He had never forgiven her: not for leaving, or the young lover, but for discarding their daughter.
He had brought her up, and she had been a joy until her late teens, and then, the drinking, and the parties, and the men. He had tried his best, but he came to realise that she was her mother’s daughter, not his. The behaviour that he had attempted to steer her away from was not acquired through example; it came through DNA, the mother’s DNA, and even though she was a thousand miles away, with one or another lover, her influence was there with Amelia.
And now, a lecture on how he had lost it from a man who was crude and obnoxious, a man he detested. Brice left the radio station and headed home. For once, he would seek salvation in a bottle of whisky.
***
It was known that Rasta Joe had a wife and a family and that they were not living with him. Larry was aware that not a lot would be gained from the wife, but there was still a formal identification of the man’s body to be arranged.
Larry pulled up outside the wife’s house, a twenty-minute drive from Challis Street. The garden was tended, the area looked clean. All in all, Larry had to admit, it was not what he expected. He knocked on the door, a small child opened it.
From the back of the house, a voice said, ‘I’ve told you not to open the door to strangers.’
‘Detective Inspector Larry Hill,’ Larry shouted, to allay the woman’s fears.
The door to the room at the back opened. A woman, neatly dressed, and with rubber gloves on her hands, came through. ‘Sorry, I was washing the dishes. I’m always on to Cindy here not to open the door. You never know who might be around.’
‘Mrs Brown?’
‘I don’t use that name, not around here anyway. It’s Joe, isn’t it?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘I knew he would always end up dead in a gutter somewhere. That’s what’s happened?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Larry said. Rasta Joe’s wife, Jamaican heritage like her husband, did not have the affected Jamaican accent; she was pure Cockney.
‘I’ll make us a cup of tea.’
‘You seem remarkably calm.’
‘I’m not, but Cindy’s here, and I’ve another two home from school soon.’
‘They’ll need to be told.’
‘Eventually. We haven’t seen Joe for nearly two years, and we’ve not been living together for four.’
‘Why?’
‘Did you know him?’
‘We used to meet occasionally.’
‘A police inspector and Joe.’
‘Symbiotic. He needed me; I needed him. Tell me about your husband,’ Larry said, as he looked around the kitchen. It was neat, functional, everything in its place. The woman he was talking to had come as a shock. He had been used to Rasta Joe and the women he went around with. His widow seemed to be a law-abiding person, and no attempts at portraying herself as anything other than a respectable middle-class housewife and mother.
‘We met at school. He was a good man then.’
‘Not into gangs?’
‘I knew he was into ganja, but who wasn’t?’
‘Were you?’
‘When you’re young, you’re foolish, try anything once. I grew out of it; Joe never did, and now he’s dead. Tell me about it.’
‘He fell foul of another gang. They killed him.’
‘Violent?’
‘I’m sorry, but yes.’
‘That was Joe, always pushing the boundaries. Can I see him?’
‘We need someone to conduct a formal identification. Are you up to it?’
‘I’ll need someone to look after the children. I still loved the man, even after what he had become. He never failed to pay the rent on this place, and he always ensured there was money for the children’s school uniforms and anything else they wanted.’
‘But they never saw him.’
‘That was what we agreed. He knew what was best for us, and he kept away. He’d phone sometimes; I’d send him photos of the children. Did you like him?’
‘I did. I know what he was, and I should not have.’
‘That’s Joe. A good man, not really suited to being a gangster, but then, life takes us down different roads. How’s Isaac?’
‘He’s fine. You know him?’
‘I remember when he and Joe were great friends. Isaac turned out alright, Joe didn’t.’
‘DCI Cook is in charge of the investigation.’
‘Do you know who killed him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where are they?’
‘We’ve arrested two of them; the third is still evading capture.’
Two children entered through the back door; both were polite and asked who the strange man was. Rasta Joe’s wife made an excuse that Larry was a friend of their father’s.
After another forty minutes, a friend came around from the house next door. ‘Gloria will look after the children. We can go now.’
On the way back to London, and relieved of her children, Rasta Joe’s wife cried.
***
Quentin Waverley struck his wife. It had been going on for days – her niggling him about his relationship with Amelia Brice.
He realised soon after he had married that he did not love Gwen in the same way that he had loved Amelia.
Amelia had an innocence about her, a vulnerability, whereas Gwen was hard and cruel. Amelia was the type of person to take in a neglected dog; Gwen would have fed it meat laced with rat poison.
Waverley knew there’d be fallout from hitting Gwen. Her father, a brilliant man, had made a fortune in London by setting up the merchant bank. He had a reputation as a fearless adversary, a loyal friend, and now the bond of friendship between the man and his
