‘Do you remember seeing Bob Robertson here?’ Wendy spoke slowly, enunciating every word. Her Yorkshire accent still came through, even though she had lived in London for most of her life. In her fifties, she was the oldest in the department, and whereas she would not rise above the rank of sergeant, there were very few in the London Metropolitan Police, who could lay claim to her depth of experience. Isaac knew that there were none that could find a missing person as well as her. Back in the office, Bridget Halloran, the department’s administrator, and Wendy’s great friend, would be opening the case file, preparing a case for the prosecution, readying the ancillary staff.
Bridget, an avid enthusiast of the computer age, and Wendy Gladstone, barely able to write an email, had hit it off some years previously. Back then Bridget had been confined to a cubicle looking at CCTV all day. Wendy had asked her to assist with typing up her reports. Bridget typed at eighty words a minute, Wendy with one finger at a time. It had been Wendy who had brought her into Homicide, and after Wendy’s husband had died, Bridget had moved in with Wendy. The relationship suited the two women fine, and although boozy nights did not interest them anymore, they were both pleased to pool their resources. With their improved finances, the boozy nights had been replaced by trips overseas.
‘What’s your name?’ Wendy asked the man, who was sitting on a bench.
‘Gazza, that’s what they call me.’ The man held his head in his hands, looking at the ground, not Wendy.
‘Do you have identification?’
‘Me? No. I’m Gazza.’
Wendy could see she was getting nowhere. Regardless, she was determined to break through. ‘When you claim your pension, what do they call you?’
‘Gary May,’ the man replied.
Success, Wendy thought.
‘Okay, Gary, what did you see?’
‘With Bob?’
‘Yes. Bob Robertson. Did you see anyone with him last night?’
‘I saw the woman shouting.’
‘That was later. Before that, did you see Bob Robertson?’
‘Not me. I was asleep.’
Wendy knew that it was pointless, as it would be with the other man sitting alongside Gary May.
***
‘Any luck?’ Isaac asked Wendy after she left the two homeless men and returned to where Bob Robertson’s body lay.
‘Not the first time we’ve encountered their type, is it?’
‘Not the last either. Did you manage to get any sense out of them?’
‘Only that the one I spoke to had seen the woman who found the body.’
‘Katrina Ireland.’
‘You know her?’ Wendy asked.
‘A few years back. She used to hang out with a rough crowd. She was inside the building when he died; there’s proof.’
‘Is that what killed him?’ Wendy asked, looking at the metal pole lying on one side, tagged and bagged.
‘But why?’ Isaac said. ‘The man was well respected in the area, even by the villains.’
‘DCS Goddard, what’s he saying?’ Wendy asked.
‘He’s already been on the phone.’
‘The normal?’
‘How he expects us to wrap up the case in the next couple of days. You know the rigmarole.’
‘We’ve all been there. We don’t know why Bob Robertson died yet, and there’s no clue as to who killed him. Is it confirmed as murder?’ Wendy asked.
‘Judging by the size of the pole, it’s a fair assumption.’
Chapter 3
The death of a well-known local person, particularly when it was violent, always raised the interest of the local media, but the death of Bob Robertson, well known nationally as much as he was in the area, ensured that the national press was soon on hand. Isaac Cook was not pleased about the cameras pointing in his face, the inane questions. ‘How long has he been dead?’ ‘Is an arrest imminent?’ ‘What was the motive?’
Isaac was no stranger to the media, having taken part in more than his fair share of press conferences, usually with his chief superintendent. DCS Richard Goddard was a capable man, good at stroking the egos of senior management in the London Metropolitan Police, apart from Commissioner Alwyn Davies, a gruff unpleasant man. He had seen through Goddard in an instant, and the animosity between the two men remained unabated.
Isaac knew it was invariably lack of progress with a murder investigation that Davies would latch onto in an attempt to unnerve and ultimately unseat Goddard. Isaac assumed the present murder would be no different, and that in a matter of hours his DCS would be on the phone again, straight after a rollicking from Davies.
As Isaac could see it, there were three possible scenarios. One, Robertson had been attacked randomly on the street. Two, his death was premeditated, but that seemed weak as killing a man on the street, even though it was dark, ran the risk of being seen. Third, the attack had not been planned, but considered necessary by the assailant, and even then, there was the question of why on the street.
Isaac looked over at his sergeant, Wendy Gladstone. He could see the endless energy as she walked around the area, disturbing those sleeping rough, asking the inevitable questions. He wondered how she could keep doing it, not showing the pain from her arthritis, other than the occasional grimace as she straightened herself from a crouching position. He knew that her condition was troubling her, and if he reported it officially, there would probably be a forced retirement, something he did not want for her. She had been with him for some years, and he had ensured that she made sergeant after too many years as a constable, but back then she had had a temper, told a few too many people in the police station to button their
