‘No guarantees. Not in a murder investigation. We need to isolate you from the murder scene, and for that we need a sample of your DNA, a strand of hair.’
‘I didn’t kill her.’
‘We’re not accusing you. To be honest, we don’t think you did it. There was a lot of blood at the murder scene, and we saw you later that day. Unless you’re a methodical man, a good planner, it’s unlikely you could have pulled it off.’
‘I wouldn’t have done that. The sight of blood.’
‘Germ phobia? Cleanliness freak?’
‘An accident when I was a child, three days in the hospital.’
‘Not good enough, but we’ll accept it for now. The DNA?’
‘If you want.’
‘When did you start paying Janice for her time?’ Wendy asked.
‘I can’t just deny it, and you leave it at that?’ Winston said.
‘If you do, then we will need to check further, follow up on your movements, talk to your wife as to whether she has any suspicion that you’ve been with another woman.’
‘Maeve hasn’t known up till now.’
‘Which is yes. You did pay for Janice Robinson’s services.’
‘Two, possibly three times.’
‘The truth,’ Wendy said.
‘Every week on a Thursday at seven in the evening. Maeve was always out with friends, a regular get-together at a restaurant, and Rose would be busy with schoolwork.’
‘Any reason why Janice?’
‘If you think it was a substitute for her mother, you’d be mistaken. Janice was agreeable to look at, and her price was reasonable. Nothing more than that.’
‘Did she know who you were?’
‘She did, not that we’d talk about it. It was sex, nothing more.’
‘How long did these sessions last for?’
‘Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. There were no meaningful discussions. I didn’t ask her about why she whored, nor did I ask her about her family. I should be regretful, but I’m not. A man’s got needs. Sometimes they aren’t satisfied.’
‘Is this why you don’t want Rose associating with Brad Robinson?’
‘She’s fifteen, what do you think?’
‘We’re asking the questions,’ Isaac said.
‘She’s still too young. Okay, I was with her boyfriend’s mother when we were both under sixteen, but that doesn’t mean I would agree to my daughter doing the same.’
‘It doesn’t help that you’ve known Brad’s mother and sister.’
‘That’s not the point. We want better for Rose, that’s all. We don’t want her with a family that has never amounted to much. Brad’s better than the others, but he’s tarred with the same brush. In time, he’ll revert to type, and I don’t want Rose to be dragged down, to get pregnant before her time.’
‘Why not put her in a better school?’
‘There are no guarantees. Young people push boundaries. It’s for us to guide them.’
The man was a good parent, both Isaac and Wendy conceded. He was, as is so often the case, a hypocrite, who had taken advantage of Janice Robinson’s degradation, and she had only been six years older than Rose, only two years older when she had first sold herself. Yet, he wanted to protect his daughter at all costs.
He hadn’t murdered Janice, that much was known, but he was guilty of other crimes, not criminal, but moral.
Isaac was willing to give the man the benefit of the doubt; Wendy wasn’t. To her, he was a typical example of selective reasoning, able to absolve himself from his wrongdoings but not to give others their chance, to see Brad Robinson as suitable for his daughter. Although he had been right on one score: Rose was still a child, even if she wanted to be an adult.
***
The village of Godstone in Surrey was mentioned in the Domesday Book of 1086, although it was named Wachelstede back then, and then in 1248 it was recorded as Godeston, suggesting an etymology of the Old English personal name Goda, who was the daughter of Aethelred The Unready, and ‘tun’, which is loosely translated as farm.
As to why a former king of England would be unready, Larry Hill wouldn’t have known or have cared.
It was his third visit in as many days to the last address from the store in Knightsbridge.
Number 156 High Street, Godstone, a detached two-storey house, was well maintained, not cheap to purchase, and within commuting distance of London.
Larry had taken up his position in a coffee shop across from the house, not at the White Hart, the closest pub.
Yet again, he asked the waitress if she had seen anyone at the house; the answer always the same. ‘Not for a few weeks, but then, they keep to themselves, never come in here, barely give you the time of day.’
‘Describe them.’
‘I’m not sure I can. He looked older than her, although I couldn’t be sure. Just average, I suppose.’
The local police hadn’t been able to help, nor had the estate agent who had leased the house to them; average was the most oft-quoted description. The agent, a garrulous man, told Larry that they had come into his office seven months previously, taken one look around the house, and had deposited funds into his account and set up an automatic credit for each month.
‘We’re managing it for them, not that there’s much to do, as they’re not here too often.’
The photo of the dead woman rang no bells with anyone; they had all been clear that the woman at the house had been blonde, tanned and under thirty. Either way, those in Godstone had seen the man’s face, the woman shielding her face when anyone looked her way.
On his first visit, Larry had knocked on the door of the house, checked around, looked in the windows, and spoken to the local
