‘You could refinance, realise on your capital,’ Gwen said. It was clear that the constable was on the property ladder, although unlikely to be living in Marylebone, not on her salary. Regardless, Wendy knew that was not the reason they were talking to Sally Fairweather.
‘Coming back to Amanda Upton,’ Wendy said, casting a glance over at Gwen, a look that said leave it to me. ‘The woman was murdered. Did you know that, Miss Fairweather?’
‘It wasn’t explained, but I assumed she had been.’
‘Why?’
‘The police presence, the uniformed officer outside the front door to the building.’
‘The problem is we don’t know why. Did you have any idea as to what she did when she wasn’t here?’
‘She travelled; she told me that much, but I assumed for pleasure.’
‘Amanda Upton was a high-class escort, a woman who specialised in men of wealth and influence.’
‘If she was, I’m shocked. But each to their own, not that I could have done that.’
‘Nor could I,’ Gwen said. ‘What’s important is for us to find out the names of some of her contacts, and so far, we’ve found nothing in her apartment that helps.’
‘I can’t help. I’m sorry, but that’s all I knew about Amanda. As I said, just an acquaintance. A nice person and I did like her, but I’m always busy, and then there’s my boyfriend.’
‘Will he know more?’
‘I doubt it. Mostly I go to his place. He lives closer to where I work, and he’s got a better place than mine.’
***
In the apartment at the rear of the building on the ground floor, a poorly-dressed man in his eighties, his straggly grey hair unkempt and uncut for a long time. He wore a jumper replete with holes, and on his hands, he wore fingerless gloves.
‘Yes, what do you want?’
‘Sergeant Wendy Gladstone, Constable Pritchard. We’re with Homicide, Challis Street Police Station. We’ve a few questions.’
‘If it’s about her upstairs, there’s nothing I can tell you.’
‘Still, it’s important that we interview everyone in this building. The woman has been murdered.’
‘I can’t say I’m surprised.’
‘You knew her?’ Gwen said.
‘Never laid eyes on her.’
‘We need to come in,’ Wendy said.
Inside, the apartment did not have the pristine appearance of Amanda Upton’s, nor the well-worn look of Sally Fairweather’s. It smelt of dirt and damp, and there was litter on the floor. The man lived in a good area of London, yet preferred to live as a pauper, which he wasn’t as he was Benjamin Yardley, a man of note in the city in his younger days, a stockbroker.
Wendy thought that he was either suffering from low-level dementia or a traumatic event in his life had changed him from dynamic to barely functioning. However, it was not of importance for the present; the dead woman was of more concern.
‘You said that you weren’t surprised,’ Gwen said.
‘Attractive, walking around in a tight skirt, showing her wares?’ Yardley said.
‘If you mean, was she dressing as befits a modern woman of her age, then yes,’ Wendy said.
‘Your constable’s age?’
‘More or less. Does that mean she was asking to be murdered?’
‘Not from me, but there are enough people out there who would regard her dress and her manner to be asking for it.’
‘Do you believe that?’
‘Too promiscuous, too easy, that’s the modern generation. Your constable should be more careful.’
‘Mr Yardley, your personal opinion is yours,’ Wendy said. ‘However, it doesn’t answer the question. Did you know or see the dead woman?’
‘I don’t go out much, not at my age, only to buy food. I saw her once. She said hello, asked how I was. How the hell did she think I was, couldn’t she see?’
‘Apart from that?’
‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a busy day.’
‘Doing what?’ Gwen asked. It was remarkable, she thought, how much he looked like her grandfather, but he was lovable and always pleased to see her, Yardley wasn’t.
‘Checking my money, that’s what.’
Once free of Yardley and his depressing apartment, the two women walked out of the front door of the building, took deep breaths.
‘Rough,’ Wendy said.
Gwen did not comment, only looked up and down the street. Finally, she spoke. ‘Nice area. You can’t always choose your neighbours. He’d cause trouble for everyone in the building. It’s a wonder he’s still there.’
‘More money than all of them. I can remember him when I first came to London, a financial wizard, always reading the stock market correctly, buying when others were selling. His money hasn’t given him much in the way of happiness, not for a long time.’
The ground floor apartment at the front of the building was not occupied, and Wendy left Gwen to knock on the doors at the top of the building.
Out on the street there’d been little success. Amanda Upton had been sighted on a couple of occasions by some of the people, but no one had any more to say about her, and none could ever remember her in the company of anyone else, other than another woman of a similar age, identified as Sally Fairweather.
Wendy could achieve little more in Marylebone, and she returned to the police station, leaving Gwen to wrap up their enquiries.
***
Larry, although preferring not to revisit Canning Town, had to do so. The concern, not satisfactorily investigated and to some extent put to one side, was the man in the back of the car when Naughton had met with the recently deceased Waylon Conroy, a man not missed by anyone other than his mother who had wailed at the news of his demise, offering platitudes as to how she had tried her best, but a delinquent father who had taken off with another woman had
