‘Have you any knowledge of an Ian Naughton?’
‘The name means nothing to me. Let’s be clear here, Chief Inspector, the aspersion that my client is somehow involved in – what was it?’
‘Murder, three so far.’
Isaac had stated the reason for the visit on arrival and he felt the woman was being evasive, not a good sign.
‘Murder, yes, I understand. However, my client is not involved. How could he be if he’s not in the country.’
‘Client? Male? Overseas?’
‘My apologies if I’ve confused you,’ Agnes Hepplesworth said. ‘I’ve never met the person or spoken to him on the phone. I assume that it is a man, but it could be a woman.’
‘You must have a signature on the documents?’
‘A complex purchase, the name on the documents is not Ian Naughton, nor is it necessarily the person you met at the house.’
Agnes Hepplesworth had been obstructionist. Whether she had acted professionally or if it indicated an ulterior motive, he wasn’t sure. After the episode with Naughton, he wasn’t trusting anyone.
***
Larry spent time out in Canning Town, not that the area offered any more opportunity than Challis Street and its surrounding area. But it had been the only place, apart from Holland Park, and possibly Godstone, where one of the perpetrators had been seen.
Warren Preston hadn’t been able to tell them much, other than it was two men, but even that was flawed. Why trust a man’s death to a gang of poorly educated and unreliable black youths? It was a question that Bill Ross pondered.
The two police officers were enjoying a curry on Barking Road; one of the only advantages of working in the area was great foods, Ross had said. Larry couldn’t disagree with him, and he intended to take advantage.
Wendy was with the two families, Isaac was in the office, and Bridget was dealing with the paperwork, attempting to get the recalcitrant Agnes Hepplesworth to open up about what she knew.
Checks had been made on the woman; it appeared that her company specialised in purchasers from overseas. No complaints against the solicitors, but no checking of their records had ever been carried out, although Isaac was keen for one to be done.
‘Can’t be done,’ Fraud Squad had told him. ‘Not without something solid to go on.’
Larry finished his curry, drank his tea; usually a curry deserved a pint of beer to wash it down, but not today.
Ross answered his phone; a meeting had been arranged with Preston’s gang.
‘Preston’s not the smartest,’ Ross said as the two men stood outside the restaurant, a cigarette in his hand, a look of longing from Larry. So far, he had kept his alcohol consumption under control and had given up smoking. Too much friction at home and at Challis Street had made the decision for him, but out at Canning Town, a more liberal attitude prevailed, with a superintendent who wasn’t always politically correct, having said what he thought of the hoodies to Ross and Larry, and not succinctly.
Two blocks from the Durham Arms, an old Toyota. Inside the vehicle, two hoodies. Both were the same colour as Preston, the same chip on the shoulder, the same speech patterns.
‘You’re asking questions,’ one of them said. Ross knew him to be the second-in-command. A hierarchy existed, and the smaller of the two was the person in charge.
‘Are you part of the gang?’ Ross said. He wasn’t comfortable with where the four of them stood, the reason he had phoned for a patrol car to drive past the end of the road every five minutes.
‘Dangerous, knife you as soon as look at you,’ Ross had said back at his station. The black gangs that Larry knew well in Notting Hill were mild compared to those standing in front of them. The leader of the two, softly spoken, a scar across his left cheek, a tattoo barely visible on his neck, looked ruthless.
His real name, not that he’d use it, was Waylon Conroy, a local born Jamaican, more intelligent than most, capable of better, but life on the edge suited him.
Bill Ross knew it for what it was: a lost generation. And as for Conroy, a couple of GCSEs, a chance of further education, a possibility of going to university, but the youth was generationally destined for a life of crime.
‘You wanted to talk to us,’ Conroy said.
‘Where’s the Mercedes?’ Ross said.
It seemed to Larry that Waylon Conroy and Bill Ross were acquainted; as he was with their counterparts over near Challis Street.
‘Safe, under lock and key. Too many villains around here.’
‘We’re not here to bother you,’ Larry said. ‘It’s the information that we want.’
‘Who’s he?’ Conroy said. ‘New around here?’
‘He can be trusted,’ Ross said.
‘You were interested in the two men.’
‘Help us; we’ll help you.’
‘Trust a copper? Why should we? We didn’t kill anyone. The one in the car, not that we could see that much, wore a fancy watch on his left wrist.’
‘Make?’
‘Gold; it glinted in the light from a street light down the street. Expensive, probably a Rolex, but I can’t be sure.’
‘Any more? The weapon?’
‘Can’t help you there. Not English, not purchased locally.’
The patrol car passed the end of the road. Conroy looked around. ‘You’re safe with us,’ he said.
‘You can’t blame us for taking precautions,’ Larry said.
Ross lit up a cigarette, offered the packet around.
‘I can sell you better, half price,’ Conroy said.
‘The two men,’ Larry said.
‘We didn’t kill the old man, regardless of what you think. Nothing to be gained.’
‘Where is Warren Preston?’
‘Around.’
Ross nudged Larry. Both men knew that the gangs were extremely sensitive, liable to act adversely if questioned too closely.
‘Are you trying to tell us that you didn’t kill Robinson?’ Ross said.
