Grave Passion

by Phillip Strang

  ‘I spoke to her once. My dog, a sweet little thing, wouldn’t harm a fly, had found a break in the wall and had gone into their garden.’

  ‘I know that this has been mentioned by you before, but I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me in your own good time.’

  ‘I can tell you come from breeding.’

  It wasn’t mentioned, not by Gwen at Challis Street, and never by Detective Superintendent Goddard, but she had had a privileged upbringing; money wasn’t a determining factor in her life, but having a vocation was.

  The two women were seated in the front room of the house. It was warm, too warm for a policewoman in uniform.

  Gwen took off her jacket, the dog in question coming over to sniff around.

  It was, Gwen decided, neither sweet nor little, but a giant poodle, its coat clipped regulation style.

  ‘What can you tell me about the woman?’

  ‘Asian, not sure which country, but then it’s not so easy.’

  Gwen handed over the photo.

  ‘That’s her, a good likeness. No idea why she’d want to be with him.’

  ‘A relationship?’

  ‘I saw them out there. Late at night, but I can see well enough. The two of them…’

  ‘Making love?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it that, not him and her. He must have been in his fifties, she, just a teenager.’

  ‘We believe her to be in her twenties. A lot of them do look younger than they actually are. When you spoke to her?’

  ‘She didn’t say much, just got hold of Boris, not that she liked dogs, held him at a distance, and handed him back to me.’

  ‘You’ve got the photo. Anything else you can tell us?’

  ‘She wasn’t happy to be there. I saw her another time arguing with him in the back garden.’

  ‘He hit her?’

  ‘I heard him say that it was up to her, but the repercussions would be on her head and her family's.’

  ‘Which you understood to mean?’

  ‘They left that night. I didn’t think any more about it, but that’s her in the photo. Is she in trouble?’

  ‘We don’t know, but it’s suspicious. What do you know about the murder in Kensal Green Cemetery?’

  ‘A young woman. Was she involved, her next door?’

  ‘She’s a person of interest, someone we need to find before it’s too late. Any help–’

  The woman interrupted her. ‘I’ll tell you what I know, not that I was nosey, but she wasn’t the first woman in that house. There had been others.’

  ‘Why wasn’t this mentioned before?’

  ‘You know…’

  ‘I know somebody who’s taken more than a casual interest in her neighbours. Before this goes any further, and being nosey is not a crime, just mischievous and in bad taste, you’d better tell me the truth.’

  ‘I saw two other women.’

  ‘Describe them.’

  ‘One was Asian, the other was white, not sure where from.’

  Gwen opened up her smartphone, scrolled through the photo gallery, showed one of the images to a woman with an unhealthy interest in spying on her neighbours.

  ‘That’s the white woman,’ the neighbour said. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘She’s the woman that was murdered in the cemetery.’

  Chapter 17

  It seemed that Analyn, the mysterious and most important person for the team to interview, was at the Holland Park address under some duress and that Ian Naughton was involved in a shady business where women were possibly trafficked. But that assumption was flawed in that the woman on the grave was English, her DNA’s genetic markers confirming her ancestry.

  If Analyn and the other Asian woman seen by the nosey neighbour were brought into the country either illegally or legally, under contract or not, it didn’t explain why the murdered woman had been at the grave with a man.

  The early-morning meetings at Challis Street continued. Larry still struggled with his weight, Wendy with her arthritis, and Isaac with Jenny’s advancing pregnancy, the morning sickness, the occasional mood change, the decision to put the flat on the market and to buy a house. It was only Bridget who seemed immune as she spent her days with her computer, the evenings enjoying a glass of wine, and watching soap operas on the television.

  Chief Superintendent Goddard would occasionally be in Homicide, not that Isaac concerned himself too much, except that the man would ask penetrating questions which the team couldn’t answer.

  ‘Still no idea who the dead woman is?’ Goddard said.

  ‘Not yet, but we’re getting closer,’ Isaac said, realising that it was a stupid reply.

  ‘I read the report,’ Goddard continued. ‘Long on detail, short on fact, but that’s the problem, isn’t it? You’ve run out of ideas.’

  Isaac, as the senior investigating officer, wanted to deny, to offer up a fervent rebuttal, but he knew that it was best to let his senior have his say. The pep talk and the criticism were the way the man operated, and he wasn’t a tyrant, not like Commissioner Davies.

  Homicide, Challis Street, was a special focus for the man, especially after the commissioner’s favourite, Seth Caddick, had been brought in to replace Isaac firstly and then, after his promotion to superintendent, Richard Goddard. On both occasions, Caddick had left with his tail between his legs, but he was still there, champing on the bit, eager to prove his worth.

  Isaac and Goddard had no time for the man, an incompetent sycophant, sucking up to Davies, but he wasn’t the only one in the Met. There were more than a few who succeeded through adroit manoeuvring, waiting their time, moving in to grab the accolade, retreating to the shadows when someone needed to take the blame.

  On a couple of occasions, Isaac had considered leaving, finding himself a more regular job, head of security for a company overseas, but each time he had stayed, although the salaries on offer had been inviting. And as he had reflected with Jenny the night before, more money would come in handy. They had spent a couple of hours looking at their finances, the price they could sell the flat for, the mortgage they would need to take for a house.

  ‘We’ll manage,’ Jenny said. ‘And when the baby’s old enough, I can find a job.’

  The expected promotion to superintendent hadn’t occurred for Isaac and wasn’t likely to as long as Davies remained in control.

  ‘We’re making a concerted effort to find the Asian woman,’ Larry said.

  ‘Yes, I know all that, but why’s it taking so long. Assuming she’s relevant–’

  ‘She is,’ Larry interrupted the chief superintendent’s flow.

  Not a good idea, Isaac thought, as he cast a steely glance over at his DI: keep quiet, it inferred. Larry took the hint and picked up his mug of coffee from the desk, grasped it firmly and sat back.

  ‘As I was saying, assuming she’s relevant,’ Goddard continued. ‘And now we’re using criminals to find her. It’s irregular.’

  Isaac and his team knew it wasn’t, as did the chief superintendent, but others in the police force, isolated from the reality, back-room boys, politically correct aficionados, believed that criminals were to be arrested, not consorted with.

  Richard Goddard had to deal with those people, as did the team in Homicide, but it was a reality that couldn’t be avoided. Sometimes those you despised were the best people for the job.

  Spanish John, one of the more distasteful in terms of the business he conducted, the people whose lives he ruined, was a man close to the street. He was a man that Larry trusted, and had even enjoyed his company at the restaurant.

  ‘Without the woman, we’re going nowhere,’ Isaac said. We can place her at three locations of interest; she’s the glue the brings the investigation together.’

  ‘We do what’s necessary,’ Larry said.

  ‘Any money to exchange hands?’ Goddard asked.

  ‘Not from me.’

  ‘And this, Spanish John, can get a result?’

  ‘No guarantees, sir, but he ca
n cover more territory than me. He’s also checking on Ian Naughton. He doesn’t want murderers in the area any more than we do; bad for business, more police on the ground.’

  ‘So, if we find the murderer, he sleeps better at night.’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘I’ll accept that you’re doing all you can, but it’s not good enough. It won’t be long before I’m under pressure again. You got me a stay of execution last time. By the way, thanks for that, a good report that you all put together.’

  ‘Sir,’ Wendy said, ‘I’ve still got a concern about Brad Robinson and his mother, Rose Winston and her parents.’

  ‘You’re keeping a watch on them?’

  ‘We are, but we’ve pulled the uniforms, no budget, and the threat level has abated.’

  ‘That’s what they say with the idiots killing in the name of their religion. The threat is downgraded, and then another one of them pops up, kills a few bystanders, people on their way to work. Still, you’re right about the budget. And besides, don’t you believe that the woman died as a result of a disgruntled customer, the father at the hands of hoodies?’

  ‘In part, failing further information. It makes no sense to kill those two just because the youngest of the family had seen the murderer in the cemetery.’

  ‘No more than the grave and this woman,’ Goddard said as he got up to leave. ‘That aside, keep a watch on the two families. If anything happens, we’re open to criticism and censure, and Commissioner Davies will have a field day laying the blame on this department and my handling of the murder investigation.’

  Wendy understood the rationale in pulling back the protection from the two families. However, it didn’t abate her concern. She hoped they were safe, but she wasn’t sure, nobody could be. And if anything happened to any of them, not only would it be doom for the chief superintendent and her DCI, it would leave her with a strong feeling of guilt. If that day came, it wouldn’t be her health that decided when she would be retiring, it would be her as she handed in her resignation.

  ***

  Wendy had come into Homicide as a constable before being promoted to sergeant on Isaac’s recommendation. Up in Sheffield, a junior constable, she had honed a skill for finding truanting children, some because running away had an aura of romanticism, others because of an abusive parent.

  It had been a good period in her life, away from the confines of a remote farmhouse, a drudging life, a father she had loved, a mother she always felt distant from.

  In her first couple of years in Yorkshire, and in uniform, a few romances, a lot of alcohol, and a broken heart after one man, a sergeant at the station and three years her senior, had blabbed about their night together.

  She had heard the details from a friend, seen the sniggering at the station, not unexpected as the police back then were openly chauvinistic, no political correctness to deter them.

  Inspector Dermot Loughlin had regretted putting his hand up her skirt in his office, closing the door with one foot and pushing her up against a filing cabinet with such force that some papers stacked high on top fell to the ground.

  ‘Don’t worry, love, you can pick them up afterwards,’ he had said.

  It had been late at night, an emotional time for the young constable because of a recent case. A child, Helen Moxon, she had found hiding out in a squat in Attercliffe, a suburb to the east of the city centre. A frumpish fifteen-year-old with a horrific story of how her mother beat her and her father sexually abused her.

  Helen Moxon was critical of her parents in the court, glaring at them; the mother in her Sunday best, a peach-coloured dress, a smile that excited the magistrate, a sour-faced old goat, Wendy thought. And the father, dressed in a business suit, upright, distinguished military record, a local government employee, a respected man.

  Social services, weak and ineffectual, represented by a woman just six months after she’d received her degree at a university in Sussex and who hadn’t prepared, and in the end Helen Moxon was returned to the care of her parents.

  Two days later, she was dead, the result of a beating from both parents; the sexual abuse confirmed by the pathologist.

  And then Loughlin was pushing Wendy, rubbing his groin up and down her, trying to get her to relax. She grabbed the nearest heavy object, a coffee percolator, and smashed it on his head. He fell to the ground, unconscious, and she ended up on suspension.

  Two months later, she was reinstated after another officer, an inspector who had more chivalrous ideas on how to treat women, came forward in her defence.

  No apology was ever forthcoming, and the amorous inspector had returned to the station, demoted to sergeant. Nine months later, he was back to his old rank, and Wendy was in London.

  Even now, many years later, she would occasionally wake up and remember the look on the young woman’s face as she got into the back seat of the family car.

  And now, Rose Winston, loved by her parents, was at risk, as was her boyfriend, Brad. As cold as it was outside, and as much as her legs hurt, and would more before the day was out, she was determined to find the Asian woman.

  In Notting Hill and Holland Park, and up to Bayswater, she entered each shop that could have been of interest to Analyn. Gwen Pritchard was with her; she was being brought into the department on an as needs basis, which was most of the time, as was Kate Baxter, who would take some of Bridget’s workload.

  Wendy focussed more on the area from the house towards Notting Hill; Gwen Pritchard up towards Bayswater.

  Three hours later, the two women met for lunch; neither had had any success. Wendy chose chicken, Gwen kept to a salad. The restaurant on Holland Park Avenue had a good reputation, but neither of the women had been there before; it was also moderately priced, which came as a surprise. The two felt they were entitled to a brandy – purely medicinal, they joked.

  The waitress, in her thirties, a pleasant smile, tattoos covered by a long-sleeved tunic, brought over the brandies, Wendy and Gwen thanking the woman who stayed transfixed to the spot.

  ‘What is it?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘The photo.’

  An enlarged photo of Analyn was clearly visible where Gwen had put down her copy.

  ‘I know her,’ the waitress said.

  ‘You better take a seat. We’ve been trying to find this woman for some time. What do you know about her?’

  ‘I’m busy, and the manager is not an easy woman, fire me in an instant, what with my background.’

  Wendy left the table, went over to where an ever-smiling red-haired woman stood next to the cash register and explained the situation.

  ‘We help where we can,’ the woman said, the smile waning. ‘Do our bit to bring in people who’ve fallen by the wayside, help them to regain their self-esteem.’

  ‘Do you own this place?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘We need to talk to your waitress; she doesn’t want to neglect her duties.’

  ‘Tell her it’s fine.’

  Wendy knew two things: employing the fallen, recently released felons, those deemed at risk, came with tax benefits and they were cheaper to hire, and secondly, the woman didn’t care for the waitress, probably for nobody.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Wendy said as she returned.

  ‘Not here, not in the restaurant. If you don’t mind eating elsewhere, I can tell you what I know.’

  The food was good, so were the brandies, so much so that Wendy had a second one. The three sat off to one side of the kitchen in an area that could have been pleasant but was full of drums of cooking oil, racks of vegetables, and an industrial-sized freezer at one end. Neither Wendy nor Gwen were complaining, and the owner had made her presence known by popping in, touching the waitress, Meredith Temple, on the shoulder, telling her not to worry, and the meals were on the house, no cost, not to our excellent police.

  A pretence, Wendy knew.

  ‘Meredith, your story?’ Gwen said.

  ‘I wouldn’t have told you, not if you had shown me the pictur
e. It was just a reaction on my part, not that I have anything to be ashamed of.’

  ‘We’re sure you don’t,’ Wendy said. ‘Maybe it’s best if you start from the beginning.’

  ‘I went off the rails, drugs and bad men, a tale you’ve heard before.’

  ‘Too often.’

  ‘Anyway, a man who I thought cared for me, but didn’t, threw me out on to the street. This was four years ago, and I’ve never been a shrinking violet, no issues with men, lots of them, but I was willing to settle down.

  ‘He had been a good bet, financially sound, had his own business, a restaurant. That’s where I learnt about waitressing, although it doesn’t take much skill, just remember the orders, don’t spill the food and drink over the patrons, and make sure they’re in and out quick enough, so you get more in. That’s her creed, her out the front. All smiles when you’re paying, as miserable as sin if you work for her, not that she pays for the overtime either.’

  ‘You could register a complaint.’

  ‘Not worth the bother, and besides, I’m not staying. I’m three-quarters through a degree, a local council initiative. With my background, I’ll have no problem getting a job in social services, a homeless shelter, a woman’s refuge, helping women to stop selling themselves.’

  ‘You were one of them?’

  ‘Sort of, not that I need rehabilitating; I did that in prison. As I was saying, I was out on the street, nowhere to go. I had some money, but no skills, and nowadays everyone wants computer experts or at least someone handy enough with them.’

  ‘In prison?’ Gwen said, reminding the woman who clearly wanted to give her life story that the woman in the photo was all-important.

  ‘I had been an escort once or twice, so it didn’t concern me to enter the brothel. Neat and tidy, regular medical checks, condoms, a couple of men to deal with anyone who got out of control and started roughing up the woman, half-throttling them as if it was some sexual elixir, and then there were the perverts, the deviants, who wanted you to do things that’d make your hair curl.’