‘When life is desperate, people will do what is necessary. The men will turn to crime, the women to selling themselves. It’s happened in England in the past.’
‘We’re not judging,’ Isaac said. ‘My parents came from Jamaica for a better life; ended up trapped by racketeer landlords, living in slums, labouring at whatever menial jobs they could get.’
‘I found a man, an English man. He was older than me, in his late thirties. I was nineteen at the time, almost twenty.’
‘Your husband?’
‘My husband is much older than me, but it wasn’t him. This man, attractive for his age, generous with his money, appealed to me. Some of the women are not so lucky, but financial security other than love is often a reason for marriage. And if the man is not who you wanted, as long as he looks after you and helps your family, then that’s fine.’
‘And this man did?’
‘He came to the Philippines on three occasions, and yes, he was kind, and he did give me money for my family. In the end, I agreed to marry him.’
‘And then?’
‘There was a delay while he organised the paperwork for me to stay in England permanently.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘I don’t know. Let me continue.’
‘Please do,’ Wendy said.
‘I was in England, a small place in London, a good man for a husband. But after six months, I saw him less and less, and when he came home, he was uncommunicative, not wanting to tell me about where he’d been. Accused me of being the same as English women, always trying to control, whereas he had expected me to be subservient, do what I was told.’
‘Not an uncommon story,’ Isaac said.
‘Anyway, after eighteen months, maybe longer, he tells me that he no longer wants me and I’m to leave.’
‘Violent?’
‘Not really. I think he was involved in crime, although not sure what sort. There were other women, although he never told me and I never asked, but I used to wash his clothes.’
‘Crime?’ Isaac asked.
‘He kept guns in one of the rooms upstairs. Not that I saw them, nor did I ask. Once or twice he’d take one out with him of a night time.’
‘His profession?’
‘He told me he was involved in import/export, but I never saw any sign of it. Believe me, all I wanted to be was the dutiful wife, and he was looking after my family. If he had other women, not that I liked it, what could I say? We hadn’t married for love, not the sort that you would understand. It wasn’t hatred either. I was desperate, he was lonely.’
‘As we’ve said, we’re not judging,’ Isaac said. ‘Why did Mary Wilton give us your name.’
‘So I can tell you about Analyn. Her story is similar to mine.’
‘You were friends?’
‘Not really. We had a similar background, a shared history, that’s all. We kept in touch by phone, met up occasionally. England was difficult, and as much as I am glad to be here now, it wasn’t always so. In the Philippines, I had my extended family, the weather was hot, not cold and wet. It took time, but now I like the cold nights and rainy days.’
‘We were told that Analyn ended up at Mary Wilton’s. Did you?’
‘Analyn had no option, I did. My husband gave me some money, and I found a job, a bedsit to live. It wasn’t a great time, but I managed. Analyn left with nothing, so she took the only option. I told her not to, and I offered to help her out for a few weeks, but she was a proud woman. She had taken charity once from a man; she wasn’t going to take it from me.
‘I was working in a shop when my present husband came in. He wanted to talk, and he had travelled a lot, been to the Philippines, and he knew where I had lived. I agreed to meet with him, and in time my first husband had divorced me, I found my present husband, Mike’s his name, a person to be with. I even grew to love him.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He’s a teacher of geography at the local grammar school. His wife had died young, and his children had left home. I was one of the lucky ones, and we married, and I moved in here with him.’
‘Analyn wasn’t?’
‘She had gone back to her husband.’
‘You’ve heard from her since?’
‘Two months ago. She said she was fine.’
‘A phone number?’
‘On my phone. Is she in trouble?’
‘We don’t know. Her husband?’
‘I never met him. She told me that he rarely socialised, preferring to stay at home. It seemed strange, but as I said, she was an acquaintance more than a friend. If she was safe and happy, then it wasn’t for me to concern myself.’
‘Your first husband?’ Wendy said. ‘What can you tell us about him?’
‘I haven’t seen him since the day I left. Mike wouldn’t want to be reminded of my past, only thankful that I didn’t end up in Mary’s place.’
‘Your first husband’s name?’ Isaac said.
‘Gareth Rees.’
Isaac almost jumped out of his chair; Wendy sat still, not sure how to respond. From one apparently innocent woman, leads to two key people.
‘The name of Analyn’s husband?’ Wendy asked after a pause.
‘She never said.’
On the drive back to London, Isaac passed on the details to Bridget – a wedding certificate for Gareth Rees and Gabbi, as well as a photo of the man – and updated Larry as Wendy drove. It was, yet again, going to be a long night.
***
Isaac’s long-held belief that if you keep prodding enough, keep asking enough questions, then sooner or later a rabbit would be pulled out of the hat. Now, in the space of twenty-four hours, two rabbits.
Sean Garvey had given the name of Gareth and Mary Wilton had told them of another woman, a fellow countrywoman of Analyn, the mysterious consort of Ian Naughton.
And in a neat and tidy white-painted house, with its wooden fence fronting on the street, a babe in arms, the tie-in had come.
The team in Homicide were elated. For once they had proof positive. Larry had a photo, and he was on his way to Canning Town, Bill Ross waiting for him, and then a visit out to Garvey.
Bridget had a phone number for Analyn and was attempting to track it, but having no success. The number was registered, but no signal was being picked up from the phone, although it was still active, a pay as you go, no address for the owner.
Whether Gabbi Gaffney had avoided the clutches of Mary Wilton, and if, as she had said, she had found work in a shop and Gareth Rees had seen her financially secure, didn’t seem important for the moment. Although, if he had, it didn’t seem to align with the man who had pointed a gun at Waylon Conroy and his gang.
Gareth Rees, the name on his passport and the dates of his trips to the Philippines confirmed, was an enigma. The man was a blank, with no criminal records against him, no history of employment, although a no longer used bank account and credit cards were found in his name. It was clear that Gareth Rees was the man’s respectable name, and that he used aliases for his criminal activities. He was also found to have been born in a small village in the north of the country.
The perplexing part was that Ian Naughton, another alias, had called the gun-holding man Gareth, which indicated a long-term friendship.
It was unfortunate that Sean Garvey, the hoodie with a bad attitude and little parental guidance, had not heard Gareth address the other man by a first name. But Isaac knew that lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same spot.
‘Find Gareth Rees, bring him in, charge him with murder,’ Isaac said to the team.
‘No evidence,’ Larry said, playing the devil’s advocate. ‘It won’t stick.’
‘Stick or not, we’ve got him at the station for twenty-four hours, forty-eight if we’re lucky. We lost Naughton and Analyn once, I don’t intend to lose anyone else, not at this late stage of the investigation.’
‘It would help if we had his aliases,’ Bridget said. ‘I could run them through the system, see what I can find.�
��
‘Fingerprints, any chance?’ Wendy said.
‘In the Philippines, it’s a probability. Not on the wedding certificate, but Rees must have had to supply them at some stage. If we can get a copy, then we should be able to find if he has a criminal record in the UK,’ Bridget said.
‘Focus on that, as well as tracking Analyn’s movements,’ Isaac said.
‘When was the last time she used the phone?’
‘Thirteen days ago,’ Bridget said.
‘Holland Park, Godstone?’ Larry asked.
‘Both. She was the woman in the village on the date that the BMW was taken from the garage.’
Two days passed, two days of frustration as the team sorted through what they had, dealt with paperwork, waited for the opportunity to move forward. It was so quiet that Isaac took time to visit the bank, to sign the mortgage for the new house. He was pleased for Jenny who signed alongside him, frustrated that the crucial stage of the investigation was being hampered. So close, yet so far, he thought.
In the interim, Larry and Ross had visited Sean Garvey, this time at a pub not far from where he lived. The lift that the maintenance man had fixed was broken again, and neither of the police officers felt inclined to climb the stairs, and besides, the young man was preferred on his own, and not with his father.
Garvey had said that the man in the car and in the photo shown to him were probably the same, but couldn’t be sure. It was, Larry thought, an honest answer, and Garvey wasn’t so keen to talk too much, and as he admitted, the death of Waylon Conroy troubled him. He was frightened, although he had no idea who they were dealing with and where they would strike next.
Wendy visited Brad Robinson and his mother; the youth busy with his homework.
‘It’s Rose,’ the mother said. ‘She’s told him that she’ll never marry someone with no education.’
‘Love?’ Wendy said.
‘At their age, hardly.’
Wendy remembered the love she had felt at Brad’s age, the love that Rose felt for Brad, for a farmer’s son not far from where she lived on the Yorkshire Moors. She had given herself to him, the same as Rose intended to with Brad. The farmer’s son, Wendy knew, was now married with five children, struggling to survive financially, and his health was poor. She had fared better with the man she eventually married, even though he had been singularly unambitious. He had, however, given her two fine sons and grandchildren.
‘The Winstons?’ Wendy asked of the mother.
‘Maeve’s still with Rose’s father, for her sake more than anything else. That’s what she says.’
‘She keeps in contact?’
‘We meet occasionally, and she’s often on the phone. She probably won’t forgive her husband, but she’s not the type to take off and find another man, and besides, she’s got a good life, better than mine.’
‘You’ve got Brad,’ Wendy reminded her.
‘And Jim, soon enough. He’s got another five months, and he’ll be free.’
‘Keep to the straight and narrow?’
‘He might want to, but temptation will get in the way. Who’s going to give a job to an ex-prisoner, and he’s got no skills, other than what he picked up in prison.’
‘It’s up to Brad to bring respectability to the family,’ Wendy said.
‘It’s too early to know, but I do like Rose. She’s the same as her mother, dependable, and Brad’s more like Rose’s father than his own father.’
‘I had some concern that you and Tim…?’
‘At school. No, Tim’s not Brad’s father, even though they look the same in some ways.’
‘Janice? Do you think about her?’
‘All the time. In time she might have straightened herself out, but it doesn’t matter now. She’s gone, a plot at the cemetery next to her father.’
‘Kensal Green?’
‘Not there, too expensive. I find myself talking to Hector. Strange, we get on better now that he’s dead than when he was alive. I can pour out my heart, not have to listen to him shouting back at me.’
‘We’re close,’ Wendy said as she sat back in her chair. As rundown as the house was, it was inviting, a place to make yourself comfortable, whereas up at the Winstons, a person felt that they should sit upright, fearful of making the place look untidy.
‘Is Brad safe?
‘I hope so. We’re still troubled by the murders. There’s no rhyme or reason for Janice’s death, nor for your husband’s. And then there are the other women, a Cathy Parkinson and an Amanda Upton.’
‘I met Cathy once, not that I can tell you much about her. She was with Janice in Notting Hill. I bumped into them on the street.’
‘Prostituting?’
‘Not there, not where all the tourists are. But yes, the two were selling themselves, not that Janice would admit to it, not back then.’
‘Cathy Parkinson?’
‘As I said, I met her, passed the time of day, nothing more. I could see that she was in a bad way. Just hoped that Janice would get through it, not that she did.’
‘Are Brad and Rose meeting up?’
‘At school. Who knows where else? Tim Winston might be neurotic about protecting his daughter, and Maeve will go along with him, not that she’s as severe as him, but Brad’s responsible, and Rose won’t allow anything to get out of hand. She won’t be coming home pregnant, not before marriage, not like with Jim, barely made it to the church in time.’
‘Amanda Upton?’
‘She was the body at the cemetery, wasn’t she?’
‘It was the woman that Brad and Rose saw. We know more about her, sold herself, high-class escort, not the sort to tarry on a street corner.’
‘Not like my daughter.’
‘I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘It was true, nothing to apologise for. I only hope that Brad survives, and he doesn’t succumb to drugs and drink.’
‘A possibility?’
Gladys Robinson’s voice went low. She came over close to Wendy and whispered in her ear. ‘He’s not Hector’s.’
Wendy had seen it before, even commented on it, that Brad was tall for his age and slim, whereas Hector Robinson and the other son, Jim, were short.
‘Does he know?’
‘Nobody knows. It was one of those times when Hector and I were having difficulties, more often than not if the truth’s known.’
‘The father?’
‘I’ve told you that confidentially, woman to woman. You see, I have hope for Brad.’
‘Wouldn’t he benefit from the truth?’
‘One day, but not now. He was close to Janice, good friends with Jim. It would destroy Brad to be told.’
‘But it would make it easier with Rose’s parents.’
‘The son of an illicit affair, I doubt it.’
‘And he’s not Tim’s?’
‘Not a chance. I know who the father is; let’s leave it at that. Nobody needs to know, do they?’
‘I can’t see it as being relevant,’ Wendy said.
Chapter 25
Sean Garvey hadn’t been sure that the photo of Gareth Rees was the armed man in the car in Canning Town. However, the waitress at the café in Godstone, as well as the estate agent who had let the house, were certain when Larry showed them the photo. The man they knew was Gareth Rees.
Wendy met up with Meredith Temple at a restaurant close to Meredith’s university. The woman was doing well, had just passed some exams and was full of herself.
‘I’m planning to move in with my boyfriend,’ Meredith said.
‘Long-term romance?’ Wendy asked.
‘I hope so.’
‘Does he know?’
‘My past? Not yet. Do I need to tell him?’
‘The past never leaves us totally. One day, a former client, the wrong word from him and your boyfriend’s gone. Men can be unpredictable when faced with reality.’
‘Don’t I know it. Another man, while I was on the game, he kn
ew, made out that he didn’t care, but they all do to some extent. It’s natural, I suppose.’
‘When you were at Mary Wilton’s, did you meet any other women from the Philippines?’
‘Some, but I can’t say I spoke to them, not that much.’
Wendy pushed a photo across the table. ‘Her, for instance?’
‘I can’t remember her name, or maybe I never asked, but yes, she was there around the same time as Analyn.’
Wendy had hoped that Gabbi Gaffney had been truthful about her past, but Meredith had contradicted her. It had been Gabbi’s photo that Wendy had shown.
‘Does the name Gareth Rees mean anything to you? Or this photo, do you recognise the man?’
‘He came in once, not sure who he saw.’
‘Interesting,’ Wendy said. She liked Meredith Temple; she hoped she wasn’t further involved, as Gabbi Gaffney appeared to be.
The two women ate their meals, drank their glasses of wine, and talked about this and that, nothing in particular. Wendy wasn’t anxious to leave; another trip to Oxford didn’t appeal that night. It was one of her grandchildren’s birthdays, and she wanted to go over to her son and daughter-in-law’s house to give the child his present. But, if duty called, then it would have to be another night.
Once out of the restaurant, and not wanting to delay further, Wendy phoned Gabbi, the phone answered by a man with a Glaswegian accent.
Wendy asked for Gabbi, not wanting to elaborate on the reason for the call, not sure how much the husband knew.
‘This is about Gareth Rees, I assume,’ Mike Gaffney said.
‘Yes.’
After a brief interlude, Gabbi picked up the phone. ‘Sorry, the baby needed feeding. Always a performance.’
‘How much does your husband know?’ Wendy asked.
‘He knows everything, no secrets between husband and wife, not in this household.’
‘But there is. Mary Wilton never told me, but another of her women did. You didn’t find a job in a shop straight away. Why didn’t you tell me you had worked for Mary Wilton?’
‘Shame, I suppose. It wasn’t for long, and yes, back in Manila I had done things that I regretted. I thought that Mary Wilton’s would tide me over.’
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2 Page 143
