Waylon Conroy was dead, as was Warren Preston, aka Wazza, the latter the victim of his own gang, the former due to an altercation with a rival gang. Or that was what was assumed.
Larry sat in the office at Canning Town Police Station. Across from him Bill Ross, the inspector charged with solving three deaths in his area. First and foremost, Hector Robinson, killed by Conroy and his gang after receiving money to commit the act. Whether Preston had been present when the man died wasn’t known.
Bill Ross picked up his mug of tea and looked out of the window, not that it was a scenic view, only a red-brick wall no more than twenty feet away. Larry could see that the man was in a good mood.
‘I’ve got a transfer out of here,’ Ross said. ‘If you don’t mess it up for me.’
‘How?’ Larry’s reply.
‘If you start digging for dirt, getting yourself killed. Crime’s down in the area, the local hoodlums are keeping a low profile. Mind you, we’ve still got other villains, but someone else can deal with them.’
‘Where to?’ Larry said.
‘Dagenham, where they used to make cars before they all went broke or had them made overseas.’
‘Plenty of hoodlums there.’
‘Compared to here? It’s relative, and besides, it’s closer to home, and the station’s better equipped, a decent crew. It’s not where you’re from, gentleman criminals, upwardly mobile populace.’
‘We have enough villains, but Dagenham will be disenfranchised, high level of unemployment. Not somewhere I’d fancy.’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers, and that’s what I still am. It’s a reprieve, in part from working with you and Isaac. It seems he put in a good word for me.’
‘Then make sure you don’t let him down. You harbour a few prejudices, you know that?’
‘Around here? What do you expect?’
Larry had to agree, although he thought it wise not to comment. It was easy to be non-judgemental out of the area, but on a day-to-day basis dealing with people who weren’t deserving of respect, it was the easiest way to deal with the situation.
‘Not a lot more,’ Larry conceded, aware that debate with Ross wasn’t the reason he was in the station.
‘You’re after whoever was in the back of that car, is that it?’ Ross said.
‘It is.’
‘I don’t see how I can help. The man didn’t say anything, not to Conroy and his gang. All he did was point the gun.’
‘Conroy’s gang?’
‘One or two have been seen, not that I can do anything about them.’
‘Conroy didn’t kill Preston on his own.’
‘The death of a hoodie gang member doesn’t rate highly around here. Sorry, but that’s the reality. Even if we secured a conviction, and there’s no evidence that we can use with Preston’s death, the prisoner would be out in a few years after suitable counselling, a do-gooder stating that the offender is a reformed person and is ready to regain his place in society.’
‘He will be.’
‘He may well be, but once released, what happens?’
‘Social services will keep an eye on him, ensure he receives money regularly, find some work somewhere for him. But he’ll not stay, too much like hard work, and then he’ll be back in the same environment, the same people, the same temptations, a high probability of re-offending.’
‘As you said. This man, what’s the chance of finding out who he is?’ Ross said.
‘About as good as meeting up again with Ian Naughton or whatever name he’s using now,’ Larry said. It still irked him that he had had the man alongside him, even shaken his hand, and that he and Isaac had retreated from the house in Holland Park. It had been suspicious at the time, a mysterious set of clues from the grave where the murder had been committed, and then over to another grave, a metal box, an address. It still didn’t make any sense, and probably wouldn’t until the man was found and he explained why.
‘I’ve got an address for one of Conroy’s gang. We’ll visit him, see what he’s got to say for himself, but I’m not arresting him or accusing him of anything. Is that clear?’
‘It’s clear. Your reason?’
‘Proof. And giving him the third degree isn’t going to work. He knows how the system works, and he’ll clam up if you push.’
Larry understood; after all, he had spent time with Spanish John and Rasta Joe before him, had met with thugs and murderers, sometimes socially if they had something that he wanted. Dealing with the criminal underclass was a fine art, and the social commentators who thought that they should all be in jail or dealt with in a draconian manner were detached from reality. There were just too many of them, and in Canning Town and other areas, the situation was worsening as technological advances were rendering unemployment levels even higher.
Chapter 23
Mary Wilton opened the door to her house. Her hair was piled up high, the makeup was back on, as were the clothes.
‘Mrs Wilton, we’ve a few questions,’ Isaac said.
‘You better come in,’ the woman said. ‘The police on my doorstep gives me a bad reputation, starts the neighbours gossiping.’
‘And when you were prostituting women here?’ Wendy said.
‘It was always discreet. I doubt if many knew.’
Which to Wendy was probably true. People tend to look the other way if something doesn’t impact on them personally, and the brothel’s clientele was usually upper middle class, men of means.
And even though Janice Robinson and Cathy Parkinson had been plagued with drugs, the photos of the two women in the brothel, arms around their madam, showed that they had once been fresh-faced and agreeable, not as the two of them had ended up, haggard, old before
