‘The Philippines?’
‘It’s possible, not that I know much about there. Attractive, a good figure from what I could see.’
The man’s evaluation no doubt gained from perving at the couples in summer, Larry thought. He was a sad specimen of a man, but his description of the woman was invaluable.
Larry took out his phone, made a call.
‘I’ll have someone up here within the hour. You’ll work with him, try to come up with an accurate likeness of the woman.’
‘Do you know who it is?’
‘It’s a possibility, but we don’t know where she is.’
Chapter 15
If there’s one thing that a cemetery employee isn’t much good at, it’s remembering faces. Larry thought it was something to do with the job, numbed through dealing with the dead. Regardless, the officer sent to work with the man came back with an approximate likeness.
It looked liked Analyn, the Naughtons’ housemaid, but it could have been a thousand other young Asian women in the city: petite, straight jet-black hair, small-breasted, and attractive. It wasn’t going to help much, not unless it was enhanced by someone else.
Wendy was just inside the entrance to the cemetery on Harrow Road and Larry took a similar position on Kilburn Lane. A booth had been set up at both locations, three junior police officers given the task of questioning those who walked through.
Neither Wendy nor Larry intended to spend the day there, that was for the junior ranks, but Wendy had been adamant that she needed to ensure that everyone knew what was required.
The early-morning rush had concluded: two hundred and forty-seven people questioned. The weather was closing in, and the junior officers weren’t in a good mood, complaining about why it was them standing there.
Larry would have told them that no matter how well-educated they were – virtually all new police officers were studying for one degree or another – they still had to put in time out on the street, to do the least pleasant jobs.
‘I saw her,’ a schoolboy on his way home from school said. Another hour and the police would wind up for the day. It was Constable Gwen Pritchard who had spoken to him. He had looked her up and down. A fourteen-year-old on the cusp of manhood and the softly-spoken statuesque blonde.
‘What time?’
‘It was three thirty, three or four weeks ago, not sure of the day.’
‘What do you remember?’ Gwen Pritchard said, conscious of the young man’s wandering eyes. He wasn’t the first man that had looked, and while she could take it in her stride, a fourteen-year-old in school uniform seemed indecent to her.
He was, she knew, no different to her younger brother at that age.
‘Describe her.’
‘Nice to look at, not very tall, black hair, Asian.’
‘Is that it?’
‘She had a ring on her right hand, I could see that.’
‘William, how could you see that from the path? The grave’s not that close that you could see detail.’
‘Good eyesight, I suppose.’
‘Or you tried to see more than you could. Don’t worry, I’m not judging you, but it’s important. Did you fancy her?’
‘She was older than me. Why should I be interested?’
‘The same reason you’re looking me up and down. Adolescent, the hormones going crazy. Nothing wrong in that, but it’s important. You know about the woman who was murdered there?’
‘I heard. Is that what this is about?’
‘You know it is. Details, that’s what I need. What did you see and why so much?’
The young man had been caught out. He was embarrassed, not sure whether to tell the truth or not.
‘Look here, William, I’ll make it easy for you. You see her standing there, no one else is around, so you find a quiet spot behind a headstone, maybe take a photo, something to show your friends, or maybe you want her to yourself. Am I getting near the truth?’
‘Somewhat. I couldn’t help myself. I snuck up close, took a photo, not sure why, but I’m keen on photography.’
‘The photo?’
‘I took three or four, not that she saw, and I’m not a peeping tom, nothing like that.’
‘You’re not being accused of anything. The photos?’
‘On my phone. I’ve got one of those zooms that you can clip on. I can send them to you.’
Gwen Pritchard forwarded them to Wendy, who distributed them to Homicide.
Larry took one look, confirmed that it was Analyn and the time stamp on the photo agreed with what the cemetery employee had said.
It was a good result, so much so that the team met at the pub not far from Challis Street Police Station that night for a couple of drinks. Gwen Pritchard joined them, as did the other junior officers who had been at the cemetery.
Larry kept to one beer.
***
A sense of optimism in Homicide, further confirmation that Ian Naughton was critical to the murder enquiries, irrevocably confirmed by the photo of Analyn. The question remained as to who she was and what she was doing at the grave in Kensal Green. No one had any more ideas; the only option was for Wendy and Larry, now assisted by Gwen Pritchard, to get out and about again. Larry had his contacts, Wendy had the Robinsons and the Winstons, Gwen had enthusiasm.
It allowed Larry to visit his favourite café in Notting Hill and to enjoy a full English breakfast; he reckoned it gave him the energy lift to see him through the day.
Wendy could see as she sat opposite him that it gave him the makings of a double chin and an imperfect complexion, not that she was complaining as she was enjoying the same food.
Gwen Pritchard, younger than the two by more than a few years, kept to toast and jam. Larry looked over at her, approved of
