Grave Passion

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Now, tell me about the men, and don’t try to be smart, not like Wazza was, or it’ll be down the police station and me telling the other gangs that you’re an informer.’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ Sean Garvey protested.

  ‘I don’t want to. You may prove to be the exception, the one who gets off his arse, finds himself a decent job, settles down, not like your father.’

  Over in the armchair, no reaction. The man was asleep, his head on one side, the sound of snoring. Larry took the man’s ganja rolled up in cigarette paper and doused it in the man’s beer.

  ‘The two men?’ Larry said. He was tired of the flat, and the smell of beer, body odour and ganja was unpleasant. He walked over to a window and opened it, a blast of cold air entering the room.

  Ross took no notice, the father continued his slumber, and the young Garvey zipped up his jacket, thinking to put the hood up, deciding against it.

  ‘Inspector Hill asked you a question,’ Bill Ross reminded him.

  ‘The one with the money spoke well, better than us. The one with the gun didn’t speak, only made sure we could see the barrel of a gun.’

  ‘Did they speak to each other?’

  ‘The one with the money did.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He spoke to the man in the car, told him to be ready if it got nasty.’

  ‘Did the others hear? Neither Conroy nor Preston mentioned it.’

  ‘I was closer to the car.’

  Aiming to keep out of sight of the car, displaying his cowardice, or, under the circumstances, showing a degree of wisdom. As Ross had said, maybe Sean Garvey would defy the statistics.

  ‘The two men, what did they say?’

  ‘Only for the man in the car to be ready.’

  ‘Not good enough. People, regardless of whether they intend to, invariably refer to the other by a name. What were they? You were either hiding away or you were smarter than the others. Which is it?’

  ‘The man with the money, he called the other man in the car Gareth.’

  ‘The one with the money?’ Does he have a name?’

  ‘I didn’t hear one mentioned.’

  ‘The man in the car? Educated, English?’

  ‘An accent, although I wouldn’t know what.’

  It was a start, but Garvey wasn’t going to improve on what he had said. Now, there was a name, not the most common of names, not the most obscure. And if the man in the car had an accent, it was not Ian Naughton.

  The two men left the flat, passing the overalled man down on his knees attempting to clean the graffiti from inside the lift.

  ‘Best of luck,’ Ross said.

  ‘Get what you wanted?’ the maintenance man said.

  ‘Not totally. Are you staying long?’

  ‘Here? Not a chance. We’ll be back again next week. We’re making plenty, my offsider and me, but our company is on a fixed price contract. They’ll not renew next year, and those at the top of the building are stuffed.’

  ‘Do you care?’

  ‘As long as I’ve got a job, not me.’

  It was the same as in other parts of the area, Ross conceded, as he and Larry drove away. Certain parts of London were already deemed neither safe to enter nor to conduct business. The great mass of the lost was growing in size, while in the distance, visible from a high point, were the gleaming towers of the Canary Wharf financial district. Larry left Ross at Canning Town Police Station and headed back to the comparative safety of Challis Street and the adjoining suburbs. The villains were bad enough in his area, but in Canning Town and up into Dagenham, they were another breed.

  Chapter 24

  Questions were again being asked about why the murder investigations were taking so long, primarily by Chief Superintendent Goddard, but then, as Isaac knew, the man had the commissioner in his ear on a regular basis.

  Isaac had long ago decided that worrying about the commissioner served no useful purpose. Before Commissioner Davies had assumed his position as the head of the London Metropolitan Police, his predecessor, a mentor to Richard Goddard, had seen great promise in the tall and urbane junior police officer, seen Isaac as the future of the Met, and on several occasions Isaac had featured in advertising literature for the new look, all-encompassing police force in London.

  Isaac was disillusioned the first couple of times that Davies thwarted his advancement, although not more than Richard Goddard when he had confided in him. The chief superintendent should have been two rungs up the promotional ladder by now, and Isaac should have risen by one.

  Isaac preferred not to dwell on the negatives, although the house that Jenny had found, close to where they lived, and the mortgage, more than he wanted to pay, but manageable, would have been rendered sweeter by the increased pay that he would have had as a superintendent.

  The only two opportunities afforded Homicide to solve the murders were the name of a woman that Mary Wilton had supplied, and a name provided by Sean Garvey. The first of the two had an address, the other was vague and seemed to offer little chance of helping.

  Regardless, Larry and Wendy made the trip up the M40 to Oxford, the university city, although Seacourt Road, to the west of the city, was hardly in the surrounds of university buildings and students. Instead, rows of white-painted semi-detached houses, neatly presented, no cars without engines or up on blocks in the street. It was the sort of place where middle managers lived, houses not dissimilar to the one that Isaac had made an offer on in London.

  At a house at the end of the street, a Toyota in the driveway, an old cat lying close to the front door, enjoying the weak sun. Isaac leant over and pressed the doorbell.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Wendy said as they waited. ‘What do you expect to find out?’

  No reply from Isaac, none that he could give. The enquiries so far had twisted and turned, with no straightforward direction. He hoped for better this time.

  After what seemed an interminable wait, the door opened. In front of the two police officers stood an Asian woman, a baby in her arms.

  ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I know why you’re here.’ Her accent was the same as Analyn’s.

  Inside the house, neat and tidy. A baby’s cot was in one corner of the living room, a television switched on, a midday soap opera, not in a language that either Isaac or Wendy could understand.

  ‘That’s Tagalog, the language of the Philippines,’ the woman said as she switched the television off.

  ‘You said you’re aware as to why we’re here,’ Wendy said as the three of them sat down, the baby put on the floor to play with its toys.

  ‘He’ll give no trouble, not now. He’s just been fed, so if I have to put him down for a nap, you’ll understand. I’m Gabbi Gaffney.’

  ‘Mary Wilton was reluctant to tell us about you. Why?’ Wendy said.

  ‘She knows my story and the reasons I wanted it left untold. She’s a good woman, even if you might think otherwise.’

  ‘Trafficked?’ Isaac said.

  ‘One moment. I know how you English like a cup of tea. My husband certainly does.’

  The woman went to the kitchen, leaving Isaac and Wendy alone with the baby. Wendy, a sucker for children, leant down close to the infant and played with its toys, much to the delight of the child.

  ‘You’ve got this to look forward to,’ Wendy said, looking over at Isaac.

  ‘I suppose I have,’ Isaac’s reply, not willing to admit that he was, although it wouldn’t be a boy. Jenny had asked and been told that the child she was to deliver would be a girl, which appealed to Isaac.

  Gabbi Gaffney returned, poured the tea for all three.

  ‘You seem to have embraced England,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Now, but it wasn’t always so good, but then, that’s why you’re here.’

  ‘Analyn?’ Isaac said.

  ‘Yes, I know her. But first, my story and how I came to be married and in Oxford.’

  ‘In your own time.’

/>   ‘Analyn and I are not unique. A lot of women from poor villages with no hope of a good education or a good life are left with only the opportunity of toiling on the land, living a rural life.’

  ‘Prostitution?’ Wendy said.

  ‘When life is desperate, people will do what is necessary. The men will turn to crime, the women to selling themselves. It’s happened in England in the past.’

  ‘We’re not judging,’ Isaac said. ‘My parents came from Jamaica for a better life; ended up trapped by racketeer landlords, living in slums, labouring at whatever menial jobs they could get.’

  ‘I found a man, an English man. He was older than me, in his late thirties. I was nineteen at the time, almost twenty.’

  ‘Your husband?’

  ‘My husband is much older than me, but it wasn’t him. This man, attractive for his age, generous with his money, appealed to me. Some of the women are not so lucky, but financial security other than love is often a reason for marriage. And if the man is not who you wanted, as long as he looks after you and helps your family, then that’s fine.’

  ‘And this man did?’

  ‘He came to the Philippines on three occasions, and yes, he was kind, and he did give me money for my family. In the end, I agreed to marry him.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘There was a delay while he organised the paperwork for me to stay in England permanently.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘I don’t know. Let me continue.’

  ‘Please do,’ Wendy said.

  ‘I was in England, a small place in London, a good man for a husband. But after six months, I saw him less and less, and when he came home, he was uncommunicative, not wanting to tell me about where he’d been. Accused me of being the same as English women, always trying to control, whereas he had expected me to be subservient, do what I was told.’

  ‘Not an uncommon story,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Anyway, after eighteen months, maybe longer, he tells me that he no longer wants me and I’m to leave.’

  ‘Violent?’

  ‘Not really. I think he was involved in crime, although not sure what sort. There were other women, although he never told me and I never asked, but I used to wash his clothes.’

  ‘Crime?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘He kept guns in one of the rooms upstairs. Not that I saw them, nor did I ask. Once or twice he’d take one out with him of a night time.’

  ‘His profession?’

  ‘He told me he was involved in import/export, but I never saw any sign of it. Believe me, all I wanted to be was the dutiful wife, and he was looking after my family. If he had other women, not that I liked it, what could I say? We hadn’t married for love, not the sort that you would understand. It wasn’t hatred either. I was desperate, he was lonely.’

  ‘As we’ve said, we’re not judging,’ Isaac said. ‘Why did Mary Wilton give us your name.’

  ‘So I can tell you about Analyn. Her story is similar to mine.’

  ‘You were friends?’

  ‘Not really. We had a similar background, a shared history, that’s all. We kept in touch by phone, met up occasionally. England was difficult, and as much as I am glad to be here now, it wasn’t always so. In the Philippines, I had my extended family, the weather was hot, not cold and wet. It took time, but now I like the cold nights and rainy days.’

  ‘We were told that Analyn ended up at Mary Wilton’s. Did you?’

  ‘Analyn had no option, I did. My husband gave me some money, and I found a job, a bedsit to live. It wasn’t a great time, but I managed. Analyn left with nothing, so she took the only option. I told her not to, and I offered to help her out for a few weeks, but she was a proud woman. She had taken charity once from a man; she wasn’t going to take it from me.

  ‘I was working in a shop when my present husband came in. He wanted to talk, and he had travelled a lot, been to the Philippines, and he knew where I had lived. I agreed to meet with him, and in time my first husband had divorced me, I found my present husband, Mike’s his name, a person to be with. I even grew to love him.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He’s a teacher of geography at the local grammar school. His wife had died young, and his children had left home. I was one of the lucky ones, and we married, and I moved in here with him.’

  ‘Analyn wasn’t?’

  ‘She had gone back to her husband.’

  ‘You’ve heard from her since?’

  ‘Two months ago. She said she was fine.’

  ‘A phone number?’

  ‘On my phone. Is she in trouble?’

  ‘We don’t know. Her husband?’

  ‘I never met him. She told me that he rarely socialised, preferring to stay at home. It seemed strange, but as I said, she was an acquaintance more than a friend. If she was safe and happy, then it wasn’t for me to concern myself.’

  ‘Your first husband?’ Wendy said. ‘What can you tell us about him?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him since the day I left. Mike wouldn’t want to be reminded of my past, only thankful that I didn’t end up in Mary’s place.’

  ‘Your first husband’s name?’ Isaac said.

  ‘Gareth Rees.’

  Isaac almost jumped out of his chair; Wendy sat still, not sure how to respond. From one apparently innocent woman, leads to two key people.

  ‘The name of Analyn’s husband?’ Wendy asked after a pause.

  ‘She never said.’

  On the drive back to London, Isaac passed on the details to Bridget – a wedding certificate for Gareth Rees and Gabbi, as well as a photo of the man – and updated Larry as Wendy drove. It was, yet again, going to be a long night.

  ***

  Isaac’s long-held belief that if you keep prodding enough, keep asking enough questions, then sooner or later a rabbit would be pulled out of the hat. Now, in the space of twenty-four hours, two rabbits.

  Sean Garvey had given the name of Gareth and Mary Wilton had told them of another woman, a fellow countrywoman of Analyn, the mysterious consort of Ian Naughton.

  And in a neat and tidy white-painted house, with its wooden fence fronting on the street, a babe in arms, the tie-in had come.

  The team in Homicide were elated. For once they had proof positive. Larry had a photo, and he was on his way to Canning Town, Bill Ross waiting for him, and then a visit out to Garvey.

  Bridget had a phone number for Analyn and was attempting to track it, but having no success. The number was registered, but no signal was being picked up from the phone, although it was still active, a pay as you go, no address for the owner.

  Whether Gabbi Gaffney had avoided the clutches of Mary Wilton, and if, as she had said, she had found work in a shop and Gareth Rees had seen her financially secure, didn’t seem important for the moment. Although, if he had, it didn’t seem to align with the man who had pointed a gun at Waylon Conroy and his gang.

  Gareth Rees, the name on his passport and the dates of his trips to the Philippines confirmed, was an enigma. The man was a blank, with no criminal records against him, no history of employment, although a no longer used bank account and credit cards were found in his name. It was clear that Gareth Rees was the man’s respectable name, and that he used aliases for his criminal activities. He was also found to have been born in a small village in the north of the country.

  The perplexing part was that Ian Naughton, another alias, had called the gun-holding man Gareth, which indicated a long-term friendship.

  It was unfortunate that Sean Garvey, the hoodie with a bad attitude and little parental guidance, had not heard Gareth address the other man by a first name. But Isaac knew that lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same spot.

  ‘Find Gareth Rees, bring him in, charge him with murder,’ Isaac said to the team.

  ‘No evidence,’ Larry said, playing the devil’s advocate. ‘It won’t stick.’

  ‘Stick or not, we’ve got him at the station for twenty-four hours, forty-eigh
t if we’re lucky. We lost Naughton and Analyn once, I don’t intend to lose anyone else, not at this late stage of the investigation.’

  ‘It would help if we had his aliases,’ Bridget said. ‘I could run them through the system, see what I can find.’

  ‘Fingerprints, any chance?’ Wendy said.

  ‘In the Philippines, it’s a probability. Not on the wedding certificate, but Rees must have had to supply them at some stage. If we can get a copy, then we should be able to find if he has a criminal record in the UK,’ Bridget said.

  ‘Focus on that, as well as tracking Analyn’s movements,’ Isaac said.

  ‘When was the last time she used the phone?’

  ‘Thirteen days ago,’ Bridget said.

  ‘Holland Park, Godstone?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Both. She was the woman in the village on the date that the BMW was taken from the garage.’

  Two days passed, two days of frustration as the team sorted through what they had, dealt with paperwork, waited for the opportunity to move forward. It was so quiet that Isaac took time to visit the bank, to sign the mortgage for the new house. He was pleased for Jenny who signed alongside him, frustrated that the crucial stage of the investigation was being hampered. So close, yet so far, he thought.

  In the interim, Larry and Ross had visited Sean Garvey, this time at a pub not far from where he lived. The lift that the maintenance man had fixed was broken again, and neither of the police officers felt inclined to climb the stairs, and besides, the young man was preferred on his own, and not with his father.

  Garvey had said that the man in the car and in the photo shown to him were probably the same, but couldn’t be sure. It was, Larry thought, an honest answer, and Garvey wasn’t so keen to talk too much, and as he admitted, the death of Waylon Conroy troubled him. He was frightened, although he had no idea who they were dealing with and where they would strike next.

  Wendy visited Brad Robinson and his mother; the youth busy with his homework.

  ‘It’s Rose,’ the mother said. ‘She’s told him that she’ll never marry someone with no education.’

  ‘Love?’ Wendy said.

  ‘At their age, hardly.’