‘Nothing could be done to wean her off heroin. Sometimes Janice would moderate her injecting, but not Cathy. She was not a person that I warmed to; entertaining when she was in a good mood, sullen when she wasn’t. Another sad tale, but let’s not talk about it. She did her job, played up to the men, wiggled the hips, got them excited, but no class about her. Although who knows, before the drugs got her.’
‘Meredith Temple?’
‘Classy. I didn’t like tattoos, but I accepted them. She wasn’t strong on the drugs, not as much as the others, and if she was in a good mood, she wouldn’t inject, Maybe a bottle of wine, no more. Educated, I could tell that, but I always suspected that she was mildly schizophrenic. I’m not a doctor, so I could never be sure, but she walked away from me one day, gave me a hug, thanked me, and that was it. I never saw her again.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Two years, give or take a few months. She told you about my place, didn’t she?’
‘She did,’ Wendy admitted.
‘I should be angry, but I’m not. At least I know about Amanda. It’s always better to know than to worry indefinitely, don’t you think?’
Wendy wasn’t sure if it was, but she wasn’t about to admit that to the woman. ‘Yes, it’s best to know,’ she said.
Over behind the coffee shop counter, an anxious-looking manager eyed the occupied table. It was close to lunchtime, and the place was starting to fill up, not to just drink coffee and eat cake, but to purchase a meal, to spend real money, more than the amount the two women had spent so far.
Wendy called the woman over, opened her warrant card. ‘Two meals, your special for the day, and make sure we’re left alone.’
‘Of course. A special discount for our fine police service.’ It was not as obsequious as at the restaurant where Meredith Temple worked, but it still read as ‘better to have the police on our side than against’.
Another place probably underpaying the backpackers, Wendy thought, but it was only too common in the city. She would do nothing about it; she had bigger fish to catch.
‘What connects the five women?’ Wendy said, looking directly at Mary Wilton. ‘Why is your daughter the catalyst for the deaths, and why was she in the cemetery? We have a direct connection from there through a man to Analyn. What is it? Is it you, Mrs Wilton? Is there something you’re not telling us, something that got your daughter murdered?’
‘All I know is that Amanda was scared of something or someone, but that’s it. I just don’t know. I wish I could help, I really do.’
Wendy was sure in part that the woman was genuine in her desire to assist, and sad that her daughter was dead, but there still remained the nagging sense, an intuitive belief that the woman was holding something back. Whether it was out of fear, the same as her daughter, or for another reason, there was no way of knowing.
The manager reappeared, two plates of chicken and rice, a salad in a dish to one side. ‘A couple of glasses of white wine,’ she said. ‘You look as though you could use it. Bad news, is it?’
‘Thanks,’ Wendy said. She didn’t need someone being nosey. She cast a glance over at the manager who was moving over to tidy the table next to them, ears pricked. ‘Privacy, as well,’ Wendy said.
A look of disinterest from the manager as she walked away. ‘I was only doing my job,’ she said as she passed Wendy.
The food was good, and for a while, nothing was said. Eventually, it was Mary Wilton who spoke.
‘If Analyn was trafficked, I’d not know, and the others are all English, so it can’t be that.’
‘It would be the most logical reason for the deaths, the secrecy of the organisation, but we’re not convinced that it is, not yet. Analyn appears to have free movement and not to be under duress. We know that she was in a village to the south of London on her own and that she was in Kensal Green Cemetery on one occasion. Apart from that, we don’t know a lot about her, other than she was also in a house in Holland Park masquerading as a nanny to the children or a maid, but was probably neither; more likely the live-in lover of the man at the house. The name of Ian Naughton mean anything to you?’
‘Not to me, but then, most of them don’t give their names, a first name sometimes, and cash still reigns supreme in the world of prostitution. A few have used credit cards, but the bank account name I use is innocuous enough not to raise suspicion.’
‘You seem calm about Amanda’s death,’ Wendy said.
‘Life hardens you, and I’ve seen more than my fair share. As a police officer, you must feel the same about death, inured to the inevitable, no matter how tragic.’
It was true, Wendy thought. She gave scant regard to those that had died, not even her husband. Sure, she was upset for a few weeks, but he had been suffering for some time, barely recognising her at the end. They’d had a shared history stretching back over many years and two sons from their union. If anything happened to them, she was sure that she wouldn’t be able to distance herself from the grief with the ease that Mary Wilton apparently could.
But then the self-confessed madam was a conundrum, one moment caring and sweet, the next, hard as nails. Wendy left her at the table after paying the bill, offering a compliment to the manager on the quality of the meal, appeasement for the harshness she had subjected her to before. It wasn’t the woman’s fault; it was purely a natural inquisitiveness, the need to know other people’s business. It was the same with a car accident, the dead and injured lying around, the medical teams tending to them, the crowds forming, anxious to see what was going on, to believe that however bad their lives were, others had it worse.
It was mid-afternoon, and she was needed in the office. There had been developments, as now the woman at the grave had a name, and there were connections, however circumstantial or coincidental, between Brad Robinson and the young and still innocent Rose, Brad’s sister and father, and the two other dead women.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t over yet, and were they coincidences? Wendy didn’t believe in them, no more than her colleagues at Challis Street Police Station did. She was confident that on her arrival at the station, her DCI would be ready and waiting, and probably Detective Chief Superintendent Goddard with his obligatory compliment for excellent policing, his need to stir the pot, to tell them they could do better. But then the chief superintendent had someone to answer to, Commissioner Davies, a man unloved by most, sucked up to by a few.
The heavy workload was not about to reduce but to intensify. Wendy knew she was ready for it; she only wished her legs didn’t ache so much.
Chapter 20
Bill Ross closed the lid of his laptop, straightened the loose papers on his desk, looked outside at the rain, and decided that he had had enough for the day. It was just after four in the afternoon, a miserable day in the office at Canning Town Police Station wrapping up the paperwork on the death of Warren Preston.
He cared little about how the man had died, but Pathology had confirmed that he was bodily intact and that the jogger had probably disturbed his killers. His gang, almost certainly the people responsible for his death, were not to be found, having gone to ground in one hovel or another.
Ross knew that policing, more a vocation than he would admit, was important, and taking the attitude of ‘couldn’t care less’ about who had murdered the verminous hoodie Warren Preston wasn’t correct. He vowed to lift his game, get a transfer to somewhere else, to be more politically correct. Those that knew him would say it was impossible, but he was determined.
He put the laptop in his backpack, grabbed an umbrella from behind the door, looked around the office, and said his farewells. There was a warm fire at home, a warm wife as well, and it was still early enough to spend time with the children before they went to bed. He had to admit feeling pleased with himself.
The death of Hector Robinson still concerned him, but the paperwork wouldn’t be completed until the team at Challis Street found out who was orchestrating the murders of the Robinson family members, a
nother prostitute and a Jane Doe, if not actually committing them.
Hector Robinson had been killed by the gang that Preston had belonged to, no doubt about that. Murdering one of another gang’s members was regarded as a rite of passage, the same as a three-point turn when you’re learning to drive; an occupational hazard when you’re the one who’s murdered. But Robinson was a different issue, and if the man was integral in some way, although how was unclear, his death could not be put down as a man down on his luck, in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Still, Ross was adamant: today he was leaving early.
He got as far as his car before one of the officers in a patrol car rang. ‘We’ve just found another one of your hoodies,’ he said.
So much for an early night, Ross thought, annoyed at the inconvenience of another low-life impacting on his family life. Disgruntled, angry, but still a police officer, he shrugged his shoulders, got into his car, started the engine, and drove out to the location given. No need for the GPS in the car, the area was well known to him, as it was to the other police officers at Canning Town Police Station.
Three blocks from the Durham Arms, the patrol car waited. They had already set up a preliminary area with crime scene tape, listened to invective from a drunk sitting on the ground nearby, been jeered at by a car of local hooligans driving by, the two-finger salute and foul language their limitations.
Bill Ross got out of his car, made sure he had gloves on and shoe protectors and made his way into the factory compound long since vacated, not due to the economy but because it just wasn’t viable to continue trading in the area. It was a case of vandalism, theft, or pay the extortionists for protection.
The body, face down, was clearly visible in a corner of the forecourt.
‘It’s one of your hoodie friends,’ the patrol car officer, a sergeant formerly from Liverpool, still with a strong scouse accent, said.
At least I’ll be home early after all, Ross thought. No point in worrying too much about who killed this one. It wasn’t the first that he had seen, nor would it be the last if he stayed in the area much longer. It was a gang conflict, either a fight between the dead man and one of his hoodie gang for leadership or a battle between rival gangs.
Ross had three duties to deal with before he left. First, he had to phone the crime scene team, make sure that they would be down in due course to conduct their investigation, and second and most important, he would need to phone Isaac Cook to tell him that Waylon Conroy, the gang leader, was dead. He knew that he wouldn’t be phased that the man had died of multiple knife wounds.
There was a third item to conduct, but he wasn’t going to do it, not that day; family life was more important. He phoned a sergeant in the police station, informed him of the facts, gave the address. Someone else could inform Conroy’s mother that her son was dead.
As Ross got into his car, he knew of one certainty: tomorrow would be quiet, and criminal activity would be low, the one good thing that Waylon Conroy had done in his short life. In death, not in life, he had provided some cheer and goodness, but it wouldn’t last long.
***
The team at Challis Street Police Station took the death of Waylon Conroy in their stride. As far as they were concerned, it was a local matter for the police in Canning Town, as was the death of Warren Preston, and whereas Hector Robinson’s death was still integral to their case, it was Conroy and his gang who had killed him.
The reason for Robinson’s death was important, more so than who had committed it, and for that they had one name, Ian Naughton, and regardless of how much they tried, the man remained elusive.
Larry met with Spanish John at a pub in Notting Hill. He knew he would drink more than he should and he would be confined to the sofa that night, but as he had explained to his wife, who was not sympathetic to his dilemma, and to his DCI, who while understanding the problem still had to deal with it, he drank not only to loosen the tongues of the local villains but also because he enjoyed the taste of beer too much.
However, regardless of his trepidations and the flak that was coming his way, Larry sat down in the corner of the pub. On the other side of the table, the frightening presence of Spanish John. Akoni, his brother, sat close by. He was cordial, Larry conceded, but he wasn’t an impressive figure, not in comparison to his brother.
‘We’ve been looking,’ Spanish John said.
‘And?’ Larry’s reply. When dealing with men such as Spanish John, Larry knew not to push too much; it was best to let them talk first. After all, the man was a criminal who should be in prison for his activities, but was not, due to ensuring that others did the dirty work, and if challenged by the police, he’d retreat, allow his lawyers to deal with it.
Spanish John’s original focus had been on the body on the grave, now identified as Amanda Upton. The phone call forty-five minutes earlier from the gangster, asking Larry to meet with him, had been unexpected.
‘I’ve got an address for you,’ Spanish John said as he downed his pint of beer; his brother looked into space, kept sipping at his drink. If it hadn’t been for his smarter brother, he would have survived through petty crime, largely friendless, ignored by most. But to those in the pub and out on the street, being the brother of an important man came with its perks, and long after Spanish John and Larry had gone, the brother would continue to receive free drinks and the cordiality of others. One thing Larry knew was that it didn’t pay to get on the wrong side of a major crime figure, nor did you upset his family. Retribution was swift, and although this time they had Conroy’s body in Canning Town, bodies weren’t always found, or if they were, the state of decomposition, the condition of the body, made identification virtually impossible, other than by DNA.
Early in his time at Challis Street Police Station, there had been a dismembered, headless torso in the water at Little Venice on Regent’s Canal, a barking dog alerting its owner to it, much to her consternation and the interrupted ardour of a man and his wife in a houseboat alongside.
‘Whose?’ Larry asked. ‘We’ve found out the name of the victim at the cemetery, although not a lot more, and certainly no idea as to why she was there.’
‘Cathy Parkinson dead?’
‘A question or do you know the answer?’ Larry said as he started on his third pint. He was still sober, careful with his speech. But the opportunity to drink more than his usual two pints was pleasurable, and he wasn’t sure if he could stop before the inevitable end of night debacle where he’d stagger out of the pub, hail a taxi and receive curt words from his wife.
‘Confirmation. I knew her, not well, not as well as Janice. The same person that killed Janice?’
‘Different modus operandi. Janice’s death was clean, no sign of sexual activity, no usable evidence from the CSIs nor Forensics; Cathy Parkinson’s death was messy, not that we’ve got a lot from it yet. If it’s the same person, they're playing us for suckers.’
‘And Amanda Upton’s was carefully done. No amateur there,’ Spanish John said. Larry could see that he was enjoying sparring with him; a game of one-upmanship. Leverage a probability, to ensure that the police looked the other way from certain activities.
Larry wasn’t in a position to either give or deny the man what he almost certainly wanted. That was the problem, not only at Challis Street Police Station but throughout the country. The villains had influence and power, and they couldn’t always be ignored. Sometimes the more immediate gain outweighed the greater good, and the recent deaths were definitely immediate.
‘Either it was a professional or someone who knew where to place the knife. You seem remarkably well-informed.’
‘I keep my ear to the ground, and besides, I’ve got you further information on the woman.’
‘Amanda?’
‘Yes.’
‘What is it?’
‘Firstly…’
Larry was ready for the favour. He wasn’t sure how he would respond, but Amanda Upton was only second in importance to Analyn and
Ian Naughton.
‘I’ve got an address,’ Spanish John said. ‘More than you have, I assume.’
It wasn’t the rub, not yet, or was the gangster baiting him, Larry thought. Whatever it was, he needed to ease back on the alcohol. He needed his wits about him, and strangely, after the first two pints, he had found that the flavour wasn’t as good as he had expected. He hoped it was because his need for alcohol was abating, but he thought it was probable that as a connoisseur of the fermented hop, he was not enamoured of the beer dispensed in the pub.
Akoni, Spanish John’s brother, swayed on his seat, oblivious to the conversation, only making the occasional guttural sound to indicate that he was listening. He was on his sixth pint, and the need to leave the table and circulate was foremost on his mind. He was a sociable man with little charisma, but an easy drunk’s friend, and the pub was rapidly filling, the general hubbub of people talking and laughing, some arguing over near the bar. It was a place that Spanish John liked, he would have admitted if asked, as it afforded him a degree of anonymity, a chance to mingle, to not look over his shoulder all the time. Although close to the entrance of the pub, in the bar, a heavy, a club bouncer when he wasn’t looking after his charge, and out on the street, a late-model Mercedes, a couple of men lounging nonchalantly on the bonnet smoking cigarettes and perving at the occasional dolly bird that walked by, making inappropriate comments, receiving scowls from some in return, a smile from others.
Spanish John looked over at his brother. ‘Leave us to it,’ he said.
Akoni walked away, headed for the loudest group, those drinking the most.
‘Inspector Hill, I’ll level with you. You’re not a bad sort, not for a police officer, but normally people like you and I don’t get on well.’
‘We can’t ignore each other, your people and mine. Sometimes we need to come together for the common good.’
‘I know you were friends with Rasta Joe and he trusted you, and Isaac Cook was at the same school as me, one year above.’
Grave Passion Page 19
