Grave Passion

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Mr Yardley, your personal opinion is yours,’ Wendy said. ‘However, it doesn’t answer the question. Did you know or see the dead woman?’

  ‘I don’t go out much, not at my age, only to buy food. I saw her once. She said hello, asked how I was. How the hell did she think I was, couldn’t she see?’

  ‘Apart from that?’

  ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a busy day.’

  ‘Doing what?’ Gwen asked. It was remarkable, she thought, how much he looked like her grandfather, but he was lovable and always pleased to see her, Yardley wasn’t.

  ‘Checking my money, that’s what.’

  Once free of Yardley and his depressing apartment, the two women walked out of the front door of the building, took deep breaths.

  ‘Rough,’ Wendy said.

  Gwen did not comment, only looked up and down the street. Finally, she spoke. ‘Nice area. You can’t always choose your neighbours. He’d cause trouble for everyone in the building. It’s a wonder he’s still there.’

  ‘More money than all of them. I can remember him when I first came to London, a financial wizard, always reading the stock market correctly, buying when others were selling. His money hasn’t given him much in the way of happiness, not for a long time.’

  The ground floor apartment at the front of the building was not occupied, and Wendy left Gwen to knock on the doors at the top of the building.

  Out on the street there’d been little success. Amanda Upton had been sighted on a couple of occasions by some of the people, but no one had any more to say about her, and none could ever remember her in the company of anyone else, other than another woman of a similar age, identified as Sally Fairweather.

  Wendy could achieve little more in Marylebone, and she returned to the police station, leaving Gwen to wrap up their enquiries.

  ***

  Larry, although preferring not to revisit Canning Town, had to do so. The concern, not satisfactorily investigated and to some extent put to one side, was the man in the back of the car when Naughton had met with the recently deceased Waylon Conroy, a man not missed by anyone other than his mother who had wailed at the news of his demise, offering platitudes as to how she had tried her best, but a delinquent father who had taken off with another woman had rendered her motherly instincts and attempts at raising the son inadequate and of little use.

  Waylon Conroy was dead, as was Warren Preston, aka Wazza, the latter the victim of his own gang, the former due to an altercation with a rival gang. Or that was what was assumed.

  Larry sat in the office at Canning Town Police Station. Across from him Bill Ross, the inspector charged with solving three deaths in his area. First and foremost, Hector Robinson, killed by Conroy and his gang after receiving money to commit the act. Whether Preston had been present when the man died wasn’t known.

  Bill Ross picked up his mug of tea and looked out of the window, not that it was a scenic view, only a red-brick wall no more than twenty feet away. Larry could see that the man was in a good mood.

  ‘I’ve got a transfer out of here,’ Ross said. ‘If you don’t mess it up for me.’

  ‘How?’ Larry’s reply.

  ‘If you start digging for dirt, getting yourself killed. Crime’s down in the area, the local hoodlums are keeping a low profile. Mind you, we’ve still got other villains, but someone else can deal with them.’

  ‘Where to?’ Larry said.

  ‘Dagenham, where they used to make cars before they all went broke or had them made overseas.’

  ‘Plenty of hoodlums there.’

  ‘Compared to here? It’s relative, and besides, it’s closer to home, and the station’s better equipped, a decent crew. It’s not where you’re from, gentleman criminals, upwardly mobile populace.’

  ‘We have enough villains, but Dagenham will be disenfranchised, high level of unemployment. Not somewhere I’d fancy.’

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers, and that’s what I still am. It’s a reprieve, in part from working with you and Isaac. It seems he put in a good word for me.’

  ‘Then make sure you don’t let him down. You harbour a few prejudices, you know that?’

  ‘Around here? What do you expect?’

  Larry had to agree, although he thought it wise not to comment. It was easy to be non-judgemental out of the area, but on a day-to-day basis dealing with people who weren’t deserving of respect, it was the easiest way to deal with the situation.

  ‘Not a lot more,’ Larry conceded, aware that debate with Ross wasn’t the reason he was in the station.

  ‘You’re after whoever was in the back of that car, is that it?’ Ross said.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I don’t see how I can help. The man didn’t say anything, not to Conroy and his gang. All he did was point the gun.’

  ‘Conroy’s gang?’

  ‘One or two have been seen, not that I can do anything about them.’

  ‘Conroy didn’t kill Preston on his own.’

  ‘The death of a hoodie gang member doesn’t rate highly around here. Sorry, but that’s the reality. Even if we secured a conviction, and there’s no evidence that we can use with Preston’s death, the prisoner would be out in a few years after suitable counselling, a do-gooder stating that the offender is a reformed person and is ready to regain his place in society.’

  ‘He will be.’

  ‘He may well be, but once released, what happens?’

  ‘Social services will keep an eye on him, ensure he receives money regularly, find some work somewhere for him. But he’ll not stay, too much like hard work, and then he’ll be back in the same environment, the same people, the same temptations, a high probability of re-offending.’

  ‘As you said. This man, what’s the chance of finding out who he is?’ Ross said.

  ‘About as good as meeting up again with Ian Naughton or whatever name he’s using now,’ Larry said. It still irked him that he had had the man alongside him, even shaken his hand, and that he and Isaac had retreated from the house in Holland Park. It had been suspicious at the time, a mysterious set of clues from the grave where the murder had been committed, and then over to another grave, a metal box, an address. It still didn’t make any sense, and probably wouldn’t until the man was found and he explained why.

  ‘I’ve got an address for one of Conroy’s gang. We’ll visit him, see what he’s got to say for himself, but I’m not arresting him or accusing him of anything. Is that clear?’

  ‘It’s clear. Your reason?’

  ‘Proof. And giving him the third degree isn’t going to work. He knows how the system works, and he’ll clam up if you push.’

  Larry understood; after all, he had spent time with Spanish John and Rasta Joe before him, had met with thugs and murderers, sometimes socially if they had something that he wanted. Dealing with the criminal underclass was a fine art, and the social commentators who thought that they should all be in jail or dealt with in a draconian manner were detached from reality. There were just too many of them, and in Canning Town and other areas, the situation was worsening as technological advances were rendering unemployment levels even higher.

  Chapter 23

  Mary Wilton opened the door to her house. Her hair was piled up high, the makeup was back on, as were the clothes.

  ‘Mrs Wilton, we’ve a few questions,’ Isaac said.

  ‘You better come in,’ the woman said. ‘The police on my doorstep gives me a bad reputation, starts the neighbours gossiping.’

  ‘And when you were prostituting women here?’ Wendy said.

  ‘It was always discreet. I doubt if many knew.’

  Which to Wendy was probably true. People tend to look the other way if something doesn’t impact on them personally, and the brothel’s clientele was usually upper middle class, men of means.

  And even though Janice Robinson and Cathy Parkinson had been plagued with drugs, the photos of the two women in the brothel, arms around their madam, showed that th
ey had once been fresh-faced and agreeable, not as the two of them had ended up, haggard, old before their time, and dead.

  ‘We’ve been told that you haven’t been entirely truthful with us,’ Isaac said.

  The three were sitting in a large room at the back of the house.

  ‘I told you what I know. I’ve been honest about the business conducted here. I’ll take my punishment when the time comes.’

  ‘Which will not be severe. You know this. Is that why you’ve been so helpful?’

  ‘Once this is over, I’ll sell the house, find a place in the country.’

  ‘Amanda?’

  ‘I had hoped for better for her, I really did.’

  ‘Mrs Wilton,’ Isaac said, ‘coming back to what I said before. We have it from a reliable source that you know more than you’ve told us.’

  ‘I’ve told you what I can.’

  ‘Can or will? There seems to be a subtle difference. One infers there is more.’

  ‘They both do if you want to debate semantics. I admitted to knowing the three dead women, one who, if you haven’t forgotten, was my daughter. What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry for their deaths? It won’t make them come back, will it.’

  ‘Are you frightened there might be more if we keep pressing? If you tell us more?’ Wendy said.

  ‘My daughter has died. What do you want me to do? Tell you more, put your lives at risk, as well as others.’

  ‘We want and demand the truth,’ Isaac said.

  Wendy thought her DCI was pushing a little too hard, but she could see his point. A possible breakthrough in the murder enquiries, and the fear that the two teenagers, Brad Robinson and Rose Winston, were still targets, considering that Brad’s father and sister had already died, and the two were back at school with no police protection.

  ‘Ian Naughton?’ Wendy said.

  ‘The man in Holland Park is not Ian Naughton. He is somehow tied in to Analyn, but I’m not sure of the connection,’ Mary Wilton said.

  ‘Then who is he?’

  ‘I don’t know. Analyn spoke to me once as to how she had come to this country. I know she had not been trafficked.’

  ‘Analyn, where can we find her?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I know of another woman, a friend of hers, where she lives. I suggest you go and see her.’

  ***

  Bill Ross drove. A multi-storey high-rise greeted him and Larry on their arrival. Larry had seen worse not far from Challis Street Police Station, the burnt-out remains of Grenfell Tower, a reminder of similar blocks of flats.

  New Barn Street was a thoroughfare connecting Barking Road and the A13 up to Dagenham, Ross’s next assignment, although Larry wasn’t sure it was going to be any better there; just a change of scenery, not that there was much, and a different set of villains.

  Ross parked in the open area in front of the building, a patrol car close by to ensure no vandalism. As Larry looked skyward, he saw despair and squalor. Some people had washing draped over the glass-fronted balcony rails, others had attempted to create another room by blocking the balcony front from floor to ceiling with wooden boards. Once it would have been under the control of racketeers, but now it was the local council, who had clearly abrogated their collective responsibility. In the car park about forty cars, although none were old or perilously cheap. A smattering of Japanese imports, some English cars, more BMWs and Mercedes that people on subsided rents and low incomes should have been able to afford, in contrast to the building. It was high crime, low intellect.

  It was good, Larry thought, that they were afforded protection by the government, both national and local, but…

  A pub next to the building was closed, its windows boarded up, the outside brickwork graffitied. Larry thought it was a depressing area, the sort of place that engenders drug-taking and crime. He and Ross would do their job and get the hell out of it.

  Sean Garvey lived on the fifth floor, which was just as well, as the lift inside wasn’t working, vandalised by the looks of it. Larry assumed the vandals who had smashed the control panel didn’t live up at the top of the building as there were at least twenty floors, but he wasn’t sure of that. Vandals, youth on the cusp of crime, but still too young to be legally responsible, had probably thought it was fun. Outside, as they prepared to enter the building, a crew of local council workers arrived, followed closely by a repair vehicle from the lift company.

  ‘Not much point, is there?’ Ross shouted out.

  ‘Not much,’ the reply from a white-overalled man with a ruddy complexion and a beer gut. ‘Still, it’s a job. Just glad I don’t have to live here.’

  Larry smiled at the humour between the two men as he opened the door of the building, the lift at the end of a hallway, the stairs to their right. At the fifth floor, Ross was attempting to catch his breath; Larry had fared better, and he appreciated his get-fit regime that went with the lower alcohol consumption and his wife spurring him on.

  The sound of a child crying from one of the flats, two people arguing in another flat. Ross knocked on the door where Sean Garvey lived, a surly youth answering it. ‘Yeah, what do you want?’

  ‘I telephoned. Inspectors Ross and Hill, may we come in?’

  The reason for the patrol car stationed outside, Larry realised. Not just to make sure that Ross’s car was untouched, but to make sure that Garvey, known on sight to the local police, didn’t make a run for it.

  Larry could see that Garvey had an arrogance about him, and though he was sixteen and should have been in school, he wasn’t, and judging by his attitude, he wasn’t concerned either way. The flat was not an agreeable sight, but then that had been expected.

  ‘You’re after our Sean?’ a fat man, sitting in an armchair, bare from the waist up and holding a bottle of beer, said.

  ‘Ganja?’ Ross said, looking at the joint in the man’s free hand.

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘It’s Sean we want.’

  ‘He’s an idiot, I’ll grant you that, but he doesn’t get into much trouble, not like me when I was his age.’

  ‘Mr Garvey,’ Ross said, ‘is that where Sean is heading, prison before his twenty-first birthday?’

  ‘I was framed. It wasn’t me.’

  Ross looked over at the son of a man who was setting anything other than a good example to a youth well on the way to serious crime. Already, Sean Garvey had two convictions against his name, one for stealing a car, the other for illegal drug possession. He was a tall, skinny individual, able to run faster than those chasing him, although on his neck, the unmistakable scar from a knife blade.

  ‘I haven’t done nothing,’ Sean Garvey said.

  Other than mangle the English language, Larry thought.

  ‘Nothing proven,’ Ross said. He seemed to want to niggle the son and his father. It was succeeding, Larry could see, and the father, neither tall nor skinny, had put down his bottle of beer, rested his smoke on the edge of the armchair.

  ‘Before we go further,’ Larry said, ‘you are, Sean Garvey, a member of Waylon Conroy’s gang?’

  ‘The gang’s gone.’

  ‘Warren Preston, a friend?’

  ‘He was one of the gang. Hardly a friend, not after what he did.’

  ‘And what was that?’ Ross asked.

  The father went back to his beer and turned on the television. Parental guidance and care were of little concern to him.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Are you saying that because he spent time at the police station, he had done a deal with us?’

  ‘He did, didn’t he?’

  ‘He never said a word, not against you and your gang, nor did he admit to the killing of Hector Robinson, the white man down by the Durham Arms. His death was pointless, but then again, none of you live for too long. Waylon Conroy?’

  ‘I don’t know what happened to him.’

  ‘But you do know about Warren Preston, or as you call him, Wazza. Were you there? Did you see him die?’


  The television went off, and Garvey Senior was on his feet. ‘Are you accusing Sean of murder?’ He was ready to grab Ross by the throat until Larry got between the two men.

  Garvey Senior was a big man, stronger than either of the two police officers, and it was his home, and Bill Ross didn’t have a warrant, only a hunch that Sean Garvey could help.

  ‘Not at all. Not at this time,’ Larry said. ‘What Inspector Ross wants is assistance. We’re not here to accuse anyone, certainly not your son.’

  ‘As long as we’re clear.’

  The father was easy to anger, easy to calm down, and he went back to his previous position, turned on the television again, took a drag of his drug, a swig of beer.

  ‘Sean,’ Larry said, ‘we’re not here about Waylon and Wazza. We need to find the two men who approached your gang in the street. What do you remember about the man in the car, the one with the gun?’

  ‘Nothing, really. Waylon, he was keen to take the money, do the job, but none of us was.’

  An element of truth, the two police officers realised. Bravado as a gang, a lot of talking big but not doing much about it. And as for murder, killing a rival gang member was not a crime, just the way they conducted themselves. Even if Conroy had been keen, it wouldn’t have been the whole gang who would have taken part. Preston might have, but Sean Garvey was an insignificant youth, a follower, never a leader. Individually a coward, and collectively in a group bent on death, standing back, jabbing a knife in the general direction, not using force, probably not breaking the skin.

  ‘We know your gang killed Hector Robinson and Warren Preston, not that we can prove either,’ Ross said. ‘And quite frankly, that doesn’t concern me either way.’

  Larry thought Ross’s comments unusual.

  Ross continued. ‘It would have been Conroy on both occasions who would be the guiltiest. Two of your gang are dead, and statistically the chance of you still being alive and free after your twenty-third or twenty-fourth birthday is slim. Time will solve the murders committed by your gang, but we don’t have that with the men in the car. Other people have died, more will without your help.