‘Did you?’
‘There was a massive storm that day; his boat never returned, he and two others drowned at sea. We had parted in anger, never a chance to say I was sorry. Since then, I’ve been Mrs Wilton, never fallen in love again.’
It was a sad story, one of many that Wendy had heard over the years, but it was the past. The present was still playing itself out, and those that had died violently had to be vindicated; those that were still alive needed to be protected.
‘Cathy Parkinson?’ Wendy said, not wanting to dwell on Mary Wilton’s past, although feeling some sympathy for the woman, realising that everyone, rich or poor, educated or not, male or female, had a sad story to tell.
‘Nothing could be done to wean her off heroin. Sometimes Janice would moderate her injecting, but not Cathy. She was not a person that I warmed to; entertaining when she was in a good mood, sullen when she wasn’t. Another sad tale, but let’s not talk about it. She did her job, played up to the men, wiggled the hips, got them excited, but no class about her. Although who knows, before the drugs got her.’
‘Meredith Temple?’
‘Classy. I didn’t like tattoos, but I accepted them. She wasn’t strong on the drugs, not as much as the others, and if she was in a good mood, she wouldn’t inject, Maybe a bottle of wine, no more. Educated, I could tell that, but I always suspected that she was mildly schizophrenic. I’m not a doctor, so I could never be sure, but she walked away from me one day, gave me a hug, thanked me, and that was it. I never saw her again.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Two years, give or take a few months. She told you about my place, didn’t she?’
‘She did,’ Wendy admitted.
‘I should be angry, but I’m not. At least I know about Amanda. It’s always better to know than to worry indefinitely, don’t you think?’
Wendy wasn’t sure if it was, but she wasn’t about to admit that to the woman. ‘Yes, it’s best to know,’ she said.
Over behind the coffee shop counter, an anxious-looking manager eyed the occupied table. It was close to lunchtime, and the place was starting to fill up, not to just drink coffee and eat cake, but to purchase a meal, to spend real money, more than the amount the two women had spent so far.
Wendy called the woman over, opened her warrant card. ‘Two meals, your special for the day, and make sure we’re left alone.’
‘Of course. A special discount for our fine police service.’ It was not as obsequious as at the restaurant where Meredith Temple worked, but it still read as ‘better to have the police on our side than against’.
Another place probably underpaying the staff, Wendy thought, but it was only too common in the city. She would do nothing about it; she had bigger fish to catch.
‘What connects the five women?’ Wendy said, looking directly at Mary Wilton. ‘Why is your daughter the catalyst for the deaths, and why was she in the cemetery? We have a direct connection from there through a man to Analyn. What is it? Is it you, Mrs Wilton? Is there something you’re not telling us, something that got your daughter murdered?’
‘All I know is that Amanda was scared of something or someone, but that’s it. I just don’t know. I wish I could help, I really do.’
Wendy was sure in part that the woman was genuine in her desire to assist, and sad that her daughter was dead, but there still remained the nagging sense, an intuitive belief that the woman was holding something back. Whether it was out of fear, the same as her daughter, or for another reason, there was no way of knowing.
The manager reappeared, two plates of chicken and rice, a salad in a dish to one side. ‘A couple of glasses of white wine,’ she said. ‘You look as though you could use it. Bad news, is it?’
‘Thanks,’ Wendy said. She didn’t need someone being nosey. She cast a glance over at the manager who was moving over to tidy the table next to them, ears pricked. ‘Privacy, as well,’ Wendy said.
A look of disinterest from the manager as she walked away. ‘I was only doing my job,’ she said as she passed Wendy.
The food was good, and for a while, nothing was said. Eventually, it was Mary Wilton who spoke.
‘If Analyn was trafficked, I’d not know, and the others are all English, so it can’t be that.’
‘It would be the most logical reason for the deaths, the secrecy of the organisation, but we’re not convinced that it is, not yet. Analyn appears to have free movement and not to be under duress. We know that she was in a village to the south of London on her own and that she was in Kensal Green Cemetery on one occasion. Apart from that, we don’t know a lot about her, other than she was also in a house in Holland Park masquerading as a nanny to the children or a maid, but was probably neither; more likely the live-in lover of the man at the house. The name of Ian Naughton mean anything to you?’
‘Not to me, but then, most of them don’t give their names, a first name sometimes, and cash still reigns supreme in the world of prostitution. A few have used credit cards, but the bank account name I use is innocuous enough not to raise suspicion.’
‘You seem calm about Amanda’s death,’ Wendy said.
‘Life hardens you, and I’ve seen more than my fair share. As a police officer, you must feel the same about death, inured to the inevitable, no matter how tragic.’
