‘Sorry, can’t help. I’ve done as much as I can,’ Spanish John said as he got up from his chair and walked out of the pub, the heavy following him. Over near the bar, the man’s insignificant brother was propping himself up with one arm on the counter, holding on to a glass with the other.
Larry picked up his beer, took one sip and put the glass back on the table. He’d not be sleeping on the sofa that night.
Chapter 21
Even though it was after eleven in the evening, and Larry hadn’t made it home, such was Isaac’s enthusiasm to act on Spanish John’s information that he, Wendy, and Larry found themselves outside Amanda Upton’s residence. It was definitely upmarket, but then again it was Marylebone, and the name came with a premium if you were buying property there. A row of elegant red-brick apartment blocks, each storey interspersed with a layer of white stone, rose up five floors. A local estate agent had been roused from his sleep. As the managing agent, he had a set of keys, and though reluctant, he had listened as he was told of the circumstances of the late-night visit and had arrived at the address five minutes after the police.
At the windows of the adjoining properties, a rustling of some of the curtains, as well as a couple of residents standing outside asking questions. Wendy had spoken to them, asked if they knew the woman on the second floor. None did, and as always, she received the obligatory response that it was a quiet neighbourhood, never any trouble, no wild parties.
Any further information Wendy could give to the locals regarding Amanda Upton would wait until they had confirmation that it was her place of residence, and then the following morning a door-to-door would commence.
The estate agent opened the imposing two-doored entrance to the building, Isaac and Larry following him in. All three were wearing nitrile gloves and shoe protectors. So far, the crime scene investigators were not at the scene but would be notified if and when their presence was required.
Inside, a lift, but the three walked up the stairs, keeping to the middle of the stairway, which was also a thoroughfare for the other residents in the building. At the door of the apartment, the agent, a man fatter than any man had a right to be, and attempting to catch his breath, knocked on the door. After a couple of attempts, he turned the key and entered, setting off the burglar alarm.
Isaac found the alarm’s control panel soon enough, and entered 000 onto a keypad, disabling the alarm. So much for security, he thought.
The agent held back, as he had been told. It was an impressive residence, Isaac had to concede. Three bedrooms, the first with an en suite, a designer kitchen, upmarket furniture, the lair of a successful woman, which Amanda Upton had been.
Larry, unable to curb his interest, joined Isaac in the apartment and looked out of the front window. He could see Wendy talking to a group of locals.
By the time Isaac and Larry left the apartment, it was after one in the morning. Two crime scene investigators had arrived in the interim and would continue their work. A fingerprint on a wine glass in the kitchen had been matched to the woman at the grave, confirmed as Mary Wilton’s daughter from a photo that she had of her and Amanda Upton, and the handwriting from a letter that the mother had handed over and a diary in the apartment would be compared, although it looked to be a formality.
On the street, a uniform stood, and a sign had been placed outside the building stating that it was a place of interest to the police.
Wendy had a list of people who had some recollection of the woman from a photo she had shown them, although no one could remember speaking to her. She phoned Kate Baxter, checked on her movements for the next couple of days. Competent and in demand, she was working with Fraud, although she expressed a desire to be with Homicide if she could. Gwen Pritchard was free, and even though she had been woken from a deep sleep, she was excited at the prospect of once again working with Homicide.
If, as seemed probable, Amanda Upton had made sure to keep her activities secret, it would come as a shock to some in the building that the woman had been a high-class prostitute.
***
Larry arrived at Amanda Upton’s apartment at eight in the morning, the agent having supplied a key. Inside, as the night before, or more correctly, earlier that day, nothing had been disturbed. The CSIs had completed their work, so Larry only needed to wear nitrile gloves.
In the main living area, a photo on display of a young girl and an older woman; without question, Amanda and her mother in happier times. Larry methodically walked through the apartment, casting his eyes around, aiming to understand how the woman had moved, what her nature was: tidy, obsessive, casual about where she placed her things. In the bedroom, the probable place for secrets to lie hidden, he took a seat close to the door. He then moved over to the wardrobe, slid one of the mirror-fronted doors to one side. The labels on the neatly hanging clothes were all designer labels, and not all of them had been purchased in England.
He pulled open the drawers of an antique chest of drawers, only to find the woman’s underwear neatly folded, some of it wrapped in tissue. This was a methodical person, he knew, not the sort of person who would leave sensitive information visible, not the sort of person to have died for an indiscretion.
Ian Naughton figured large in the mind of Homicide, and he
