Grave Passion

by Phillip Strang

  ‘You didn’t tell us that before.’

  ‘You never asked. And besides, I keep a low profile. But now you’re here, scratching your head, I thought I should give you a hand.’

  Larry felt like grabbing the man by the throat but knew that it would be him that would be in trouble, and the man would probably clam up.

  ‘In summer, people like to wander around, look at the headstones, the dates, speculate who they were, what their lives must have been like. I’ve done it myself, not recently though. I must have seen most of them, and there’s over sixty-five thousand. Did you know that Marc Isambard Brunel and his son Isambard Kingdom Brunel are buried here?’

  Larry didn’t know, although he could remember from his schooldays that the father had been responsible for the construction of the Thames Tunnel, and the son had been involved in the construction of the first propeller-driven, ocean-going iron ship, the largest ship in the world at the time. Also, he was responsible for building the Great Western Railway.

  ‘Princess Sophia, King George III’s daughter, is buried here. Don’t know why she isn’t at Windsor Castle. Some say it was because she wanted to be buried near her brother, the Duke of Sussex, but I reckon it’s to do with her having an illegitimate child. But you’re a detective inspector, you’d know better than me.’

  Larry didn’t. History hadn’t been his forte at school, and the teacher had been a boring man who rammed dates into the students, expecting them to learn them parrot-fashion: 1066, the Battle of Hastings, William the Conqueror, and a few other kings and queens. The only King George he knew of had been mad, but which number, he didn’t know.

  ‘The grave?’ Larry said. He didn’t need an interminable history lesson; he needed something tangible.

  ‘It was three weeks ago, a cold day, a wind blowing through the cemetery, although it wasn’t raining. I was up near there, tidying around the place, doing the best I could anyway. I see this woman, not the one that died. She’s interested in the grave, so I go up to her, ask her if she needs any help.’

  ‘She spoke?’

  ‘Not really. She said she was fine, polite to me, but nothing more. I couldn’t see any reason to hang around, so I left her to it.’

  ‘How long did she stay there?’

  ‘Five, ten minutes, no longer, but I thought it strange that she would have been interested in that grave, not when we’ve got others more famous. Not far from there we’ve got…’

  ‘The woman,’ Larry said.

  ‘She was young, in her early twenties, dressed in a buttoned-up coat. No hat, but she had probably come from somewhere cold, colder than here even.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I don’t know, but isn’t China cold?’

  ‘Chinese, are you certain?’

  ‘She could have been Japanese, I suppose. Not that I’d know. Her English was fine, a strong accent, but I could understand it well enough.’

  ‘The Philippines?’

  ‘It’s possible, not that I know much about there. Attractive, a good figure from what I could see.’

  The man’s evaluation no doubt gained from perving at the couples in summer, Larry thought. He was a sad specimen of a man, but his description of the woman was invaluable.

  Larry took out his phone, made a call.

  ‘I’ll have someone up here within the hour. You’ll work with him, try to come up with an accurate likeness of the woman.’

  ‘Do you know who it is?’

  ‘It’s a possibility, but we don’t know where she is.’

  Chapter 15

  If there’s one thing that a cemetery employee isn’t much good at, it’s remembering faces. Larry thought it was something to do with the job, numbed through dealing with the dead. Regardless, the officer sent to work with the man came back with an approximate likeness.

  It looked liked Analyn, the Naughtons’ housemaid, but it could have been a thousand other young Asian women in the city: petite, straight jet-black hair, small-breasted, and attractive. It wasn’t going to help much, not unless it was enhanced by someone else.

  Wendy was just inside the entrance to the cemetery on Harrow Road and Larry took a similar position on Kilburn Lane. A booth had been set up at both locations, three junior police officers given the task of questioning those who walked through.

  Neither Wendy nor Larry intended to spend the day there, that was for the junior ranks, but Wendy had been adamant that she needed to ensure that everyone knew what was required.

  The early-morning rush had concluded: two hundred and forty-seven people questioned. The weather was closing in, and the junior officers weren’t in a good mood, complaining about why it was them standing there.

  Larry would have told them that no matter how well-educated they were – virtually all new police officers were studying for one degree or another – they still had to put in time out on the street, to do the least pleasant jobs.

  ‘I saw her,’ a schoolboy on his way home from school said. Another hour and the police would wind up for the day. It was Constable Gwen Pritchard who had spoken to him. He had looked her up and down. A fourteen-year-old on the cusp of manhood and the softly-spoken statuesque blonde.

  ‘What time?’

  ‘It was three thirty, three or four weeks ago, not sure of the day.’

  ‘What do you remember?’ Gwen Pritchard said, conscious of the young man’s wandering eyes. He wasn’t the first man that had looked, and while she could take it in her stride, a fourteen-year-old in school uniform seemed indecent to her.

  He was, she knew, no different to her younger brother at that age.

  ‘Describe her.’

  ‘Nice to look at, not very tall, black hair, Asian.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘She had a ring on her right hand, I could see that.’

  ‘William, how could you see that from the path? The grave’s not that close that you could see detail.’

  ‘Good eyesight, I suppose.’

  ‘Or you tried to see more than you could. Don’t worry, I’m not judging you, but it’s important. Did you fancy her?’

  ‘She was older than me. Why should I be interested?’

  ‘The same reason you’re looking me up and down. Adolescent, the hormones going crazy. Nothing wrong in that, but it’s important. You know about the woman who was murdered there?’

  ‘I heard. Is that what this is about?’

  ‘You know it is. Details, that’s what I need. What did you see and why so much?’

  The young man had been caught out. He was embarrassed, not sure whether to tell the truth or not.

  ‘Look here, William, I’ll make it easy for you. You see her standing there, no one else is around, so you find a quiet spot behind a headstone, maybe take a photo, something to show your friends, or maybe you want her to yourself. Am I getting near the truth?’

  ‘Somewhat. I couldn’t help myself. I snuck up close, took a photo, not sure why, but I’m keen on photography.’

  ‘The photo?’

  ‘I took three or four, not that she saw, and I’m not a peeping tom, nothing like that.’

  ‘You’re not being accused of anything. The photos?’

  ‘On my phone. I’ve got one of those zooms that you can clip on. I can send them to you.’

  Gwen Pritchard forwarded them to Wendy, who distributed them to Homicide.

  Larry took one look, confirmed that it was Analyn and the time stamp on the photo agreed with what the cemetery employee had said.

  It was a good result, so much so that the team met at the pub not far from Challis Street Police Station that night for a couple of drinks. Gwen Pritchard joined them, as did the other junior officers who had been at the cemetery.

  Larry kept to one beer.

  ***

  A sense of optimism in Homicide, further confirmation that Ian Naughton was critical to the murder enquiries, irrevocably confirmed by the photo of Analyn. The question remained as to who she was and what
she was doing at the grave in Kensal Green. No one had any more ideas; the only option was for Wendy and Larry, now assisted by Gwen Pritchard, to get out and about again. Larry had his contacts, Wendy had the Robinsons and the Winstons, Gwen had enthusiasm.

  It allowed Larry to visit his favourite café in Notting Hill and to enjoy a full English breakfast; he reckoned it gave him the energy lift to see him through the day.

  Wendy could see as she sat opposite him that it gave him the makings of a double chin and an imperfect complexion, not that she was complaining as she was enjoying the same food.

  Gwen Pritchard, younger than the two by more than a few years, kept to toast and jam. Larry looked over at her, approved of what he saw. She was aware that adolescent boys and grown detective inspectors were alike in that they all looked. It had been a problem when she had first joined the police force; the stalwarts of the male bastion who took her to be a bit of fluff, a hobbyist until she became pregnant and left.

  However, DI Hill didn’t seem to be that sort of person, nor did DCI Cook. She had done some checking, found out that Larry Hill was a man who could mix it with the less desirable, and that Wendy Gladstone was the best there was, diligent, never giving up, able to find people who didn’t want to be found.

  As for her, Gwen knew that the police force was where she wanted to be, not as a constable in uniform, but as a chief inspector, a superintendent in time. She intended to fast track the process, and if the occasional chauvinist got in her way, she’d deal with them through charm, professionalism, and sheer hard work, and if they still persisted she’d complain about discrimination and sexist behaviour. Behind the agreeable exterior beat a determined and indefatigable heart.

  Notting Hill was a good starting point for their renewed search, even though Kensal Green was the focus. After all, Holland Park was near to Notting Hill, and that was the first place where Analyn had been seen.

  Larry laid out the plan after he finished his breakfast. ‘Gwen, stay around the house where Naughton and Analyn were, ask questions on the street, show the photo. Wendy, ask in the pubs, the shops. As for me, I’ve got a few people to meet with, some not polite company.’

  ‘Criminals?’ Gwen asked.

  ‘Businessmen, they’d tell you if asked, but yes, the usual riff-raff.’

  Gwen would prefer to meet with Larry’s people, real policing, rather than showing a photo.

  Outside the café, even though it was early, the locals were heading to Notting Hill Gate Station, the tourists starting to flow in, looking in each and every window, others going to Westbourne Park Road to get a selfie outside the blue door made famous in the movie Notting Hill, some even having the temerity to knock on the door, hopeful of an invite in, not realising that behind it wasn’t a rundown house, but an upmarket residence.

  Larry was the first to leave. His car was parked around the corner, not far from his first meeting. Gus Vincent, a local man of limited means and a schoolteacher’s pension, had been born and bred in the area. He was in his late sixties, with a grey goatee beard, a bald head, and wiry thin. Naturally slim he would say, but Larry knew about the man’s incessant drug-taking. Not heroin – not for me, not the hard stuff, he would say – but anything else he was game for: ganja, speed, ecstasy, cocaine if he could get it, and his hand-rolled cigarettes contained more than tobacco.

  He was a walking advert for keeping away from drugs; a man who would be dead before his time, although Larry liked him. Charismatic, well-spoken, educated and articulate, Vincent lived in a depressing block of council flats, not far from Grenfell Tower in North Kensington, where seventy-two people had died in a fire caused by a malfunctioning fridge-freezer on the fourth floor. Vincent’s building was of the same era and similar construction.

  There was no question that what had happened at Grenfell could happen elsewhere, and council regulations had been tightening up, not only on council-owned properties but on the owner-occupied and those with absentee landlords.

  A teacher in his younger years, Gus Vincent had taught the young Isaac Cook and more than a fair share of the criminals in the area.

  Larry knocked on the man’s door. Inside, Gus Vincent shook his hand warmly; Larry dashing to open a window as soon as his hand was released.

  ‘Sorry, Gus, I don’t want to leave here high as a kite.’

  ‘Look at me, not a day sick in ten years.’

  ‘Impossible for any germ or infection to survive,’ Larry said.

  Vincent went into the kitchenette – too small to call it anything else. He pushed a cat that was sitting on a cushion on the kitchen top to one side, squeezed the kettle between the tap and the unwashed dishes in the sink. ‘You’ll have a cup of tea,’ he said.

  ‘If it’s only tea.’

  ‘English Breakfast, none better.’

  Outside the window, the burnt-out tower loomed.

  ‘Some of them want to go back,’ Vincent said.

  ‘How about you? Willing to stay here?’

  ‘My needs are few. If not here, then I’ll sleep on the street.’ Which would not happen, Larry knew.

  The most successful of the gang leaders, Spanish John, on account of his having been born in Spanish Town, the former capital of Jamaica, owed his success to Gus Vincent, the man who had recognised his intelligence and had given him extra tuition.

  Not that it led Spanish John to get a job in an office, to become an accountant or a solicitor. However, it had helped him to use his intellect to wrest control of his gang and the lucrative ecstasy market.

  Gus Vincent had a benefactor, disreputable, but still a man who would not let his teacher be without a roof over his head, some food in his belly, a ready supply of narcotics.

  ‘I’ve got a photo,’ Larry said, handing it over to Vincent. ‘If you could take a look, tell me what you reckon.’

  Vincent held it in his hand, moved over to the window where there was more light. ‘Asian,’ he said.

  ‘I need to find her.’

  ‘What do you expect me to do?’

  ‘Eyes and ears. She’s important.’

  ‘Not so many Asians around here, although you’ll find Thai women in the massage parlours, a happy ending if you pay extra, and there are others in rooms with fairy lights and soft music. But this woman,’ Vincent said as he waved the photo at Larry, ‘she’s not Chinese, not Vietnamese, and definitely not Thai.’

  ‘We’re certain she’s from the Philippines.’

  ‘An illegal?’

  ‘We don’t know, probably not. I met her once, but now she’s an important witness in a homicide.’

  ‘There’s not much I can do, and why around here?’

  ‘She was at a house in Holland Park. That’s where we met her, and before that, she had been at a murder site in Kensal Green Cemetery. Whoever, whatever, she’s involved, voluntarily or otherwise, we don’t know.

  ‘You used to be friendly with Rasta Joe; he could have helped you,’ Vincent said.

  ‘A former pupil of yours, but he’s dead.’

  ‘A few are. Isaac Cook turned out alright.’

  ‘He did, but I need to get traction, I need to meet Spanish John.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now, or in the next couple of hours. He won’t talk to me, not after the last time.’

  ‘Arresting his brother for stealing cars, two years in prison.’

  ‘Spanish John’s brother was lucky. Not that bright, driving around the area, showing off.’

  ‘Still, it was his brother.’

  ‘He’ll not like women being murdered either, and that’s what we’ve got, two so far.’

  Vincent picked up his phone, made the appointment. ‘I better go with you,’ he said.

  ***

  It wasn’t unexpected, certainly not to Detective Inspector Bill Ross; he had seen it before.

  An early-morning jogger, down by the River Lea in Newham, no more than half a mile from the Durham Arms, had found the body.

  ‘Every morning, rai
n or shine,’ Barry Bosley said. Looking at the whippet-thin man, expensive trainers, a tee shirt with a running man logo, Ross thought that he would definitely run the London Marathon every year, placing with the lead amateurs.

  Rain or shine was appropriate, as, by the time he had arrived at the site, the heavens had opened up. Bill Ross was perishing cold, but steam appeared to be coming off Bosley as he jogged on the spot.

  ‘Can’t afford to cool down,’ he said. ‘I came down from my flat in Maltings Close, crossed the river on Twelvetrees Crescent and then took the path down by the river. Never seen anything like this before.’

  ‘Firstly, Mr Bosley,’ Ross said, ‘you can forget about completing your run today. We need a full report from you, times, what you saw, who you saw.’

  ‘The time is when I phoned you up, and as to what and who, nothing, unless you include a few ducks.’

  Ross looked at the body. It was on the river bank, and judging by its condition, it hadn’t been in the water, although there were concrete blocks tied to each leg.

  ‘I’d say you interrupted what they were doing. It was dark when you got here?’

  ‘It makes no difference to me. I know the way.’

  The amount of blood could only have been caused by knife wounds. Even though he was face down, there was to Ross no mistaking the clothes the man was wearing, nor the phone in his pocket; he had rung the number on arrival.

  ‘Do you know him?’ Bosley asked. Resigned to his fate, he had stopped jogging and started to feel the cold air, exacerbated by the proximity of the even colder water.

  ‘He was a suspect in a homicide. And why jog down here? This is a dangerous part of the world. You never know who you’re going to meet.’

  ‘Not in winter. The troublemakers are fair weather, keep gentlemen’s hours.’

  ‘I’d agree. Definitely not the hours that determined runners and police officers keep. In summer?’

  ‘I drive out to Victoria Park, run around there. It’s not as good, but safety first.’

  Ross phoned Larry who phoned the team. ‘Preston’s been killed,’ he said.