He knew that if he spoke to anyone in the street, he would only receive bland answers. Not that he intended to; that was for Homicide.
‘Not something you see every day,’ Connelly said.
‘She was on the game,’ Khan said, having learnt to use the talk of the street. He should have been appalled, but he wasn’t, just jaundiced that so much depravity existed.
Windsor came out of the room and over to where Isaac was standing. ‘Well, DCI,’ he said, ‘it seems that you’re starting to ratchet up the count. How many this time? A new record?’
Isaac understood where Windsor was coming from. One murder leads to another. Too many recently. He had hoped for an easy solution to the body at the cemetery, but it wasn’t to be.
‘A name?’ Isaac asked.
‘Janice Robinson. Does it mean anything to you?’
‘It does.’ Isaac took out his phone and made a call. ‘Sunbeam Crescent, as fast as you can,’ he said.
‘Female, twenty-one, heroin user, in reasonable health considering, possibly malnourished,’ Windsor continued.
‘We know who she is. What else?’
‘Four knife wounds to the chest area. A prostitute.’
‘Was it professional or a client?’
‘Come in and look for yourself.’
Isaac, used to crimes of violence, walked over to the woman’s body, looked down at her lying on her back, her face in repose as if she was asleep.
‘Attractive once,’ Windsor said. He and Isaac were used to murder. Neither would be fazed by what they were seeing; neither would have any trouble eating afterwards, sleeping that night.
‘Blood?’
‘Not as much as you’d expect. Whoever did this put a towel or something similar over the top of her and the knife.’
‘The weapon?’
‘It’s not here, surprising really. An amateur wouldn’t have thought about that, and the man had the nerve to take a shower afterwards.’
‘Fingerprints, hair?’
‘With the number of men she’s serviced? We’ll do our best, and we should get something off the body. Hopefully, we can disseminate the most recent. It should help, but if the man’s not got a criminal record, details on the database, then it’s going to be difficult.’
‘There should be evidence of him on her,’ Isaac said.
‘No sign of seminal fluid. He might have looked at her, but that’s it. No sexual activity, not from him.’
‘Professional? I asked you before.’
‘I can’t tell you, not from what we have here. Covering the body with a towel to restrict blood splatter indicates some forethought. But the man could have been a fanatical cleanliness freak, as can be seen by his showering.’
‘A professional wouldn’t have concerned himself; an arrogance on his part, thumbing his nose up at us.’
‘Why is it so important. And what would a hired killer want with a woman of easy means?’
‘You’ve read the report on the Jane Doe?’
‘Yes.’
‘Brad Robinson, the fifteen-year-old youth who found her with his girlfriend, Rose. Janice Robinson is his sister, or she was.’
***
Neither Larry nor Wendy saw the body when they arrived at the scene. The woman was dead, she was the sister of a witness at another murder, that was enough for them to know.
‘Did anyone see anything?’ Wendy asked.
‘Around here?’ Larry’s answer. ‘No answers, no talking, and definitely not to us.’
‘The other houses? Prostitution?’ Isaac asked.
Larry was the man who knew what happened in the area at street level, more than either Wendy or Isaac. ‘I’m surprised she was hawking her wares here,’ he said. ‘Not that they would care either way what she was up to, but there are families here. There was a drug dealer up the road, he died two years ago. At number 68, there’s Old Seamus O’Riley, but he’s doing five years for robbery with menace. Apart from that, no one I know, and they’re not likely to talk.’
‘Too close to home?’
‘Has a door-to-door been conducted?’ Wendy asked.
‘I was leaving that up to you,’ Isaac said.
‘You’d be wasting your time,’ Larry said. ‘If they had seen something, and they may well have, they’ll not talk, and if they do, don’t trust it.’
‘An aversion to the police?’
‘There’s that, but they’d be scared, not sure who it is, and if the man can murder one woman, he can kill another.’
‘A serial killer?’
‘How would we know?’
The three moved away from the front of the house and walked up the street. The two women who had previously been gossiping disappeared inside one of the houses, two of the children following.
‘See what I was saying,’ Larry said. ‘It’ll be quiet in the street for a couple of nights. At least one benefit.’
‘It’s Brad Robinson’s sister,’ Wendy said. ‘It’s not a time for humour.’
‘Apologies. Have they been told?’
‘Wendy, do you want to do it?’ Isaac asked. The most challenging part of a police officer’s job, telling the next of kin. He had done it enough times, so had Wendy and Larry.
‘I’ll do it,’ Wendy said. ‘Confirmed?’
‘A driving licence. It’s her. The mother can identify her. Later today if you can, before Pathology’s checked her out, done what they need to do.’
‘Before we move on,’ Larry said. ‘Professional?’
‘It could be. The man had minimised the blood splatter, but the knife wounds weren’t precise.’
‘So, it’s either a professional wanting to appear to be an amateur or an amateur who had read up on the subject, had a thing about prostitutes.’
‘The man showered afterwards which tells us a couple of things,’ Isaac said.
‘No criminal record, or none that we can prove, or else he’s got a phobia about blood.’
‘Or he’s a cleanliness fanatic.’
‘Rose Winston,?’ Wendy said. ‘Is she at risk?’
‘We don’t know,’ Isaac said. ‘Make sure she and her family are updated. And ensure that her house has a uniform and a patrol car patrolling the streets nearby.’
***
Due to the sensitivity of the situation, Wendy drove to the Robinsons’ house in Compton Road; Larry headed to the school that Brad Robinson and Rose Winston attended.
He found the administrative office, explained the situation to a pleasant rosy-faced woman in her fifties who broke down in tears after being told what had happened.
Larry waited in the office while the woman went off to find the two of them.
The first to arrive, Rose. She looked even younger in her school uniform than when he had first met her outside the cemetery. No wonder her father was upset with Brad Robinson. On the night of the first murder, with makeup on, lipstick applied, she could have passed for seventeen, but at the school she looked no more than fourteen.
‘Inspector Hill, you wanted to see me,’ Rose said. Larry found that he liked her; a credit to her parents, someone who would do well in life. What she saw in Brad, he wasn’t sure, other than he was a good-looking young man, but from the wrong side of the street.
‘Take a seat, Rose,’ Larry said.
She complied.
‘Did you ever meet Brad’s sister?’
‘No. Never. Brad told me that he and she were close, and he sometimes saw her.’
‘You know what she did?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s no easy way to say this. She’s been murdered.’
The young woman said nothing. Tears started to roll down her cheeks. After what seemed an eternity, the door of the office opened, and Brad walked in.
Rose got up from her chair and flung her arms around his neck. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.
Brad looked bemused, not sure how to react.
‘It’s Janice,’ Larry said. ‘I’m afraid she’s dea
d.’
The colour drained from Brad’s face and he slumped, Rose holding him up. Larry took hold of them and sat them down on a couple of chairs.
‘I’ll get some tea,’ the rosy-faced admin lady said. The universal cure in England for all ailments, Larry thought. For him, a stiff brandy would have been better, but not in a school, and not for children. And that’s what they were, even if they believed they were on the cusp of adulthood.
‘How?’ Brad said.
‘I can’t lie to you, Brad,’ Larry said. ‘The bedsit where she lived. She was murdered.’
‘Mum always thought she’d come to no good.’
‘We need to go to your house. Rose, your parents?’
‘I’m going with Brad,’ Rose said. ‘He needs me.’
‘I can’t allow it, not without your parents’ permission.’
‘I’ll phone,’ the admin lady said. ‘Rose, your phone, the one that’s meant to be switched off in school hours.’
Rose put her hand in her pocket, took out the phone.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got the number,’ Larry said.
On the other end of the line, Maeve Winston listened as Larry told her the situation. The call ended.
‘Your mother will come over to Brad’s house,’ Larry said. ‘You two can come with me.’
‘We have counselling available,’ the admin lady said, wanting to be helpful.
Outside the office, Rose turned to Larry. ‘Mrs Montgomery, she’s always fussing about, but we all like her.’
The two youngsters sat in the back of Larry’s car. He had suggested that Brad sit up front, Rose in the back. It wasn’t going to be, and he hoped that they arrived at the Robinsons’ before Rose’s mother, as she could well be upset that the police were encouraging the inappropriate romance.
On arrival, Larry was pleased to see that his fears weren’t realised. Wendy’s car was parked outside the house, a uniform at the door.
***
‘Our Janice,’ Brad’s mother screamed as he entered.
Brad left Rose and went over to his mother, put his arms around her. ‘I’m still here,’ he said.
It was a touching scene, Wendy thought, as did Rose. Larry looked away, not sure what to think or how to react. He was always uncomfortable in intimate situations: an austere father, a mother who was not affectionate, although he had had a good upbringing, a decent education, a brother and sister who had not been in trouble with the law.
Rose, her first time in the house, looked around, not sure what to make of it. To her, it was an alien world, the decay, the smell of damp in the air. A cat lay curled up on the windowsill taking in what sun there was; a dog barked outside.
A knock on the door. Wendy opened it.
‘Rose?’
‘She’s here.’
‘Gladys?’
‘Mrs Robinson is fine, upset of course. To be expected under the circumstances.’
In the front room, the two women looked at each other – one who had lost a daughter, the other who had bettered herself and didn’t want to be reminded of where she had come from – rushed together and hugged, kissing each other on the cheek.
‘It’s been a long time,’ Maeve Winston said.
‘I’ve seen you sometimes, but you never waved.’
‘I couldn’t.’
No more was said by either woman. Brad sat with his mother; Rose with hers. It should have been touching, but wasn’t.
After a few minutes, Gladys Robinson spoke. ‘Jim needs to know.’
‘It’s been dealt with,’ Larry replied, not sure that it had, but he was confident that his DCI would have contacted the prison, asked someone skilled to tell the man.
‘I want to see her,’ Brad said.
‘It’s for your mother to confirm identity,’ Wendy said.
‘I still want to see her.’
It was irregular and would not be welcomed by the staff where Janice’s body was, but an exception would be made. Jim Robinson would be allowed to attend the funeral to say his goodbyes.
Wendy was sure what Maeve Winston was thinking, but she wasn’t interfering, not even when Rose left her and went over to Brad and put her arm around him, kissing him on the mouth.
‘Did Janice die because of what we saw in the cemetery?’ Brad asked. His voice was firm, a sign that he was starting to accept the situation, or a momentary need to ask questions that troubled Homicide.
‘We don’t think so,’ Larry said.
‘Which means you’re not sure,’ Maeve said. ‘Which means that Rose could be next. Have you considered that?’
‘Please, Mrs Winston. We’ve just come from Janice. We don’t think there’s a connection, and prostitution is a high-risk occupation. Each year, prostitutes die at the hands of a client.’
‘We need protection; Rose needs protection.’
‘Protection will be provided for Rose and you and your husband. Also for Brad and Mrs Robinson.’
What Larry had said was true, but the protection would be a uniform at each house, but the school would present difficulties. It was a sprawling collection of buildings; easy entry in and out.
But why kill Janice? Larry thought. What use would that be to a professional? To Larry, and no doubt to Isaac and Wendy when they sat down to discuss it, nothing seemed to make sense.
The fear was that it wasn’t professional, it was psychopathic, and the man they were looking for was a madman, a man who could act normally, even to his family and friends, but someone who could kill, had killed before, could kill again.
Chapter 8
For three days Rose stayed away from the school, although Brad returned after two. Jim Robinson, after a phone call from Isaac, and with Chief Superintendent Goddard’s assistance, had been granted a visit to the family home, a prison officer with him, and Larry present.
Larry knew Jim, and the two had shaken hands at the front door before the prisoner had been let into the house. Violence wasn’t on his criminal record, and he was an acceptable risk in that he wouldn’t disappear over the fence at the rear of the house. Besides, he had only four months left on his sentence, a reduction for good behaviour.
In the house, mother and sons, a quiet moment to reflect on the family’s loss; even Larry closing his eyes. He had seen the body at Pathology, although Brad and his mother had seen it before the pathologist had commenced his work, removing organs, cutting the body from shoulder blade down to the pubic region, a Y-shaped incision.
Jim would not be allowed to see the body, and his four hours were soon up. He was off back to the prison, although Larry, going out on a limb and with the prison officer’s agreement, first took the three of them to a pub on the corner, gave Jim the first pint of beer he’d had in a long time.
‘Drugs,’ Jim said after he had downed his glass in one gulp. ‘That’s what it is; that’s what killed Janice.’
No mention of the mother’s live-ins, the abuse the daughter had suffered at the hands of one or two of them. Brad had told Larry some of it; the mother had vehemently denied it when questioned, but it was true, looking away as she said it.
A family always on a financial precipice, with a low level of education, and abuse wasn’t far away. His wife would say it was self-induced, although Larry knew it wasn’t that, not always. Life was tough for most people, and whereas the majority kept their heads just above the water, paddling madly under the surface to stay afloat, others weren’t able to.
The Robinsons weren’t bad people; just surviving, taking the rough with the smooth, enjoying the highs, coping with the lows.
Jim had been upset at the house, but he had been in prison, removed from the period of grieving that Brad and his mother had already endured, to the extent that Brad was almost back to his usual self and talking about Rose again. Not that her father would ever give his permission.
Isaac had visited the Winstons the day after Janice had died; the father upset that his wife had been with Rose at the Robinsons. He had every right,
Isaac knew that, but a woman had been murdered, and not someone unknown, as the woman at the cemetery remained, but the daughter of someone he had known in his younger days, the sister of a young man he had given a lift to that night at the cemetery.
Pathology had confirmed that Janice Robinson was a drug addict and she had not had sexual intercourse with her murderer. The pathologist had also concluded that she had in all probability not had sex in twelve hours before her death. And apart from the knife wounds, delivered with a nine-inch blade and not specific as to where they were aimed, not much more could be deduced.
After this second death, visits to the other purchasers of the sandals continued. The Hammersmith address had not helped as it had been another mother buying for her daughter, the daughter proudly wearing them. Bayswater and Paddington had both drawn blanks. The only one left was twenty miles to the south of the city.
And as Isaac Cook saw it, a dead prostitute took precedence over an unknown woman, although the tie-in of the two was both puzzling and far too circumstantial to be a coincidence.
The only solution to firm up opinions on the two women was to identify the Jane Doe, to ascribe a name to her, or there would be another murder. The latter option not desired.
Isaac visited the Robinsons, found the mother busy in the kitchen. He had been told of the condition of the place, but Gladys Robinson was there, a broom in one hand, a bucket in the other.
‘I’ve got to put on a show for the relatives. She’s dead, dead and gone, never forgotten.’
The woman seemed hard to him, as though she didn’t care, not anymore. Although it could be a pretence, given that a hard life takes the edge off any sentimentality.
‘When she lived at home,’ Isaac said, ‘you had men here.’
The woman put the broom and bucket to one side. ‘I never sold myself, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘Was Janice abused?’
‘Not by me.’
‘Your lovers? Was it the reason that she was mixed up?’
Isaac wasn’t sure where he was going with the conversation, only that Larry and Wendy were busy trying to find the Jane Doe, and Homicide was quiet for once. He needed to get out and about, in the thrust of it. Visiting Gladys Robinson was as good a reason as any.
Grave Passion Page 7
