‘So, if we find the murderer, he sleeps better at night.’
‘He does.’
‘I’ll accept that you’re doing all you can, but it’s not good enough. It won’t be long before I’m under pressure again. You got me a stay of execution last time. By the way, thanks for that, a good report that you all put together.’
‘Sir,’ Wendy said, ‘I’ve still got a concern about Brad Robinson and his mother, Rose Winston and her parents.’
‘You’re keeping a watch on them?’
‘We are, but we’ve pulled the uniforms, no budget, and the threat level has abated.’
‘That’s what they say with the idiots killing in the name of their religion. The threat is downgraded, and then another one of them pops up, kills a few bystanders, people on their way to work. Still, you’re right about the budget. And besides, don’t you believe that the woman died as a result of a disgruntled customer, the father at the hands of hoodies?’
‘In part, failing further information. It makes no sense to kill those two just because the youngest of the family had seen the murderer in the cemetery.’
‘No more than the grave and this woman,’ Goddard said as he got up to leave. ‘That aside, keep a watch on the two families. If anything happens, we’re open to criticism and censure, and Commissioner Davies will have a field day laying the blame on this department and my handling of the murder investigation.’
Wendy understood the rationale in pulling back the protection from the two families. However, it didn’t abate her concern. She hoped they were safe, but she wasn’t sure, nobody could be. And if anything happened to any of them, not only would it be doom for the chief superintendent and her DCI, it would leave her with a strong feeling of guilt. If that day came, it wouldn’t be her health that decided when she would be retiring, it would be her as she handed in her resignation.
***
Wendy had come into Homicide as a constable before being promoted to sergeant on Isaac’s recommendation. Up in Sheffield, a junior constable, she had honed a skill for finding truanting children, some because running away had an aura of romanticism, others because of an abusive parent.
It had been a good period in her life, away from the confines of a remote farmhouse, a drudging life, a father she had loved, a mother she always felt distant from.
In her first couple of years in Yorkshire, and in uniform, a few romances, a lot of alcohol, and a broken heart after one man, a sergeant at the station and three years her senior, had blabbed about their night together.
She had heard the details from a friend, seen the sniggering at the station, not unexpected as the police back then were openly chauvinistic, no political correctness to deter them.
Inspector Dermot Loughlin had regretted putting his hand up her skirt in his office, closing the door with one foot and pushing her up against a filing cabinet with such force that some papers stacked high on top fell to the ground.
‘Don’t worry, love, you can pick them up afterwards,’ he had said.
It had been late at night, an emotional time for the young constable because of a recent case. A child, Helen Moxon, she had found hiding out in a squat in Attercliffe, a suburb to the east of the city centre. A frumpish fifteen-year-old with a horrific story of how her mother beat her and her father sexually abused her.
Helen Moxon was critical of her parents in the court, glaring at them; the mother in her Sunday best, a peach-coloured dress, a smile that excited the magistrate, a sour-faced old goat, Wendy thought. And the father, dressed in a business suit, upright, distinguished military record, a local government employee, a respected man.
Social services, weak and ineffectual, represented by a woman just six months after she’d received her degree at a university in Sussex and who hadn’t prepared, and in the end Helen Moxon was returned to the care of her parents.
Two days later, she was dead, the result of a beating from both parents; the sexual abuse confirmed by the pathologist.
And then Loughlin was pushing Wendy, rubbing his groin up and down her, trying to get her to relax. She grabbed the nearest heavy object, a coffee percolator, and smashed it on his head. He fell to the ground, unconscious, and she ended up on suspension.
Two months later, she was reinstated after another officer, an inspector who had more chivalrous ideas on how to treat women, came forward in her defence.
No apology was ever forthcoming, and the amorous inspector had returned to the station, demoted to sergeant. Nine months later, he was back to his old rank, and Wendy was in London.
Even now, many years later, she would occasionally wake up and remember the look on the young woman’s face as she got into the back seat of the family car.
And now, Rose Winston, loved by her parents, was at risk, as was her boyfriend, Brad. As cold as it was outside, and as much as her legs hurt, and would more before the day was out, she was determined to find the Asian woman.
In Notting Hill and Holland Park, and up to Bayswater, she entered each shop that could have been of interest to Analyn. Gwen Pritchard was with her; she was being brought into the department on an as needs basis, which was most of the time, as was Kate Baxter, who would take some of Bridget’s workload.
Wendy focussed more on the area from the house towards Notting Hill; Gwen Pritchard up towards Bayswater.
Three hours later, the two women met for lunch; neither had had any success. Wendy chose chicken, Gwen kept to a salad. The restaurant on Holland Park Avenue had a good reputation, but neither of the women had been there before; it was also moderately priced, which came as a surprise. The two felt they were entitled to a brandy – purely medicinal, they joked.
The waitress, in her thirties, a pleasant smile, tattoos covered by a long-sleeved tunic, brought over the brandies, Wendy and Gwen thanking the woman who stayed transfixed to the spot.
‘What is it?’ Wendy asked.
‘The photo.’
An enlarged photo of Analyn was clearly visible where Gwen had put down her copy.
‘I know her,’ the waitress said.
‘You better take a seat. We’ve been trying to find this woman for some time. What do you know about her?’
‘I’m busy, and the manager is not an easy woman, fire me in an instant, what with my background.’
Wendy left the table, went over to where an ever-smiling red-haired woman stood next to the cash register and explained the situation.
‘We help where we can,’ the woman said, the smile waning. ‘Do our bit to bring in people who’ve fallen by the wayside, help them to regain their self-esteem.’
‘Do you own this place?’
‘I do.’
‘We need to talk to your waitress; she doesn’t want to neglect her duties.’
‘Tell her it’s fine.’
Wendy knew two things: employing the fallen, recently released felons, those deemed at risk, came with tax benefits and they were cheaper to hire, and secondly, the woman didn’t care for the waitress, probably for nobody.
‘It’s fine,’ Wendy said as she returned.
‘Not here, not in the restaurant. If you don’t mind eating elsewhere, I can tell you what I know.’
The food was good, so were the brandies, so much so that Wendy had a second one. The three sat off to one side of the kitchen in an area that could have been pleasant but was full of drums of cooking oil, racks of vegetables, and an industrial-sized freezer at one end. Neither Wendy nor Gwen were complaining, and the owner had made her presence known by popping in, touching the waitress, Meredith Temple, on the shoulder, telling her not to worry, and the meals were on the house, no cost, not to our excellent police.
A pretence, Wendy knew.
‘Meredith, your story?’ Gwen said.
‘I wouldn’t have told you, not if you had shown me the picture. It was just a reaction on my part, not that I have anything to be ashamed of.’
‘We’re sure you don’t,’ Wendy said. ‘Maybe it’s best if you sta
rt from the beginning.’
‘I went off the rails, drugs and bad men, a tale you’ve heard before.’
‘Too often.’
‘Anyway, a man who I thought cared for me, but didn’t, threw me out on to the street. This was four years ago, and I’ve never been a shrinking violet, no issues with men, lots of them, but I was willing to settle down.
‘He had been a good bet, financially sound, had his own business, a restaurant. That’s where I learnt about waitressing, although it doesn’t take much skill, just remember the orders, don’t spill the food and drink over the patrons, and make sure they’re in and out quick enough, so you get more in. That’s her creed, her out the front. All smiles when you’re paying, as miserable as sin if you work for her, not that she pays for the overtime either.’
‘You could register a complaint.’
‘Not worth the bother, and besides, I’m not staying. I’m three-quarters through a degree, a local council initiative. With my background, I’ll have no problem getting a job in social services, a homeless shelter, a woman’s refuge, helping women to stop selling themselves.’
‘You were one of them?’
‘Sort of, not that I need rehabilitating; I did that in prison. As I was saying, I was out on the street, nowhere to go. I had some money, but no skills, and nowadays everyone wants computer experts or at least someone handy enough with them.’
‘In prison?’ Gwen said, reminding the woman who clearly wanted to give her life story that the woman in the photo was all-important.
‘I had been an escort once or twice, so it didn’t concern me to enter the brothel. Neat and tidy, regular medical checks, condoms, a couple of men to deal with anyone who got out of control and started roughing up the woman, half-throttling them as if it was some sexual elixir, and then there were the perverts, the deviants, who wanted you to do things that’d make your hair curl.’
Not mine, Wendy thought. Hers was curly enough, and besides, she had heard similar stories before.
‘I stayed there for four months, saved up some money and went out on my own. Good money, decent men who paid well, and some of them even knew what they were doing.’
‘The photo?’ Gwen said.
‘There were other women there. One of them was the woman in the photo.’
‘Analyn?’
‘She didn’t use that name. She was there for a couple of weeks and disappeared, not that she ever fitted in.’
‘Why?’
‘She was clean, no drugs. She was popular, made decent money, but it was forced, as if she did it because she had to, as though she felt shame.’
‘You didn’t?’
‘Never have, not really.’
‘Any idea what happened to her?’
‘Not after she left.’
‘An address for the brothel?’
‘Don’t say it was me that sent you. That’s the past, I’d prefer not to revisit it, and I’ve found myself another man. He’d not want to know the sordid details.’
Wendy scrolled through the images on her phone, Meredith looking over her shoulder.
‘I know her,’ Meredith said.
‘Janice Robinson.’
‘Yes, Janice. I was friendly with her, although she was worse than me. Drugs, that was her problem, unable to keep away from them.’
‘And you?’
‘It wasn’t so difficult. A good place in my life and they didn’t seem important, but Janice…’
Wendy continued to scroll, Meredith looking more closely than before.
‘Stop. That one,’ Meredith said. ‘I know her.’
‘We’ve not found anyone who has met her before,’ Gwen said. ‘How come you do.’
‘She didn’t work in the brothel, but she knew the woman in charge. Sometimes she’d come in, look around, never spoke to any of the girls.’
‘Her name?’
‘I never heard it mentioned. She was an attractive woman, spoke well, could have made good money, but it’s not everyone’s idea of employment. Better than waitressing, though. Anything’s better than that.’
‘She’s dead, Kensal Green Cemetery. We need you at Challis Street for an interview. You, Meredith Temple, are an important person.’
‘Square it with her outside.’
‘By the way, what were you in prison for?’
‘I had this client who should have known better. He starts getting demonstrative, sprouting the bible at me, Sodom and Gomorrah, blaming me for his inability to get it up. I push him off the bed, and he bangs his head on the floor, suffers internal bleeding of the brain and dies in hospital. They said I had purposely banged his head on the floor, not that I did.
‘I’m sentenced for involuntary manslaughter, and then the man’s estranged wife turns up at her local police station, says that she’s been overseas in Nepal or some other place, explains that her husband had been diagnosed years before as susceptible to an aneurysm. No idea why it didn’t come out at the trial in the first place, but then a prostitute, a lawyer for a client – what could you expect?’
‘No more,’ Wendy said.
Chapter 18
Wendy wasn’t a fan of football, but her husband had been, the reason she had been to Wembley Stadium on a few occasions, the first time back in the eighties, and more recently on 17th May 2008, the FA cup final between Portsmouth and Cardiff City, with Portsmouth winning 1-0, the winning goal kicked by Nwankwo Kanu.
The stadium loomed large as Wendy and Sergeant Garry Hopwood from the local police station – she had informed them out of courtesy, not wanting to encroach on the station’s area of operation – drew up outside the address that Meredith Temple said had been operating as a brothel.
Entering a brothel came with certain risks, and too many brothels, even those close to Challis Street, were involved in the selling of illegal drugs.
It was intended to be low-key, just the two sergeants, but Hopwood's senior, a bully of a man with pudgy hands, a tie off-centre, and perspiring, had been adamant. ‘No going in there unless all bases are covered,’ he had said.
He was right, Wendy knew, and Detective Inspector Con Waverton had a good reputation, even if he was unpopular.
At the rear of the premises, a three-storey terrace, two uniforms waited for those who’d be dashing out, not wanting to be caught, their names to be taken.
It was ten in the evening, the busiest time of the day.
Meredith Temple had been at Challis Street from two in the afternoon until six in the evening. During that time, she had given a statement, scanned through hundreds of photos of women of the night. Apart from a couple of women, she hadn’t been able to identify anyone, other than to say that Eastern European women, mainly from Ukraine, were flooding in, and some of them were underage, and that the Asians were being pushed out to the more disreputable premises.
Larry had the address of a third English woman that had been at the brothel. He intended to visit her.
Waverton stood away from the front of the brothel, not far from a pub. Wendy knew where he would be heading afterwards, successful or not.
Garry Hopwood knocked at the door, showed his warrant card; Wendy showing hers as well.
‘What do you want?’ an elderly woman said. Her hair was piled high and dyed a shade of blue. She wore a frilled white blouse, a short blue skirt and tottered on stiletto heels.
‘Running a brothel’s illegal,’ Hopwood said.
Waverton should have taken the lead, which made Wendy think that the man was willing to take a backhander to look the other way, a freebie at a house of ill repute.
Once the murders had been solved, she’d pass on her suspicions to her DCI. She wasn’t at the house to make arrests, only to find out who the dead woman was and where Analyn was.
‘So’s lying to the police,’ Wendy said. She went in the door, walking to the end of the long hallway, ensuring the back door was locked, removing the key.
There was no doubt what was going on in the building. Ther
e was a distinct rustling upstairs, the men with their peccadilloes exposed, their marriages about to blow asunder.
‘I’ve lived here for twelve years, never a complaint,’ the woman said. It wasn’t true; Wendy had checked.
A man dashed out from a room to the left and made for the back door. He didn’t get far, turning on the spot, aiming to get past the three standing in his way. ‘I can’t be found here,’ he said.
‘We’ll need a statement,’ Hopwood said to him.
‘I can’t.’
‘If you and the others could make yourselves comfortable, we won’t take long.’
Two more police officers came in through the front door, showed the madam the search warrant. They climbed the stairs; a search for drugs was underway.
‘Your name?’ Wendy asked.
‘Gwendoline.’
‘Your real name.’
‘Mary Wilton.’
‘Now Mrs Wilton, or is it Ms?’
‘Mrs will do.’
‘You had two women working here, one of them was Janice Robinson, the other was Meredith Temple.’
‘There’s not much point in denying it, is there?’
‘None. Drugs here?’
‘It’s clean.’
Wendy thought it probably was. Apart from the house being used illegally, it was in good condition.
‘We know of another English woman. Any more?’
‘Not these days, and besides, they’re bad news. Drugs, they can’t keep off them. Janice and Meredith couldn’t.’
‘Nationalities here?’ Hopwood asked.
‘Eastern European, one Thai, two Vietnamese.’
‘Financial refugees?’
‘I don’t check. All I know is that they give me less trouble than the locals. And believe me, that’s the last thing we need. Enough with some of the men who come through the door.’
‘You’ve a couple of men here if there’s any trouble?’
‘You’re remarkably well-informed. Who was it? Janice? Meredith?’
‘Neither. Meredith’s straightened herself out, no longer selling herself, and Janice is dead.’
‘Drugs?’
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2 Page 137