He remembered from his conversations with Robertson over the years that before he opened the hostel he had been a sportsman, although Isaac already knew that as he had been an avid fan of cricket, and the dead man had played for England on more than one occasion.
‘Why a hostel for the homeless?’ Isaac had asked him once.
‘I spent a few years after my career was cut short out on the street, bottle in hand. I know what it’s like.’
Isaac had not asked much more, as Robertson was not a man to dwell on himself, only on others, and he had achieved a great result. The hostel had been well run; he’d helped many of the downtrodden, even rescued a few teenagers from the slippery slope from ganja to heroin and the inevitable time in a prison after first resorting to prostitution and then to crime.
Katrina Ireland had not been one of those, Isaac remembered that. She had come to London from the north of the country. He remembered her when she had first presented herself on the street corner: in her teens, attractive, with dark hair, and slim.
The first time he had seen her, he couldn’t understand why she was there, although it was not long before he had arrested her.
In time, he had observed that her initial sweetness had soured, and the fresh-faced look had been replaced by a vacant acceptance of whatever happened to her. He remembered the time he had seen her gyrating around a pole in a sleazy strip club. He had been there as part of a drug raid, as it was known that the club was a front for distributing drugs around the area. He and a couple of other police officers had gone in through the front door, pretending to be paying customers, knowing full well that no one would be fooled about why they were there. Around the back of the club there’d been a frantic effort to conceal the evidence and to rush out of the back door. And that was where the other officers were, handcuffs at the ready.
On that pole, her body still lithe, her face vacant, her gyrations predictable, he could see that Katrina Ireland did not care. Now in her mid-thirties, her years of degradation had left their mark, but with Bob Robertson and the hostel she had blossomed.
Isaac had to admit that he had liked the woman’s personality even when she was in her worst condition, and now, in the hostel, she was the model of efficiency. He wondered how many others on the street had a story to tell, how many others were once upright citizens, able to conduct themselves in the manner that society required. Some would have families who no longer knew where they were, some would have suffered tragedies, others would have been seduced by alcohol, and the younger generation would have succumbed to the readily available supply of drugs that would rot the brain and destroy the body.
There were too many drugs in the area, although it was not Isaac and his Homicide team’s responsibility. That was for another department, although they were not having much success as the drug pushers were better funded, more able to operate outside the law than the police. Too many rules and regulations, Isaac sometimes thought. When he had first joined the police force, he’d been idealistic, but later he came to believe that following the book, ensuring convictions was paramount, but that the system was against the police. With a sharp lawyer the criminal would be out on the street again, especially if he had enough cash, the one thing that those involved in drug trafficking had no shortage of.
Not that it had helped Katrina Ireland the first time he had arrested her. The most she had to her name was twenty pounds and a black eye from the man who had cheated her out of the remaining eighty. ‘The bastard screwed me and then refused to pay,’ she had said.
It was strange, Isaac realised on reflection, that back then she swore like a trooper, gave herself freely to any man who had the money, even if they did not always pay, but with Bob Robertson in that hostel he had never heard her swear.
***
As expected, those on the street and in the hostel, were reluctant to give their names, other than the names that the street gave them. Gazza, Lonely, Toothless – these were not helpful in a case of homicide. Larry’s approach had been to inform those inside the hostel that none were under suspicion, but their payments from the government were in jeopardy if they did not assist. Larry realised that most had complied, though some hadn’t. He thought that one or two were probably in the country illegally, which made no sense to him. If they weren’t taking advantage of the financial benefits of England’s welfare system or working, then why stay. Not that he dwelt on the reasons why the people were in the hostel in the first place, only whether they were implicated in the murder.
Katrina Ireland was trying to get them out of the building, Larry was keeping them in. A few had attempted to sneak out of a side door, only to be stopped by a uniform.
‘Did you see anything suspicious last night?’ Larry asked an old lady.
‘That’s Mattie,’ Katrina Ireland said to Larry.
‘You’ll need to speak up,’ the old woman said.
‘Deaf as a post,’ Katrina said. ‘She’s got a hearing aid, Bob arranged it for her, but she refuses to wear it. And besides, she’s been in here since yesterday morning. She won’t have seen anything, and if she had, she’s hardly likely to remember.’
‘Why’s that?’ Larry asked.
‘Too many years on the street, too many bottles of whatever she could get hold of.’
‘Who here might know something?’
‘Big Greg would be your
