‘Did you know Warren Preston, they called him Wazza?’
‘I don’t know. If he came here, I wouldn’t have been introduced.’
‘He’s been killed. We need to ask your son some questions.’
‘I could do with another drink, something to eat.’
‘Later. Your son?’
‘I’ve not seen him, not for two months.’
‘Anywhere we might find him?’
‘He’s got a cousin, lives in Croydon.’
‘Address?’
‘I don’t know. Jayden Conroy. My sister’s son, he made good. He and Waylon grew up together as children before his mother found herself another man and moved away, something I should have done.’
‘We have a concern about your daughter.’
‘It’s not the first time. I do my best, but it’s not easy, you must know that.’
‘Social services will advise, but I suggest you pack a bag for her, a change of clothes. She’ll need to be examined, probably at the hospital.’
‘I’ll go with her. Waylon?’
‘We need to ask him questions relating to the death of Warren Preston.’
‘Not my Waylon, not him. I know he can be dangerous, but he’d not kill anyone.’
Ross knew that Conroy’s mother did not believe one word of what she had just said. He felt sorry for her. It wasn’t an emotion that he would hold for long; he had a job to do, and sentimentality didn’t figure in it.
***
Larry Hill remembered his last encounter with Spanish John. It had been eighteen months previously, a homicide, a man by the name of Bevan Harris, a minor criminal adept at cracking safes, getting into any locked building and disabling the alarm.
Larry had known Harris by sight, a Geordie from Newcastle, in the north of the country, easily recognisable by the cartoon figures tattooed on his arms. He was neither charismatic nor agreeable, with a sour look and a foul mouth. Apart from his unique skills, he was a man that had few friends, other than Spanish John’s brother and an ugly mutt of a dog.
Akoni was the brother’s name. Larry had googled it and found that it meant someone who is a brave warrior and has excellent leadership qualities. Neither attribute could be accorded to the small weasely black man when he was hauled into Challis Street Police Station on a Tuesday night.
Harris and Akoni had argued vehemently in the morning, a dispute over money, although nobody who had witnessed the affray could remember the details, and if they could, they weren’t about to tell them to a police officer.
Even Larry had to see the humour in the two men fighting. The tattooed white man, over six feet tall, with a long dark beard and with an accent and a choice of words that sometimes left others looking for a translation, and the five-feet-six inches Akoni, skinny and shaven-headed.
According to those that had been there, why they were fighting wasn’t apparent, but Akoni had acquitted himself better than expected, getting in under Harris’s guard, a flurry of punches to the stomach before retreating. In the end, the two men tiring, the anger appeased, they had embraced and gone into a pub for a pint, Harris’s ugly mutt relegated to sitting outside, looking at its master through an open door.
As Akoni had sat in the interview room, stating his innocence, a dissolute friend of the deceased from Newcastle, a man who had a genuine grievance in that Harris had stolen his woman from him and brought her south, was arrested for the murder. Harris, for all his faults, could draw women to him, whereas Akoni, small and agreeable to talk to, a good patter in chat-up lines, couldn’t.
Then, when Akoni left the police station, he was approached by two uniforms and asked for the registration papers for the top-of-the-range BMW that he was driving.
He was detained once again, although Larry wasn’t directly involved, not that Spanish John would listen to reason, as it was Challis Street where Akoni had been arrested.
The BMW and other luxury cars were being stolen off the streets in London, put into a container and shipped off to Africa, to countries that drove on the left. With sufficient bribes, they would reappear a continent away.
Akoni acquired the vehicles, delivering them to an industrial estate to the north of the city. Spanish John was investigated, but nothing was ever proven. Larry always thought that the smarter brother wouldn’t have risked dealing in stolen cars; drugs were more his style, easier to conceal, easier to sell, a higher profit margin.
The three men met at a restaurant in Kensington; Spanish John was paying, not out of courtesy to the police, but because Larry was accompanied by Gus Vincent.
Spanish John, taller than his brother, carrying more weight, not only in fat but in gold jewellery, his fingers bedecked with rings, a heavy gold chain around his neck, a Rolex on his wrist, embraced Vincent, scowled at Larry.
‘What do you want, Hill?’ the criminal said.
‘Two women, one man murdered,’ Larry said. No reason to mention Preston, he thought. A gang member in Canning Town wouldn’t interest a man to whom violence came easily.
‘My brother?’
‘If he hadn’t driven that car over to Challis Street, we wouldn’t have caught him.’
‘Not too smart, Akoni. I was angry, angry enough to have done something about it.’
‘You wouldn’t have. Spanish John, let’s not pretend here. I know what you are, and you know who I am.’
‘What I am is an honest businessman, just you remember that. You’re right, I can trust you. What do you want from me?’
‘We need to find someone.’
‘The two women, the man?’
‘An unknown woman at Kensal Green Cemetery, Janice Robinson and her father, Hector.’
‘I knew her father, not well. He was a nobody, why kill him?’
‘We don’t know.
