‘Okay, we’ll accept that the man had lost it, mentally that is, but what does this tell us about how the woman died?’
‘It doesn’t, not yet. We’re taking what remains to Pathology today. Give them a few days, more than the two hours you normally do, and maybe they’ll come up with something.’
Isaac knew Windsor was right. As the senior investigating officer, an arrest and a conviction always looked good on his CV. The only problem was that the last three murder cases his department had investigated had extended, not only in time but also in the number of deaths. The current investigation had all the hallmarks of being another one. And what did they have: a body, no more than a skeleton, a body in the garden with a knife in its back, a family at war, although it was more of an uneasy truce. Isaac hoped he was wrong in his summation, but he was sure he was not.
Wendy had liked Emma Lawrence, an elderly woman with a healthy outlook on life, a woman who had embraced the flower generation, free love, and no doubt transcendental meditation and a few drugs not on prescription. Regardless, she still looked sprightly, more so than Wendy, and she knew it.
Caddick, when he had temporarily occupied Goddard’s seat, had been desperate to get Wendy out of Homicide by way of a rigorous medical, showing that she could no longer keep up with the workload. Wendy knew it was rubbish, using whatever he could to get rid of her.
She didn’t need to be able to run a hundred yards in under twenty seconds, and she didn’t need to be able to scale a wall in one bound. But Caddick had been desperate to undermine Isaac’s support mechanism of loyal staff: Bridget Halloran, the lead admin person in Homicide, Wendy Gladstone, who had known Isaac longer than anyone, even from when he had been on the beat in uniform, and then there was Detective Inspector Larry Hill. He had handled himself well on an earlier murder investigation, and Chief Superintendent Goddard had brought him across to Challis Street at Isaac’s request.
‘There would still have been some smell during the process,’ Larry said to Windsor outside Lawrence’s house.
‘Contained, at least within the house,’ Windsor said. ‘No idea how the housekeeper could have avoided catching a whiff occasionally. Lawrence had done it well, almost professional. Burying the body in the cellar. In time, the body could be removed, and placed in with the beetles. It’s all a bit weird for me, but who knows how the man thought. Apparently, he was into real estate,’ Windsor said.
‘A lot of it, from what we’re told. Bridget’s doing the research, and we’re on our way to meet with the solicitor. No idea about him, but it appears that he was the only one who spoke to Gilbert Lawrence.’
Chapter 4
Leonard Dundas occupied a suite of offices in Pimlico. Isaac had to admit that he was impressed. But then, it was Pimlico, he thought, and definitely upmarket and costly.
‘Can I help you?’ a young woman asked. She was sitting behind a glass-topped reception desk. It looked expensive. In fact, the whole office did, what with its leather chairs in reception, the open plan office, a man watering the plants around the place.
‘Mr Dundas, he’s expecting us. DCI Cook, DI Hill, Challis Street Homicide,’ Isaac said.
‘It’s a shame about Mr Lawrence,’ the woman said.
‘You knew him?’
‘As good as. He was our only client.’
‘You must have thirty people here.’
‘Thirty-four. One’s off sick, and another two are out on business. I’ll let Mr Dundas know you’re here.’
Isaac and Larry made themselves comfortable, but not for long. An elderly man came into reception. He was wearing a suit, his greying hair parted in the middle, a sullen expression.
‘Tragic about Gilbert,’ he said.
‘Mr Dundas?’ Isaac said.
‘Yes, of course. My apologies. Mr Lawrence’s death has thrown us all out of kilter.’
‘We’re told he was your only client.’
‘He was, but that’s not surprising. You’re aware of his substantial holdings?’
‘Not in detail. We’re researching them now.’
‘Not all of them are in this country. He was a canny man, purchased when the market was low, never sold, or rarely. There’s more money in having the properties rented out than buying and selling. The costs only multiply, stamp duty, taxes. I’m sure you know how it is.’
Isaac didn’t, as he still had his flat in Willesden, and he had no intention of moving. Larry did, as his wife was determined to buy somewhere larger. The only problem was that she could only envisage the furniture that she would need to buy, the colour of the curtains, the marble-topped counters in the kitchen. She did not consider what Dundas had just mentioned: the hidden costs, the removal company, the increased payment on the mortgage, the solicitor’s fees. He knew she would not stop talking about the move, and he knew that without promotion he would struggle with the payments.
‘What do you plan to do now?’ Isaac asked.
‘For me, I’m past my retirement age. I only stayed on with the firm because of Gilbert. My daughter is the junior partner. She looks after the day-to-day operations.’
‘What can you tell us about Gilbert Lawrence?’
‘Where to start? He was a brilliant man, although after Dorothy died, he changed, so much so that I barely recognised him towards the end.’
‘But you met with him. We’re assuming he spoke to you.’
‘He did, but only in truncated sentences, as he would have a prepared list of actions to follow. I would give him a report, the template we had agreed on many years ago. Our conversations were normally short, no more than a few sentences spoken by either, no mention of the weather, or the family.’
‘Are you saying he never asked after his family?’
‘Never. Howard Hughes syndrome some would call it, although with Gilbert it wasn’t a fear of germs, but the loss of his wife.’
‘You’re aware of what was in the house?’
‘I am now. What can I say? I never went into the main part of the house, never through that door with its bolt.’
‘Where did you meet him?’
‘In the kitchen. He made sure that the back door was bolted and the blinds were down. He didn’t want Molly Dempster to come in.’
‘But he kept her on.’
‘She had been with the family for a long time. As far as he was concerned, she was the only person he could trust.’
‘And you?’
‘He didn’t trust me. He needed me, and he knew what I did, and how much I should charge. He also entrusted me with buying property for him.’
‘Easy to cheat?’
‘You can see the office here. He paid for it, the renovations, everything. The man has made me rich. Why would I have cheated him?’
‘And now?’
‘I have his will and his power of attorney. In the meantime, his empire needs to be tended, and in time sold off, or passed on to those who inherit.’
‘Are you able to tell us the contents of his will?’ Larry asked.
‘Not at this time. It is sealed in a bank vault, duly witnessed. I will read it out to his family and other interested parties in due course. You have to remember that Gilbert, regardless of how he lived, was not a fool. He had amassed over two hundred and thirty properties around the world: shopping centres, office blocks, residential and commercial. We have in this office the deeds to over two billion pounds worth of real estate. He was a tough negotiator, a tough landlord. Such men make enemies, even within their own family.’
‘Ralph and Caroline, his children?’
‘Ralph was a disappointment, although he would not be capable of murder.’
‘Why not?’
‘The man would rather scrounge off others. He’s a charismatic man, managed to charm a few women out of their savings. But murder, not Ralph.’
‘Caroline?’
‘She would be capable, but unlikely. She has a good life, and her husband is doing well.’
‘Well enough? There a
re hundreds of millions of pounds at stake here. Irresistible to a lot of people.’
‘Not so easy to get hold of. There are overseas trusts, offshore accounts, umbrella companies. Unravelling those, if we have to, will take a long time. We, as a company, will be fully occupied with Gilbert Lawrence for many years.’
‘His death doesn’t appear to concern you?’
‘It does. The man was a friend, even before his wife died, even after he became a recluse.’
‘He had what he wanted, his wife with him.’
‘Is it related to his death?’
‘We don’t know. We had hoped you could enlighten us.’
‘Not me,’ Dundas said. ‘I never went in there. The first I knew, the first any of us knew, was when your people found her. She was an attractive woman when she was alive. I suppose she isn’t now?’
‘Unrecognisable.’
***
‘DCI Isaac Cook, what took you so long?’ Graham Picket, the pathologist, said. To Isaac, it was a muted welcome, in that the man was usually more vocal when he and Larry walked into Pathology.
‘I thought you’d appreciate some more time with Mrs Lawrence.’
‘Rubbish. You were busy elsewhere. Otherwise, I would have been chasing you out of here.’
‘Maybe. What do you have?’
‘Female. No sign of major trauma. From what I can see the woman died of natural causes, although with just a skeleton, it’s not possible to be conclusive. No sign of a bullet or a knife or a blunt weapon on the bones.’
‘Is that all you can tell us?’
‘You’ve given me nothing to work with. We’ve confirmed that it’s Dorothy Lawrence. Dental records, a DNA swab from the daughter. Apart from that, there’s nothing more. The only way you’ll know what happened is if the husband wrote it down somewhere.’
The result from Pathology was not unexpected, and the woman’s death was not the primary consideration, Gilbert Lawrence was. The two police officers returned to Homicide. It was time for a meeting with the team.
‘What about the son?’ Isaac asked. It was the first time he had sat down in his office for some time. Wendy Gladstone was in the office, as were Larry Hill and Bridget Halloran.
‘Ralph Lawrence has a history of failed businesses, broken marriages, and a troubled son along the way,’ Bridget said. Office-bound, and glad of it, she was the person who could find her way around a search engine. Isaac had asked her to put together a profile of Gilbert Lawrence, a dossier on him and his family. ‘Ralph Lawrence is in Spain, speculative real estate sales to English tourists. I contacted the local police there, and the man’s been released from jail on the understanding that he leaves the country immediately.’
‘To where?’
‘London. I assumed you would want to talk to him.’
‘Is he being picked up?’
‘He is. I’ve organised someone from the station.’
That’s what Isaac liked about his team, always thinking ahead, taking the initiative. And yes, Ralph was a person of interest, although if, as it seemed, he was in Spain, he could not be the murderer.
‘What else?’ Larry said. He was standing, his usual pose. Both Wendy and Bridget were sitting down.
‘You and DCI Cook have met with Leonard Dundas. Is he providing you with a list of Lawrence’s assets?’
‘He is, but we would rather hear it from you. Dundas will be considering what to tell us, and what not to.’
‘Very well,’ Bridget said. ‘This is what we have. Gilbert Lawrence, eighty-two years of age. He purchased his first property when he was nineteen, a small studio flat in Clapham. Nothing special and it was rented out. By the time of his twenty-fifth birthday, he had sixty-three properties throughout London. Some were shops, others were offices, although the majority were residential. From what I can gather, he was cutting a swathe through London, and I’ve found newspaper articles showing the young property magnate. Their words, not mine. He had met and married his wife when he was twenty-two, purchased the house where he died when he was twenty-nine. Before that, it had been converted into flats. He had it renovated, and Dorothy decorated it. It featured in a couple of magazines at the time. I’ve included copies of what it looked like back then, although I suppose it looks vastly different now.’
Larry looked at the magazine article. ‘It does,’ he said.
‘Any history on Dorothy Lawrence?’ Isaac asked.
‘If you’re referring to her bouts of madness, there’s very little. She was born in the north of the country, went to school there. I’ve managed to obtain a birth certificate. After her marriage to Gilbert, two children, Caroline and Ralph. You’ve met one, the other is due in the next few hours. I’m checking with the private hospitals around the country that deal with people who have her condition.’
‘Why private?’
‘Gilbert Lawrence was a private man. He would not have wanted any more people than necessary to know if his wife was ill.’
‘She could always have been signed in under a false name.’
‘How many properties did Dundas tell you about?’ Bridget said.
‘Over two hundred.’
‘I’ve found close to one hundred and fifty through companies that are registered in his name or companies that he controls in the UK. The other properties may be overseas or hidden from view. Also, in the thirty years that he remained reclusive, he has expanded his empire considerably. He may have retreated from the world, but he continued to make money.’
‘Which means that whatever the reason he decided to hide in that house with his dead wife, he was still mentally astute.’
‘It makes you wonder what makes people tick,’ Larry said.
‘Or how they can form enemies who want to kill them.’
‘That makes no sense. Gilbert Lawrence spoke to no one, offended no one, and he didn’t get involved with his son and daughter, and yet he’s killed. The man was old and frail. He couldn’t have lasted much longer anyway.’
‘Long enough if you’re to inherit.’
‘Ralph?’
‘Or Caroline. And what about Ralph’s son?’ Isaac said. ‘Where is he?’
‘The last we have on him is an arrest for drug possession six months ago. After that, nothing.’
‘Wendy,’ Isaac said.
‘Leave him to me.’
‘What about Gilbert and Dorothy’s daughter?’
‘Caroline married Desmond Dickson thirty-three years ago.’
‘Were Gilbert and Dorothy at the wedding?’
‘It’s in the files I’ve given to all of you. Yes, they were. It’s also the last record I can find of Dorothy.’
Larry studied the newspaper article. ‘The two Rolls Royces in the garage,’ he said. ‘They were used at the wedding.’
‘Caroline and Desmond Dickson have two children,’ Isaac said. ‘What do we know about them?’
‘Both are employed, steady jobs. The daughter is married with a child under one. The son is single. Neither has been in trouble with the law.’
‘And Desmond Dickson?’
‘A fine arts dealer, well respected. We’ve nothing against him.’
‘Statistically, it’s a family member or someone Gilbert knew,’ Isaac said.
‘Ralph or his son. They’re the most likely,’ Wendy said.
‘The most obvious, although Ralph wasn’t in the country, and the grandson is a junkie.’
Chapter 5
Wendy Gladstone, from when she had been a constable in the north of England finding child runaways to tracking down persons of interest in a murder investigation in London, had an enviable reputation. Her skill, she knew, honed over the years, was to adopt the mindset of those she was looking for. A rich person is not about to hide in a derelict property, a drug addict is not likely to check into a five-star hotel.
Ralph’s son Michael, Wendy knew, was dossing down somewhere with his addicted friends, sharing needles, and whatever food they could scrounge or stea
l. And he was not likely to be close to his grandfather’s house, the area too upmarket for derelict properties, or squatters.
Of more immediate importance was that Ralph Lawrence had arrived in London on a flight from Barcelona, and he had failed to meet up with the constable sent from Challis Street to pick him up at Heathrow. He, Wendy thought, would be easier to find.
From what they knew, Ralph Lawrence was a man who appreciated the finer things in life, regardless of whether he could afford them, or whether they belonged to someone else. He would either be at a friend’s house if he had not outstayed his welcome on previous occasions, or he would have checked in under a false name at a quality hotel, enjoying the minibar and the restaurant, using an invalid credit card if needed. He was a slippery character, everyone in the department knew, although his criminal record had amounted to no more than passing false cheques in his teens. Since then, some investigations into the fraudulent use of credit cards overseas, unpaid hotel bills, and a litany of other misdemeanours, although none had been substantiated.
The upside was that Ralph had no record, except for a miserable credit rating. The downside was that he could not be escorted off the plane at Heathrow. He had left Spain as an undesirable, but in England, he was English, and he was free.
Bridget was assigned the task of checking with the other police stations in London, contacting the homeless agencies and other charities, in the hope of locating Michael Lawrence. As with Ralph, he was a person of interest only. No one in Homicide felt that he was responsible for the death of Gilbert Lawrence. Whoever had killed the old man had been careful to leave no incriminating evidence. Apart from a smudged fingerprint on the knife, the only other evidence at the scene was a crushed plant in the garden where the murderer had placed his boot, and a trace of blood on the gate handle as he exited the property. The blood had been found to be that of Gilbert Lawrence. Another trace of blood had been discovered ten yards south down the street. The traffic camera mounted on the corner of the road had failed to identify the individual, as the area was busy at the approximate time of the man’s death, and besides, what were they looking for? Was it a man or a woman, tall, short, fat, thin? Did they have on a coat or not, and what about their age? The reality was that Isaac and his team had very little.
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2 Page 24