Kate Baxter had been duly pleased with herself when she had narrowed down the sandals the dead woman had been wearing to a discount shoe shop.
Wendy, on her return from visiting Brad Robinson and Rose Winston, picked the young constable up from outside the police station; a special dispensation for Baxter in that she wasn’t to wear her uniform. An ambitious woman, she recognised the trust that was being placed in her, the chance for advancement, the impetus it gave her to complete a degree that had been proving difficult due to a faltering romance and the time she had been spending to keep it alive.
‘I checked out Forensic’s report,’ Kate said. ‘They had checked the clothing and the shoes, nothing special with them, except they said the sandals had little wear and were new. That was the lead. If they were last year’s stock, which I found out they were, then where had the woman purchased them? I buy clothes and shoes in the discount stores myself.’
Wendy didn’t reply, not wanting to interrupt the constable, although she always checked out such places herself, sometimes bought there.
‘I’ve spoken to the manager. She’s waiting for us, so it’s a good idea I’m not wearing a uniform.’
‘Factory seconds, old stock, stolen, is that what you’re thinking?’ Wendy said.
‘Could be. Who knows where it all comes from. I suppose most of it’s legal, the same as in a pawnbroker, but you can never be sure, can you?’
‘Never, but that’s not what we’re interested in today. Focus on the sandals, not where they came from, and try not to look like a policewoman, if we ever can.’
‘I’ll try, but I love my job; I’m proud of what I do.’
Wendy parked the car down a sidestreet. She placed a sign inside the windscreen identifying the vehicle as police. Nobody would give it a ticket.
Brompton Road, Knightsbridge. The most prominent building was Harrods, the department store that Wendy sometimes walked around with Bridget of a weekend, buying little apart from a coffee and something to eat in the cake section. Opposite it on the other side of the busy road was Shoe Seconds, a threadbare store with the merchandise stacked in boxes, a couple of sales assistants, a concrete floor and six chairs for customers trying on the shoes. It gave the appearance of having just opened or being about to close, but the website for it and a chain of six others with the same name, spread out across the city, was professional.
The closing down sign, all stock must go, the giveaway prices painted in bold letters on the shop's window were an illusion, as were the prices, Wendy could see that when she picked up some of the merchandise. The first shoe, the bargain to get people into the shop, literally falling apart, the sole separating from the upper, a sales assistant on hand to show another shoe, this time much better, the price indicative of that. It was, Wendy knew, a ploy to get people in the door with whatever means they had at their disposal and then the hard sell. The sales assistant, pushy and mildly annoying, spoke with a strong accent, Spanish, Wendy thought. It was the sort of place that blew out the customers as fast as it could if they weren’t spending, the sales assistants even quicker if they didn’t make the grade, and Wendy’s sales assistant wasn’t going to last long, too ready to leave her alone after she had said she was only looking.
Kate Baxter, undeterred, made it through the locals and the tourists – always looking for a bargain that wasn’t – and out through the door at the rear.
‘Can I help you?’ An indignant woman sat there, her feet up on a chair, her shoes cast to one side of her on the floor.
‘Constable Kate Baxter. We spoke.’
‘I could have sent you what information we had, and besides, one of our other stores could have sold the shoes.’
‘Not the colour, I checked.’
‘Seeing you’re here, pull up a seat. I’ve been on my feet all morning, and the concrete floor may be a breeze to clean, but it does play havoc on my ankles.’
Wendy walked through to the back, saw the two women sitting there. She introduced herself and took the third chair.
‘A madhouse out the front,’ Wendy said.
‘That’s the quiet time,’ the manager said.
Wendy judged the woman to be in her forties, thinner than was healthy, a wedding ring on her left hand, a dramatic tattoo on her upper left arm, not as professionally inked as the chant on the dead woman’s leg.
‘You’ve worked here for a long time?’
‘Over two years. No one else would stick it, not with the money they pay, nor what we have to put up with from the customers.’
It was clear that the manager didn’t have to put up with anything. She was a hard woman, her function to cycle the sales assistants, to make sure the profit margin was adhered to, to do whatever was necessary.
Wendy didn’t like her. The sort of person who pretended to care about the store and its workers, but didn’t for either. It was typical of an attitude all too common in the overpopulated metropolis. There was always someone more desperate, willing to put up with working under such conditions, used to being cheated, not expecting any different.
Kate Baxter handed over a photo. ‘Is that the sandal?’
The manager lifted her
