‘She cleaned in other houses. Maybe she had seen something, mentioned it to Amelia Brice. And then Brice attempted to use it to her advantage. The woman’s morals were suspect.’
‘Sleeping with men she picks up at the pub is not analogous to bribery and extortion.’
‘Agreed, although she may have mentioned it to someone else who had no issues with extortion.’
‘Bridget, what do we know about where Christine Devon worked?’ Isaac asked.
‘She had been cleaning houses for nine years. Before that, she had worked in a clothing factory.’
‘The clothing factory, is it still there?’
‘It’s located in China now.’
‘Okay, so she’s a casualty of the need to produce somewhere cheaper. After that, cleaning?’
‘We have copies of her tax returns with details. Since the clothing factory, only cleaning.’
Chapter 8
Two people remained worried: Billy Devon and his sister, Charisa. Their mother was dead at the hands of persons unknown and their brother, Samuel, at the hands of one of the gangs in the area. Both of them knew that Billy had almost fallen under a gang’s influence a few years earlier, but his mother had firmly taken control of him, clipping him around the ears a few times when he came in late or was abusive. It had worked with him, but then he was as strong-willed as his mother, and the idea of petty crime and ganja had never attracted him. His brother, he assumed, took after their father, although neither he nor his brother remembered him. Charisa, his sister, was also strong and wanting to leave England, and Billy knew he would then be alone.
Charisa had had trouble with the gangs in the past, with their attempts to accost her as she walked down the road to the place that had been home, although it was never cosy, more utilitarian. It was a depressing building, its communal areas graffitied, its attempt at a garden outside littered with dog faeces and old syringes. On some nights, if it was dark, Charisa had stayed with a friend, or in more recent times with her boyfriend. Her mother hadn’t approved, but as the young woman had said, ‘What’s worse? My being mugged, even raped, or sleeping with the man I love?’
Christine Devon had told them of some of the places where she cleaned – their beauty, their affluence, their ease with which the owners left their valuables on display.
Billy knew that his mother had never touched anything, although Samuel had thought her crazy, and was none too subtle in his comments. Billy reflected on Samuel, four years younger than him. At fifteen, he had already been in a couple of gang fights: a group on one side hurling insults and brandishing knives; the other gang following suit. On one of the two occasions, one of the gang members had been killed. That was the time for all of those so-called brave men to vanish into the ether, the body left where it was.
And afterwards came the taunting, across the street, by graffiti, or by phone, about when revenge would be exacted. Billy had seen it as pointless; Samuel thought it made sense, even told his mother so once, and she had sent him to his room. Not that it did much good; the young man was physically stronger than the mother, stronger than anyone in the household. He did what he wanted, even though his mother, their mother, loved him.
‘What am I to do?’ his mother had said after he had walked out of the door the last time.
It had been Charisa who replied. ‘Don’t you remember Billy? He grew out of it. I’m sure Samuel will soon.’
Billy had known that Charisa was saying it for their mother’s sake. His involvement with the gang culture had been minor. He had not indulged in fighting, not even in their use of ganja. He had met up with one of the more harmless gangs once or twice and the most they did was to talk big.
And then Samuel had embraced the gangs, even after all that his family had experienced.
Billy had known that no good would come of Samuel’s death, and now the gang that he had cheated would be looking for someone in the Devon family to make up for their financial loss. They had made this clear one evening as he walked home from work. He had been close to where he was staying when a BMW had pulled up alongside him, a couple of gang members in the back, another two in the front. ‘We need to talk,’ the front passenger said.
Even though there were other people on the street, it was dark, and it had just started to rain. Billy was dragged into the back seat, face down in the crotch of one of the men, an unsavoury character by the name of Bruce Lee. Billy knew who he was, knew that he made himself out to be a martial arts expert, even though he carried too much weight and he did not have the gentle manner of his namesake. Another man was prodding Billy’s backside, making suggestive comments in an attempt to frighten him, and succeeding. ‘Almost as good an arse as your sister’s. If she doesn’t want to play, we can use you instead. What do you reckon, Billy Devon? You or your sister?’
He had protested, he knew he had, but a car full of gang members, him face down, one man pushing his head into his crotch, the other caressing his rear, did not help. He wanted to grab each and every one of them and to pummel them, but he could do nothing, except to act subserviently. ‘Whatever you say,’ he had replied instead.
After five minutes, the car had stopped on a derelict piece of land, and he was roughly pushed out onto the ground.
‘Billy Devon, your brother stole from us. We want it back.’
Billy was leaning on the car, his legs feeling unstable. ‘Did you kill him?’
‘We’re not here to answer questions, only to tell you what to do.’
‘What do you expect from me? I only work in a shop.’
‘That’s not our problem. Your brother stole twenty-two thousand pounds. We want it back, with interest.’
‘I never saw him with any money.’
‘Then he gave it to someone. Maybe his gang.’
‘Then why don’t you ask them?’
‘They have honoured their part of the agreement. Now it is time for you to do your part.’
‘They killed him for you?’
‘Why not? We want that money. And remember, each day the interest will increase by one thousand pounds. If we don’t have all the money in five days, we will grab your sister, and she can work off the interest.’
‘You bastards.’
‘Such language. Bruce Lee, teach him some manners.’
Roughly pulled from where he had been leaning, Billy was thrown to the ground. Bruce Lee then started putting his boot in, as well as leaning down to hit Billy’s body with a karate chop.
‘Okay, that’s enough,’ the leader said. ‘I don’t want Isaac Cook to see that he’s been roughed up.’
The gang members got into the car, pushing Billy Devon away. ‘Don’t forget. Five days, or we’ll pick up your sister,’ the front passenger said. Billy looked around him. In the distance, he could see the main road. He walked hesitantly, slowly regaining his strength. It was nine in the evening before he finally made it home. The others in the house saw him come in and head up to the bathroom.
***
Gwen Waverley was not pleased to be interviewed in her house by two police officers.
The Waverley house, fifty-five minutes from London, was in a pretty village where a few celebrities lived as well. The house, Victorian and substantial, occupied a position set well back from the road. Upon arriving at the front gate, Isaac had wound down the window of his car and spoken into the intercom located outside it. Once the formalities had been dealt with, the gate swung open. Two hundred yards ahead, the house came into view.
At the door, a woman waited for them. ‘Mrs Waverley will receive you in the library. Would you like tea or coffee?’
‘Tea, please,’ Isaac said. Larry chose coffee.
The two men waited for five minutes before the housekeeper returned with their drinks, as well as some biscuits on a plate. Another six minutes and Gwen Waverley, clearly very pregnant, appeared. ‘What can I do for you?’ she said.
‘We’re investigating the death of Amelia Brice. We understand that you were
good friends with her.’
‘We were, thick as thieves, but time moves on.’
‘We need to know about her.’
‘Then why do you need me? I have not spoken to her for quite some time.’
‘Mrs Waverley, we have yet to establish a reason for Amelia’s death. We are hoping that you may be able to help.’
‘I don’t see how. We ceased to be friends a long time ago. Quentin, my husband, was with her for some years. Eventually, their relationship dulled and he transferred his affections to me.’
‘Dulled?’ Larry asked.
‘They were not involved at that time, or they weren’t as far as Quentin was concerned. Amelia, obviously, had different ideas.’
‘There was a scene?’
‘Amelia caught us in a compromising situation. You don’t want me to elaborate, do you?’
‘That will not be necessary. After that?’ Isaac said.
‘She pestered Quentin for some time, and occasionally phoned me to call me a bitch.’
‘What was your reaction?’
‘I was upset. We had been great friends, and there she is, calling me all the names under the sun, but then, she could be unstable, emotional.’
‘Drugs?’
‘Not when I was with her, although we’d smoke the occasional joint together. More as a lark than anything else, pretending to be sophisticated and grown up.’
‘Not very sophisticated,’ Larry said.
‘I know that now, but her father used to have parties at the house.’
‘Anyone famous?’
‘Some of them, and they were out to enjoy themselves.’
‘How old were you two?’
‘Eighteen, nineteen. Old enough to do what we wanted, silly enough to do it.’
‘Apart from the drugs and the drinks?’
‘Okay, we were both a little easy. I grew up, found myself a good man; she didn’t.’
‘Any reason as to why anyone would want her dead?’
‘Not really. She could be strange at times, abrasive, but not enough to get her killed. Although, she started to find rough men after she broke up with Quentin. I’m not sure if it was as a result of Quentin, or whether that was her inclination.’
‘Her father?’
‘He treated her well, indulged her. He’s not the same as he portrays himself.’
‘We're aware of that,’ Isaac said.
‘In a recent diary that she kept, there is a reference to a Q,’ Larry said.
‘It wouldn’t be Quentin. He’s not spoken to her for years, although he would sometimes meet up with her father.’
‘Any reason why?’
‘Quentin admired the man, and as for Jeremy, I think that Quentin was the son-in-law he never had.’
‘Is there any reason why she would write Q in her diary?’ Isaac asked.
‘As I’ve already said, it’s not Quentin. Amelia could become fixated on people, situations, a dress in a shop window, but apart from that, I’ve no explanation.’
Chapter 9
Before the influx of immigrants who were willing to do anything for half the price of the English, Shirley O’Rourke had been an ideal employer with motivated staff. She was a woman who had never had much in her life, apart from a farm that her parents had called home in Northern Ireland, and now there were cheap staff and plenty of money.
The companies that they had initially cleaned for had wanted to pay only minimal money, but the wealthy with their luxury houses were willing to pay plenty, and so, with cheap staff, she knew she could make a tidy sum for herself.
In the early days of dealing with the wealthy, random checks on her staff’s quality of work had been expected, but the business had expanded. The random checks had ended, the money was flowing in, the complaints were moderate and quickly dispensed with, as Shirley O’Rourke had a disarming manner when it was required.
And now, when she was living almost as well as those that her company cleaned for, the police were snooping around, and all because two women had been killed. She regretted employing Christine Devon, had even known she would be trouble, but the woman was cheap, even if she didn’t respond to the gentle hints about a little extra on the side.
Shirley O’Rourke could not understand people such as the Devon woman. A woman who had lived in England all of her adult life; a woman who should have known how the system worked. The address that she had given when applying for the job showed that she lived poorly in a rundown area. And there she was, willing to clean for those who had plenty, those who had cheated on their taxes, enjoyed overseas holidays and drove expensive cars.
And now, the police had her records and her business was at a virtual standstill. Somehow, those clients that she had garnered over the years were gone. The word had got out that ABC Cleaning had been involved in nefarious activities.
Although innocent until proven guilty, not that she would be able to prove her innocence, the police investigation had destroyed her business, due to one sanctimonious woman.
At Challis Street, the records of ABC Cleaning were being checked by Fraud and Bridget Halloran, the Homicide department’s best person with numbers. Her preliminary work had shown anomalies: understated income, exaggerated expenditure. Not necessarily criminal, although the extent was enough to raise suspicion. Then there were the woman’s bank accounts. Accessed following the approved procedures, they showed more money than the business had generated, yet according to the owner, it was her sole income. There was also a house in Bayswater, not as expensive as some of the homes that the company cleaned, but valuable nonetheless.
***
It was early in the morning, Isaac Cook’s preferred time, not Wendy Gladstone’s, and definitely not Larry Hill’s. Wendy was more of an evening person, Larry was suffering the pangs of hunger. At home it was his wife feeding him healthily; in the office it was his DCI, who had been firm that his DI needed to shed weight. Larry would have to admit that the two of them, a formidable team, were having an effect. So far, he was down two inches on the waist, and he thought if it continued, he’d need to wear braces or buy clothes more suited to his thinner frame. And now, his house, adequate for him, had become too small for his wife, and there was an extension planned, more encumbrance on his mortgage. He didn’t want it, his wife did, and he knew who would win.
It was strange, Larry thought, that he had no trouble dealing with a villain, showing him who was in control, but with his wife, he was a total wimp. But then, he didn’t love the villain, he loved his wife, and even if they fought sometimes, there was still the making up, and the reduced weight had done wonders for his libido.
If his wife continued to push him to control his weight, Larry knew he’d endure it, but there were still two murders to solve, and working from early in the morning until late at night required more than small portions. It was alright for his DCI, he knew. The man was well over six feet, could eat as much as he liked, and the weight never went on. Even though his DCI would complain about the extra pounds, it was nothing. For Larry, he knew, it was that extra pint of beer, that full English breakfast, and the next day the difference would be noticeable, and he’d get the cold shoulder from his wife.
He’d avoided the full English breakfast as much as possible for the last month, even missed the waitress who would ask for details of their latest murder investigation, only to be shocked when he told her. But most of all he missed the pub and its beer. The last time he had met with Rasta Joe, attempting to unravel why a fifteen-year youth by the name of Samuel Devon had needed to die, he had kept his consumption down to three pints, though it hadn’t stopped Rasta Joe drinking six. Larry had not been satisfied with the gang leader’s replies, either. The man continued to act ignorant about who had killed the youth. Larry had tried to pin him down but had not succeeded. Either the dreadlocked man did not know, which seemed unlikely, or he was scared or involved. Larry did not discount either of the last two options, although hoped it was the first.
In fact, all of Larry’s contacts were reluctant to talk about Samuel Devon, which was disturbing. If his death concerned the gangs, then something was going on, and that something could get worse.
***
Shirley O’Rourke sat in the kitchen of her house. On a table in the corner she laid out her papers, the ones the police had not taken. There in front of her was the evidence the police wanted.
Once, one of her cleaners had knocked over a Ming vase, shattered it into pieces. It had already been insured for ten times its value after it had developed a large crack six months after the insurance company had valued it. Shirley O’Rourke, an honest woman, expected the owner to be livid, but on the contrary, he had suggested that if the cleaner said it was an accident, then he would claim the full value from the insurance company, and divide the profit. Shirley had needed time to consider the proposal.
‘Five thousand pounds if you agree,’ he had said. Back then, two hundred pounds a week after expenses was a decent return.
‘Agreed,’ she had said, and since then she had not looked back, not until now, and it was time to protect herself.
Along the way, she had gathered a couple of husbands, both dispensed with, a child, now thirty-one and married, and an offshore bank account. The next day she would put into place her exit strategy, but first, she needed to waylay the police investigation.
It was two in the afternoon when she arrived at Challis Street. She had brought her lawyer with her, an imperious little man with horn-rimmed spectacles. Isaac thought that he would not have looked out of place as a character with a monocle in a P.G. Wodehouse farce.
The interview room had been booked, ready for the woman’s arrival. Wendy, with Isaac, represented the police; Shirley O’Rourke and Peregrine Woodley sat on the other side of the table. Isaac went through the formalities, advised the woman of her rights.
‘Mrs O’Rourke, you are here of your own free will to make a statement,’ Isaac said.
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