But then the self-confessed madam was a conundrum, one moment caring and sweet, the next, hard as nails. Wendy left her at the table after paying the bill, offering a compliment to the manager on the quality of the meal, appeasement for the harshness she had subjected her to before. It wasn’t the woman’s fault; it was purely a natural inquisitiveness, the need to know other people’s business. It was the same with a car accident, the dead and injured lying around, the medical teams tending to them, the crowds forming, anxious to see what was going on, to believe that however bad their lives were, others had it worse.
It was mid-afternoon, and she was needed in the office. There had been developments, as now the woman at the grave had a name, and there were connections, however circumstantial or coincidental, between Brad Robinson and the young and still innocent Rose, Brad’s sister and father, and the two other dead women.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t over yet, and were they coincidences? Wendy didn’t believe in them, no more than her colleagues at Challis Street Police Station did. She was confident that on her arrival at the station, her DCI would be ready and waiting, and probably Detective Chief Superintendent Goddard with his obligatory compliment for excellent policing, his need to stir the pot, to tell them they could do better. But then the chief superintendent had someone to answer to, Commissioner Davies, a man unloved by most, sucked up to by a few.
The heavy workload was not about to reduce but to intensify. Wendy knew she was ready for it; she only wished her legs didn’t ache so much.
Chapter 20
Bill Ross closed the lid of his laptop, straightened the loose papers on his desk, looked outside at the rain, and decided that he had had enough for the day. It was just after four in the afternoon, a miserable day in the office at Canning Town Police Station wrapping up the paperwork on the death of Warren Preston.
He cared little about how the man had died, but Pathology had confirmed that he was bodily intact and that the jogger had probably disturbed his killers. His gang, almost certainly the people responsible for his death, were not to be found, having gone to ground in one hovel or another.
Ross knew that policing, more a vocation than he would admit, was important, and taking the attitude of ‘couldn’t care less’ about who had murdered the verminous hoodie Warren Preston wasn’t correct. He vowed to lift his game, get a transfer to somewhere else, to be more politically correct. Those that knew him would say it was impossible, but he was determined.
He put the laptop in his backpack, grabbed an umbrella from behind the door, looked around the office, and said his farewells. There was a warm fire at home, a warm wife as well, and it was still early enough to spend time with the children before they went to bed. He had to admit feeling pleased with himself.
The death of Hector Robinson still concerned him, but the paperwork wouldn’t be completed until the team at Challis Street found out who was orchestrating the murders of the Robinson family members, another prostitute and a Jane Doe, if not actually committing them.
Hector Robinson had been killed by the gang that Preston had belonged to, no doubt about that. Murdering one of another gang’s members was regarded as a rite of passage, the same as a three-point turn when you’re learning to drive; an occupational hazard when you’re the one who’s murdered. But Robinson was a different issue, and if the man was integral in some way, although how was unclear, his death could not be put down as a man down on his luck, in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Still, Ross was adamant: today he was leaving early.
He got as far as his car before one of the officers in a patrol car rang. ‘We’ve just found another one of your hoodies,’ he said.
So much for an early night, Ross thought, annoyed at the inconvenience of another low-life impacting on his family life. Disgruntled, angry, but still a police officer, he shrugged his shoulders, got into his car, started the engine, and drove out to the location given. No need for the GPS in the car, the area was well known to him, as it was to the other police officers at Canning Town Police Station.
Three blocks from the Durham Arms, the patrol car waited. They had already set up a preliminary area with crime scene tape, listened to invective from a drunk sitting on the ground nearby, been jeered at by a car of local hooligans driving by, the two-finger salute and foul language their limitations.
Bill Ross got out of his car, made sure he had gloves on and shoe protectors and made his way into the factory compound long since vacated, not due to the economy but because it just wasn’t viable to continue trading in the area. It was a case of vandalism, theft, or pay the extortionists for protection.
The body, face down, was clearly visible in a corner of the forecourt.
‘It’s one of your hoodie friends,’ the patrol car officer, a sergeant formerly from Liverpool, still with a strong scouse accent, said.
At least I’ll be home early after all, Ross thought.
