Spanish John, one of the more distasteful in terms of the business he conducted, the people whose lives he ruined, was a man close to the street. He was a man that Larry trusted, and had even enjoyed his company at the restaurant.
‘Without the woman, we’re going nowhere,’ Isaac said. We can place her at three locations of interest; she’s the glue the brings the investigation together.’
‘We do what’s necessary,’ Larry said.
‘Any money to exchange hands?’ Goddard asked.
‘Not from me.’
‘And this, Spanish John, can get a result?’
‘No guarantees, sir, but he can cover more territory than me. He’s also checking on Ian Naughton. He doesn’t want murderers in the area any more than we do; bad for business, more police on the ground.’
‘So, if we find the murderer, he sleeps better at night.’
‘He does.’
‘I’ll accept that you’re doing all you can, but it’s not good enough. It won’t be long before I’m under pressure again. You got me a stay of execution last time. By the way, thanks for that, a good report that you all put together.’
‘Sir,’ Wendy said, ‘I’ve still got a concern about Brad Robinson and his mother, Rose Winston and her parents.’
‘You’re keeping a watch on them?’
‘We are, but we’ve pulled the uniforms, no budget, and the threat level has abated.’
‘That’s what they say with the idiots killing in the name of their religion. The threat is downgraded, and then another one of them pops up, kills a few bystanders, people on their way to work. Still, you’re right about the budget. And besides, don’t you believe that the woman died as a result of a disgruntled customer, the father at the hands of hoodies?’
‘In part, failing further information. It makes no sense to kill those two just because the youngest of the family had seen the murderer in the cemetery.’
‘No more than the grave and this woman,’ Goddard said as he got up to leave. ‘That aside, keep a watch on the two families. If anything happens, we’re open to criticism and censure, and Commissioner Davies will have a field day laying the blame on this department and my handling of the murder investigation.’
Wendy understood the rationale in pulling back the protection from the two families. However, it didn’t abate her concern. She hoped they were safe, but she wasn’t sure, nobody could be. And if anything happened to any of them, not only would it be doom for the chief superintendent and her DCI, it would leave her with a strong feeling of guilt. If that day came, it wouldn’t be her health that decided when she would be retiring, it would be her as she handed in her resignation.
***
Wendy had come into Homicide as a constable before being promoted to sergeant on Isaac’s recommendation. Up in Sheffield, a junior constable, she had honed a skill for finding truanting children, some because running away had an aura of romanticism, others because of an abusive parent.
It had been a good period in her life, away from the confines of a remote farmhouse, a drudging life, a father she had loved, a mother she always felt distant from.
In her first couple of years in Yorkshire, and in uniform, a few romances, a lot of alcohol, and a broken heart after one man, a sergeant at the station and three years her senior, had blabbed about their night together.
She had heard the details from a friend, seen the sniggering at the station, not unexpected as the police back then were openly chauvinistic, no political correctness to deter them.
Inspector Dermot Loughlin had regretted putting his hand up her skirt in his office, closing the door with one foot and pushing her up against a filing cabinet with such force that some papers stacked high on top fell to the ground.
‘Don’t worry, love, you can pick them up afterwards,’ he had said.
It had been late at night, an emotional time for the young constable because of a recent case. A child, Helen Moxon, she had found hiding out in a squat in Attercliffe, a suburb to the east of the city centre. A frumpish fifteen-year-old with a horrific story of how her mother beat her and her father sexually abused her.
Helen Moxon was critical of her parents in the court, glaring at them; the mother in her Sunday best, a peach-coloured dress, a smile that excited the magistrate, a sour-faced old goat, Wendy thought. And the father, dressed in a business suit, upright, distinguished military record, a local government employee, a respected man.
Social services, weak and ineffectual, represented by a woman just six months after she’d received her degree at a university in Sussex and who hadn’t prepared, and in the end Helen Moxon was returned to the care of her parents.
Two days later, she was dead, the result of a beating from both parents; the sexual abuse confirmed by the pathologist.
And then Loughlin was pushing Wendy, rubbing his groin up and down her, trying to get her to relax. She grabbed the nearest heavy object, a coffee percolator, and smashed it on his head. He fell to the ground, unconscious, and she ended up on suspension.
Two months later, she was reinstated after another officer, an inspector who had more chivalrous ideas on how to treat women, came forward in her defence.
No apology was ever forthcoming, and the amorous inspector had returned to the station, demoted to sergeant. Nine months later, he was back to his old rank, and Wendy was in London.
Even now, many years later, she would occasionally wake up and remember the look on the young woman’s face as she got into the back seat of the family car.
And now, Rose Winston, loved by her parents, was at
