The photo of the dead woman rang no bells with anyone; they had all been clear that the woman at the house had been blonde, tanned and under thirty. Either way, those in Godstone had seen the man’s face, the woman shielding her face when anyone looked her way.
On his first visit, Larry had knocked on the door of the house, checked around, looked in the windows, and spoken to the local police; on his second, he had obtained a warrant and the house had been opened by the estate agent. Inside, no sign of habitation, no food in the fridge or the pantry. The beds were not made up, yet outside the house, the lawn was mown, and in the garage at the side of the house, a late-model BMW.
Larry believed that crime was the most likely reason for the place being leased. There was a forwarding address for the mail, but that had drawn a blank.
Janice Robinson was now occupying more of Homicide’s time than the Jane Doe. Larry was glad of the opportunity to be on his own, to use his initiative. It was clear that the village would offer no more clues, but why an expensive car was in the garage concerned him.
Only one group of people had money to waste: drug people. Not those taking them, like the Robinsons’ daughter, but those who imported and sold them, and they were dangerous, and usually none too subtle about who they killed and how.
The possibility remained that the woman in the village and the body in the cemetery were one and the same. And if she had been in the village with an older man, that suggested a relationship: adulterous, platonic, or otherwise.
Larry finished his coffee and headed back to London; village life had never suited him, too quiet. The hustle and bustle of the metropolis was more to his taste, even though the coffee he had just drunk was excellent, and the pub sold his favourite beer. Not that he would taste it this time; he had the bit between his teeth and there was something he needed to check out.
***
Winston’s admission that he had paid for Janice Robinson's services hadn’t advanced the murder enquiry; its only function was to cause embarrassment and a probable end to the burgeoning romance of Brad and Rose, who still met at the school, snatched moments during the breaks, whispered conversations.
At the school, a low-key police presence, two police constables aiming to blend in; failing miserably.
One of the two, Constable Ecclestone, complained whenever Wendy spoke to him. ‘A rabble and they’re trading drugs in the playground. In my day…’
In his day, Wendy knew, they would have been doing precisely the same, but now weapons were a more significant issue, especially knives and knuckle dusters. The miserable and negative constable was right, but that was something to deal with another day.
‘Anyone strange?’ Wendy said. ‘Remember, we’ve got two murders now. We don’t want a third, or you and I will be up before the chief superintendent, and he doesn’t appreciate failure.’
‘I heard that he and DCI Cook are friends.’
‘You’ve heard right. However, in the superintendent’s office, it’s business, not pleasure. Have you seen anything?’
‘Robinson’s mother was here, not for long, and the girl’s father waited outside for her, said a few words and left.’
‘When?’
‘At 2.46 p.m. today, not long before you arrived.’
‘Any idea what they were talking about?’
‘I couldn’t get that close. It looked serious, but there was no shouting.’
‘Their children see a murder, and then Brad’s sister dies.’
‘I knew her.’
‘How?’
‘Not as a client; no help needed there.’
Wendy squirmed at the man’s comment. Why was it, she thought, that men wanted to brag to female police officers? What was different? Or was it shock value, the fact that a female police officer had seen it or heard it all before, and they wouldn’t say anything or react? Whatever it was, she didn’t like it.
‘How?’
‘Before she was up at Sunbeam Crescent, she used to hang out down by the canal. There’s a dark stretch down there where the street lights don’t penetrate. They used to think they were safe from us, but they weren’t. We knew their tricks, and we’d pick up one or two of a weekend to let them know it as well.’
‘Not all of them?’
‘What would it achieve? Some of them were too far out of it to know what was going on, no money to pay the fine either. But Janice, she was smarter than most. She always came willingly, fronted the magistrate, fluttered her eyes, wiggled her hips, cried about her habit and a mother who didn’t understand.’
‘Assuming half of what you just said is true, what’s the point of the story?’
‘Nothing. She’d get a fine, a slap on the wrist, be back in another month or two. Sometimes we’d not arrest her.’
‘A knee-trembler up against a wall?’
‘Not us,’ Ecclestone said. ‘Nothing like that.’
If he didn’t, Wendy knew, he would have been unique. She didn’t believe him for one minute.
***
Isaac entered the gates of Maidstone Prison. It’s main claim to fame was that its exterior had been used in the opening sequences of the TV comedy series Porridge. It was Category C, a closed prison for those who couldn’t be trusted in an open prison but were unlikely to escape. It wasn’t his first time in the place, but the first time visiting Jim Robinson.
Suspects for the murder of his sister were worryingly few. Apart from Winston, nobody else had been found, and Wendy’s attempt at a door-to-door on the street of Janice’s bedsit had turned out to be as Larry had described – a waste of time, in that those who knew something weren’t talking,
