The first house, a mews close to Portobello Road, the haunt of the bargain shopper, not that there were many bargains, not after the daily deluge of tourists, the prices upping at first sight, and the antique shops were always pricey.
‘Can I help you?’ an old man said as he opened the door of the mews house.
Larry did the introductions, both he and Wendy showing their warrant cards. It was still early in the morning, not yet seven, and most people would be asleep or thinking about work, the ideal time to catch them at home.
After the houses in Notting Hill, the two of them would separate, aim to check every address by midday, hopeful of a result, although it would mean a very long night. Larry had to admit to still feeling tired after his disrupted sleep and his wife sending him off without breakfast for sins committed.
It was the excuse he needed to visit his favourite café for breakfast; he was sure that Wendy would join him.
‘We’re looking for Deborah Landis,’ Wendy said.
‘That’s my wife. I hope it’s not anything serious. We don’t drive, don’t go far these days, broken no laws.’
‘It’s not that,’ Larry said. ‘If we could talk to Deborah, I’m sure we can resolve it very quickly, leave you alone.’
‘I’m Deborah,’ an elegant and upright woman said. In her seventies, yet looking younger, whereas her husband, crippled by age and ailments, looked close to eighty.
The four sat down.
‘What can we do for you?’ the husband said.
‘Mrs Landis, you bought a pair of sandals at a shop in Brompton Road, Knightsbridge, opposite Harrods,’ Wendy said.
‘For our daughter, a present.’
‘And your daughter, where is she now?’
‘I gave them to her the day I bought them. Such good value and I know that Megan loves the colour.’
‘Can’t resist a bargain, my wife,’ Landis said.
‘Your daughter?’ Wendy said, more than a little alarmed.
‘We’ve not seen her for a few days, not since I gave her the shoes. She goes to university, up north. We told her to find one nearer to here, but she was adamant.’
‘We need to contact her.’
‘I could phone her if it’s important.’
‘It is, very,’ Larry said. ‘Now, please.’
The woman picked up her phone and dialled. ‘Hello, dear. Two police officers here that want to talk to you, no idea why.’
Wendy took the phone and spoke. ‘Megan, Sergeant Wendy Gladstone. Your mother gave you a pair of sandals?’
‘One size too small, but don’t tell Mum.’
‘I won’t. Can you take a photo of them and send it to your mother’s phone number now.’
‘I can, but what’s this about.’
‘I’m pleased that you’re fine. We’re trying to identify a woman. The only clue we have is that she purchased sandals similar to yours at a shop in Knightsbridge.’
‘I’ve certainly got mine. Two minutes and you’ll have a photo.’
‘Thank you,’ Wendy said. She ended the call.
‘That’s it,’ Larry said as he got up from the chair; breakfast was on his mind and soon.
‘We have a right to know why you’re asking,’ Landis said.
‘It’s not a good story. Are you sure you want to hear?’
‘We’re over the age of twenty-one, not old fossils.’
‘No offence intended. A woman was murdered in Kensal Green Cemetery. The only clue we have is that she was wearing sandals the same as your wife purchased for your daughter.’
‘And you thought…’ Deborah Landis put her hands up to her face, ‘our daughter?’
‘It’s a process of elimination. We didn’t assume anything, just eliminating the possibilities.’
‘Bad news for someone then.’
‘Thankfully not for you and your husband.’
‘But someone else. How sad.’
‘Unfortunately, we see it all too often,’ Wendy said.
***
Larry phoned the café, told them twenty minutes and a full breakfast, heavy on the bacon and sausages. Wendy knew he’d be in trouble that night when he got home, but she wasn’t his keeper, not even his senior, and she wasn’t about to say anything, considering that he ordered for both of them. What’s good for one is good for the other, she thought, and besides it was to be a long day, with, as Deborah Landis had said, a sad ending.
The other address in Notting Hill, St Marks Road, close to the railway line, wasn’t as good a house as the Landis’s; however, it was neat and tidy, even though it was a busy road and the traffic was noisy.
Not even a police sign on the vehicle would allow them to park on the street; instead, they parked in the forecourt of a petrol station directly across the road, Larry showing his warrant card, saying that he’d be back in ten minutes for the vehicle.
‘You purchased a pair of sandals in Knightsbridge, is that correct?’ Wendy said. There was to be no sitting down in the house. It was clear that the woman they were talking to was the grandmother from the Indian subcontinent who had been brought over to England to look after the children while their parents were out at work.
‘I don’t speak good English,’ the hindi-speaking sari-clad woman said.
Larry picked up his phone, dialled Challis Street, asked to speak to Jasmine Chandra, a sergeant at the station. He explained the situation to her, then handed the phone to the woman.
A beaming smile lit up on the woman’s face, animated gestures with her hands before she disappeared into another room. After a while, she returned, handed the sandals over to Larry, and then the phone.
Larry spoke to Jasmine, found out that the daughter had bought the shoes, but she was at work. Also, the old lady could give them a phone number if they wanted it.
Wendy took the number, but it wasn’t needed. The sandals
