‘They’ll all be subject to a full autopsy. Any clues as to who was the primary target?’
‘None. Alphonso Abano was a criminal, but hardly justifying an assassination.’
‘That’s what it was,’ Isaac said. He was now holding a coffee courtesy of a uniform who had fetched it from a café across the road that was doing sterling business with the additional customers. One lane of the road had reopened to traffic and the barriers were being pulled further back to allow the regular transit of vehicles in both directions. The front window and door of the salon were being covered to block prying eyes.
‘Any ideas?’ Windsor asked.
‘Not yet. The other woman?’
‘Sal Maynard according to her driving licence. She’s not from around here. There’s an address.’
‘What can you tell us about her?’
‘There’s a photo on her phone with her arms around Hendry. Not the sort of woman that Hendry would go for.’
‘What do you mean?’ Wendy said, taking umbrage at Windsor’s comment.
‘No offence, purely an observation. Sal Maynard came from Stockwell, a ten-storey tenement, low-rental.’
Wendy realised that Gordon Windsor was only profiling, a necessary part of a police investigation, but her socialist leanings were offended when a dead woman was degraded in comparison to another who, by her mother’s admission, was sleeping with the man that she herself had slept with in the past. Again, Wendy could see that the wealthy and the famous were excused for their failings, but for the poor and unknown and unattractive, a different set of rules applied.
‘She could have been a decoy, paid to distract the others while the killer entered the premises, measured up the situation,’ Isaac said.
‘But she was killed as well,’ Wendy said.
‘Collateral damage. Who knows what she had been told, and what her history is. It could be relevant. We’ll check her out next.’
Chapter 4
Neither of the two police officers was impressed when they parked outside Sal Maynard’s address, the urge to comment muted on account of the woman’s violent death. Due to their delay in arriving at the ninth-floor flat in the drab concrete and poorly maintained building, the local police station had taken the responsibility of informing the next of kin.
A uniform was stationed outside the entrance to the flat. He sharpened up, stood to attention upon seeing the senior officers. ‘Not much to say,’ he said when quizzed by Isaac. ‘They’ve been informed, that’s all I can tell you.’
‘They’ve? You know them?’
‘Down at the station, the Maynards are well known. Fencing stolen goods, stealing cars and a quick respray, the occasional incident down at the pub when the eldest gets drunk and starts throwing his weight around.’
‘Sal Maynard?’ Wendy said. She was not impressed with the uniform’s attitude. A family was grieving, yet he showed no compassion, only disdain for those inside.
‘She didn’t get into trouble, not too much anyway. A few too many drinks sometimes, and she was argumentative. A conviction for shoplifting when she was younger, but nothing recently. I can’t say I liked her very much, a foul mouth, but that’s about it. Sorry for talking bad about the woman, but I thought you’d like the truth. Inside, you’ll no doubt receive the saccharine version.’
‘No doubt we will,’ Isaac said. ‘The neighbours?’
‘A few want to get in and offer their condolences. A few just want to be nosy. You know how it is.’
‘Unfortunately, we do. High crime rate in this building?’
‘Not as high as you would expect. There are a lot of recent arrivals in the building, the women covered up, the men trying to do their best. I can’t say I understand them, but on the whole they cause little trouble. There are others here who’d steal anything, and sometimes the drunks will bait the immigrants. One day there’ll be trouble, hopefully not today.’
‘Not sure I appreciate his take on the Maynards and the locals,’ Wendy said as she and Isaac waited for the door to the flat to open.
‘Don’t judge him too harshly. They’ve got a difficult job with the disparate society down here,’ Isaac said.
The door opened, a heavily-tattooed and burly man stood on the other side.
‘DCI Cook, DS Gladstone, Challis Street Homicide,’ Isaac said.
‘Come in,’ the man said, exhaling cigarette smoke over the two officers.
Isaac and Wendy walked down the narrow hallway, brushing against the coats hanging on hooks to their right. A dog barked from behind a closed door. There was a distinct smell in the air of perspiration, stale smoke and alcohol. Isaac felt like taking his handkerchief and holding it over his nose.
‘A saint, I’m telling you she was,’ a female voice shouted from the room at the end of the hallway.
Isaac and Wendy passed through the doorway to find a group of people sitting around. On the table in the centre of the room, a half-empty bottle of whisky.
‘DCI Cook…’
‘Don’t bother with your names. You’re not welcome here, nor is he outside,’ the woman who had shouted, said.
‘You are?’
‘Beverley Maynard, her mother. Have you found the bastard who killed my daughter?’
‘We’re still conducting enquiries.’
‘Then why are you here? We didn’t kill her.’
‘We’re assuming that your daughter wasn’t the primary target,’ Wendy said. ‘We need to ascertain her movements, to check if she or you may have seen anything. What can you tell us about your daughter?’
‘She was a good girl, not like the others.’
‘The others?’
‘My two eldest. Alex, you’ve met. He’s always in trouble for this and that. The other layabout sitting sheepishly, that’s Harry, a nasty piece of work, and to think I carried him for nine months.’
‘Mum, you shouldn’t say that, not to them. They’re the police, even if they’re not wearing a uniform,’ Alex said. He was leaning against the
