Where Daisy lived was not affluent, not for someone who could make five hundred pounds in one night, but then, Daisy, like a lot of the other women selling their wares on a street corner or in a club, had a problem. It had been clear when the woman was at Challis Street Police Station that she was a drug addict, the worst kind.
Wendy knocked on the door, more firmly the second time. A woman poked her head out from a door opposite. ‘There’s a key under the mat,’ she said. Wendy could see the block of flats catered to the ladies of the night.
‘Thank you.’ Wendy bent down, steadying herself on the wall in front of her. She picked up the key and inserted it into the lock. Inside the flat were signs of neglect: unwashed dishes, a cat that looked as if it was in need of a feed, a discarded syringe. Wendy moved through the flat, opening the first bedroom door. A woman, semi-comatose, briefly stirred. ‘Close the door, I’m trying to sleep.’
‘Sorry,’ Wendy said. She moved on through the flat, stepping over a pile of discarded clothes. She opened one door to find out it was the bathroom, its condition the same as the rest of the flat. The third door, where she gently knocked before entering, was slightly ajar.
On the bed, Wendy could see the form of a woman under the blankets. ‘Daisy, it’s Sergeant Gladstone,’ she said.
With no sign of movement, Wendy moved closer to the bed. She pulled back the blanket, then picked up her phone and dialled Isaac. ‘There’s another one,’ she said.
‘Daisy?’
‘Not long by the looks of it.’
You know the procedure. We’ll be there as soon as we can.’
Wendy phoned Gordon Windsor, the CSE. ‘One hour, secure the location,’ he said.
With the crime scene investigation team on their way, Wendy phoned for two uniforms to come to the flat and establish a crime scene. She then went into the other room where Daisy’s flatmate was asleep and nudged her to wake up.
‘Go away. Can’t you see I’m asleep?’
‘Sergeant Wendy Gladstone, Challis Street Police Station. Your sleep will need to wait.’
The woman stirred after Wendy had prodded her two more times, receiving a few expletives in return. Finally, she stood up, naked, and Wendy could see the woman was similar to Daisy: the gaunt frame, the result of drugs rather than food, the needle marks, the blotched body. Reaching for a top and a skirt, the woman turned to face Wendy. ‘Did you get a good look?’ she said.
‘Nothing that interests me. Did you hear what I said before?’
‘Something about the police.’
‘That’s correct. Sergeant Wendy Gladstone. I need you out of this flat.’
‘What for? I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Apart from selling yourself and jamming needles in your arm, you’ve probably not. Besides, I’m not here about you.’
‘Then what do you want?’
‘Your flatmate, Daisy. She’s dead in the other room.’
‘Oh.’
‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’
‘What do you want me to say? She was going to OD sometime. The same as me, I suppose.’
‘She did not OD, she was murdered,’ Wendy said.
‘Who’d do that?’
Unable to do anything more with the woman, Wendy grabbed a coat from the back of the woman’s door, took her by one arm, and moved her out of the flat, avoiding the traffic areas as much as possible. A uniform was coming up the stairs. ‘I’ll take it from here,’ he said.
Downstairs, Wendy put the woman in her car and turned on the heater. ‘Stay here, I’ll be back.’
‘Don’t worry about me. I’ve still got some sleeping to do.’
Isaac and Larry had arrived. Wendy went over to where they were parked. ‘Was she shot?’ Isaac asked.
‘Not this time. There’s a cord around her neck.’
‘The flatmate?’
‘She’s in my car. A herd of elephants could have gone through the flat. She wouldn’t have heard anything.’
‘We’ll need to interview her.’
‘Here or at Challis Street?’
‘Challis Street. She can’t go back into the flat, and there’s nowhere else.’
‘There’s another woman in the flat opposite. We’ll need to talk to her.’
‘We’ll deal with it,’ Larry said. ‘Find out what you can from the flatmate.’
Gordon Windsor arrived. ‘Have you been in?’ he said.
‘Wendy found the body,’ Isaac said.
‘Have you touched anything?’ Windsor said to Wendy.
‘No more than was necessary. The flatmate’s in my car.’
‘I’ll send someone to take her prints. We’ve got yours on file.’
‘There’s a woman in the flat opposite that we need to question,’ Isaac said.
‘Go ahead, but wear foot protectors, gloves outside of the woman’s flat. There may be some evidence on the landing. Professional, was it?’ Windsor said as he kitted up, preparing to enter the building.
‘There’s been no violence, no sign of the place being disrupted, although that’s not so easy to tell.’
‘The woman?’
‘A prostitute. We interviewed her at Challis Street the other day.’
‘Not another of your murder enquiries where the bodies keep piling up, is it? You may as well let me know so I can arrange extra personnel.’
‘There’ll be more,’ Isaac said. ‘Larry, kit up. We need to talk to the neighbour.’
Wendy left the men and walked back to her car. The flatmate was fast asleep in the back seat. Wendy opened the door, and the woman woke up with a start. ‘This man needs to take your fingerprints. We need to eliminate you from the crime.’
‘What crime?’
‘Your flatmate, Daisy.’
‘What about her?’
‘She’s dead. I told you before. Someone’s killed her.’
‘It wasn’t me.’
‘We know that, but the crime scene examiners need to eliminate your prints when they’re checking the flat.’
‘What about me?’
‘We’ll go to the police station. We’ll have a chat, and then I’ll see that you have accommodation. I’ll also make sure you get some food.’
‘It’s not food I want.’
‘That I can’t supply. If it becomes an issue, we’ll bring in a doctor.’
***
Isaac and Larry climbed the stairs to the neighbour’s flat. Her door was open on their arrival, a police constable barring the woman from leaving. ‘He won’t let me out,’ she said.
‘A few questions and then we’ll make sure you can leave.’
‘I’ve got to work.’
‘What do you do?’
‘Not what they were up to. I’ve got a job. A place that makes meat pies.’
‘Any good?’ Larry said.
‘I’ll eat them, doubt if they’ll serve them up in a fancy restaurant.’
‘Can we come in?’ Isaac said.
‘What about my job?’
‘Can you phone, tell them you’ll be in late?’
‘I’ve no credit on my phone, and the phone in here doesn’t work.’
‘You can use my phone,’ Isaac said.
‘Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. You better come in.’
The two men entered the flat. It was tidy, even if the paint was peeling, but there was a distinct smell of sewage emanating from the bathroom.
‘I do my best,’ the woman said, ‘but the landlord, he doesn’t care.’
‘You’ve got a lease and a number for a plumber. Phone him up.’
‘The landlord, he’ll make an excuse, have me out of here in a minute.’
‘Using a property without the owner’s permission for the purpose of prostitution invalidates the lease. That’s the reason you don’t phone him up.’
‘I don’t like to advertise what I do. That’s why I use the meat pie story.’
‘Your name?’ Isaac said.
‘Hailey Ashmor
e.’
Isaac studied the woman. She certainly looked better than Daisy had that day in Challis Street, and there were no signs of drug use. Her manner, apart from at the door, was calm.
‘Busy, are you?’ Larry said.
‘I do what’s necessary. Life’s not always fair.’
‘We’re here to investigate the death of Elizabeth Wetherington, also known as Daisy.’
‘She was always going to come to a sticky end.’
‘Why?’
‘She’s out at all hours, and then she has the occasional man over. I can hear them going at it from here.’
‘No doubt they can hear you.’
‘Not me. My clients, they’re special.’
Isaac knew they were not. Special clients do not visit rundown flats that smell of sewage and cheap perfume.
‘Did you see or hear anything last night?’
‘Not me.’
‘On your own?’
‘Don’t ask me his name.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know it.’
‘You’re occupied for thirty minutes, and then he leaves.’
‘I give my men a good time. It’s more than a quick screw with me and out of the door. You’re a good-looking man, I could give you a special rate.’
‘We’re here to discuss Daisy. How well did you know her?’
‘Not that well. We’d talk outside on the landing, sometimes.’
‘Her flatmate?’
‘Gwendoline, she calls herself. You’d think she was a fairy with a name like that. A right tart.’
‘Why do you call her a tart? You’re here selling yourself.’
‘Daisy was bad enough, but her flatmate is worse.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was coming back here one night with a gentleman friend, and there she was on the stairs, her skirt hitched up around her arse, a drunk going for dear life. My friend, he wanted to leave, but I made him come in, gave him a special treat.’
Isaac did not want to hear what the special treat was. ‘Last night, when you weren’t taking one of your gentlemen friends to paradise and back, did you hear anything unusual?’
‘Not me. I’ve no idea what time the two of them came home, or who they were with. That’s the honest truth.’
Both Isaac and Larry weren’t convinced they had been told the full truth, but there was no more to be gained in the flat, and the smell was becoming nauseous. ‘We’ll take you out of here if you want,’ Larry said.
‘Don’t bother. I’ve got someone coming over later.’
***
At the police station, Wendy sat with Gwendoline. A café across the road had sent over a full English breakfast, which the flatmate was devouring as if she hadn’t eaten a decent meal for a long time.
‘Gwendoline, what’s your real name?’ Wendy asked.
‘Kate Bellamy.’
‘Your age?’
‘Is this necessary?’
‘I’m afraid it is. You were in the flat when your flatmate was murdered.’
‘I didn’t kill her.’
‘We’ve discounted you for the present. What can you tell us about last night?’
‘Not a lot. It was a quiet night, just a couple of men.’
‘Barely enough to pay the rent?’
‘It’ll be better tonight, but now I’ve got to find somewhere to live.’
‘Do you have anywhere?’
‘One of the other women on the street, she’s looking for someone to share.’
‘And the flat where you are now?’
‘It was in Daisy’s name. I just paid my share. The landlord’s not going to have much success claiming the rent from her.’
‘He may ask you to pay.’
‘If he’s a nuisance, I’ll pay him off.’
‘With money?’
‘What do you think?’
Wendy had found in Daisy a vulnerable person destroyed by drugs. She wasn’t so sure of Gwendoline. The woman was a drug addict, her arms testament to the fact, but with a full stomach, she was no longer showing the signs of severe addiction.
‘Daisy was killed, which means someone must have entered your flat, walked along the hallway outside of your door, killed her, and then walked past your door again on the way out.’
‘What do you want me to say?’
‘I want you to tell me the truth. I want to know if you heard anything?’
‘Sometimes Daisy has someone over. Sometimes I do. We mind each other’s business. There was a noise, about two in the morning.’
‘How do you know the time.’
‘I’m giving you the facts I can remember. Whether they’re accurate or not, I wouldn’t know.’
‘Why not?’
‘Daisy and me, we’re night owls. When it’s dark, we go out to work. I had come home early for once, but I’m going nowhere, and besides, I’m not feeling so good.’
‘Any reason?’
‘I don’t feel good a lot of times.’
‘You’ve seen a doctor?’
‘What for? He’ll only tell me what to do.’
‘And what’s wrong with that?’
‘I’ve got to earn a living. I don’t have time for healthy food and exercise, and I’m not going to get off my back and find an honest job.’
‘Is it better to have a sweaty man on top of you than a regular job?’
‘The money’s better.’
‘The way you live doesn’t show it.’
‘Maybe it doesn’t, but I’ve got a problem.’
‘The same as Daisy, heroin.’
‘She was crazy for it. I’m not so bad. If someone had snuck into her room last night, she wouldn’t have known.’
‘How would they have got into the flat?’
‘How did you?’
‘The key under the mat.’
‘Sometimes we come home, can’t remember where the key is, sometimes without a handbag.’
‘Why?’
‘Some of the men, they aren’t so good. They don’t want to pay, see us as tarts, and either they hit us, or they take our handbags, phones, as well.’
‘Rough life?’
‘You get used to it. What else do you want? I saw nothing, did nothing. Daisy’s dead, she’s not the first one that’s died.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Drugs. It’ll kill me eventually.’
‘I could get treatment for you.’
‘Don’t bother. I need to get into my room, get my clothes.’
‘I’ll take you back, and then take you where you want to go.’
‘The police, they’re not like you. Some of them move us on, some of them take liberties.’
‘They’d be liable to internal discipline if they were discovered.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll not tell you who they are.’
Chapter 10
Seth Caddick sat in his office and looked out of the window. His conversation with Commissioner Davies had left him perplexed. He knew the man would not protect him, and it was up to him to secure his position. He enjoyed the rank of detective superintendent, and that everyone called him sir, except Isaac Cook, who was liable to forget.
‘Chloe,’ he called out through the open door. Caddick’s secretary came in.
‘You wanted me,’ she said. Caddick had brought her in from his previous station. The opportunity to appoint someone local had been there, but who in the Met could be trusted. Chloe, he knew, was as loyal to him as she was to her job.
‘Wendy Gladstone. We’ve got to remove Cook’s support mechanism.’
‘A medical?’
‘When’s it due?’
‘Two months.’
‘Bring it forward. Four weeks’ time, and then I want her retired due to health reasons.’
‘You’ll need to give her notice of the medical.’
‘Then do it today and make the appointment. I want a full check-up, no letting her pass because she’s getting old. After that, we’l
l go for Larry Hill. He’s not looking so good.’
‘He looks fine to me,’ Chloe said.
‘He was badly beaten before. It must have had some effect.’
‘Can’t you just remove DCI Cook?’
‘It’s better to follow the procedure, and besides, I need him to wrap up the murder of James Holden.’
‘And the women who’ve been killed.’
‘Two whores. They don’t matter.’
‘Be careful. Helen Langdon was well connected.’
‘How? She murdered Adamant, bedded Saint Holden, destroyed his reputation. There’ll not be much interest in her.’
***
James Holden had been a complicated man. A man whose inner demons tormented him, the occasional urge to give in to temptation. Violet, his wife, had recognised it early in their marriage; she had decided not to allow it to destroy the love she had for the man, the inherent goodness in him.
After the first time, and each and every time after that, he had come to her and confessed. Not that she wanted to hear, but she knew that with honesty comes respect, even love. And now the facts were out. He had been with another woman, a now-dead prostitute by the name of Daisy, and there it was, emblazoned across the television. She had seen the black policeman, Isaac Cook, waylaid on his way out of the building where the woman had died. His inability to avoid making a statement, offering the usual platitudes: unable to make a comment at this stage, investigations are ongoing, charges will be laid soon.
Violet wondered who the charges would be laid against. Would it be her son? He had the anger, but why a prostitute of no importance? And there was Helen. She had a past history, and somehow it was tied to this other woman. It concerned Violet, having seen her son John’s fits of violence as a child, the pulling off of a butterfly’s wings, the senseless killing of a cat that had strayed into the garden, the embarrassment of explaining to the neighbours that she and James were not sure where they had gone wrong.
Violet remembered John’s anger when Helen had rejected him. She realised the signs were there all along, the glances between James and Helen, brushing against each other in the office, the whispered conversations. She had wanted to confront her husband, but she had not. After all, hadn’t he been honest in the past. And now, the man was dead, as was Helen. Was it the first time James had slept with Helen? Violet thought, and why had Helen not wanted her son? He was a man more her age, a man who would have given Helen children, yet the woman had wanted older men, men with one foot in the grave. Men who would die from a hammer blow to the head, and now from a bullet. If Helen had not died, Violet would have thought her responsible for James’s demise. It could not be her, but it could be John. She hoped it was not.
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2 Page 7