Both husband and wife were on their feet; both were distraught.
‘How dare you?’ Maeve Winston said. ‘We invite you in, show you courtesy. And you can say that.’
‘Good,’ Wendy said, adopting an Isaac tactic. ‘You’re both riled.’
‘You want this?’
‘Too much beating around the bush. Let’s talk honestly. I don’t think your husband is a murderer, not yet. But in his defence, he needs to convince you and me that he’s telling the truth. I, as an experienced police officer, will know from my training and many murder enquiries; you will know as you are married to him. Sorry to be blunt, but that’s the way it is.
‘Let’s get down to basics. Janice was killed by a fastidious, probably trained killer. And so was Amanda Upton. Which leaves us with Cathy Parkinson. That death was neither professional nor pleasant. Now, either the murderer was inexperienced, or he felt joy in killing her and then stringing her up, or it was professional, made to look as if an amateur had committed it. He had also had sex with her before the murder, whereas Janice’s murderer had not.’
‘Maybe the man was incapable,’ Maeve Winston said.
‘If it’s Gareth Rees, then we know that he’s capable. But we continue to assume there was a different murderer for Cathy Parkinson.’
‘Hector Robinson?’
‘He was killed by a local gang of hoodies: poorly educated, disenfranchised, the flotsam of society. Not that there will ever be a conviction and two of them are dead; one at the hand of his gang, the other by an unknown assailant, although more than likely a rival gang. Life is tough where they live, and most of them don’t live for long, violence and death come too easily. Which leaves Cathy Parkinson. It could be the man we know as Ian Naughton, but so far, we don’t know too much about him, other than DCI Cook and DI Hill met the man briefly.’
‘Are you trying to pin this Cathy Parkinson’s death on Tim?’ Maeve said.
‘I don’t want to. But what I want is the truth. Mr Winston, you knew one of the other women, which indicates that you knew Mary Wilton’s premises. Am I correct?’
‘You’re correct. I knew Meredith. I’ve told you that already.’
‘You paid for her services?’
‘I did,’ Winston said in a quiet voice.
‘Cathy Parkinson?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Don’t make me out to be a monster. Okay, I slept with Janice and the other woman. If I say I regret it now, it’s not going to make any difference. However, I draw the line that I murdered this other woman. I can vaguely remember seeing her, and if it’s the same person, she wasn’t in good shape.’
‘Analyn?’
‘Not the name.’
‘Gabbi, another Asian woman?’
‘A picture?’
Wendy took out her phone, scrolled through the photo gallery, passed it over to Tim Winston.
‘Yes, I can remember her, but no, I did not sleep with her. Only with Janice occasionally and Meredith on one occasion. Is she dead? Are you going to try and pin that on me?’
‘She’s alive and well, no longer lying on her back to make money. She’s sorted herself out.’
‘Where is she?’ Maeve Winston asked.
‘At university, doing well.’
One more suspect to consider, Wendy thought, after she left the Winstons’ house. Tim Winston’s misdemeanours were more than had previously been considered. The man, outwardly portrayed himself as a solid family man, good father, responsible citizen, but there was a dark side to him, a side that enjoyed the company of prostitutes.
Chapter 26
Wendy realised after leaving the Winstons that revealing that Meredith Temple was studying at a university may not have been wise; after all, the apparent lack of connection between the murders, and the unknown motives, might have placed her in jeopardy.
To Wendy, Tim Winston had always seemed to be a decent man, but his rating as a good husband to Maeve had suffered a few too many blows. The revelations of him and Janice Robinson, and now of his having spent time with Meredith Temple, were starting to damn the man. And if she mentioned to her DCI that she hoped it wasn’t Tim for the sake of his wife and daughter, Wendy knew that she would receive a gentle rebuke, in that it was murder, and the guilty is the guilty, with no lesser investigation of the upright and decent than of the despicable and criminal.
Wendy had phoned Gabbi Gaffney, checked on Gareth Rees and his sexual appetite; she confirmed that he was normal on that count. That meant that Rees could have killed Cathy Parkinson as well as Janice Robinson.
In the office, on Wendy’s return, Larry Hill was briefing Isaac as to what he had found out on the street, although judging by the smell of beer, the discussions with Spanish John, various informers, the destitute and despondent had been conducted in a licensed premise.
‘Nobody seems to be able to help much,’ Larry said as Wendy passed over a strong mint from her handbag.
‘Here, suck on this,’ she said.
Isaac remembered when his sergeant had first joined Homicide, and the smell of her smoking. He had had words with her on a few occasions, almost put it in writing once, and now the woman, no longer smoking, was criticising another member of the department for the unpleasant smell.
Larry took the mint, gave an embarrassed grunt in acknowledgement, and placed it in his mouth.
Isaac, choosing not to comment on Wendy’s actions, focussed back to the investigation. ‘Wendy, Tim Winston? A possibility?’
‘Remote, but can’t be ruled out. Even so, no motive.’
‘But he does,’ Larry said. ‘His wife and daughter. If the man can’t help himself and his wife had him on short rations, who knows? And then Janice is killed, and he knows that it’s only a matter of time before we find out about him and her, so he could rationalise, no matter how obscure it seems, that others who know about his needs have to be removed.’
‘He’s right,’ Isaac said, looking over at Wendy.
‘I know. It’s Cathy Parkinson that concerns me. He said that he hadn’t slept with her, only Janice Robinson and Meredith, so why kill her?’
‘The man would have been frantic; secrets were about to be revealed.’
‘Cathy Parkinson might have spoken, mentioned to someone that she knew about Janice and some of her clients. Her brain was probably addled, functioning on highs and lows, a loose cannon.’
‘And one of Janice’s clients could have been Gareth Rees or even the mysterious Ian Naughton.’
‘Except, that Naughton had Analyn, or so we believe,’ Isaac said. ‘Why would he have wanted any of the other three? And we met him, remember. He didn’t seem the sort of man to go down market.’
‘Don’t discount someone on what you believe,’ Wendy said. ‘Your mantra.’
‘I can’t argue with you, and besides, what we saw might have been a veneer.’
Bridget entered Isaac’s office, handed each of the three already there a folder. ‘Inside, Gareth Rees, what I could find out.’
‘Criminal record?’
‘When he was younger, and he used the name of Rees. But as he was a minor, his fingerprints weren’t kept on file, a way to give the young man a chance at life, untarnished by a troubled childhood.’
‘The précised version,’ Isaac said. Larry had opened his folder, so had Wendy. Isaac’s sat closed on the desk.
‘He was court-martialled out of the military after an incident somewhere in the Middle East. No details and it’s unlikely we’ll ever find out what it was.’
‘Violence?’
‘His record in the military had been exemplary. You’ll find the usual: where he was assigned, countries overseas, commendations, and so on. But after the court-martial, nothing, not from the military. It seems that he had been found guilty and bundled out of the service, no time in a military prison.’
‘Suspicious?’ Isaac said.
‘Highly,’ Larry said, ‘but it proves one thing, he w
ould have been capable of murdering Amanda Upton.’
‘There’s more,’ Bridget said. ‘I found a fingerprint match. Gareth Rees used an alias, Peter Hood. That name has a criminal conviction against it for grievous bodily harm. This is before he entered the military.’
‘They recognised raw talent.’
‘Gareth Rees in the military; Peter Hood for the GBH. However, his time in prison was short, and soon after release, he was in uniform.’
‘As I said, raw talent.’
‘The army wouldn’t necessarily take a man with a criminal record,’ Isaac said.
‘Ordinarily, they wouldn’t,’ Larry agreed. ‘But in extreme circumstances, who knows. A naturally-talented and unemotional man might have suited them fine.’
‘Gabbi Gaffney told me he was not psychopathic, and that he had treated her with a degree of respect,’ Wendy said.
‘With the right triggers, he could have been.’ Isaac said. ‘Behind enemy lines, an assassination, the possibility of collateral damage, innocent people to die in the attempt to get close into the target. It would take a special kind of person, the sort of person who could kill women.’
‘The sort of person who could kill a couple of teenagers,’ Wendy said.
‘This trigger? How would it be switched on and off?’ Bridget asked.
‘We don’t know. All I know is, we need Rees or whatever he calls himself,’ Isaac said.
***
Larry made contact with Spanish John, gave him the other name that Gareth Rees had used in the past. Wendy phoned Meredith Temple, told her to make herself scarce for a couple of days, an unknown address, and not to answer her phone unless she was sure of the caller. She also phoned both the Robinsons and Winstons, and told them to take Brad and Rose out of school, and to keep them at home, and that a police presence would be at both houses.
Questions came from all parties contacted; the answer given by Larry and Wendy that the pressure was building up, and persons unknown and known were likely to react irrationally. It wasn’t a good explanation, but it was the best they could give.
An APB was issued to all police forces throughout London and England, along with a clear photo. Gareth Rees, also known as Peter Hood, was to be regarded as extremely dangerous. No one was to approach unless armed, and they were to report back to Homicide at Challis Street Police Station.
Ian Naughton still remained the greatest mystery. With the other two that Homicide were looking for, there was, at least, some knowledge. And as to the grave at Kensal Green, a murder site and a cryptic clue to another grave, and Naughton’s house in Holland Park – a complete blank.
Three steps forward, two back, Isaac thought. He had the added burden of the sale of his flat and the purchase of a house, as well as Jenny looking to him to go with her to the gynaecologist occasionally. So far, he’d managed it once, and now with the investigation in its closing stages, he couldn’t afford to spare his wife the time. It was what he loved about her, the ability to understand, but she didn’t like it and they had argued the night before as to how finding a murderer took precedence over his child.
***
Bill Ross phoned Larry, told him to get over to Canning Town within the hour. It was the last place that Larry wanted to be, but he complied. The information had been clear.
‘It’s Sean Garvey,’ Ross said.
On the street outside the block of flats where Garvey had lived, a tent had been erected in the middle of the road, traffic banking up in each direction, the uniforms doing their best to direct the traffic up side streets; not so easy, Larry knew, as New Barn Street was a major thoroughfare, and it was the middle of the day.
Ross was standing on the side of the road, the father of the dead youth with him. The father was in tears; Larry assumed it was the usual ‘he was a good boy’, ‘never forgot my birthday’. Always, he knew, after the event, the parents who had failed the child remembered the good, omitting the bad.
‘Shot,’ Bill Ross said as he excused himself from the father.
‘A gang?’
‘Not likely. A shot from the other side of the road. We’re checking CCTV cameras, but there aren’t many around here.’
‘Professional?’
‘The gangs are more into knives, although they’re keener on guns than they used to be, but this was daylight, no more than fifty minutes ago. No self-respecting hoodie would contemplate causing trouble in the early morning; they’re strictly night time.’
‘Any witnesses?’
‘The father said he was looking out of the window, saw his son fall to the ground. He couldn’t have seen the shooter. What the crime scene team have ascertained, a car was parked on one of the side streets, twenty yards back. There’s a fire escape up the side of a building there, a metal structure, the ideal place for a marksman, a clear view of Garvey’s flat and the road. The man could have been waiting there for Garvey to come out, or he could have phoned him.’
‘The number?’
‘Who knows? Slip one of Conroy’s gang some money, and they’ll tell you anything.’
‘We’ve got an all-points out on Gareth Rees.’
‘If it’s him, it means he’s frightened, making sure that anyone who can connect him to the murders is eliminated.’
‘Garvey knew nothing,’ Larry said.
‘Maybe he didn’t, but this Rees character doesn’t know that. He’s trapped, lashing out, trying to protect himself.’
‘Which means others closer in to the murders are under threat.’
Larry took out his phone and called Isaac, conferencing in Wendy. ‘It’s not a random death; this has been well-executed. And if it’s Rees, we’re trying to confirm that, then the man’s clearly deranged. We need the chief superintendent to authorise protective custody for the Robinsons, the Winstons, and for Meredith Temple. We’re dealing with a mad man, a man who knows how to kill.’
‘Consider his approval given,’ Isaac said. ‘If it’s Rees, see if you can find out the car he was driving, and then Bridget can work her magic.’
Wendy left the office immediately, her first port of call, the Robinson household. As much as Tim Winston disapproved of Brad Robinson and his mother, as suspicious as Wendy was of the man, the two families would need to be in the one location, and unless anyone objected, not that she intended to let them, they were all to move in at the Winstons’. A patrol car was already on its way to the Winstons’; another was around the corner from the Robinsons’. It wasn’t sufficient protection for either of the families.
Meredith Temple had been phoned, but she had lectures to attend, and regardless of Wendy’s protestations, study took preference, although the woman promised to be careful.
At the crime scene, possible witnesses were being interviewed. A video copy from a camera at the corner of New Barn Street and the A13 up to Dagenham was with the CCTV officers at Canning Town, and with Bridget, who before joining Homicide had been a CCTV officer.
A uniform came over to where Bill Ross and Larry were standing; at her side a young woman in her twenties, a small child in a pushchair.
‘I was taking a picture of her,’ the young woman said, her accent thick and Slavic; she stroked the child on the head as she spoke.
‘In the background,’ the female uniform said. ‘A man on the fire escape.’ She handed the phone over to Larry, who enlarged the picture as best he could. It was blurry, but it was a good likeness of Gareth Rees.’
‘What do you reckon?’ Ross said.
‘I reckon it’s him. I’ll forward the photo on to Bridget, see if she can enhance the image.’
‘It makes no sense. Why would he still be around? Why kill people on the off-chance?’
‘We’ll know when he’s in custody.’
‘Can I keep the phone?’ Larry said to the mother. ‘It’s evidence.’
‘I saw the car,’ the reply.
‘A photo?’
Larry couldn’t believe that twice lucky with the same witness was possibl
e.
‘It’s in the photo.’
Larry looked at the picture again, realised that there was a car, blue in colour, almost certainly a small Toyota.
‘The registration number on the plate?’
‘I didn’t see it. Should I have?’
‘No, not at all. It’s just that we’ve been looking for this man for some time. We regard him as dangerous.’
Larry texted Bridget to focus on the car in the photo, to use whatever image-enhancing software was at her command.
‘Where do you live?’ Bill Ross asked the woman.
‘Here,’ pointing to the same building that Garvey had lived in. The two police officers understood that not everyone in the building was a criminal or lazy or uneducated. The young woman and her child were well-dressed, very presentable, and no doubt honourable and decent. Larry felt sorry for them that circumstances, the need for a better life than where they had come from, had condemned them to purgatory, although he was sure that in time the woman and her husband would earn their way out of there by hard work and a positive attitude.
***
The net was closing on Gareth Rees, now generally regarded as verging on the psychopathic. It was considered by the team in Homicide and on advice from a psychologist that Rees needed to be handled with a great deal of care. Pressure had been applied by Chief Superintendent Goddard to the military to obtain a transcript of Rees’s court-martial and information about his state of mind, but he had had no luck.
A logical mind would have distanced himself from London, and Rees was clearly intelligent and organised, as he had managed to alternate between two names with apparent impunity. There were even two British passports in his name, and if he had left the country, hidden away in a backwater somewhere in the world, then he could have remained at liberty indefinitely.
Bridget had taken the photo from the young woman’s phone in Canning Town, enhanced it, proven that Gareth Rees had been on the fire escape and he had at his side a bag, the approximate size of a rifle with telescopic sights, as Sean Garvey had received one bullet to the head, dead before he hit the ground.
Grave Passion Page 24
