interviewed. Over the five storeys, there were eight two-bedroom apartments and a couple of studio apartments at the top. Three were owner-occupied, four were leased, and three were vacant.
‘I was expecting you,’ a smartly-dressed woman in her thirties said. ‘I hope this won’t take long, busy day at work.’
‘Not too long,’ Wendy said as she showed her warrant card. ‘Can we come in?’
‘Please do. I’ve got the kettle on, a cup of tea?’
Both the police officers acknowledged they were fine with tea, Gwen saying that she preferred hers black, and Wendy asking for two sugars.
The apartment, they could see, was not as good as Amanda Upton’s, and the furniture and fittings were worn. In short, it needed renovating.
‘You are Sally Fairweather?’ Wendy said after the woman returned with three cups on a tray.
‘I am. I work in the city, financial analyst.’
‘You’ve been told about your neighbour?’ Gwen said, anxious to make her mark, to impress her sergeant.
‘I only ever knew her as Amanda, never her surname. I was told she is involved in a murder enquiry, is that true?’
‘It is. Did you know her?’
‘She wasn’t here often, but when she was, we’d talk, sometimes go out for a meal nearby. She was keen on Indian, not that I was, too spicy for me, but I went anyway.’
‘Good company?’
‘Always, and I went over to her place once or twice, shared a bottle of wine.’
‘Did you ever meet anyone else there?’ Wendy asked.
‘Never. I asked her once about her family and friends, but she always changed the subject. Surprising really, as she was pleasant, attractive, and confident. No idea why she preferred not to talk about herself, but then, some people are loners.’
‘Are you?’ Gwen asked.
‘Not me. I’ve got a steady boyfriend, and sometimes he’s here, sometimes I’m at his place. Low-key romance, taking it slow, see if we’re ready to take it to the next level.’
To Wendy’s parents, the first level would have been marriage and then sleeping together. But Sally Fairweather belonged to a different generation.
‘Were you told that Amanda Upton was dead?’
‘I was. I asked one of the police officers, not that he was too keen to tell me, not sure if he knew too much about it.’
‘He wouldn’t have. Were you upset?’
‘Surprised. I can’t say I was upset. We were acquaintances, and whereas I enjoyed the time that I spent with her, it wasn’t that often.’
‘Did she talk about where her money came from?’
‘I never asked, and no, she never told me. As long as people don’t bother me, I don’t interest myself in their business. Although, judging by the condition of her place, I’d say she must have inherited the money.’
‘And you?’
The woman looked around at her surroundings. ‘Mortgaged to the hilt,’ she said when she resumed looking at the two police officers. ‘I’ll be in debt for years with this place, the reason that it’s not in good condition. I’ve enjoyed the increase in its value, not that it means much, only if you sell and go cheaper, which I don’t intend to.’
‘You could refinance, realise on your capital,’ Gwen said. It was clear that the constable was on the property ladder, although unlikely to be living in Marylebone, not on her salary. Regardless, Wendy knew that was not the reason they were talking to Sally Fairweather.
‘Coming back to Amanda Upton,’ Wendy said, casting a glance over at Gwen, a look that said leave it to me. ‘The woman was murdered. Did you know that, Miss Fairweather?’
‘It wasn’t explained, but I assumed she had been.’
‘Why?’
‘The police presence, the uniformed officer outside the front door to the building.’
‘The problem is we don’t know why. Did you have any idea as to what she did when she wasn’t here?’
‘She travelled; she told me that much, but I assumed for pleasure.’
‘Amanda Upton was a high-class escort, a woman who specialised in men of wealth and influence.’
‘If she was, I’m shocked. But each to their own, not that I could have done that.’
‘Nor could I,’ Gwen said. ‘What’s important is for us to find out the names of some of her contacts, and so far, we’ve found nothing in her apartment that helps.’
‘I can’t help. I’m sorry, but that’s all I knew about Amanda. As I said, just an acquaintance. A nice person and I did like her, but I’m always busy, and then there’s my boyfriend.’
‘Will he know more?’
‘I doubt it. Mostly I go to his place. He lives closer to where I work, and he’s got a better place than mine.’
***
In the apartment at the rear of the building on the ground floor, a poorly-dressed man in his eighties, his straggly grey hair unkempt and uncut for a long time. He wore a jumper replete with holes, and on his hands, he wore fingerless gloves.
‘Yes, what do you want?’
‘Sergeant Wendy Gladstone, Constable Pritchard. We’re with Homicide, Challis Street Police Stati
on. We’ve a few questions.’
‘If it’s about her upstairs, there’s nothing I can tell you.’
‘Still, it’s important that we interview everyone in this building. The woman has been murdered.’
‘I can’t say I’m surprised.’
‘You knew her?’ Gwen said.
‘Never laid eyes on her.’
‘We need to come in,’ Wendy said.
Inside, the apartment did not have the pristine appearance of Amanda Upton’s, nor the well-worn look of Sally Fairweather’s. It smelt of dirt and damp, and there was litter on the floor. The man lived in a good area of London, yet preferred to live as a pauper, which he wasn’t as he was Benjamin Yardley, a man of note in the city in his younger days, a stockbroker.
Wendy thought that he was either suffering from low-level dementia or a traumatic event in his life had changed him from dynamic to barely functioning. However, it was not of importance for the present; the dead woman was of more concern.
‘You said that you weren’t surprised,’ Gwen said.
‘Attractive, walking around in a tight skirt, showing her wares?’ Yardley said.
‘If you mean, was she dressing as befits a modern woman of her age, then yes,’ Wendy said.
‘Your constable’s age?’
‘More or less. Does that mean she was asking to be murdered?’
‘Not from me, but there are enough people out there who would regard her dress and her manner to be asking for it.’
‘Do you believe that?’
‘Too promiscuous, too easy, that’s the modern generation. Your constable should be more careful.’
‘Mr Yardley, your personal opinion is yours,’ Wendy said. ‘However, it doesn’t answer the question. Did you know or see the dead woman?’
‘I don’t go out much, not at my age, only to buy food. I saw her once. She said hello, asked how I was. How the hell did she think I was, couldn’t she see?’
‘Apart from that?’
‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a busy day.’
‘Doing what?’ Gwen asked. It was remarkable, she thought, how much he looked like her grandfather, but he was lovable and always pleased to see her, Yardley wasn’t.
‘Checking my money, that’s what.’
Once free of Yardley and his depressing apartment, the two women walked out of the front door of the building, took deep breaths.
‘Rough,’ Wendy said.
Gwen did not comment, only looked up and down the street. Finally, she spoke. ‘Nice area. You can’t always choose your neighbours. He’d cause trouble for everyone in the building. It’s a wonder he’s still there.’
‘More money than all of them. I can remember him when I first came to London, a financial wizard, always reading the stock market correctly, buying when others were selling. His money hasn’t given him much in the way of happiness, not for a long time.’
The ground floor apartment at the front of the building was not occupied, and Wendy left Gwen to knock on the doors at the top of the building.
Out on the street there’d been little success. Amanda Upton had been sighted on a couple of occasions by some of the people, but no one had any more to say about her, and none could ever remember her in the company of anyone else, other than another woman of a similar age, identified as Sally Fairweather.
Wendy could achieve little more in Marylebone, and she returned to the police station, leaving Gwen to wrap up their enquiries.
***
Larry, although preferring not to revisit Canning Town, had to do so. The concern, not satisfactorily investigated and to some extent put to one side, was the man in the back of the car when Naughton had met with the recently deceased Waylon Conroy, a man not missed by anyone other than his mother who had wailed at the news of his demise, offering platitudes as to how she had tried her best, but a delinquent father who had taken off with another woman had rendered her motherly instincts and attempts at raising the son inadequate and of little use.
Waylon Conroy was dead, as was Warren Preston, aka Wazza, the latter the victim of his own gang, the former due to an altercation with a rival gang. Or that was what was assumed.
Larry sat in the office at Canning Town Police Station. Across from him Bill Ross, the inspector charged with solving three deaths in his area. First and foremost, Hector Robinson, killed by Conroy and his gang after receiving money to commit the act. Whether Preston had been present when the man died wasn’t known.
Bill Ross picked up his mug of tea and looked out of the window, not that it was a scenic view, only a red-brick wall no more than twenty feet away. Larry could see that the man was in a good mood.
‘I’ve got a transfer out of here,’ Ross said. ‘If you don’t mess it up for me.’
‘How?’ Larry’s reply.
‘If you start digging for dirt, getting yourself killed. Crime’s down in the area, the local hoodlums are keeping a low profile. Mind you, we’ve still got other villains, but someone else can deal with them.’
‘Where to?’ Larry said.
‘Dagenham, where they used to make cars before they all went broke or had them made overseas.’
‘Plenty of hoodlums there.’
‘Compared to here? It’s relative, and besides, it’s closer to home, and the station’s better equipped, a decent crew. It’s not where you’re from, gentleman criminals, upwardly mobile populace.’
‘We have enough villains, but Dagenham will be disenfranchised, high level of unemployment. Not somewhere I’d fancy.’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers, and that’s what I still am. It’s a reprieve, in part from working with you and Isaac. It seems he put in a good word for me.’
‘Then make sure you don’t let him down. You harbour a few prejudices, you know that?’
‘Around here? What do you expect?’
Larry had to agree, although he thought it wise not to comment. It was easy to be non-judgemental out of the area, but on a day-to-day basis dealing with people who weren’t deserving of respect, it was the easiest way to deal with the situation.
‘Not a lot more,’ Larry conceded, aware that debate with Ross wasn’t the reason he was in the station.
‘You’re after whoever was in the back of that car, is that it?’ Ross said.
‘It is.’
‘I don’t see how I can help. The man didn’t say anything, not to Conroy and his gang. All he did was point the gun.’
‘Conroy’s gang?’
‘One or two have been seen, not that I can do anything about them.’
‘Conroy didn’t kill Preston on his own.’
‘The death of a hoodie gang member doesn’t rate highly around here. Sorry, but that’s the reality. Even if we secured a conviction, and there’s no evidence that we can use with Preston’s death, the prisoner would be out in a few years after suitable counselling, a do-gooder stating that the offender is a reformed person and is ready to regain his place in society.’
‘He will be.’
‘He may well be, but once released, what happens?’
‘Social services will keep an eye on him, ensure he receives money regularly, find some work somewhere for him. But he’ll not stay, too much like hard work, and then he’ll be back in the same environment, the same people, the same temptations, a high probability of re-offending.’
‘As you said. This man, what’s the chance of finding out who he is?’ Ross said.
‘About as good as meeting up again with Ian Naughton or whatever name he’s using now,’ Larry said. It still irked him that he had had the man alongside him, even shaken his hand, and that he and Isaac had retreated from the house in Holland Park. It had been suspicious at the time, a mysterious set of clues from the grave where the murder had been committed, and then over to another grave, a metal box, an address. It still didn’t make any sense, and probably wouldn’t until the man was found and he explained why.
‘I’ve got an address for one of Conroy’s gang
. We’ll visit him, see what he’s got to say for himself, but I’m not arresting him or accusing him of anything. Is that clear?’
‘It’s clear. Your reason?’
‘Proof. And giving him the third degree isn’t going to work. He knows how the system works, and he’ll clam up if you push.’
Larry understood; after all, he had spent time with Spanish John and Rasta Joe before him, had met with thugs and murderers, sometimes socially if they had something that he wanted. Dealing with the criminal underclass was a fine art, and the social commentators who thought that they should all be in jail or dealt with in a draconian manner were detached from reality. There were just too many of them, and in Canning Town and other areas, the situation was worsening as technological advances were rendering unemployment levels even higher.
Chapter 23
Mary Wilton opened the door to her house. Her hair was piled up high, the makeup was back on, as were the clothes.
‘Mrs Wilton, we’ve a few questions,’ Isaac said.
‘You better come in,’ the woman said. ‘The police on my doorstep gives me a bad reputation, starts the neighbours gossiping.’
‘And when you were prostituting women here?’ Wendy said.
‘It was always discreet. I doubt if many knew.’
Which to Wendy was probably true. People tend to look the other way if something doesn’t impact on them personally, and the brothel’s clientele was usually upper middle class, men of means.
And even though Janice Robinson and Cathy Parkinson had been plagued with drugs, the photos of the two women in the brothel, arms around their madam, showed that they had once been fresh-faced and agreeable, not as the two of them had ended up, haggard, old before their time, and dead.
‘We’ve been told that you haven’t been entirely truthful with us,’ Isaac said.
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2 Page 141
