‘Did they kill anyone?’
‘The woman, no. The man we don’t think is a murderer either. We already have someone for two of the murders, although one murder is not yet solved. It’s proof we need, and the man, he used the name of Ian Naughton, is probably behind the deaths. Yet again, we aren’t sure of a motive.’
‘I wouldn’t have moved in if I had known.’
‘No murders were committed here, you’re safe on that score. However, a cryptic message led us to this house, which is bizarre. If the people here were involved in wrongdoing, why advertise themselves.’
‘The woman in the cemetery? I heard about it on the television.’
‘Yes. We know who she is, but not why she died.’
‘This Naughton?’
‘We don’t think so. Amanda Upton did not sell herself in England, not from what we can tell. Any sign of women in the house?’
‘Freshly painted. None that I can see.’
‘Why this house?’ Isaac said.
‘A test?’
‘That’s what we were thinking, an attempt to ensure that the person who deciphered the clues was of suitable calibre, but that’s about it. And why was Naughton in this house with the woman?’
‘Maybe he knew who was coming. Just wanted to be sure it was that person. Maybe they were watching at the cemetery.’
‘If they were, they would have known that the police were coming. It’s more than that.’
Isaac left the house, realising that discussing the case with an open mind had raised other possibilities as to why they had been directed to the house, and why Naughton had not moved out immediately.
Chapter 28
Gareth Rees had been picked up close to Kingston upon Thames, nine miles to the south-west of Challis Street Police Station, a street within walking distance of Hampton Court, one of the Royal Palaces in greater London, a residence of Henry VIII in the early sixteenth century.
Larry had visited the impressive palace and its extensive grounds with his parents when he’d been a child, and with his wife and children two years previously.
As impressive as it was, it was the area close to where Rees had been arrested that was of interest. Portsmouth Road fronted the River Thames on its eastern side. It was a busy road with a path on one side of it, a popular walking track of a weekend. The other side of the road was lined with blocks of apartments, most of them upmarket and expensive, which didn’t surprise Larry as Kingston upon Thames, close enough to London to commute, was also distant enough not to be part of the hurried life of the metropolis.
Gareth Rees probably wasn’t a name that would mean anything to the locals, nor would Peter Hood. So near and yet so far. Rees had managed to live in obscurity, and he wasn’t the sort of person to cause trouble where he lived.
In Canning Town and up near Challis Street Police Station, he was a killer, but down in Kingston upon Thames, Larry knew that he would find a different person. But where? That was the problem.
A couple of uniforms had photos of the man, and they were stopping whoever they could, knocking on doors. Rees was in the cells, and the clock was counting down.
Wendy was the expert at finding people, Larry knew that, and her ability to think like the person she was looking for was invaluable. But she was up in Canning Town looking for proof that Rees had fired the shot that had killed Sean Garvey.
Opposite where Rees had been stopped, a gated development. Discreet, out of sight, not easily accessible, the sort of place that ensured anonymity, an environment that would suit a man who wanted to remain unknown.
Larry stood at the entrance to the development, pressed the button for one of the houses inside. He wasn’t specific as to which one; he only needed entry. It was a long shot, short on deduction but hopefully longer on luck. A hunch, and even then, it could have been that Rees had only pulled off Portsmouth Road into the side street to stop for a drink at the pub or to buy cigarettes.
The uniforms continued waylaying people, some crossing the road to avoid them, others stopping to say that they didn’t recognise the man, or they had left their reading glasses at home, or the face looked familiar, but offering no more.
‘Detective Inspector Hill,’ Larry said when the second button he had pressed was answered.
‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ the reply.
An instinctive fear of a police officer, Larry knew, the reason people didn’t want to get involved.
‘I know that. We’re trying to find where a Gareth Rees lives.’
‘Come in if you want, but the name means nothing.’
Larry didn’t expect the name to. A neat three-bedroom house, a large dog that was overly friendly, and a short man, his grey hair and stoop showed that he was probably retired, and the crumpled shirt that he lived on his own. Who walked who, Larry couldn’t be sure, but he had his money on the dog.
Larry stood at the front door and showed the photo of Rees. ‘Do you know this man?’
‘Not to speak to. Is he in trouble?’
‘He’s under arrest. Are you saying you’ve seen him?’
‘Going in and out, but he doesn’t speak, waves sometimes.’
‘His car?’
‘I’m not sure. He changes them all the time. I thought he was a car dealer, but as I said, I wouldn’t know.’
‘Where have you seen him?’
‘Two houses down, the green door.’
Larry phoned Isaac as he walked to the neat and tidy house with the green door. It was clear that no one was at home.
Isaac was on
