Larry believed that crime was the most likely reason for the place being leased. There was a forwarding address for the mail, but that had drawn a blank.
Janice Robinson was now occupying more of Homicide’s time than the Jane Doe. Larry was glad of the opportunity to be on his own, to use his initiative. It was clear that the village would offer no more clues, but why an expensive car was in the garage concerned him.
Only one group of people had money to waste: drug people. Not those taking them, like the Robinsons’ daughter, but those who imported and sold them, and they were dangerous, and usually none too subtle about who they killed and how.
The possibility remained that the woman in the village and the body in the cemetery were one and the same. And if she had been in the village with an older man, that suggested a relationship: adulterous, platonic, or otherwise.
Larry finished his coffee and headed back to London; village life had never suited him, too quiet. The hustle and bustle of the metropolis was more to his taste, even though the coffee he had just drunk was excellent, and the pub sold his favourite beer. Not that he would taste it this time; he had the bit between his teeth and there was something he needed to check out.
***
Winston’s admission that he had paid for Janice Robinson's services hadn’t advanced the murder enquiry; its only function was to cause embarrassment and a probable end to the burgeoning romance of Brad and Rose, who still met at the school, snatched moments during the breaks, whispered conversations.
At the school, a low-key police presence, two police constables aiming to blend in; failing miserably.
One of the two, Constable Ecclestone, complained whenever Wendy spoke to him. ‘A rabble and they’re trading drugs in the playground. In my day…’
In his day, Wendy knew, they would have been doing precisely the same, but now weapons were a more significant issue, especially knives and knuckle dusters. The miserable and negative constable was right, but that was something to deal with another day.
‘Anyone strange?’ Wendy said. ‘Remember, we’ve got two murders now. We don’t want a third, or you and I will be up before the chief superintendent, and he doesn’t appreciate failure.’
‘I heard that he and DCI Cook are friends.’
‘You’ve heard right. However, in the superintendent’s office, it’s business, not pleasure. Have you seen anything?’
‘Robinson’s mother was here, not for long, and the girl’s father waited outside for her, said a few words and left.’
‘When?’
‘At 2.46 p.m. today, not long before you arrived.’
‘Any idea what they were talking about?’
‘I couldn’t get that close. It looked serious, but there was no shouting.’
‘Their children see a murder, and then Brad’s sister dies.’
‘I knew her.’
‘How?’
‘Not as a client; no help needed there.’
Wendy squirmed at the man’s comment. Why was it, she thought, that men wanted to brag to female police officers? What was different? Or was it shock value, the fact that a female police officer had seen it or heard it all before, and they wouldn’t say anything or react? Whatever it was, she didn’t like it.
‘How?’
‘Before she was up at Sunbeam Crescent, she used to hang out down by the canal. There’s a dark stretch down there where the street lights don’t penetrate. They used to think they were safe from us, but they weren’t. We knew their tricks, and we’d pick up one or two of a weekend to let them know it as well.’
‘Not all of them?’
‘What would it achieve? Some of them were too far out of it to know what was going on, no money to pay the fine either. But Janice, she was smarter than most. She always came willingly, fronted the magistrate, fluttered her eyes, wiggled her hips, cried about her habit and a mother who didn’t understand.’
‘Assuming half of what you just said is true, what’s the point of the story?’
‘Nothing. She’d get a fine, a slap on the wrist, be back in another month or two. Sometimes we’d not arrest her.’
‘A knee-trembler up against a wall?’
‘Not us,’ Ecclestone said. ‘Nothing like that.’
If he didn’t, Wendy knew, he would have been unique. She didn’t believe him for one minute.
***
Isaac entered the gates of Maidstone Prison. It’s main claim to fame was that its exterior had been used in the opening sequences of the TV comedy series Porridge. It was Category C, a closed prison for those who couldn’t be trusted in an open prison but were unlikely to escape. It wasn’t his first time in the place, but the first time visiting Jim Robinson.
Suspects for the murder of his sister were worryingly few. Apart from Winston, nobody else had been found, and Wendy’s attempt at a door-to-door on the street of Janice’s bedsit had turned out to be as Larry had described – a waste of time, in that those who knew something weren’t talking, and those who didn’t were only too ready to waste police time.
It was clear that Jim Robinson was regarded well in prison and where the two men met was more pleasant than the usual meeting room assigned at most prisons. They shook hands, went through the usual pleasantries, spoke about the weather. Jim was adamant that he was going straight this time. Isaac took the ‘going straight comment in the manner given but didn’t believe he would. Jim Robinson, for all his charm and good intentions, was a habitual criminal and not very good at that. However, that was not the reason for the visit.
‘Jim, your sister. I need to know what happened in your home,’ Isaac said. He had already given a carton of cigarettes to the man who didn’t smoke but could use them as collateral, and a box of chocolates, Jim’s favourite, which the prisoner would keep for himself.
‘Our mother, you’ve met her,’ Jim said as he opened the chocolates, took one for himself, offered one to Isaac which he declined. He could buy them at any supermarket, Jim couldn’t.
‘Unable to cope?’
‘And some. Our father, when he was around, kept the place under control, but he was a hard man, a bastard, in that he’d drink and then start getting violent. Hit me a few times, as well as Brad, and Mum had more than a few black eyes.’
‘Did he abuse Janice?’
‘Not Janice. Don’t believe our mother; not that she was innocent on all counts.’
‘You knew?’
‘Some of the men in the house weren’t there out of love. Brad was too young to understand, and Janice could be naïve, even when she started to develop, but I was older.’
What did you do about it?’
‘There wasn’t much I could do when I was younger, and later I ended up spending more time away, courtesy of Her Majesty.’
‘Your father looked at Janice as more than a daughter?’
‘I told you, don’t listen to my mother. If he had looked at Janice, it would have been out of admiration, not lust. His problem was that he would get drunk and then violent. I dealt with him that night, never saw him again, no idea where he is.’
‘No idea?’
‘I’d prefer not to know, and I haven’t seen him, not since that night.’
‘Where can I find him? It’s important.’
‘Not sure why, but try Canning Town, out to the east of the city.’
‘A phone number, address?’
‘Ask around. I only heard that he was there, can’t remember who told me and that’s the truth. Why’s this important?’
‘Apart from one customer who’s not the murderer, we haven’t anyone else to pin her death on.’
‘She was always going to come to an unfortunate end, our Janice. Our mother was right about that, one of the few times, though.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Janice was gullible, used to watch that nonsense on the television, get herself upset, want to do something about it.’
‘What sort of nonsense?’
‘The st
arving, the downtrodden, the needy. We were all of those three as children, not much better now, apart from Brad. He’s got a chance.’
‘And you?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector, out there, no one’s going to give me a decent job, and why should they? A prison record, no qualifications.’
‘You could get qualifications, learn computers.’
‘Dyslexic. I’ll try to stay out of trouble, but it runs in the family. No violence, not from Brad or me; our father was the exception.’
‘I’ll give him your best wishes when I find him.’
‘Don’t bother, and what do you hope to gain?’
‘I need to know who else spent time with your mother and your sister. He might be able to help.’
‘DCI, leave well alone. Don’t rake over old coals. The past is just that, long gone. What happened to us, what happened to Janice, won’t bring her back.’
‘We can’t leave her murder unpunished.’
‘It would be better if you did. We’ll remember her in our own way, remember the young girl.’
Isaac slipped a fifty-pound note across to Robinson as he left; he hoped he would use it wisely.
Chapter 10
Kensal Green Cemetery. A hunch. It wasn’t often that Larry saw things so clearly. He was a methodical police officer: follow the process, talk to people, move forward. Yet, as he had sat in the coffee shop in Godstone, looking over at the house, it had seemed more evident to him.
He walked over to the gravestone, looked at it, looked for the imperceptible. If the subterfuge of the couple who had leased the house in the village was so good, then a random killing at the cemetery made no sense.
Brad and Rose had only walked through a small part of the cemetery which was extensive, stretching almost a mile to the west and still within the cemetery boundary, sixty-five thousand graves.
Larry studied the grave where the woman had died. He hadn’t had lunch, no food since breakfast at home, but it didn’t seem important, not now.
He took a photo of the headstone with his smartphone; took a slow amble around the cemetery, not totally sure of where he was heading, confident that it was important.
The first clue, the numbers of the plots fronting the path painted on the kerb. The first number he saw belonged to a sadly-neglected grave dating back to the 1830s, the woman’s name almost erased due to weathering over the years. Even so, a sad-looking bunch of flowers was placed on it. He couldn’t believe that a descendant still remembered, although sometimes well-meaning people felt the need to remember the lost forgotten. The number, freshly painted in black on a white background – 12813.
As he walked, he observed the numbers rising in steps of three, which meant one grave fronting the path, one behind, and another behind that. An intersection, and a new set of numbers to the left and the right. He chose the last two digits, realising that they indicated the area of the cemetery; laid out in a grid, he supposed.
The area he was looking for was 73. He kept walking, eventually finding it at the western extremity, just before the cemetery gate exit onto Scrubs Lane.
From there, he chose left, the last two digits remaining the same, the other three slowly heading in the right direction.
He looked around, realised that this was the most neglected part of the cemetery and rarely visited. There were no flowers here, barely a headstone, other than those that had fallen down. He presumed that in time, and if someone was willing to pay the twenty-two thousand pounds needed to purchase a plot, some of the bodies would be coming up; so much for the dearly departed, he thought.
When his time came, a cremation, his ashes scattered on the garden where they would do some good.
An elaborate and costly funeral had been more important in the distant past, before the advent of the motor vehicle, the upwardly mobile population, post-Christianity, and the suburb of Kensal Green wouldn’t have been the bustling hive of activity that it was now.
He had come this far; now wasn’t the time to give in. He counted the rows in three, figured that 15973 was four rows down, the second grave in. The date that the occupant of the grave at the murder site had died, 15th September 1873, correlating with another grave’s plot number.
He could see the grave, or what little remained of it. The ground was wet and soggy; he removed his shoes, knowing that they would make a more significant imprint.
Underfoot was cold, and he regretted his decision. At the grave, he looked around. 1902, the year of burial, a man of fifty-six, of this parish., Larry was sure that Archibald Vincent wouldn’t be concerned with his ferreting around, not that he could do much about it if he was.
On one side of the grave, the most neglected, the stonework broken in places, he found nothing. At the bottom of the grave, the same result.
The headstone, which had fallen over, he carefully lifted a few inches. It was heavier than he expected, and he dropped it, not seeing anything obvious, the damp soil cushioning the headstone, not cracking it. On the far side, the dampest and the least inviting, he couldn’t see anything.
‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ he said as he put one foot on the soft soil, sinking into it almost up to his ankle. He pulled his foot back, took stock of the situation, debated with himself as to whether he should continue or wait for another day. His wife was going to give him hell for coming home dirty.
A man shouted to him from the path. ‘What are you doing?’ he said. He was dressed in green overalls, a badge on his breast pocket.
‘Inspector Larry Hill, Challis Street Police Station,’ Larry shouted back.
‘You won’t find anything in there. Dead a long time.’
It was clear that the man, short and overweight, with a round face and an even rounder belly, enjoyed the humour of the situation. But then, why shouldn’t he, Larry thought. Death’s a sad time for most, but for a cemetery employee and a police officer, it was commonplace.
‘We’re investigating the body on the grave over the other side.’
‘And you think you’ll find something there?’
‘I think that I might. Does anybody come down here?’
‘People at the weekend out for some exercise, the occasional dog on a leash, not that we encourage it, always a mess to clear up afterwards. Some can’t read the notices, or if they can, they take no notice.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Now that you mention it, I can remember someone down here ten or eleven days ago. A rum sort of fellow, didn’t want to talk, took no notice of me, not that he was causing any trouble, just walking around the graves. It was drier back then; didn’t make such a fool of himself as you are.’
‘This grave?’
‘Probably. In fact, I’m certain that it was.’
‘Stay where you are. I’m coming out.’
Larry looked where to place his other foot, to extricate himself. In one corner, at the angle between the far side and the headstone, a large rock under the soil that had been exposed by his moving around.
‘I found something,’ Larry said.
‘I’ll be over, give you a hand.’
‘Stay where you are. This could be a crime scene.’
Larry carefully moved the rock to one side. ‘There’s something underneath,’ he shouted to the man in the overalls. ‘I’d suggest you backtrack the way you came, just in case.’
‘As you say, but after so much rain, you can’t expect much.’
Larry did.
***
Due to the relatively low-key nature of the site, one uniform had arrived, put crime scene tape in place to prevent entry to the area of the grave, and asked the cemetery employee to close off both entrances to the path; not difficult as there were boom gates installed. It was just a case of lowering them and securing them with a padlock.
Larry had dried his feet, wrung out his socks after washing them in a basin in a hut in the cemetery grounds. A bar heater, not very safe, but efficient, managed to take the socks from sopping wet to damp and
warm.
After close to fifteen minutes, the first of the CSIs to arrive, Grant Meston, a good man in Larry’s estimation, removed the rock. Crime scene stepping plates had been placed from the path to the grave, and it was Meston, Larry and the cemetery employee who stood watching as the other CSI took the rock and put it into a large bag. It was evidence, even if to the layman it was just an inanimate object of no value. That was how the employee saw it, but then he was a manual labourer, not paid very much, probably didn’t do very much either, judging by the general condition of the cemetery and the untidy state of his hut.
The rock removed, the CSI withdrew a box. It was metal, in good condition, and blue.
‘Nothing special,’ Meston said. ‘What’s inside is important.’
Larry knew they would not find that out at the site. Forensics would take that responsibility, subjecting the box to a drying process, water ingression was a probability. Whatever happened, it would be twelve to fourteen hours before any clues were revealed.
It was, however, excellent police work, and Isaac had been on the phone to congratulate him, as had Chief Superintendent Goddard.
Larry was pleased with himself; he only hoped his wife would be, considering that his previously black, shiny leather shoes were now a shade of mud grey.
***
In the interim, Larry returned to Challis Street. He was behind on his paperwork, the bane of any police offficer; a vital component of modern policing, Chief Superintendent Goddard would say. But then he was a political animal, careful to say the right words, anxious to let his superiors know as to how professional those under his command were, not that it helped with the Met’s commissioner sitting in his office at Scotland Yard. The man had taken an instant dislike to Goddard and had tried to unseat him on more than one occasion, succeeding briefly once, careful not to repeat the mistake of having to rescind the order and to have Goddard placed back in his old position.
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