‘Your husband’s lawyer?’ Isaac said.
‘I’m not guilty of any crime. Whatever the outcome, you will have the truth. And yes, I’m frightened for myself and Gabbi. Gareth is a dangerous man, not that I ever knew about him killing people here, but I knew something of what he and Ian had done when they were soldiers.’
‘You never suspected when Amanda Upton died?’
‘I put it to the back of my mind. I never thought it was Gareth. And I knew it wasn’t Ian.’
‘Why not your husband?’
‘Not on the day she died. He was with me.’
‘Why the cryptic message?’
‘It was a test for someone else. Ian might tell you, but I doubt if he will. He was surprised when you turned up at the door, calm as he was, but afterwards he downed a few too many stiff drinks, fell asleep in an armchair.’
‘Who do you think it was for?’
‘I’ve no idea. One of his devious friends, a test to prove that the man was worthy of being trusted. What you have said about him makes some sense. He scares me, the way he took me back after Mary Wilton’s, as if I was a possession, there for his pleasure. I was to him an object, nothing more.’
‘The future?’
‘If I survive?’
‘You will,’ Larry said.
‘Who else is there? People you don’t know of.’
It was true, Isaac knew. It was the tip of an iceberg, a brief sojourn into a world that Naughton and Rees traded weapons to, killed for, and sold Amanda to.
Analyn and Gabbi Gaffney were about to be thrust into the limelight from where there was no coming back.
***
The interview of Ian Naughton was, as expected, of little value. With no need to hide behind a pretence, Jacob Jameson, who represented Gareth Rees, also represented Naughton.
Naughton stated that he and Rees had acted in the past under orders and their current business activities were legal. The only comment of note from Naughton was that if Rees had committed a criminal activity, he had not and that the man would be on his own.
Gareth Rees, two weeks after Naughton’s arrest, and on hearing that his long-time friend was willing to sell him down the river if push came to shove, informed Isaac that on instructions from Naughton, his commanding officer in the military, he had committed actions in Iraq that he regretted. And as a result of post-traumatic stress disorder, he might have committed other crimes in England, including murder.
It was a pathetic attempt at absolving himself from criminal responsibility, the chance to be confined to a mental institution until he was deemed safe to re-enter society. There was nothing wrong with the man, but Isaac knew it would form a good defence strategy.
***
Amanda, it had been concluded, after Mary Wilton had told Wendy of a phone conversation she had had with her daughter, had died of love.
Whatever the reason, the woman had fallen for the emotionally-fractured Gareth Rees. And the man, pathologically disturbed as a result of spending time behind enemy lines and emotionally cold, had reacted: he had killed her. Janice Robinson had heard or been told something, although how much would never be known, as had Hector Robinson. The hoodies were collateral damage.
If Rees didn’t succeed with the defence of PTSD, it was clear that he still suffered from a mental condition. He deserved to be locked up.
As for Naughton, tests were conducted, showing evident sociopathic traits. The man could be charming, but he was cold, the ideal killing machine. The documents that Lord Shaw had procured were enough to convince Isaac that Naughton and Rees were to be thrown to the wolves.
Only one murder remained unaccounted for, that of Cathy Parkinson. It had been messy, and Gareth Rees could not have committed it. As a professional, his pride would not allow it. One bullet, one knife, no more, and definitely no sex with the victim.
Homicide discussed the murder for over a week, continually drawing a blank. In the end, Wendy and Larry met with Meredith Temple. A model student, she was on her way to a degree, and the boyfriend had been told and had accepted her past.
‘Meredith,’ Wendy said, as the three of them sat in a pub near to the university. ‘Cathy Parkinson, tell us about her?’
‘Not much more than I’ve told you before. She was in a bad way.’
‘Did she talk much, threaten to tell wives about husbands, get some extra money?’
‘She wouldn’t have been the first. It usually worked; the men too ashamed not to pay.’
Tim Winston sat in the interview room at Challis Street Police Station. He was reminded that by his own admission he had slept with Janice Robinson and Meredith Temple. He was told that he had lied and he had slept with Cathy Parkinson as well when she had been in one of her most drug-crazed moods.
In the end, he admitted that he hadn’t wanted his wife to find out, and after Janice had died, he thought that he could not deal with Cathy’s demands for money. The confession came quickly, and the man cried, as did Wendy. Not for Tim Winston, but for his wife and daughter.
Outside the interview room, after Winston had been charged and taken down to the cells, Wendy sat with Maeve Winston.
‘I knew about Janice,’ she said. ‘I would have done anything to keep the family together. He didn’t need to kill her.’
‘I’m afraid that in time you and Rose will need to make a different life for yourselves.’
‘We will, not here, a long way away.’
Wendy knew of only one certainty at the end of a long day and a much longer murder enquiry: the budding
