If the house had not been the way it was, then she would have not succumbed to debasing herself, but her mother’s live-in lovers, not all of them, but most, had seen the mother as acceptable when she was sober, her daughter when she was not.
She had been fourteen the first time one of them snuck into her bedroom, held her down with his weight; she remembered it as if it was yesterday, but it wasn’t. It was seven years ago that first time, and Jim, her elder brother, had beaten the man senseless, kicked him out of the house when she had told him, but then he wasn’t there much, as he was invariably on an anti-social behaviour order, migrating between incarceration and freedom, and now he was in prison.
A good student in her early teens, a broken young woman at the age of sixteen, she had moved from smoking marijuana to harder drugs in a short time; then to selling herself at seventeen to feed the habit. Twice she had weaned herself off, but memories came flooding back, the lost times of her youth, the wasted education, the futility.
The bedsit she reasoned was better than the street. She was smart enough not to expect too much, not to assume that the man who had phoned would be any better.
A knock on the door, a voice telling her to open up.
Regaining her senses, Janice lifted herself from the bed, adjusted her bra strap; no need to overdress for what the man wanted. She opened the door, saw the man was dressed better than most; not overalls straight from work, smelling of manual labour and sweat, covered in grime. This man was dressed in a neatly creased pair of trousers, a blue open-necked shirt, a jacket. Even his shoes were leather and polished.
Janice, if she cared, would have said that he was a better class of man than those that pulled up alongside her on the street, asked her how much, indulged in friendly banter, called her a hag as they drove off, not willing to pay her price.
But this man hadn’t argued about the price, more than on the street, because of the cost of the bedsit, owned by a grubby immigrant who spoke poor English and took part of the rent in services rendered by Janice.
The cost of the bedsit was only one factor in her higher prices. Having to service the landlord who was foul in his demands, aggressive in his lovemaking, was a payment that she did not make willingly, but did.
‘Janice,’ the man said.
‘Come in.’
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he said as he sat on a chair by the side of the bed.
Janice, accustomed to the procedure, removed her underwear. ‘This is what you’ve come for, isn’t it?’
‘In time. We can talk first.’ He made no attempt to move closer to her, to touch her.
Janice, unused to such behaviour, sat up and pulled the sheet across her.
‘I prefer you naked,’ he said.
‘Are you one of those who like to watch?’ she asked. She didn’t care either way, only that they paid. The idea of sex no longer appealed to her; it was purely mechanical, the groaning on cue, pretending that the man on top or under her was satisfying her, whereas all he was doing was filling her with disgust. She felt nothing for any of the previous men, hundreds of them, nothing for this one.
‘How long have you been doing this?’
Not another one trying to reform her, she thought. Not someone about to spout on about Sodom and Gomorrah, fallen women. She’d had enough of them, some even praying, but all of them taking her, and then crying afterwards, blaming her, hitting her for tempting them with the pleasures of the flesh, but this man appeared different. He didn’t look at her with wanton eyes, wanting her but incapable.
There had been one, she remembered, who had been impotent, but it had been his wife belittling him that had been the problem. That had been in the past, when she had been prettier, when her face had been fuller, her lips rosier, not that she ever let them kiss her, her body firmer, her breasts rounder.
Now, at the age of twenty-one, her skin was sallow and pitted, the colour of alabaster. It had been eight months since she had been to a doctor, as she knew what would be said. The lecture about her killing herself, the diseases she might have, the damage to her vital organs. It wasn’t what she wanted, but what did she care. Her life had run its full course, the only joy in her life was Brad.
‘I’ve another appointment,’ Janice said, which wasn’t true. The room was cold, not enough money to pay for heating, only for drugs and the occasional bite to eat.
‘I won’t need long,’ the man said as he sat on the bed. She arched her body in anticipation. Men liked that, she knew, believing that somehow paying for a woman was pleasurable for her, not understanding that it wasn’t, would never be.
He ran his hand lightly over her body, his expression emotionless.
‘It’s a shame,’ he said.
‘Aren’t you capable?’
‘Once so pretty, but now, look at you lying there, waiting for me to take you.’
‘That’s what you paid for.’
The man opened a small case that he had been carrying. He withdrew a towel.
‘You don’t need to shower first,’ Janice said. The man was clean enough as he was, even if his manner was unusual. But some were slow starters, while others were ready, barely in the door, and yet others had sulked away without doing anything, racked with guilt at impure thoughts, looking for a priest to confess to.
‘It’s not a towel. It’s what’s inside it that’s important.’
Sensing that something was amiss, Janice drew herself up further. ‘I think you better go,’ she said. ‘You’re scaring me.’
‘There’s no need to be scared,’ he said. ‘It’s quite painless.’
The bed was up against the wall, the only way out was over the man or the bottom of the bed. Janice Robinson, sister of Brad, sister of Jim, chose the latter.
The man grabbed her as she attempted to get away, thrusting her down onto her back, the sheet falling away.
‘You would have been attractive once,’ he said. ‘Now you’re just a whore.’
With one hand holding her down, he unwrapped the towel with the other. He picked up the knife inside and thrust it into Janice’s body four times in rapid succession, holding the towel over the knife and the body.
He then took a shower before walking out of the room.
***
Six possibilities remained to identify the woman in the cemetery, assuming that a card had been used to buy her sandals. If not, then Larry and Wendy knew that they were in for a wasted day.
Larry understood Isaac’s predicament, the reason for the late-night phone call, the coffee keeping him awake, the two glasses of whisky dealing with the problem.
The plan was for them to fan out from Kensal Green Cemetery, focussing on the nearest addresses first, discounting the two they had dealt with the previous evening, and then widening the circle, eventually ending up at the last address twenty miles to the south.
The first house, a mews close to Portobello Road, the haunt of the bargain shopper, not that there were many bargains, not after the daily deluge of tourists, the prices upping at first sight, and the antique shops were always pricey.
‘Can I help you?’ an old man said as he opened the door of the mews house.
Larry did the introductions, both he and Wendy showing their warrant cards. It was still early in the morning, not yet seven, and most people would be asleep or thinking about work, the ideal time to catch them at home.
After the houses in Notting Hill, the two of them would separate, aim to check every address by midday, hopeful of a result, although it would mean a very long night. Larry had to admit to still feeling tired after his disrupted sleep and his wife sending him off without breakfast for sins committed.
It was the excuse he needed to visit his favourite café for breakfast; he was sure that Wendy would join him.
‘We’re looking for Deborah Landis,’ Wendy said.
‘That’s my wife. I hope it’s not anything serious. We don’t drive, don’t go far these days, broken no laws.’
‘It�
�s not that,’ Larry said. ‘If we could talk to Deborah, I’m sure we can resolve it very quickly, leave you alone.’
‘I’m Deborah,’ an elegant and upright woman said. In her seventies, yet looking younger, whereas her husband, crippled by age and ailments, looked close to eighty.
The four sat down.
‘What can we do for you?’ the husband said.
‘Mrs Landis, you bought a pair of sandals at a shop in Brompton Road, Knightsbridge, opposite Harrods,’ Wendy said.
‘For our daughter, a present.’
‘And your daughter, where is she now?’
‘I gave them to her the day I bought them. Such good value and I know that Megan loves the colour.’
‘Can’t resist a bargain, my wife,’ Landis said.
‘Your daughter?’ Wendy said, more than a little alarmed.
‘We’ve not seen her for a few days, not since I gave her the shoes. She goes to university, up north. We told her to find one nearer to here, but she was adamant.’
‘We need to contact her.’
‘I could phone her if it’s important.’
‘It is, very,’ Larry said. ‘Now, please.’
The woman picked up her phone and dialled. ‘Hello, dear. Two police officers here that want to talk to you, no idea why.’
Wendy took the phone and spoke. ‘Megan, Sergeant Wendy Gladstone. Your mother gave you a pair of sandals?’
‘One size too small, but don’t tell Mum.’
‘I won’t. Can you take a photo of them and send it to your mother’s phone number now.’
‘I can, but what’s this about.’
‘I’m pleased that you’re fine. We’re trying to identify a woman. The only clue we have is that she purchased sandals similar to yours at a shop in Knightsbridge.’
‘I’ve certainly got mine. Two minutes and you’ll have a photo.’
‘Thank you,’ Wendy said. She ended the call.
‘That’s it,’ Larry said as he got up from the chair; breakfast was on his mind and soon.
‘We have a right to know why you’re asking,’ Landis said.
‘It’s not a good story. Are you sure you want to hear?’
‘We’re over the age of twenty-one, not old fossils.’
‘No offence intended. A woman was murdered in Kensal Green Cemetery. The only clue we have is that she was wearing sandals the same as your wife purchased for your daughter.’
‘And you thought…’ Deborah Landis put her hands up to her face, ‘our daughter?’
‘It’s a process of elimination. We didn’t assume anything, just eliminating the possibilities.’
‘Bad news for someone then.’
‘Thankfully not for you and your husband.’
‘But someone else. How sad.’
‘Unfortunately, we see it all too often,’ Wendy said.
***
Larry phoned the café, told them twenty minutes and a full breakfast, heavy on the bacon and sausages. Wendy knew he’d be in trouble that night when he got home, but she wasn’t his keeper, not even his senior, and she wasn’t about to say anything, considering that he ordered for both of them. What’s good for one is good for the other, she thought, and besides it was to be a long day, with, as Deborah Landis had said, a sad ending.
The other address in Notting Hill, St Marks Road, close to the railway line, wasn’t as good a house as the Landis’s; however, it was neat and tidy, even though it was a busy road and the traffic was noisy.
Not even a police sign on the vehicle would allow them to park on the street; instead, they parked in the forecourt of a petrol station directly across the road, Larry showing his warrant card, saying that he’d be back in ten minutes for the vehicle.
‘You purchased a pair of sandals in Knightsbridge, is that correct?’ Wendy said. There was to be no sitting down in the house. It was clear that the woman they were talking to was the grandmother from the Indian subcontinent who had been brought over to England to look after the children while their parents were out at work.
‘I don’t speak good English,’ the hindi-speaking sari-clad woman said.
Larry picked up his phone, dialled Challis Street, asked to speak to Jasmine Chandra, a sergeant at the station. He explained the situation to her, then handed the phone to the woman.
A beaming smile lit up on the woman’s face, animated gestures with her hands before she disappeared into another room. After a while, she returned, handed the sandals over to Larry, and then the phone.
Larry spoke to Jasmine, found out that the daughter had bought the shoes, but she was at work. Also, the old lady could give them a phone number if they wanted it.
Wendy took the number, but it wasn’t needed. The sandals had been seen, and the dead woman was not of Indian extraction.
Two checked, four to go. A breakfast first, though.
As they left the house, the woman thrust a bag of home-made cakes into their hands. They were sweet, more to Larry’s palate than Wendy’s, but they would finish off the breakfast nicely.
Chapter 7
An anonymous phone call to emergency services was regarded with suspicion – prank
calls still occurred, but not as much as in the past thanks to call identification technology and virtually everyone using a mobile phone.
Regardless, a patrol car had been dispatched to the address. Every call to 999 had to be followed up, documented and filed.
The house had long since been converted into small flats and bedsits, with paper-thin walls. It wasn’t their favourite part of London for the two officers assigned to check it out. It was, however, a place where people minded their own business – too many questions could lead to a physical beating or a brick through a window, even a car with four slashed tyres.
A police car was a prime target, so much so that one officer stayed with the vehicle, the other checked out the address. No point having to explain back at the station how the car came to have graffiti sprayed down both sides, and where the wiper blades were.
There should have been three police officers, but staff levels were down, and no one was that much interested in taking the phone call seriously. Across the railway line, on the other side of the road, loomed two circular gas towers, no longer in use, but not demolished. Behind them, although not visible from where the car was parked, the Grand Union Canal, still plied by houseboats.
Another one hundred and fifty yards, the murder site of the, as yet, unidentified woman.
Sergeant Connelly, a tall man, strong and broad, stayed with the vehicle. An ominous quietness in the area; he didn’t like it. And he certainly didn’t like the street. A couple of dogs scavenged on the other side of the road: unleashed, probably dumped by someone who didn’t want to feed them anymore, an unwanted Christmas present that had passed the cute stage. He’d let the authorities know but didn’t expect them to do much about it.
The two men had been a team for nearly two years. At first, it had been difficult, the plain-talking burly Connelly, a stream of expletives whenever he spoke, and Fahad Khan, a moderate Muslim who neither drank alcohol nor swore, although he’d light up a cigarette with Connelly, even share a joke with him.
Connelly would have admitted to being prejudiced against other religions, other people, especially after his brother had been close enough to a terrorist attack in Manchester to receive shrapnel to his upper body and lose an eye.
But Fahad Khan had won him over, assured him that he was as appalled as he was, and wasn’t that what they had had in Northern Ireland, religious intolerance.
Connelly wasn’t so sure that it was precisely the same, but he had to concede to Khan on that point. And then five months after they had teamed together, a car accident, petrol dripping down onto a hot exhaust, a woman inside screaming.
Connelly, brave and without thought, had opened the car door to let the woman out, struggled with the seat belt and the steering wheel that was pinning her down. The petrol igniting, the rear of the car afl
ame, unable to get the woman out, unable to leave her. He swore, as he always did, exerted himself to no avail. On the other side of the vehicle, with Connelly at his limit, just about to be forced back, his offsider scrambled into the car, releasing the seat belt, allowing Connelly to pull the woman out.
Five minutes later, the car interior was an inferno, and a crew from the nearest fire station were smothering the vehicle with foam. After that Connelly, with newfound respect, tempered his bad language, and during Ramadan, he’d make sure not to eat or smoke in his colleague’s presence.
Fahad Khan knocked on the door of the building. A smaller man than his offsider, he pushed against the front door; it opened with little trouble.
Inside, a downstairs flat. Upstairs three bedsits. He knew what the building was used for. That was one of the downsides of being a police officer: having to confront the seedier side of life.
Number 3 at the top of the stairs the caller had said before he hung up. A false alarm or not, no man wanted his name associated with prostitution.
At the top of the stairs, an open door. Khan took one look inside, saw clearly that it wasn’t a false alarm.
***
Isaac stood outside the room. He was wearing coveralls and shoe protectors. On his hands, nitrile gloves. It was a crime scene, and Gordon Windsor was adamant that no one unnecessary was allowed in the house. He commended Connelly and Khan on arrival, pleased that they had acted correctly and not contaminated the crime scene, other than Khan climbing the stairs, looking in the room; acceptable for an emergency call out.
Statistically, the area had a high probability that the emergency call was a false alarm; local kids pranking, nothing better to do, excited to see activity.
It was remarkable, Connelly thought, that after the body had been discovered, the street had filled again. Up the road, two women gossiping. A group of children, ages eight to ten, he guessed, trying to fix a bicycle. None of them could have known that a murder had been committed. It was as if they had sensed it, but then, it was a high crime area, a place where people learnt to mind their own business.
Grave Passion Page 6
