‘Not good,’ Wendy replied, although they were there to discuss murder, not to solve the Robinson family’s problems, not that they could if they wanted to. Jim Robinson was known to Larry, and Janice was known to Wendy. The mother had only spoken the truth.
‘As sensitive as we are to your situation, Mrs Robinson, it’s Brad we need to talk to,’ Larry said, turning the subject back to the reason for being in the house.
‘We saw nothing,’ Brad said.
‘We realise that, but it’s the minor details that are important, the details that are only remembered sometime after the event. The woman was killed not long before you and Rose walked by, possibly five minutes, maybe less. You said that you saw a man walk by.’
‘Just before Rose screamed, not that we could tell you anything about him.’
‘We believe he was the murderer, not that we can be one hundred per cent.’
‘It was dark; we didn’t see him, not in detail, not that we were looking either. Rose was freaking out, so was I, but I never admitted it to her.’
‘We haven’t been able to identify the woman other than to age her at between thirty-five and forty-four, white, probably English, with a tattoo on her leg.’
‘They’ve all got them around here, even Janice, but then, she’s got more of almost everything,’ the mother said.
Neither Larry nor Wendy felt the need for the mother to elaborate on Janice. If the woman was doing it rough, that was for social services and others more skilled in bringing fallen women back from the brink. It was outside the scope of Homicide, and Wendy, sympathetic to the woman’s plight, knew that well enough, although Larry knew she would do something when she had an opportunity.
‘Here’s our dilemma,’ Larry said, looking directly at Brad. ‘You and Rose saw the man, the only two who did. We’ve not found anyone else, not yet, who can remember either him or the woman.’
‘Dilemma?’ Brad said.
‘We don’t want to be alarmist, but the man who committed the crime could be a local, the same as the woman probably is, or he was a professional brought in to kill her because she knew something. Which brings up another problem: how did he manage to get her in the cemetery and by that grave of her own free will?’
‘We don’t understand, or at least I don’t,’ Gladys Robinson said.
‘What Inspector Hill is saying,’ Wendy said, ‘is that there are inconsistencies in the woman’s death. The most common reason for a murder in such a place is rape, especially when a female is killed, but that wasn’t the case, and a knife in the back is usually accompanied by violence, a tussle, but there had been none, which means the woman knew her killer, and if she’s local, then that means he’s probably local too. And Brad and Rose are the only two who could possibly identify him.’
‘But we didn’t see him,’ Brad said for the second time.
‘He doesn’t know that,’ Larry said. ‘We need you to be careful, to go to school, to come home. We’ll keep a uniform outside the house at night for the next few nights, but whatever you do, don’t go out at night, attempt to meet up with Rose.’
‘I want to see her.’
‘At school,’ Wendy said.
‘Not there. I need to talk to her, to apologise for the trouble she’s in.’
‘Chivalrous,’ Larry said. ‘We’re meeting with Rose later. We’ll put you forward as a man of good morals and decent to a fault.’
‘Don’t overdo it,’ Gladys said. ‘He was still up to mischief. Tim Winston’s not going to go for it if you paint Brad as a saint; he’s not that, never has been, never will be, but you’ll not see him in trouble with the police.’
‘Describe the man,’ Wendy said. ‘Distinguishing features, the way he walked, a smell of aftershave, of sweat, of alcohol, of anything.’
‘I can’t. We told you all we could.’
‘Enter our numbers into speed dial on your phone. Phone us at any time, day and night, if you remember anything, see anyone suspicious,’ Larry said.
‘A ride to the school?’ Wendy said a smile on her face.
‘Not with you. Sorry, more than my life’s worth,’ Brad replied.
Chapter 4
Tim Winston was not in the mood to hear that Brad Robinson was a fine young man; it had been his underage daughter that the sixteen-year-old was attempting to lead astray.
The Winston family home wasn’t far away from the Robinsons’, only five minutes by car, but it was a vast improvement. No discarded motorcycle next door, no look of decay, but a two-storey semi-detached house, freshly painted inside and out, the aroma of air freshener throughout.
Winston’s anger was palpable, which both the police officers thought under the circumstances to be understandable.
Even so, Tim Winston and his wife invited Larry and Wendy into the living room, offered them tea and asked them to make themselves comfortable.
‘You can’t understand how disappointed we are with Rose,’ Maeve Winston, the young girl’s mother, said.
Wendy looked over at Rose, and although she had spent time with her at the murder scene, it was the first time she had seen her in the light. A fresh-faced and pretty fifteen-year-old; no one would have thought her to be older.
‘I’m
