‘Which means you’re not sure,’ Maeve said. ‘Which means that Rose could be next. Have you considered that?’
‘Please, Mrs Winston. We’ve just come from Janice. We don’t think there’s a connection, and prostitution is a high-risk occupation. Each year, prostitutes die at the hands of a client.’
‘We need protection; Rose needs protection.’
‘Protection will be provided for Rose and you and your husband. Also for Brad and Mrs Robinson.’
What Larry had said was true, but the protection would be a uniform at each house, but the school would present difficulties. It was a sprawling collection of buildings; easy entry in and out.
But why kill Janice? Larry thought. What use would that be to a professional? To Larry, and no doubt to Isaac and Wendy when they sat down to discuss it, nothing seemed to make sense.
The fear was that it wasn’t professional, it was psychopathic, and the man they were looking for was a madman, a man who could act normally, even to his family and friends, but someone who could kill, had killed before, could kill again.
Chapter 8
For three days Rose stayed away from the school, although Brad returned after two. Jim Robinson, after a phone call from Isaac, and with Chief Superintendent Goddard’s assistance, had been granted a visit to the family home, a prison officer with him, and Larry present.
Larry knew Jim, and the two had shaken hands at the front door before the prisoner had been let into the house. Violence wasn’t on his criminal record, and he was an acceptable risk in that he wouldn’t disappear over the fence at the rear of the house. Besides, he had only four months left on his sentence, a reduction for good behaviour.
In the house, mother and sons, a quiet moment to reflect on the family’s loss; even Larry closing his eyes. He had seen the body at Pathology, although Brad and his mother had seen it before the pathologist had commenced his work, removing organs, cutting the body from shoulder blade down to the pubic region, a Y-shaped incision.
Jim would not be allowed to see the body, and his four hours were soon up. He was off back to the prison, although Larry, going out on a limb and with the prison officer’s agreement, first took the three of them to a pub on the corner, gave Jim the first pint of beer he’d had in a long time.
‘Drugs,’ Jim said after he had downed his glass in one gulp. ‘That’s what it is; that’s what killed Janice.’
No mention of the mother’s live-ins, the abuse the daughter had suffered at the hands of one or two of them. Brad had told Larry some of it; the mother had vehemently denied it when questioned, but it was true, looking away as she said it.
A family always on a financial precipice, with a low level of education, and abuse wasn’t far away. His wife would say it was self-induced, although Larry knew it wasn’t that, not always. Life was tough for most people, and whereas the majority kept their heads just above the water, paddling madly under the surface to stay afloat, others weren’t able to.
The Robinsons weren’t bad people; just surviving, taking the rough with the smooth, enjoying the highs, coping with the lows.
Jim had been upset at the house, but he had been in prison, removed from the period of grieving that Brad and his mother had already endured, to the extent that Brad was almost back to his usual self and talking about Rose again. Not that her father would ever give his permission.
Isaac had visited the Winstons the day after Janice had died; the father upset that his wife had been with Rose at the Robinsons. He had every right, Isaac knew that, but a woman had been murdered, and not someone unknown, as the woman at the cemetery remained, but the daughter of someone he had known in his younger days, the sister of a young man he had given a lift to that night at the cemetery.
Pathology had confirmed that Janice Robinson was a drug addict and she had not had sexual intercourse with her murderer. The pathologist had also concluded that she had in all probability not had sex in twelve hours before her death. And apart from the knife wounds, delivered with a nine-inch blade and not specific as to where they were aimed, not much more could be deduced.
After this second death, visits to the other purchasers of the sandals continued. The Hammersmith address had not helped as it had been another mother buying for her daughter, the daughter proudly wearing them. Bayswater and Paddington had both drawn blanks. The only one left was twenty miles to the south of the city.
And as Isaac Cook saw it, a dead prostitute took precedence over an unknown woman, although the tie-in of the two was both puzzling and far too circumstantial to be a coincidence.
The only solution to firm up opinions on the two women was to identify the Jane Doe, to ascribe a name to her, or there would be another murder. The latter option not desired.
Isaac visited the Robinsons, found the mother busy in the kitchen. He had been told of the condition of the place, but Gladys Robinson was there, a broom in one hand, a bucket in the other.
‘I’ve got to put on a show for the relatives. She’s dead, dead and gone, never forgotten.’
The woman seemed hard to him, as though she didn’t care, not anymore. Although it could be a pretence, given that a hard life takes the edge off any sentimentality.
‘When she lived at home,’ Isaac said, ‘you had men here.’
The woman put the broom and bucket to one side. ‘I never sold myself, if that’s what you’re asking.’
