‘We sell a lot of shoes here, but yes, they came in a week ago. We put some of them in the window, sold out in two days.’
‘Good value?’ Wendy asked.
‘Better than most. Old stock, last year’s fashion statement. Nobody will pay top money for them now, but if you’re on a budget, or just tight, they’ll do fine for the weekend, or in the office.’
‘Who did you sell them to?’
‘Not everyone pays with a card; some still prefer to pay cash, although for the life of me I can’t see why.’
Wendy did. Impulse buying with a card was dangerous; cash was the moderator to prevent the purchaser from transitioning from wise to foolish; the reason she left her card at home, apart from Saturday. One day of temptation out of seven was better than seven out of seven.
‘Those that paid cash?’
‘Not a chance. You’ve seen it outside, chaos, and the sales assistants have a high turnover.’
‘How long do they last?’
‘Most only stick it for three to four days. Those that are any good soon find somewhere else paying better. Can’t blame them, something I should do.’
The manager was someone who complained a lot, treated the employees abysmally, and siphoned money off the top as she discounted stock to maintain the cash turnover, probably with the de facto blessing of senior management, who wanted results, not scrupulously honest people.
‘Those that paid with a card?’ Kate said.
‘I’ve already sent them. Check the emails on your phone.’
One thing the woman was, she was efficient, Wendy conceded. She checked her phone, Kate checked hers. The email with the attachment was there.
‘What’s so important about them, anyway,’ the manager asked.
‘One of the women who bought them from your store was murdered,’ Wendy said.
‘Takes all sorts,’ the manager’s reply. She had no interest in a dead woman, only the money she had handed over.
Chapter 5
Kate Baxter, her work done, returned to her regular duties. She had proved herself, and Wendy was determined to put her name forward as a possible member of Homicide when the opportunity presented itself.
At the station, Bridget followed through on those who had bought sandals in the same colour as the dead woman’s. It had been a popular line, and the list contained over forty names. The process of elimination would take some time which suited Bridget as long hours and computers were her forte. Isaac knew she would be working late that night.
The day had not been without progress. There was Rose Winston, confident that the man who had hurried by had a limp, and one of the names from the shop could well be the murdered woman’s. Whether she had been a local was still open to question, as no one had come forward, even after her face had been displayed on signs outside the cemetery. Usually, the next of kin would have been informed before taking such a step, but without identification, the decision had been made to circumvent standard procedure.
Isaac’s concern as the senior investigating officer in Homicide was that the woman’s death had been calculated and calmly executed, which suggested that the man was used to killing, or he had no compunction about what he had done. The probability of another murder remained, and if he was local, then he had to be apprehended quickly, and if it was professional, then why, and who was the assassin.
Larry and Wendy had had a busy day, not that it was over, and at eight in the evening, while it was still light, they were outside the cemetery at the Harrow Road entrance, Brad on his own; Rose with her mother.
The mother, Wendy could see, was not as firm as her husband, and the two intended lovers spoke to one another. It was sweet, Wendy thought, young love, innocent and pure, unsullied by the realities of the world, the cruelty, the degradation, the hurt, the disappointment. Although, on reflection, she knew that Brad had experienced more than his fair share, although Rose had not.
‘Why the school?’ Larry asked Maeve Winston.
‘Why we don’t pay, is that what you’re asking?’
‘If you want to protect your daughter, surely you would give her the best opportunity.’
‘Tim and I, we came from humble stock, working class. We could afford better, but we’re not snobs, nor do we want Rose to be. Committed Labour voters all our life.’
Larry wasn’t sure of the woman’s rationale. It seemed that Tim Winston’s middle-class aspirations and his working-class beliefs were out of kilter, and how could the father then complain when his daughter went out with the brother of a criminal and a woman who sold herself. To him, even though he was a detective inspector, and not able to afford the best school where he lived, he intended to place his children where it would be to their best advantage.
And even if Tim and Maeve Winston weren’t cloth-capped Labourites, him driving a Jaguar for instance, it still made no sense to deprive their daughter.
Both gates at the cemetery had been closed off, and entry had been restricted at two other entrances, although they were further away, and not many people would be walking through. However, there were sufficient uniforms present to keep the curious onlookers at a distance.
Isaac arrived, not to take an active part, but with his inspector and sergeant at the cemetery he had cancelled the evening meeting at the office.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook,’ he said as he shook Maeve Winston’s hand.
Wendy was sure she swooned on meeting the tall black police officer. He was an attractive man, a ladykiller in his youth,
