‘Janice?’
‘Did you know her?’
‘I paid her the occasional visit, not in that dreadful bedsit, before she reached the end of the road, before the drugs destroyed her.’
The drugs you sell, Larry thought but did not say. He looked over at Vincent, studying the menu. Their eyes met. Vincent did not approve of what his former pupil had become, but he wasn’t a man to make waves.
‘I’ll have fish,’ he said.
Spanish John signalled the waiter, Italian by his halting English and appearance. ‘A bottle of your finest red,’ he said.
‘Steak for me, heavy on the chips,’ Larry said to the waiter.
‘Make that two,’ Spanish John said.
‘We’re not certain that the murders are over.’
‘Assuming I can help, what do you want?’
‘We have only one firm lead, a woman who I met at a house in Holland Park. Subsequently, we found out that she had been at the first murder site.’
‘You’ve lost her?’
‘Initially, we couldn’t do anything when we first came across her, and we were forced to believe that she wasn’t important, but now…’
‘Scratch your back, you’ll scratch mine, is that it?’
‘I’m with Homicide, not narcotics. That’s not my concern, not now, but murdering people is. Janice and Hector make no sense.’
‘You reckon there could be more?’
‘We don’t know. I’ve got eyes out there looking for one woman. I could do with some help.’
Spanish John saw himself as Godfather to his community, a benevolent figure who supported the local charities, gave money to a homeless shelter, helped out the occasional family down on their luck. A man who weighed his misdeeds with the good he did, a man that the police regarded with suspicion, but little proof.
The gangster took a sip of his wine, clinked glasses with Vincent and Larry. ‘Give me the photo. If she’s around here, we’ll find her.’
***
Gwen Pritchard stood outside the house in Holland Park, the photo blown up and on a large board secured to the front gate. It wasn’t the first time that a police officer had been in the street, but before the picture had been an identikit based on Larry’s recollection, and there wasn’t any shortage of women who matched Analyn’s description.
It was a thankless task, and it was cold, so much so that Gwen was looking forward to a break from standing outside the house. She decided she’d stop after talking to the first twenty people, mainly retirees with nothing better to do, and school pupils off to the first lesson of the day: the females looking up at the tall constable, pleased to talk to her; the adolescent males taking the opportunity to speak to her, some of them misbehaving, one getting a rebuke for getting too close, another for a smart comment.
Nobody knew anything, which wasn’t surprising as the house hadn’t been occupied for more than a few weeks, and there was a rear entrance down a lane at the back, a remote control to open the sliding gate.
‘I remember her,’ the next-door neighbour said when Gwen, tiring of the street, knocked on the door. ‘I could see her from my bedroom window, not that I could hear. I don’t make a habit of looking in other people’s backyards, seeing who’s who, but these days, you can’t be too careful, can you?’
The lady was in her seventies, obviously very well off financially judging by the antiques in the house, the oil paintings on the wall. Gwen had studied art and had once considered a career in the restoration of paintings, soon discounted as it had only been a fad brought on by her parents who saw the police force as a dead-end job, only suitable for the lower echelons of society. Her parents were snobs, she was not, but she could act the part if required.
‘New money, singers, we’ve had them all down here. No breeding most of them and some of the parties…’
‘Next door?’ Gwen glanced up at a Matisse, his blue period, a caricature of a nude female. It was genuine from what she could see, worth a fortune.
‘I can’t say I approved of the two of them, but they were quiet, hardly ever saw them.’
The story had already been told to other police officers, Gwen knew, having read the reports.
‘Cavorting?’
‘The two of them in that house together.’
‘Ian Naughton, the man in the house, said that his wife was away, and the young Asian woman was a housemaid, looking after the children. Not that we’ve ever found proof of that.’
‘I spoke to her once. My dog, a sweet little thing, wouldn’t harm a fly, had found a break in the wall and had gone into their garden.’
‘I know that this has been mentioned by you before, but I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me in your own good time.’
‘I can tell you come from breeding.’
It wasn’t mentioned, not by Gwen at Challis Street, and never by Detective Superintendent Goddard, but she had had a privileged upbringing; money wasn’t a determining factor in her life, but having a vocation was.
The two women were seated in the front room of the house. It was warm, too warm for a policewoman in uniform.
Gwen took off her jacket, the dog in question coming over to sniff around.
It was, Gwen decided, neither sweet nor little, but a giant poodle, its coat clipped regulation style.
‘What can you tell me about the woman?’
‘Asian, not sure which country, but then it’s not so easy.’
Gwen handed over the photo.
‘That’s her, a good likeness. No idea why she’d want to be with him.’
‘A relationship?’
‘I saw them out there. Late at night, but I can see well enough. The two of them…’
‘Making love?’
‘I wouldn’t call it that, not him and her. He must
