‘We’re certain she’s from the Philippines.’
‘An illegal?’
‘We don’t know, probably not. I met her once, but now she’s an important witness in a homicide.’
‘There’s not much I can do, and why around here?’
‘She was at a house in Holland Park. That’s where we met her, and before that, she had been at a murder site in Kensal Green Cemetery. Whoever, whatever, she’s involved, voluntarily or otherwise, we don’t know.
‘You used to be friendly with Rasta Joe; he could have helped you,’ Vincent said.
‘A former pupil of yours, but he’s dead.’
‘A few are. Isaac Cook turned out alright.’
‘He did, but I need to get traction, I need to meet Spanish John.’
‘When?’
‘Now, or in the next couple of hours. He won’t talk to me, not after the last time.’
‘Arresting his brother for stealing cars, two years in prison.’
‘Spanish John’s brother was lucky. Not that bright, driving around the area, showing off.’
‘Still, it was his brother.’
‘He’ll not like women being murdered either, and that’s what we’ve got, two so far.’
Vincent picked up his phone, made the appointment. ‘I better go with you,’ he said.
***
It wasn’t unexpected, certainly not to Detective Inspector Bill Ross; he had seen it before.
An early-morning jogger, down by the River Lea in Newham, no more than half a mile from the Durham Arms, had found the body.
‘Every morning, rain or shine,’ Barry Bosley said. Looking at the whippet-thin man, expensive trainers, a tee shirt with a running man logo, Ross thought that he would definitely run the London Marathon every year, placing with the lead amateurs.
Rain or shine was appropriate, as, by the time he had arrived at the site, the heavens had opened up. Bill Ross was perishing cold, but steam appeared to be coming off Bosley as he jogged on the spot.
‘Can’t afford to cool down,’ he said. ‘I came down from my flat in Maltings Close, crossed the river on Twelvetrees Crescent and then took the path down by the river. Never seen anything like this before.’
‘Firstly, Mr Bosley,’ Ross said, ‘you can forget about completing your run today. We need a full report from you, times, what you saw, who you saw.’
‘The time is when I phoned you up, and as to what and who, nothing, unless you include a few ducks.’
Ross looked at the body. It was on the river bank, and judging by its condition, it hadn’t been in the water, although there were concrete blocks tied to each leg.
‘I’d say you interrupted what they were doing. It was dark when you got here?’
‘It makes no difference to me. I know the way.’
The amount of blood could only have been caused by knife wounds. Even though he was face down, there was to Ross no mistaking the clothes the man was wearing, nor the phone in his pocket; he had rung the number on arrival.
‘Do you know him?’ Bosley asked. Resigned to his fate, he had stopped jogging and started to feel the cold air, exacerbated by the proximity of the even colder water.
‘He was a suspect in a homicide. And why jog down here? This is a dangerous part of the world. You never know who you’re going to meet.’
‘Not in winter. The troublemakers are fair weather, keep gentlemen’s hours.’
‘I’d agree. Definitely not the hours that determined runners and police officers keep. In summer?’
‘I drive out to Victoria Park, run around there. It’s not as good, but safety first.’
Ross phoned Larry who phoned the team. ‘Preston’s been killed,’ he said.
‘Any reason for us to get involved?’ Larry asked.
‘Not yet. I was expecting it. They wouldn’t have trusted him after two days in the station, no matter how much he denied. It’s one thing to thumb your nose up at the police, to spend a night in the cells, but Preston got out without a charge.’
‘Which means?’
‘He was guilty of murdering Hector Robinson, the same as they all were. In their ignorance, they would have been certain that he had struck a deal, a plea bargain, and that he’d turn Queen’s evidence for a reduced sentence.’
‘Rough justice.’
‘Don’t look to me for sympathy. I’ve got to deal with the paperwork, try and find out who killed him,’ Ross said.
‘Who? You must know that,’ Larry said.
‘It’s the proving that’s the hard part. His so-called former friends will keep a low profile for the next week. I’ll try and find Waylon Conroy, but if I do, he’ll have an alibi, and he’ll come the sob act, deprived childhood, absent father, the usual.’
‘Evidence at the site?’
‘I’ll know later today, but I don’t expect much. He was meant to go in the water, which means our jogger friend missed them by minutes. There’s an APB out for them already.’
Chapter 16
The death of Warren Preston didn’t faze anyone at Challis Street and few more in Canning Town. One more low-life wasn’t going to be missed, although Bill Ross had to deal with a grieving mother in the station – telling him what a good child he had been, never forgetting her birthday, always looking out for her, especially after his father had done a runner.
Always the same after the event, Ross thought. Where had been the parental guidance, the discipline needed, the push for their child to attend school, to better himself? But he knew that was harsh. These were marginalised people, largely ignored by government services, dismissed by the police as a criminal element, condemned by poverty. Ross knew that you didn’t need to go far to find the third world; it was close to his police station, and the violence and the poverty were not getting better. It was a
