It was clear that Jim Robinson was regarded well in prison and where the two men met was more pleasant than the usual meeting room assigned at most prisons. They shook hands, went through the usual pleasantries, spoke about the weather. Jim was adamant that he was going straight this time. Isaac took the ‘going straight comment in the manner given but didn’t believe he would. Jim Robinson, for all his charm and good intentions, was a habitual criminal and not very good at that. However, that was not the reason for the visit.
‘Jim, your sister. I need to know what happened in your home,’ Isaac said. He had already given a carton of cigarettes to the man who didn’t smoke but could use them as collateral, and a box of chocolates, Jim’s favourite, which the prisoner would keep for himself.
‘Our mother, you’ve met her,’ Jim said as he opened the chocolates, took one for himself, offered one to Isaac which he declined. He could buy them at any supermarket, Jim couldn’t.
‘Unable to cope?’
‘And some. Our father, when he was around, kept the place under control, but he was a hard man, a bastard, in that he’d drink and then start getting violent. Hit me a few times, as well as Brad, and Mum had more than a few black eyes.’
‘Did he abuse Janice?’
‘Not Janice. Don’t believe our mother; not that she was innocent on all counts.’
‘You knew?’
‘Some of the men in the house weren’t there out of love. Brad was too young to understand, and Janice could be naïve, even when she started to develop, but I was older.’
What did you do about it?’
‘There wasn’t much I could do when I was younger, and later I ended up spending more time away, courtesy of Her Majesty.’
‘Your father looked at Janice as more than a daughter?’
‘I told you, don’t listen to my mother. If he had looked at Janice, it would have been out of admiration, not lust. His problem was that he would get drunk and then violent. I dealt with him that night, never saw him again, no idea where he is.’
‘No idea?’
‘I’d prefer not to know, and I haven’t seen him, not since that night.’
‘Where can I find him? It’s important.’
‘Not sure why, but try Canning Town, out to the east of the city.’
‘A phone number, address?’
‘Ask around. I only heard that he was there, can’t remember who told me and that’s the truth. Why’s this important?’
‘Apart from one customer who’s not the murderer, we haven’t anyone else to pin her death on.’
‘She was always going to come to an unfortunate end, our Janice. Our mother was right about that, one of the few times, though.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Janice was gullible, used to watch that nonsense on the television, get herself upset, want to do something about it.’
‘What sort of nonsense?’
‘The starving, the downtrodden, the needy. We were all of those three as children, not much better now, apart from Brad. He’s got a chance.’
‘And you?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector, out there, no one’s going to give me a decent job, and why should they? A prison record, no qualifications.’
‘You could get qualifications, learn computers.’
‘Dyslexic. I’ll try to stay out of trouble, but it runs in the family. No violence, not from Brad or me; our father was the exception.’
‘I’ll give him your best wishes when I find him.’
‘Don’t bother, and what do you hope to gain?’
‘I need to know who else spent time with your mother and your sister. He might be able to help.’
‘DCI, leave well alone. Don’t rake over old coals. The past is just that, long gone. What happened to us, what happened to Janice, won’t bring her back.’
‘We can’t leave her murder unpunished.’
‘It would be better if you did. We’ll remember her in our own way, remember the young girl.’
Isaac slipped a fifty-pound note across to Robinson as he left; he hoped he would use it wisely.
Chapter 10
Kensal Green Cemetery. A hunch. It wasn’t often that Larry saw things so clearly. He was a methodical police officer: follow the process, talk to people, move forward. Yet, as he had sat in the coffee shop in Godstone, looking over at the house, it had seemed more evident to him.
He walked over to the gravestone, looked at it, looked for the imperceptible. If the subterfuge of the couple who had leased the house in the village was so good, then a random killing at the cemetery made no sense.
Brad and Rose had only walked through a small part of the cemetery which was extensive, stretching almost a mile to the west and still within the cemetery boundary, sixty-five thousand graves.
Larry studied the grave where the woman had died. He hadn’t had lunch, no food since breakfast at home, but it didn’t seem important, not now.
He took a photo of the headstone with his smartphone; took a slow amble around the cemetery, not totally sure of where he was heading, confident that it was important.
The first clue, the numbers of the plots fronting the path painted on the kerb. The first number he saw belonged to a sadly-neglected grave dating back to the 1830s, the woman’s name almost erased due to weathering over the years. Even so, a sad-looking bunch of flowers was placed on it. He couldn’t believe that a descendant still remembered, although sometimes well-meaning people felt the need to remember the lost forgotten. The number, freshly painted in black on a white background – 12813.
As he walked, he observed the numbers rising in steps of three, which meant one grave fronting the path, one behind, and another behind that. An intersection, and a
