Chapter 28
Gareth Rees had been picked up close to Kingston upon Thames, nine miles to the south-west of Challis Street Police Station, a street within walking distance of Hampton Court, one of the Royal Palaces in greater London, a residence of Henry VIII in the early sixteenth century.
Larry had visited the impressive palace and its extensive grounds with his parents when he’d been a child, and with his wife and children two years previously.
As impressive as it was, it was the area close to where Rees had been arrested that was of interest. Portsmouth Road fronted the River Thames on its eastern side. It was a busy road with a path on one side of it, a popular walking track of a weekend. The other side of the road was lined with blocks of apartments, most of them upmarket and expensive, which didn’t surprise Larry as Kingston upon Thames, close enough to London to commute, was also distant enough not to be part of the hurried life of the metropolis.
Gareth Rees probably wasn’t a name that would mean anything to the locals, nor would Peter Hood. So near and yet so far. Rees had managed to live in obscurity, and he wasn’t the sort of person to cause trouble where he lived.
In Canning Town and up near Challis Street Police Station, he was a killer, but down in Kingston upon Thames, Larry knew that he would find a different person. But where? That was the problem.
A couple of uniforms had photos of the man, and they were stopping whoever they could, knocking on doors. Rees was in the cells, and the clock was counting down.
Wendy was the expert at finding people, Larry knew that, and her ability to think like the person she was looking for was invaluable. But she was up in Canning Town looking for proof that Rees had fired the shot that had killed Sean Garvey.
Opposite where Rees had been stopped, a gated development. Discreet, out of sight, not easily accessible, the sort of place that ensured anonymity, an environment that would suit a man who wanted to remain unknown.
Larry stood at the entrance to the development, pressed the button for one of the houses inside. He wasn’t specific as to which one; he only needed entry. It was a long shot, short on deduction but hopefully longer on luck. A hunch, and even then, it could have been that Rees had only pulled off Portsmouth Road into the side street to stop for a drink at the pub or to buy cigarettes.
The uniforms continued waylaying people, some crossing the road to avoid them, others stopping to say that they didn’t recognise the man, or they had left their reading glasses at home, or the face looked familiar, but offering no more.
‘Detective Inspector Hill,’ Larry said when the second button he had pressed was answered.
‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ the reply.
An instinctive fear of a police officer, Larry knew, the reason people didn’t want to get involved.
‘I know that. We’re trying to find where a Gareth Rees lives.’
‘Come in if you want, but the name means nothing.’
Larry didn’t expect the name to. A neat three-bedroom house, a large dog that was overly friendly, and a short man, his grey hair and stoop showed that he was probably retired, and the crumpled shirt that he lived on his own. Who walked who, Larry couldn’t be sure, but he had his money on the dog.
Larry stood at the front door and showed the photo of Rees. ‘Do you know this man?’
‘Not to speak to. Is he in trouble?’
‘He’s under arrest. Are you saying you’ve seen him?’
‘Going in and out, but he doesn’t speak, waves sometimes.’
‘His car?’
‘I’m not sure. He changes them all the time. I thought he was a car dealer, but as I said, I wouldn’t know.’
‘Where have you seen him?’
‘Two houses down, the green door.’
Larry phoned Isaac as he walked to the neat and tidy house with the green door. It was clear that no one was at home.
Isaac was on the way; Larry would wait until he arrived. As he waited, he took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. As much as he had told his wife that he had quit, the occasional one gave him respite, a chance for normality. As with his dramatically curtailed alcohol consumption, the need never went away, and at times, good or bad, or as in this case, expectant, a cigarette provided a necessary distraction. He phoned the uniforms, told them to cease their questioning and to join him at the house, and to bring him a hamburger from the fast food place down the road.
The man came over, the dog alongside him. ‘I’m taking the dog for a walk. Anything else you want?’
Larry took a phone out of his pocket, scrolled through the photo gallery. ‘Tell me to stop when you recognise anyone.’
The dog, sensing that the walk was to be delayed, sat down on the ground. Even though it was big and lumbering, Larry could tell that it had some innate sense, a modicum of intelligence. Not like the dog he had had as a child that would run across a busy road if it saw a cat loitering on the other side. Somehow, the animal had lived till fourteen. Now, the family had a cat, the legacy of the reclusive mother of a murdered man that Wendy had befriended. Before the woman died, she had promised to look after her multitude of cats, Wendy taking one, him taking another, the remainder eventually going to good homes.
‘That one,’ the man said.
‘Are you sure? Anyone else?’
‘He wasn’t sociable, but I remember her.’
‘Why?’
‘It was three, maybe four months ago. I was outside of the house, washing my car. She walked past me, said hello. Who is she?’
‘A regular visitor?’
‘I can’t be sure. Probably. I’m not a busybody, and if she came over, then that was up to him and her.’
‘A good attitude to adopt,’ Larry said. ‘It’s important.’
‘Very well. More than once, but that’s all I know. And I only spoke to her the once, never to him.’
‘His name?’
‘He rented the place. I never knew.’
‘The estate agent?’
‘I don’t know.’
Isaac arrived outside the house twenty minutes later. The estate agent had been found by the uniforms who had been into a couple of agencies nearby.
Larry knocked on the door of Rees’s house again. There was no reply. Donning nitrile gloves, Isaac and Larry entered through the front door. The estate agent wanted to enter as well, stating that he had a responsibility to the tenant, but Larry blocked his way.
‘It’s a homicide,’ Isaac said, meaning that he wasn’t in the mood to deal with the agent’s concern, only to prove that the house was Rees’s and to see what clues could be found inside.
The neighbour’s identification of Amanda Upton had come as something as a shock, and from what had been gained from him so far, she had not popped in for a cup of tea but had spent the night at the house. Which raised questions as to why? Gareth Rees, as had been seen at Challis Street, was a decent-looking man, with a degree of wealth, but not to the extent that Amanda Upton’s clients usually had.
Either it was a genuine romance or Rees had been paying, or there was another reason for her presence in the house.
Outside, on the small road inside the gated development, the uniforms kept the neighbour and the estate agent at a distance, ensured that the dog didn’t make his mark on the small front garden.
Larry took the room to his left on entering; Isaac the right. The house was in good condition, no rubbish lying around, and in the kitchen at the rear, no dirty dishes in the sink, no sign of recent cooking. In the fridge, a milk carton, some cheese, a packaged pizza to put in the oven. Whatever Rees was, he wasn’t a gourmet chef.
Larry was the first to climb the stairs, looking first in the bathroom, confirming that it was a single man who lived there, a toothbrush and toothpaste in a small cup, a couple of rolls of toilet paper to one side of the toilet. None of the obvious womanly touches, no hairdryer or makeup, no towels stacked neatly. The room was functional, fit for its purpose.
In the firs
t bedroom, Isaac, who had joined Larry, found a desk and chair, a laptop on top of the desk, its lid folded down.
If Amanda Upton had been in the house, then her fingerprints, as well as Rees’s, might be found. He phoned Gordon Windsor, asked two of his people from the crime scene team to get down to Kingston upon Thames as soon as possible.
Windsor’s reply, ‘as soon as I can’, didn’t gel with Isaac who repeated his demand, adding, ‘within the hour’.
The relationship between Isaac and Windsor was strong, forged over many years and many murders. Windsor took Isaac’s insistence in his stride; he would have a couple down at the house within the hour.
In the second bedroom, a single bed. It was just a mattress, and it seemed that it had not been slept on for a long time. In the wardrobe, a row of clothes, all well-pressed and the approximate size to fit Rees. The main bedroom at the front of the house was larger than the other two. It also had an en suite. As before, the bathroom of a man, none of the touches that transposed it from masculine to feminine.
In the wardrobe, more clothes, none female, which indicated that Amanda Upton, if proven that she had been there, may well have spent time at the place, but she hadn’t moved in. If she and Rees were sleeping together, and it wasn’t professional, then it was casual.
The temptation to lift the lid of the laptop, to attempt to power it up, was almost overwhelming, but neither of the police officers would succumb to the temptation. After all, it would almost certainly have a password, and the only person who could break it was Bridget, and she was in Challis Street.
Larry phoned Bridget, gave her the address and told her to get down to the house; time was of the essence, and she could work at the house as easily as in Challis Street.
The crime scene investigators spent time checking out the house, frustratingly long to Isaac and Larry as they had a deadline. They would need more than they had so far to extend Gareth Rees’s temporary incarceration from twenty-four hours to forty-eight; they needed proof of the man’s wrongdoing.
After what seemed an eternity, but was only just over ninety minutes, Grant Meston, Gordon Windsor’s second-in-charge, delivered the result.
‘Amanda Upton was in the house, and it’s Gareth Rees’s residence.’
‘How long ago for Amanda Upton?’ Isaac asked.
‘Recent, probably within a week or two of her death. I doubt if we can be more precise.’
‘The laptop?’
‘Gareth Rees’s fingerprints.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Amanda Upton’s. Not as pronounced, but she’s used it. It could have been to surf the internet, but that’s up to you to find out.’
‘Any signs of the two sharing a bed?’
‘There are hairs on the bed. Two people, some long strands, some short. We’ll pass them over to Forensics, but I’d say a man and a woman. The assumption is that they belong to Rees and the woman; they’ll confirm.’
A statement from Meston was good enough for Isaac. The two had shared a bed, and one had murdered the other. Which clarified why there was no struggle at the first murder scene in the cemetery. It did not, however, explain why they were there.
Reasons for the deaths, for the cemetery, for the cryptic message, for Naughton and Analyn being at the house in Holland Park, were unimportant for the present; the evidence to prove that Rees had shot Garvey was the pressing issue.
Solve one murder, and then the pieces would start to fall into place. The jigsaw that had led the department around London was soon to be completed.
Bridget opened the laptop; she knew there would be a password. Not that it concerned her as she had broken many over the years.
‘I’m in,’ she shouted down the stairs.
Isaac and Larry went up the stairs; the dog, excited by the people in the street, attempted to follow, one of the uniforms grabbing it by its collar and handing it back to its owner.
***
In Canning Town, Wendy was sitting down in an Indian restaurant. They’d spent gruelling and fruitless hours interviewing people, walking up and down the street. Gwen Pritchard was still trying to make headway, and Wendy recognised in the young woman what she had been at that age: indestructible, inexhaustible, with infinite enthusiasm. Mortality concerned Wendy, the realisation that life was finite; she didn’t like it, and it wasn’t usual for her to feel sorry for herself.
‘This place distresses me,’ Wendy said, looking over at Bill Ross. ‘The futility of their lives.’
‘Mapped out from birth for most of them. They don’t realise what could be achieved if you got off your backside and applied yourself,’ Ross’s reply. His transfer was in another week, but he understood where the sergeant was coming from, and besides, he knew that Dagenham, his next posting, wasn’t much better, just a change of scenery.
‘Narrowed view of the world. They come from other parts of the world, but what do they see? Here, no better than where they had been. Isolated, alone, no longer the extended family,’ Ross continued.
‘Not all of them.’
‘Not all. Certainly not Sean Garvey or the other two gang members. They were born here, and I doubt if any of them had experienced any beauty in their lives. The mind withers with time.’
‘DCI Cook said you were a good police officer; he didn’t say you understood the people.’
‘It was part of the training to work in a deprived area. An understanding of cultural differences, various religions, the inability of them to realise the opportunities afforded them.’
‘Some break free?’
‘Some do; a lot don’t.’
Wendy ordered, hot and spicy for her. Bill Ross went for mild after the Indian that he had taken Larry to before, as he had suffered the queasy stomach as well.
Gwen came in with a lady covered from head to toe in black; she was carrying a small child in her arms.
Wendy asked her to take a seat.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t,’ the woman said.
‘It’s me,’ Ross said. ‘We’re not related, the lady would not feel comfortable sitting at the same table with me.’
‘Is that it?’ Wendy said, looking up at the woman.
‘I hope you’ll understand.’
The woman’s English was perfect, a London accent. She had been brought up in England, but as Ross had said, criminal intent, unemployment, were generational. And so was a belief in a free society. The idea of equality had not embraced the woman, or maybe it had.
It was wrong, Wendy thought, but she could not solve it, only be polite to the woman.
Ross got up from his seat and walked out of the restaurant.
Gwen beckoned the woman to take a seat.
‘It seems we’ve got an Indian meal going free if you want it,’ Wendy said to the black-covered woman.
‘That’s for Westerners,’ she said. ‘A true Indian wouldn’t eat it.’
‘Tea? You’ll drink tea?’
‘Yes, I would.’
‘Gwen, what is it?’ Wendy said to the young constable.
‘Hania saw the shooting.’
‘Proof?’
‘She was on Skype to her cousin in Pakistan.’
‘A record?’
‘I recorded it for my sister,’ Hania said. ‘Can we move to the rear of the restaurant.’
The three women found a new table. Hania ensured that her face could not be seen by the other patrons as she lifted the veil that covered her face.
Wendy was staggered by her innocent beauty. ‘It’s a shame that you’re covered,’ she said.
‘It is for my husband. At home, among my sisters and female friends, I would be wearing jeans and a blouse, but out in the street, I must do what I must.’
‘Because you want to?’
‘It is my religion.’
Gwen, who preferred to go around in as little clothing as possible in summer, didn’t understand, but she did like the woman.
‘The recording, have you seen it, Gwen?’ Wendy asked.<
br />
‘Hania lives across from the fire escape. It’s distant, but it’s clear enough. With enhancing, it can be proved.’
‘The rifle?’ Wendy asked.
‘He took it with him,’ Hania said.
The baby started to cry; Wendy instinctively lifted it from the mother and rocked it in her arms.
‘Thank you,’ Hania said. ‘Some people wouldn’t do that, not around here.’ She took her phone and showed the video.
Wendy, distracted by the baby, looked at the video the best she could. It wasn’t the best quality, but it would suffice.
‘I’ve passed it on to Bridget,’ Gwen said.
‘She’s busy, out at Rees’s house, checking his laptop.’
Wendy handed the baby back to Hania and phoned her DCI. A breakthrough at the last minute from the most unexpected of sources.
Hania’s details were taken. She said she would give evidence at a trial if her husband permitted it.
To Gwen, the woman’s attitude was perplexing, but Wendy, more worldly, understood that sometimes you don’t always agree, but it does not diminish the respect of one for the other.
Chapter 29
Gareth Rees sat in the interview room. Jacob Jameson was at his side. The mood in Homicide was more ebullient than on the previous encounter with the murderer and his lawyer.
Isaac went through the formalities, advised Rees of his rights, his recourse after the interview had concluded. Jameson looked bored; Rees adopted an air of disinterest.
‘My client wishes to be out of this police station today,’ Jameson said.
Isaac took no notice of the lawyer, only focussed on Rees.
‘We’ve checked where you live,’ Isaac said. ‘DI Hill found it.’
‘So,’ the one-word reply from Rees.
‘We’ve found out more about you.’
‘Where is this leading?’ Jameson said. He had been updated to an extent as to developments. Isaac could see that he was playing for time, attempting to defuse and confuse the police. Isaac had no intention of letting him succeed.
‘Mr Rees,’ Isaac continued, his gaze focussed on Rees, ‘we know by your own admission that you visited Mary Wilton’s brothel and that you spoke to your wife, gave her some money.’
Grave Passion Page 26
