‘Did the others hear? Neither Conroy nor Preston mentioned it.’
‘I was closer to the car.’
Aiming to keep out of sight of the car, displaying his cowardice, or, under the circumstances, showing a degree of wisdom. As Ross had said, maybe Sean Garvey would defy the statistics.
‘The two men, what did they say?’
‘Only for the man in the car to be ready.’
‘Not good enough. People, regardless of whether they intend to, invariably refer to the other by a name. What were they? You were either hiding away or you were smarter than the others. Which is it?’
‘The man with the money, he called the other man in the car Gareth.’
‘The one with the money?’ Does he have a name?’
‘I didn’t hear one mentioned.’
‘The man in the car? Educated, English?’
‘An accent, although I wouldn’t know what.’
It was a start, but Garvey wasn’t going to improve on what he had said. Now, there was a name, not the most common of names, not the most obscure. And if the man in the car had an accent, it was not Ian Naughton.
The two men left the flat, passing the overalled man down on his knees attempting to clean the graffiti from inside the lift.
‘Best of luck,’ Ross said.
‘Get what you wanted?’ the maintenance man said.
‘Not totally. Are you staying long?’
‘Here? Not a chance. We’ll be back again next week. We’re making plenty, my offsider and me, but our company is on a fixed price contract. They’ll not renew next year, and those at the top of the building are stuffed.’
‘Do you care?’
‘As long as I’ve got a job, not me.’
It was the same as in other parts of the area, Ross conceded, as he and Larry drove away. Certain parts of London were already deemed neither safe to enter nor to conduct business. The great mass of the lost was growing in size, while in the distance, visible from a high point, were the gleaming towers of the Canary Wharf financial district. Larry left Ross at Canning Town Police Station and headed back to the comparative safety of Challis Street and the adjoining suburbs. The villains were bad enough in his area, but in Canning Town and up into Dagenham, they were another breed.
Chapter 24
Questions were again being asked about why the murder investigations were taking so long, primarily by Chief Superintendent Goddard, but then, as Isaac knew, the man had the commissioner in his ear on a regular basis.
Isaac had long ago decided that worrying about the commissioner served no useful purpose. Before Commissioner Davies had assumed his position as the head of the London Metropolitan Police, his predecessor, a mentor to Richard Goddard, had seen great promise in the tall and urbane junior police officer, seen Isaac as the future of the Met, and on several occasions Isaac had featured in advertising literature for the new look, all-encompassing police force in London.
Isaac was disillusioned the first couple of times that Davies thwarted his advancement, although not more than Richard Goddard when he had confided in him. The chief superintendent should have been two rungs up the promotional ladder by now, and Isaac should have risen by one.
Isaac preferred not to dwell on the negatives, although the house that Jenny had found, close to where they lived, and the mortgage, more than he wanted to pay, but manageable, would have been rendered sweeter by the increased pay that he would have had as a superintendent.
The only two opportunities afforded Homicide to solve the murders were the name of a woman that Mary Wilton had supplied, and a name provided by Sean Garvey. The first of the two had an address, the other was vague and seemed to offer little chance of helping.
Regardless, Larry and Wendy made the trip up the M40 to Oxford, the university city, although Seacourt Road, to the west of the city, was hardly in the surrounds of university buildings and students. Instead, rows of white-painted semi-detached houses, neatly presented, no cars without engines or up on blocks in the street. It was the sort of place where middle managers lived, houses not dissimilar to the one that Isaac had made an offer on in London.
At a house at the end of the street, a Toyota in the driveway, an old cat lying close to the front door, enjoying the weak sun. Isaac leant over and pressed the doorbell.
‘What do you reckon?’ Wendy said as they waited. ‘What do you expect to find out?’
No reply from Isaac, none that he could give. The enquiries so far had twisted and turned, with no straightforward direction. He hoped for better this time.
After what seemed an interminable wait, the door opened. In front of the two police officers stood an Asian woman, a baby in her arms.
‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I know why you’re here.’ Her accent was the same as Analyn’s.
Inside the house, neat and tidy. A baby’s cot was in one corner of the living room, a television switched on, a midday soap opera, not in a language that either Isaac or Wendy could understand.
‘That’s Tagalog, the language of the Philippines,’ the woman said as she switched the television off.
‘You said you’re aware as to why we’re here,’ Wendy said as the three of them sat down, the baby put on the floor to play with its toys.
‘He’ll give no trouble, not now. He’s just been fed, so if I have to put him down for a nap, you’ll understand. I’m Gabbi Gaffney.’
‘Mary Wilton was reluctant to tell us about you. Why?’ Wendy said.
‘She knows my story and the reasons I wanted it left untold. She’s a good woman, even if you might think otherwise.’
‘Trafficked?’ Isaac said.
‘One moment.
