‘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.
Wend
y 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?’
‘Over two years. No one else would stick it, not with the money they pay, nor what we have to put up with from the customers.’
It was clear that the manager didn’t have to put up with anything. She was a hard woman, her function to cycle the sales assistants, to make sure the profit margin was adhered to, to do whatever was necessary.
Wendy didn’t like her. The sort of person who pretended to care about the store and its workers, but didn’t for either. It was typical of an attitude all too common in the overpopulated metropolis. There was always someone more desperate, willing to put up with working under such conditions, used to being cheated, not expecting any different.
Kate Baxter handed over a photo. ‘Is that the sandal?’
The manager lifted her feet off the stacked shoe boxes and put them on the floor. She took out a pair of glasses from her handbag and put them on. Then she studied the photo for longer than was necessary.
‘We sell a lot of shoes here, but yes, they came in a week ago. We put some of them in the window, sold out in two days.’
‘Good value?’ Wendy asked.
‘Better than most. Old stock, last year’s fashion statement. Nobody will pay top money for them now, but if you’re on a budget, or just tight, they’ll do fine for the weekend, or in the office.’
‘Who did you sell them to?’
‘Not everyone pays with a card; some still prefer to pay cash, although for the life of me I can’t see why.’
Wendy did. Impulse buying with a card was dangerous; cash was the moderator to prevent the purchaser from transitioning from wise to foolish; the reason she left her card at home, apart from Saturday. One day of temptation out of seven was better than seven out of seven.
‘Those that paid cash?’
‘Not a chance. You’ve seen it outside, chaos, and the sales assistants have a high turnover.’
‘How long do they last?’
‘Most only stick it for three to four days. Those that are any good soon find somewhere else paying better. Can’t blame them, something I should do.’
The manager was someone who complained a lot, treated the employees abysmally, and siphoned money off the top as she discounted stock to maintain the cash turnover, probably with the de facto blessing of senior management, who wanted results, not scrupulously honest people.
‘Those that paid with a card?’ Kate said.
‘I’ve already sent them. Check the emails on your phone.’
One thing the woman was, she was efficient, Wendy conceded. She checked her phone, Kate checked hers. The email with the attachment was there.
‘What’s so important about them, anyway,’ the manager asked.
‘One of the women who bought them from your store was murdered,’ Wendy said.
‘Takes all sorts,’ the manager’s reply. She had no interest in a dead woman, only the money she had handed over.
Chapter 5
Kate Baxter, her work done, returned to her regular duties. She had proved herself, and Wendy was determined to put her name forward as a possible member of Homicide when the opportunity presented itself.
At the station, Bridget followed through on those who had bought sandals in the same colour as the dead woman’s. It had been a popular line, and the list contained over forty names. The process of elimination would take some time which suited Bridget as long hours and computers were her forte. Isaac knew she would be working late that night.
The day had not been without progress. There was Rose Winston, confident that the man who had hurried by had a limp, and one of the names from the shop could well be the murdered woman’s. Whether she had been a local was still open to question, as no one had come forward, even after her face had been displayed on signs outside the cemetery. Usually, the next of kin would have been informed before taking such a step, but without identification, the decision had been made to circumvent standard procedure.
Isaac’s concern as the senior investigating officer in Homicide was that the woman’s death had been calculated and calmly executed, which suggested that the man was used to killing, or he had no compunction about what he had done. The probability of another murder remained, and if he was local, then he had to be apprehended quickly, and if it was professional, then why, and who was the assassin.
Larry and Wendy had had a busy day, not that it was over, and at eight in the evening, while it was still light, they were outside the cemetery at the Harrow Road entrance, Brad on his own; Rose with her mother.
The mother, Wendy could see, was not as firm as her husband, and the two intended lovers spoke to one another. It was sweet, Wendy thought, young love, innocent and pure, unsullied by the realities of the world, the cruelty, the degradation, the hurt, the disappointment. Although, on reflection, she knew that Brad had experienced more than his fair share, although Rose had not.
‘Why the school?’ Larry asked Maeve Winston.
‘Why we don’t pay, is that what you’re asking?’
‘If you want to protect your daughter, surely you would give her the best opportunity.’
‘Tim and I, we came from humble stock, working class. We could afford better, but we’re not snobs, nor do we want Rose to be. Committed Labour voters all our life.’
Larry wasn’t sure of the woman’s rationale. It seemed that Tim Winston’s middle-class aspirations and his working-class beliefs were out of kilter, and how could the father then complain when his daughter went out with the brother of a criminal and a woman who sold herself. To him, even though he was a detective inspector, and not able to afford the best school where he lived, he intended to place his children where it would be to their best advantage.
And even if Tim and Maeve Winston weren’t cloth-capped Labourites, him driving a Jaguar for instance, it still made no sense to deprive their daughter.
Both gates at the cemetery had been closed off, and entry had been restricted at two other entrances, although they were further away, and not many people would be walking through. However, there were sufficient uniforms present to keep the curious onlookers at a distance.
Isaac arrived, not to take an active part, but with his inspector and sergeant at the cemetery he had cancelled the evening meeting at the office.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook,’ he said as he shook Maeve Winston’s hand.
Wendy was sure she swooned on meeting the tall black police officer. He was an attractive man, a ladykiller in his youth, not the murdering type, and he had seduced a few in his time. Now he was married to Jenny, as white as he was black, and a child was on the way.
The group moved inside the imposing gates of the cemetery. Wendy called them to order. ‘Rose and Brad, we need to recreate this accurately. No being coy because we’re present, and Rose, disregard your mother. If she doesn’t like it, she’ll have to close her eyes.’
‘Mum’s alright; Dad wouldn’t have been.’
‘I’m not that comfortable,’ the mother said. ‘But I’ll not interfere. After tonight, you and I will need to sit down and have a good talk.’
Rose whispered to Brad, ‘They’re just worried about me, that’s all.’
‘Something I never had. A violent father who thankfully left us; my mother’s decent enough, but she drinks.’
Rose, even though she was young, felt motherly towards Brad, although she didn’t understand why.
The instruction was that Brad and Rose were to act as they had on the night when she had pretended to be staying at a friend’s house.
Brad had no difficulty in putting his arm around Rose and kissing her, although Rose kept looking over at her mother.
It was always tricky when dealing with children; the need for a responsible adult to be present, a parent.
&n
bsp; ‘Mrs Winston,’ Isaac said. ‘If you don’t mind, can I have a word with you.’
Wendy could see that her DCI had sensed the situation, and he could play a part in taking the mother away, letting the daughter relax.
‘Okay, Rose, your mother’s not looking now,’ Larry said. ‘Show us what happened on the night.’
‘I didn’t want to walk through,’ Rose said. ‘Not after the movie that Steph and I had watched.’
Brad put his arm around Rose; she responded and puts hers around him, leaning over to give him a kiss.
‘We walked down the path, over to Kilburn Lane,’ Brad said.
A member of Gordon Windsor’s crime scene team was present as an observer. The area had been checked and heavy rain had removed the possibility of further evidence.
The group moved forward, Brad and Rose in front. Allowances had to be made, as it wasn’t dark and Rose wasn’t scared, just embarrassed; Brad Robinson appeared to be enjoying himself. Over in the distance, Isaac and the mother walked.
‘It was here,’ Rose said, ‘when the man walked by.’
‘The limp?’
‘I didn’t see it,’ Brad said.
‘If you were to the left of Rose, you would have been looking ahead or towards her,’ Larry said. ‘She would have been looking in your direction, the direction of the man and the grave. That’s why she saw the body and not you.’
‘Why the limp?’ Wendy asked. ‘How can you be certain?’
‘I can’t, not really. Other than what I saw.’
‘A limp isn’t always noticeable, not in the dark.’‘
‘I saw him before Brad. I saw him over near where the woman was.’
‘You’ve not mentioned this before.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe I just forgot.’
It was understandable, Wendy conceded. A young woman disobeying her parents, late at night, a scary movie. Too many issues for a young mind to comprehend.
‘What did you see?’ Larry asked.
‘I think I saw the murder. I can remember something. I thought it was a statue or something like that, but now I think it was the man and the woman.’
Grave Passion Page 4
