DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Very well,’ Isaac continued. ‘We need to move on. Larry, focus on Matilda and Barry Montgomery, much as it upsets the ladies. Wendy, ask Amelia Bentham to confirm one way or the other, and Christine Mason. Are you convinced she’s telling you the whole truth?’

  ‘She could have still killed him.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Push her if you have to. We’ll need to bring her husband in at some time if we don’t get a breakthrough.’

  ‘If we make an arrest, there’ll be a trial, Christine Mason will be called as a witness. He’ll know then.’

  ‘Better sooner than later, if that’s the case. If he knew of his wife’s affair… And the woman’s admitted that she used to put it about. She’s probably had other affairs, find out about them. And this lost child? Proven or was it born, adopted? How old would it be if it was still alive?’

  ‘Late twenties,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Find out from the woman when and where and how? Backstreet abortion or natural causes?’

  ‘She’ll clam up if I dig too deep.’

  ‘We’ve got no time for the niceties, push her.’

  ‘Bridget, Christine’s teenage love, Gwen’s husband. Find out who he is, where he is.’

  ***

  After a few days, Pembridge Mews returned to normal. It hadn’t been the first murder in the cul-de-sac, although the death of a scullery maid one hundred and fourteen years previously did not concern the team, especially Larry who was back at the scene. The old man with the walking stick, identified as Eugene Smith, had been an impresario in middle age, having worked in the theatre district near Shaftesbury Avenue.

  ‘Good times, met them all. Even royalty,’ Eugene said. He was sitting in his favourite chair in his house. Larry sat opposite, holding a glass of brandy. The house wasn’t renovated, not in the style of Matilda Montgomery’s and Amelia Bentham’s. It was well-worn, the dividing walls were still in place, the small and dark kitchen at the rear. The main room of the house was warm and homely and smelt of old leather. On two walls, bookshelves, an upright piano hard up against another wall.

  ‘Great taste,’ Larry said. His wife was all for modern, but somehow the old-fashioned look appealed to him more. Not that he would ever tell his wife.

  ‘You’re asking about Matilda and Amelia, aren’t you?’ Eugene said.

  ‘We’re not sure what to make of Matilda’s death.’

  ‘You’re convinced it’s suicide?’

  ‘We’ve no reason to doubt that verdict. If someone had been in there, strung her up, there would be evidence, there always is.’

  ‘Always? No such word.’

  ‘It’s possible to leave no obvious signs, but you’d need to know what you’re doing. And besides, the woman would hardly have voluntarily stood up there on instructions from someone else.’

  Larry gladly accepted a top-up to his glass of brandy, Smith leaning forward with the decanter.

  ‘She always seemed so well-balanced, and so did he, not that I saw him often.’

  ‘Amelia Bentham, what about her?’

  ‘Likeable, attractive.’

  ‘She’s admitted to a healthy sexual appetite. Did you know about her and Barry Montgomery?’

  ‘Very vocal, Amelia. I could hear her from here.’

  ‘Orgasmic raptures?’

  ‘Not that anyone cared. We’re a disparate bunch, mostly theatricals, entertainers, in one way or the other.’

  ‘Any parties at her place?’

  ‘Sometimes. I’d hobble down and have a drink with them. Fifty years ago, I would have been throwing the parties, indulging in the fun.’

  ‘Was there fun?’

  ‘Couples pairing off, that sort of thing? I’m sure there was, not that I saw it. I stayed downstairs, had a couple of drinks, then hobbled back.’

  ‘Any issues with the neighbours?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Matilda, did she go?’

  ‘Never. Not her scene. I don’t know much about what she got up to. I assumed she had the occasional man, but if she did, I never saw him. Only Barry Montgomery.’

  ‘He went to Amelia’s parties?’

  ‘Not often, but yes. He and Amelia were friendly, I’ve already said that, but it wasn’t serious, just a roll in the hay. Can’t blame the young man, an attractive woman.’

  ‘More attractive than Matilda?’

  ‘No way. Matilda had an innocence about her. Quite unique in her way.’

  ‘Yet she had had a troubled childhood. Did you ever see her parents here?’

  ‘Once, her mother. Not that I was introduced.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Three weeks, more or less. I don’t think she was there long. I asked Matilda afterwards about it.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She shrugged it off, said it hadn’t been anything important.’

  ‘Which you interpreted as…?’

  ‘I didn’t think any more about it. Not everyone gets on with their parents, and Matilda was an adult. The house was in her name, I know that.’

  ‘A lot of money for a woman her age.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. It depends on how she earned it, who she had inherited from.’

  Eugene Smith had drunk two large brandies. He was asleep. Larry topped up his glass, gulped it down in one go, and left the house.

  ***

  A wrought-iron gate, firmly closed, prevented Wendy from progressing. To her right, an intercom. She pressed the button, a voice with a Yorkshire accent answering.

  ‘I’ve come to see Amelia Bentham,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Is she expecting you?’ the voice said.

  ‘Yes. I’m Sergeant Wendy Gladstone, Homicide, Challis Street, London.’

  ‘Drive to the front of the house and ring the bell. I’ll open it for you, show you the way.’

  The remotely-controlled gates swung open. Wendy put her car into gear and drove the hundred yards up to the front of a Georgian mansion.

  Amelia had said that her parents were titled, but she had never said they were exceptionally wealthy.

  The door to the house opened, a man in his fifties, dressed in a blue suit, stood there. ‘His Lordship will greet you in the drawing room,’ he said.

  Wendy had never heard a Yorkshire accent spoken with the haughtiness that the butler imparted. To her, it was odd.

  In the drawing room, larger than Wendy’s house, she looked around. The room had an aura of old-world wealth, the peasants toiling in the fields, the squire cavalierly dispensing his orders with no concern as to who was inconvenienced or who it hurt. On the wall, a Rembrandt, a Van Gogh, even a Picasso, but it looked out of place.

  ‘The most valuable in the room,’ said a voice from behind her. Wendy looked around to see a man well over sixty, closing in on seventy. He was dressed casually.

  ‘I’m Lord Bentham,’ the man said, extending his hand to shake Wendy’s, a bear-like grip.

  ‘Sergeant Wendy Gladstone.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Amelia said that you looked after her after she had discovered the body. Why was she in the house in the first place?’

  ‘She had a key. If I’d entered without her, I would have needed a search warrant.’

  ‘Surely you would have required one anyway.’

  ‘Debatable. The woman’s brother was dead, and we’d just found out about his sister. She had not been seen for a few days. Amelia helped us out.’

  ‘Explanation accepted. Please take a seat, Sergeant.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Geoffrey’s the name. The title comes in handy, and so do the privileges, but apart from that we’re simple folk.’

  ‘I doubt that, Geoffrey,’ Wendy said. ‘Not with all this,’ she said, as she looked around the room.

  ‘You don’t approve?’

  ‘It’s not the way I was brought up.’

  ‘Honesty’s the best policy. Amelia has some issues, as well. Picked them up from the school we sent her to. Ed
ucation for the nobility on the promotional blurb.’

  ‘It wasn’t?’

  ‘I could have had them for false advertising. A hotbed of revolution, rich children sponging off their parents, idealising about the inequalities in society.’

  ‘Not that they were willing to divide their share.’

  ‘That’s the problem, Sergeant. You and I understand, both worked hard over the years, made a contribution.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘I inherited this pile from my father, a waster of the first order: gambler, philanderer, risk taker. Left me with nothing, other than a mansion I couldn’t afford to renovate, and his debts. I set up an engineering company with my brother, a garage at the back of a trading estate. Ten years later, a few close shaves, sailing too close to the wind too often, and then we broke through, manufacturing mining equipment. This place was renovated at my expense, and that place in Pembridge Mews, we bought it for Amelia.’

  ‘My father was a farmer, no money, but he worked hard, looked after the family. I started as a constable in Sheffield, saw the inequality between those with plenty, those with nothing.’

  ‘Then, Wendy, if I may be so bold as to use your first name, we understand each other. Now, what is it that you want with my daughter?’

  ‘My time was limited with her on the day, and she was upset. If I could spend a couple of hours with her, then she may be able to help us with our enquiries.’

  ‘A tragedy, Matilda dying like that.’

  ‘You knew her?’

  ‘Every few weeks, my wife and I would make the sixty-mile trip to London, business mainly, some pleasure, take in a show, visit one of the tourist attractions. Amelia and her mother would go to Oxford Street more often than I liked, but I couldn’t refuse. Matilda would come out with us sometimes.’

  ‘You seem to be a devoted family man.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Matilda’s was not.’

  ‘Amelia seemed to know something about it. The woman was a friend to Amelia, and we mourn her passing.’

  ‘Her brother?’

  ‘I met him briefly once. He seemed to be a pleasant man. Amelia liked him.’

  ‘And…?’ Wendy waited for an answer. So far, Amelia had not shown her face.

  ‘We are an open family. Amelia has a good heart, and we did not interfere with her life in London. If, as it seems you might be implying, she had a relationship with Barry Montgomery, then I would suggest you ask her.’

  ‘You’re not what I expected,’ Wendy said.

  ‘You expected me to be clothed in ermine, shouting down at the peasants, is that it?’

  ‘Well, not quite, but I didn’t expect such a liberal attitude.’

  ‘We trust our daughter and her sound judgement. If she liked the brother, spent time with him, then that’s her business. Is it relevant to your murder enquiry?’

  ‘Amelia is the closest person we have to the two of them. Her insights are invaluable.’

  Geoffrey Bentham poured two glasses of wine and gave one to Wendy. ‘We will wait for her. She’s out riding. In the meantime, you and I will sample my wine collection. You do appreciate a drink?’

  ‘Of course. What’s with the butler?’

  ‘He’s been with us for over thirty years. He’s more family than a servant, but he likes the airs and graces.’

  ‘He certainly does,’ Wendy said as she sampled the wine, a Shiraz. She was sure there would be a few more before her return to Challis Street.

  Chapter 14

  Isaac relished the opportunity to get out in the field and away from the office. He and Larry made the trip to the Montgomery family home. It wasn’t far, located just north of the city in Hampstead, on the edge of Hampstead Heath.

  On their arrival, the door was opened by Stanley Montgomery, the head of the household.

  ‘I’ve said all I intend to say,’ Montgomery said. The door had a security chain on the inside, and the man peered through the small gap that it allowed as the door was opened.

  ‘Mr Montgomery, this is a murder investigation. Either you cooperate, or we’ll haul you down to Challis Street, in handcuffs if necessary. Is that what you want? Flashing light, siren, the works. Let the neighbours get a good view,’ Isaac said.

  ‘What concern are they of mine, a bunch of low-achieving nonentities?’

  ‘Your attitude is noted. You’re either a complete moron, or you’re hiding something. It was your son that was murdered, your daughter that committed suicide. Doesn’t that mean something to you? Are you a sociopath, devoid of any feeling towards others? How about your wife? What does she have to say? Surely she must be upset?’

  ‘My wife is not of concern. She agrees with me.’

  Isaac turned to Larry. ‘Phone for a patrol car. We’re taking this man in. I’ll go with him, you can stay with his wife.’

  ‘You can’t do that. I have my rights,’ Montgomery said. He released the chain on the door and opened it wide. ‘Come in, we can talk here.’

  ‘No, we can’t,’ Isaac said. ‘You are obviously mentally incapacitated and a possible suspect in your son’s murder. Challis Street is the only place for you. If you need a lawyer, you’ll be given the opportunity to make a phone call.’

  ‘My wife can’t stay here on her own. She’s too upset.’

  ‘And now you care about your wife? I don’t remember you showing her any consideration before,’ Larry said. ‘In fact, the opposite. She wanted to talk before, but you stopped her. What are you hiding? Your daughter, disturbed, struggling with her emotions? And yes, we’ve spoken to an ex-boyfriend, found out from him about her emotional detachment. Years of abuse in this house, your wife forced to turn a blind eye.’

  ‘How dare you accuse me of such a thing. I loved my daughter.’

  ‘Your son?’

  ‘Once, before…’

  ‘Before what?’

  ‘I’ve no more to say.’

  ‘How long before the car is here?’ Isaac asked Larry. Before Larry had a chance to reply, a siren could be heard. The curtains next door moved, a face appeared in a window across the street.

  ‘Bastards,’ Montgomery said as he slammed the door in Isaac’s and Larry’s faces.

  Isaac knocked on the door again. It opened. ‘The choice is yours. You either come voluntarily, or I’ll have to arrest you as a hostile witness.’

  ‘You’ll need a court order.’

  ‘An expert in the law, are you? We’ll discuss it at the station.’

  ‘My wife...?’

  ‘She’ll be fine. Inspector Hill will stay with her. We’ll ask a uniformed officer from the local station to be present.’

  ‘Not him next door?’

  ‘A female officer skilled in counselling, not the man with the child’s football that you slashed.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘No buts, just step out here and get into the back of the police car, the one with the siren and the flashing lights.’

  ‘You can’t do this.’

  ‘We can, and we are. You, Mr Montgomery, who should be shown care and consideration for your loss, will receive none. Not this time or in the future. Where is your wife?’

  ‘She’s in her bedroom.’

  ‘Larry, we could have done with Wendy.’

  ‘She’s with the Benthams,’ Larry said.

  ‘That shameless hussy with her men and her wicked ways,’ Montgomery said.

  The man was sociopathic, the two police officers could see that clearly. Not that it made him a murderer. Isaac and Larry could only imagine the torment that his wife and children had suffered over the years.

  ‘Constable Elaine Sands,’ said a woman, no more than mid-twenties, as she came through the gate at the front of the house. She shook hands with Isaac and Larry. Montgomery looked away.

  ‘Follow me, Constable,’ Larry said.

  ‘You can’t, not without a warrant.’ Montgomery, clutching at straws, continued to protest.

  ‘Your wife is in th
e house. We’ve not seen her, and her condition is our primary consideration. You, Mr Montgomery, are due at Challis Street. We are going to have a long chat as to why you disowned your son, how your daughter came to own a house in Pembridge Mews, and what it was that drove her to suicide.’

  ‘She killed Barry,’ Montgomery blurted out.

  ‘Proof?’

  ‘It had to be her. She was a sensitive soul. He was not.’

  ‘That’s hardly a reason for murder. Your proof?’

  ‘There is none, but I knew her, knew him.’

  ‘Challis Street, please,’ Isaac said. One of the police officers in the car came over and placed a hand on Montgomery. The man meekly complied and got in the back of the vehicle. The vehicle pulled away, its flashing light still going, its siren still wailing. A crowd had formed on the street outside the house.

  ‘I’ll wait for you at the station,’ Isaac said to Larry. ‘We’ll interview him together. Check on the man’s wife first. If she’s traumatised, phone for an ambulance. God knows what this man has put his family through.’

  ‘It doesn’t explain Pembridge Mews, does it? The place must be worth two million pounds, and we know it was in Matilda’s name and there was no mortgage. Could he have killed Barry?’

  ‘It still doesn’t explain what happened to Matilda,’ Isaac said. ‘Do what you must here, and ensure that Constable Sands stays with Mrs Montgomery.’

  ***

  There was something about the Benthams’ house that made Wendy relax. She shouldn’t have liked Lord Bentham, but she did, and now, with Amelia still not back, she and Geoffrey, as he preferred to be called, were onto their fourth glass of wine. This time a Cabernet Merlot.

  ‘Cullen Diana Madeline Cabernet Merlot, 2001,’ Geoffrey said.

  ‘South African or Australian?’ Wendy’s slurred reply.

  ‘Margaret River, Western Australia. Seventeen months in French barriques, a great wine.’