Two blocks from the Durham Arms, an old Toyota. Inside the vehicle, two hoodies. Both were the same colour as Preston, the same chip on the shoulder, the same speech patterns.
‘You’re asking questions,’ one of them said. Ross knew him to be the second-in-command. A hierarchy existed, and the smaller of the two was the person in charge.
‘Are you part of the gang?’ Ross said. He wasn’t comfortable with where the four of them stood, the reason he had phoned for a patrol car to drive past the end of the road every five minutes.
‘Dangerous, knife you as soon as look at you,’ Ross had said back at his station. The black gangs that Larry knew well in Notting Hill were mild compared to those standing in front of them. The leader of the two, softly spoken, a scar across his left cheek, a tattoo barely visible on his neck, looked ruthless.
His real name, not that he’d use it, was Waylon Conroy, a local born Jamaican, more intelligent than most, capable of better, but life on the edge suited him.
Bill Ross knew it for what it was: a lost generation. And as for Conroy, a couple of GCSEs, a chance of further education, a possibility of going to university, but the youth was generationally destined for a life of crime.
‘You wanted to talk to us,’ Conroy said.
‘Where’s the Mercedes?’ Ross said.
It seemed to Larry that Waylon Conroy and Bill Ross were acquainted; as he was with their counterparts over near Challis Street.
‘Safe, under lock and key. Too many villains around here.’
‘We’re not here to bother you,’ Larry said. ‘It’s the information that we want.’
‘Who’s he?’ Conroy said. ‘New around here?’
‘He can be trusted,’ Ross said.
‘You were interested in the two men.’
‘Help us; we’ll help you.’
‘Trust a copper? Why should we? We didn’t kill anyone. The one in the car, not that we could see that much, wore a fancy watch on his left wrist.’
‘Make?’
‘Gold; it glinted in the light from a street light down the street. Expensive, probably a Rolex, but I can’t be sure.’
‘Any more? The weapon?’
‘Can’t help you there. Not English, not purchased locally.’
The patrol car passed the end of the road. Conroy looked around. ‘You’re safe with us,’ he said.
‘You can’t blame us for taking precautions,’ Larry said.
Ross lit up a cigarette, offered the packet around.
‘I can sell you better, half price,’ Conroy said.
‘The two men,’ Larry said.
‘We didn’t kill the old man, regardless of what you think. Nothing to be gained.’
‘Where is Warren Preston?’
‘Around.’
Ross nudged Larry. Both men knew that the gangs were extremely sensitive, liable to act adversely if questioned too closely.
‘Are you trying to tell us that you didn’t kill Robinson?’ Ross said.
‘Sure, we took the money. We’re not fools, are we?’
‘I’m not so sure about the others in your gang.’
‘Warren Preston’s the stupidest of all.’
‘You took the money, did nothing, and made yourself scarce.’
‘Wazza, he’s vanished.’
‘If you didn’t do it, then who did?’
‘I reckon those in the car did it when they realised they’d been duped. Candy from a baby, that easy it was.’
The man who gave you the money. Describe him?’
‘Posh, looked as though he came from money.’
‘Look? How can you tell that?’ Larry asked.
‘The same way you do. The way he stood, his speech, the manicured nails, the Breitling watch, not a fifty-pound fake with a Seiko inside.’
‘I hope they don’t find you,’ Ross said. ‘You wouldn’t stand a chance.’
‘Around here? We’re invincible,’ Conroy said as he got back into the car.
The patrol car passed again. Larry and Ross settled back into their vehicle.
‘I could do with a pint,’ Ross said. ‘How about you?’
‘Sounds great,’ Larry replied. ‘Did they do it?’
‘Probably. Life has no value to them. Robinson was a damn fool, nobody comes down here by choice unless they have little regard for their safety.’
‘If they didn’t do it, they’re dead; if they did and got a good look at the two men, they’ll still be dead,’ Larry said.
Chapter 14
Isaac decided that too much time had been spent out at Canning Town, and whereas the death of Hector Robinson could be relevant, it was unclear why.
Jane Doe and Janice Robinson were close to home; Bill Ross could deal with Janice’s father, spend more time with the gangs, try and understand why they would have killed Hector Robinson, money aside; denials from them were not believed, and it was a typical gang slaying.
Jim Robinson had identified his father, spent time with his brother, and had been returned to Maidstone Prison.
Tim Winston was still in the family home, just. As Maeve Winston, who had found out the truth about her husband and Janice Robinson after a late-night tearful confession from Tim, had admitted to Wendy, ‘I suspected something, but not Gladys’s daughter.’
Maeve said that she had always wanted Tim, but he had wanted to play the field, as all young men did. She had wished for the white wedding, not out of convention, but because she was still pure. The reason that Tim had wanted her, Maeve said.
‘Pure and chaste, that’s what they want, all of them. Even Hector, not that he got it.’
‘You knew him?’ Wendy asked.
They were in the front room of the Winstons’ home; one forty-five in the afternoon. Maeve Winston had called her for a chat. Tim was at work, and Rose wasn’t due home for another two hours.
‘It’s about Janice,’ Maeve said. ‘I knew she was in that awful bedsit, selling herself to any drunk or lecher who wanted her.’
‘How?’
‘Before Jim had started getting himself into trouble, and Janice was still innocent, I used to meet with Gladys. Not often, once every couple of months.’
‘Your husband?’
‘He didn’t like it, but he knew. We were going through a rough patch, money-wise, not the marriage. Sure, Tim had wandering eyes, but I kept him under control.’
‘You don’t seem the sort of person to keep anyone under control,’ Wendy said.
‘There was no need for him to look elsewhere. If you think that he’s the great lover, you’d be wrong. It’s a pretence, him and Janice.’
‘I’m not sure I understand,’ Wendy said as she picked up a chocolate biscuit from the plate in her lap.
‘Gladys used to confide in me, tell me about her family and her fears for Janice.’
‘From her father?’
‘Don’t always believe Gladys. She always saw things that weren’t there.’
‘Janice was abused by some of the men that her mother had in the house from time to time.’
‘You’re aware that Gladys was an escort?’
‘Is it relevant?’
‘I don’t know, only that Hector didn’t want to be reminded of it, not when they argued, and she’d bring up as to how beautiful she had been and what she could have made of her life, the offers she received.’
‘Where’s this heading?’
‘Tim, I want to leave him, once Rose finishes school, goes to university, but I’m not sure about her choice in Brad.’
‘I thought you were alright with it.’
‘I was, but on reflection, his family, their history. He can’t be untouched by it. Sure, for now he’s fine, but he’s still young.’
‘I don’t think it’s up to you. Rose is nearly sixteen; it’s not you that she’ll be listening to.’
‘Up north, there’s a job I’m qualified for. I could go there, take Rose.’
‘Maeve, you can’t take Rose, even if she w
ants to go, not now. It’s too late for that. You should have done something years before.’
‘It wasn’t important, but with Janice…’
‘What is it? Out with it.’
‘Gladys never stopped with the men, not even when she was married to Hector. He knew that. The man would never have touched his daughter, nor would he have played around, but Gladys couldn’t help herself.’
‘Janice?’
‘I think she was Tim’s.’
‘Does he believe that?’
‘I knew about him and Gladys at school, and then, around the time when Janice could have been conceived, a meeting at the school for the parents.’
‘Yes,’ Wendy said. Not another one, she thought. Why is that every time Homicide believes that it’s starting to get a handle on the investigation, another unknown comes into play.
‘I was there with Tim, but I left early for some reason or another. Later that evening, much later, Tim comes in, takes a shower, and climbs into bed. I could see by the look on his face that it had to be Gladys. She was on her own that time; they had separated, and Gladys was never one to hold back, not just because he was married to me. Well, it wouldn’t have made any difference.’
‘Proof?’
‘I never thought much about it, not until I found out that he had been visiting Janice.’
‘She’s not,’ Wendy said. ‘We’ve taken DNA from her and Hector. She was his daughter, but do you think your husband suspected she was his?’
‘I doubt it. That wasn’t Tim’s style; too trusting.’
‘Of you?’
‘Of me. Nothing like that, but I’ve looked, thought about it, and if I got up north, who knows.’
Wendy wasn’t there as a psychologist nor as a marriage counsellor. She wanted out of the house, back to Challis Street and Homicide. A murder made more sense than the woman’s neurosis.
***
Ian Naughton remained elusive. No sight of the man since he had left Holland Park, no sign of the people carrier or the Bentley that had been at the rear of the house.
The number plate of the BMW had been changed from when it had been in the garage at Godstone to when it had re-emerged as a burnt-out shell. Forensics had checked the vehicle, found that it had been stolen two years previously, resprayed, re-registered and the vehicle identification number had been doctored.
It was a high-quality transformation, not the sort of thing a backyard operator could have done.
But it was more than that, Isaac knew. Naughton was baiting them; Moriarty to Sherlock Holmes, the master criminal leaving clues, revelling in the sport, killing as needed.
He was, Isaac could tell, a man who would be almost impossible to find.
It had come to him the previous night. It was late, and he had been unable to sleep. In the end, believing that worrying about the investigations wasn’t going to help, he picked up a paperback from the bookshelf, a book he had read more than once.
Holmes had described Moriarty as the ‘Napoleon of crime’, a criminal mastermind, adept at committing any atrocity to perfection without losing any sleep over it.
And that was it; Naughton was playing with the police. A man so successful in crime, but boring of the game, he had thrown in clues, killed people, purely for his pleasure.
As Isaac read more of the book, of the Machiavellian criminal mastermind, the more he realised that there were no clear motives behind the deaths. Jane Doe, whoever she was, could be relevant, but Janice and Hector could be minor players and he, Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook, was being tested.
If that was the case, Isaac was sure he was up to the challenge.
Challis Street. Homicide. Early in the morning, the most productive time of the day, Isaac assembled the team. Bridget was bright-eyed, Wendy was struggling, and Larry looked as though he’d had a rough night.
‘A curry,’ Larry said as he drank a cup of tea.
Bill Ross’s favourite restaurant had done the man a disservice. Enough for Larry to reconsider policing in the east of London, seeing it as nothing more than a momentary fascination.
The café in Notting Hill that had served him breakfast for the last three years, when his wife wasn’t talking to him, or he could sneak it in undetected, had never let him down, never given him a queasy stomach.
And even though it was policing at the coal face in Canning Town, the crooks were all the same, just less intelligent, less articulate. The superintendent over there might not have been politically correct, nor Bill Ross, but it was still a thankless task, and the gangs were without exception a disreputable bunch of reprobates.
Isaac outlined his theory; Larry couldn’t make head nor tail of it. Wendy trusted her DCI; she’d go along with his reasoning, not sure how it was going to help and how she was to proceed. Bridget wasn’t sure how it would affect the investigation.
‘What do you want from us?’ Larry asked. He looked perplexed, felt as though he should understand but couldn’t.
‘The woman in the cemetery is the prime focus. We keep Janice and Hector Robinson on the side; they’ll resolve themselves in due course. If they’re related, which we must assume they are, then we’ll get the answers eventually.’
Wendy could see the flaw. ‘If Janice and Hector are diversionary, a game someone’s playing, then how do we know that Brad and Gladys won’t be targeted, and what about Rose?’
‘We’ve done all we can, you know that. Barring a massive protection effort, we can’t do much more. And how long are we going to be in the dark? You tell me. You can’t; none of us can.’
‘I could revisit the cemetery,’ Larry said.
‘I could find out where Naughton and the Asian woman have gone,’ Bridget said.
‘Which is what you’ve been doing already, and with little success. The man’s supremely arrogant, playing with us.’
‘But why? He wasn’t to know that I’d figure it out,’ Larry said.
‘It must have been for someone else,’ Isaac said.
‘Illogical, it makes no sense.’
‘It’s neither of those. Think about it. Naughton wants to draw the best criminal minds to him, which means he’s a major player.’
‘Like SPECTRE,’ Larry said, referring to a James Bond movie he’d watched on Netflix the week before.
‘Similar, but purely criminal, although it could be more. We’ll not know, not yet.’
‘If Naughton’s playing us as fools, then he must be leaving clues,’ Bridget said.
‘Which means the man’s nearby or somewhere we can find him.’
‘I don’t like this,’ Larry said.
***
Isaac had known he was going out on a limb, and even Chief Superintendent Goddard thought his DCI was clutching at straws when the two of them sat down in Goddard's office, up on the third floor, a view through a large window as far as the London Eye. Isaac hadn’t been up in it, not yet, as Jenny was afraid of heights, and he wasn’t going to go on his own.
Larry visited the cemetery, looked at the grave, walked around the area inside the cemetery and up Harrow Road and then down Kilburn Lane. He couldn’t see anything more. The cemetery employee who he had met on that day at the second grave came up to him, had a chat, offered him a cigarette.
‘Not much of a day,’ Larry said.
‘It’s about normal. You don’t expect much working here; no Christmas bonus from the residents.’
‘Any more?’ Larry asked as the two men leaned up against one of the graves. He thought that it was sacrilegious, but the other man didn’t; used to it, Larry thought. ‘Late at night, scare you sometimes?’
‘I’ve heard things, not that they worry me now.’
‘What sorts of things?’
‘In summer, courting couples. They can always find a way in, and once we had a coven of witches, attempting to summon the devil, not that they had much success.’
‘What happened?’
‘Sometimes I spend the night in my hut.’
&
nbsp; ‘Sometimes?’
‘Okay, every night. I don’t want for much and the hut, not the tidiest I’ll grant you, does me just fine. Can’t get cheaper and the neighbours don’t bother me, no screaming children, barking dogs.’
‘The coven?’
‘They were not far from the hut, not far from where you found the box.’
‘Any significance?’
‘I doubt it. It wasn’t the same grave, and it was eight, nine years ago. I was just getting off to sleep when they started up.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing, not with them, and besides, it doesn’t pay to become involved, not when I’m using the hut as a home.’
‘The cemetery doesn’t approve?’
‘As long as I keep it low-key, cause no fuss, they don’t bother me. Besides, it’s good to have someone here. A few vandals sometimes, although they’ve got better things to do nowadays, what with their smartphones and no discipline. I’ve not seen any of them in here for some time.’
‘The witches?’ Larry asked. The man was apt to deviate from what he was talking about. Larry thought that he was a lonely man who spoke to only a few people, and no doubt had a bottle of something strong in the hut. Not fit for human habitation, Larry would have said as he’d been inside it, but that wasn’t his concern.
‘I went outside the gate, phoned the police, not that they came quick and it was a cold night. They came into the cemetery, rounded up the offenders, not that they were doing much, not desecrating anything, and took them down to the police station.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘Not sure. Probably not much, a fine for trespassing; it was an arrestable offence.’
Larry doubted if the man would have been as diligent with the courting couples.
‘We can’t find out who the dead woman was.’
‘I’m not surprised. We get all sorts in here, and that grave where she died, I’ve seen others.’
Grave Passion Page 13
