‘We believe we’ve found a significant lead on one of the men,’ Wendy said.
‘Men?’ Maeve Winston said. ‘We thought there was only one and the Asian woman.’
‘So did we, until we came across the other man in Canning Town. We’ve got a name for him; his birth name, as well as a photo. Although we’re certain that he doesn’t use that name most of the time.’
‘How?’
‘The name?’
‘Yes.’
‘He married a woman from the Philippines, brought her to England, ensured she got permanent residency and then turned her out of the marital house.’
‘Charming,’ Tim Winston said. ‘Not something I could do.’
‘I could,’ his wife said sneeringly, directing her gaze at her husband.
The underlying tension was palpable, not an ideal environment for the susceptible Rose, a young woman with illusions of perfect love, the result of her sensitive nature and a mind full from reading mushy romance stories.
‘This other man,’ Tim Winston said, ignoring his wife’s aside. ‘Did he kill Janice?’
‘He’s a fastidious man. Her death was clean and tidy, well-executed. Cathy Parkinson’s wasn’t, so we are tending to rule him out for that one, but Amanda Upton’s was neat, clinical.’
‘He killed her?’
‘Amanda? It’s probable.’
‘A trained killer?’
‘Trained at the taxpayer’s expense, possible military training, and now loose on the street. He could be a gun or a knife for hire, but we have reason to believe that he was on close personal terms with the man we know as Ian Naughton.’
‘Cathy Parkinson?’ Maeve Winston asked.
‘The woman was as low as she could get. A hopeless drug addict, she survived from one hit to the next. Janice Robinson wasn’t much better, but she was holding her head above water. With the right care and desire on her part, she might have redeemed herself.’
‘Statistically, or is that for Gladys Robinson’s benefit? She wasn’t the best mother.’
‘She was a terrible mother, still is. She means well, but she’s weak, besotted with vodka.’
‘I still like her, even after all that’s happened.’
‘So do I,’ Wendy said. ‘An open book.’
‘Is she?’ Tim Winston said. ‘There are enough skeletons in her cupboard.’
‘I’m not sure how much she knew about the abuse of Janice by the men who stayed with her.’
‘She must have suspected.’
‘Skeletons in the cupboard, as you say. But Brad’s almost adult now, no reason to rake over old coals. And besides, I’m Homicide, not social services. They haven’t proved anything, not that I’m sure they would have known. Believe me, every house has its demons, even yours.’
It seemed to Wendy that the conversation with the Winstons was glib and of little relevance; as if she was giving them a briefing, getting nothing in return. It wasn’t the reason for being in the house.
‘Did either of you know Cathy Parkinson or Meredith Temple?’ Wendy asked. She didn’t expect a direct answer, not from the husband with his wife in the room.
‘I don’t make it a habit of associating with prostitutes,’ Maeve Winston said.
‘The names don’t mean anything to me,’ Tim Winston said.
His response was direct, and to the point, Wendy noted. No determined statement that he didn’t know them, that he didn’t make a habit of killing women, the response of the usually indignant man. But Winston was impassive, and he looked straight forward, not making eye contact with either his wife or Wendy.
Wendy knew that she wasn’t an expert at reading people, but Winston had a sheepish look about him.
‘Rose and Brad?’ she asked.
‘Not if I can help it,’ Tim Winston said.
‘Tell me about Gladys Robinson. We know that Hector, her husband, was with her on and off, and then he left for good after Jim had given him a good thumping.’
‘In particular?’
‘The men she went out with; the men who could have abused Janice.’
‘Maeve may know something. I certainly don’t.’
‘I rarely saw her,’ Maeve said. ‘Sometimes at the school, in the street occasionally, and once or twice we met, had a bite to eat, a cup of coffee. Apart from that, I never saw any of the men, although once Gladys had a bruise on her face.’
‘One of them hit her?’
‘Not that she’d admit to it. Gladys deserved better than Hector, but she was unable to rise above her lowly origins, condemned to live the life of her parents.’
‘She wanted better?’
‘She wanted Tim, but he was mine, although I’m not so sure I made the best decision.’
‘Rose is your primary concern. It’s for you to ensure she grows up in a nurturing environment.’
‘We both know that,’ Tim Winston said. ‘Brad Robinson’s not the person for her; his background, his family.’
Wendy wanted to say the genetic encumbrance that the Winstons believed that Brad had, had been diluted, but it was the one secret she knew she would keep.
‘Tell me, Mr Winston, are you a fastidious man?’
‘Are you inferring that I could have killed Janice? I may be many things, but I’m not a murderer.’
‘But you knew one of the other women.’ Wendy had tired of skirting around the issues. She hadn’t wanted Maeve Winston to be hurt any more than she had been already, but it was a murder enquiry, not a knitting circle, and definitely not the old ladies and their Ouija board that she had chanced on early in the investigation.
‘You’d better answer the sergeant,’ Maeve said. ‘If I’m to forgive you eventually for Janice, then you’d better own up. Two won’t be more difficult than the one.’
‘I knew Meredith Temple,’ Winston admitted.
‘At Mary Wilton’s?’
‘Yes. You realise what you’re doing?’
‘I do, getting to
