Isaac could see the beneficial effect Bob Robertson had had on Katrina Ireland when he met her that night, and there had been others who after a spell in prison had ended up in the hostel. Most of those had found jobs locally in Paddington, usually menial.
‘What do we know about Bob Robertson? Isaac asked. ‘Apart from the fact that he was a decent man.’
‘Nothing,’ Wendy replied.
‘I want this wrapped up in the next week,’ DCS Goddard said as he left the office. He had arrived looking for good news to relay to his seniors, not to hear a debate.
Isaac chose to ignore his departure. ‘Wendy, find out what you can about the victim. Work with Bridget on this one. Larry, focus on Big Greg, find out what you can about him.’
‘From what I’ve been able to gather from Katrina Ireland, the man is well known in the area. An anachronism really,’ Larry said.
‘Could he have killed Robertson?’ Isaac asked.
‘There’s no reason why not, but where’s the motive? A homeless man doesn’t usually commit murder. It doesn’t fit the profile.’
‘What profile? As you’ve said, the man does not fit the usual criteria for being homeless. If he’s educated, and not suffering from any addictions, what’s he doing out on the street? He doesn’t fit your homeless profile, does he?’
‘Not at all. I’ll check him out. He’s bound to be known to welfare,’ Larry said.
Chapter 5
Big Greg knew one thing, he had killed again and for the right reasons. Not that anyone would understand, certainly not the police and definitely not Bob Robertson’s family.
Yet again he was forced to live with a secret that he had to keep. It was as if he had given himself to martyrdom, knowing full well that there would be no accolade for him, no sainthood bestowed from Rome, no being welcomed back into the bosom of his family.
He had seen his daughter again walking in the park. It had been dusk, and she had not seen him, not that she ever did, apart from that one time when she had caught him unawares. Even in that short period he had seen the kindness in her heart, in that she had been willing to donate her time, even some money, to an undeserving man. He had been careful to conceal his educated accent, to affect the voice of the street. Her best protection, as for his wife and his grandchild, had been for the world to believe he was dead.
His daughter was oblivious to what had happened, what would happen if they could use her as a lever to get to him, and they would. Now that Bob Robertson had entered those formulas into Google, the one place where the information would eventually be discovered, then what? Big Greg knew that Robertson’s death had been a reaction to what the inquisitive man had done. Too little, too late, he realised.
He knew he had to do something now, but what? And as for the secret, they would kill for it, as would he. He knew it was up to him to act.
***
Katrina Ireland had always known that one day her luck would change. With Bob Robertson no longer in control of the hostel, the organisation of the place had fallen on her. He had suggested that she should become more involved once or twice before his death. The rental accommodation that Bob had arranged for her was no longer needed as there was always a place for her to stay at the hostel; not Bob’s bedroom, she wasn’t ready for that yet, but his office was free. Katrina took one of the beds from the main dormitory and gave it a thorough cleaning; it smelt of disinfectant by the time she had finished, but at least she’d not be sharing it with any other, microscopic or otherwise. Not that she wanted to either. Too much time on the street selling herself and then gyrating around a pole had tainted her desire for men, and then there had been Walter, who used to hit her often but he was now doing time in prison for murder.
She had admired Bob, probably would have been available to him if he had been willing to make an honest woman of her. She had observed that he only drank coffee, black and strong, although he would sometimes linger to take in the whiff of alcohol that was all too common on the street outside the hostel when the queue was forming for the free meal each day.
Not that she had formed an opinion of what he may have been. To her, the person in front of her was the person she knew, not the person they had been.
It had been the same with Walter, her last boyfriend. He had treated her well at first, knew what she had been, and he had been willing to accept her. With time, his passion for her had subsided, only to be replaced by a loathing of her past history. It had been on one of those occasions, after a particularly severe beating, that she had relapsed and had found the man on a corner not far from the place they rented.
It was only later when the police knocked on her door that she knew that Walter, in an act of anger, had killed the man who had sold her the heroin. She knew then that he had cared for her in his way, although mitigating circumstances that he had been protecting his girlfriend had counted for little, and he had been convicted of murder.
For a while, she had visited him in prison every week, but in time the visits had become
