Murder of a Silent Man

by Phillip Strang

  ‘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 steal. 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.

  And the woman upstairs had apparently died of natural causes, although that did not obviate her being poisoned, a skeleton unable to reveal that possibility.

  ‘It’s the inheritance,’ Isaac said. In the office, Larry Hill and Chief Superintendent Goddard, his uniform proudly worn.

  ‘It’s for the presentation of a gallantry medal to the constable who was shot when he was protecting a woman from an irate husband,’ the chief superintendent said.

  Anything to promote himself, Isaac thought. Goddard was looking to take over Counter Terrorism Command when the time was right, although that wasn’t likely to happen as long as Alwyn Davies was the commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police, and the man wasn’t in a hurry to vacate his post.

  Davies, the man who was going to reform the Met, bring it into the twenty-first century, but instead had proven himself to be an adroit political animal, had done little in the way of reformation, more in demoralising. At least that was the opinion of Isaac and Goddard, although there were others who had prospered.

  ‘No chance of an early arrest?’ Goddard said.

  ‘Not yet. We’ve not got a motive for the murder. Sure, the man had money, but not in the house, and no one’s gained anything yet. Once the man’s last will and testament is read, we’ll have a better idea.’

  ‘And when’s that?’

  ‘Tomorrow. The family will be gathering at Leonard Dundas’s office at ten in the morning. I’ll be in Dundas’s office, although I’ll probably not be at the reading. However, I will be given a copy afterwards.’

  ‘Not all the family will be there,’ Goddard said.

  ‘Ralph probably won’t be. The father may not have liked him, but he’s probably included in the will somewhere.’

  ‘No guarantees. It would help if you were in when the will is read.’

  ‘Outside will be fine. I’ll see the people as they come out from Dundas’s office.’

  ***

  Ralph Lawrence prowled up and down in his hotel room in Kensington. It had cost plenty, more than he could afford, but what did it matter. He would either pay for it with one of the cards he possessed or he wouldn’t. He knew that his return to England, not that he had any option, was a necessary risk, and there were some people not far away who wanted money in cash, and he could not pay. And he knew how they dealt with those who crossed them.

  ‘One month from now you will be in here, or we will find you,’ they had said. And now he was back in their part of the world, and he still remembered the man with his s
hattered kneecaps groaning in agony, their idea of a warning.

  ‘Just so you don’t forget, take a close look at him,’ one of the three had said. Criminal nobility, that was what Ralph Lawrence knew their lead man to be.

  If only I hadn’t tried to cheat those men in Spain. How was I to know that the British tourists, a sweet and gullible husband and wife team, were part of a sting to trap me? Ralph Lawrence thought in a moment of introspection.

  And now he was in England, and the repayment to the man and his thugs could not be avoided. He knew being here was a risk, but his father’s death had been providence from heaven. A chance for the miserable old skinflint of a father to pay for all the suffering he had caused him, and as for the others, his son, his sister and her husband, what did they matter. Once the gangsters had been paid off, he was going straight, straight from Heathrow and back out to where it was warm, to purchase himself a good house, a good car, and find himself a willing woman. Ralph Lawrence was not a vain man; he knew that he had the gift of the gab, and this time, he would not need to pretend with the woman. This time he would be rich.

  ***

  Molly Dempster, for the first time in her adult life, found herself without a routine. She did not like it, having been used to her twice-weekly visits to the Lawrence mansion. She did not know why she had been invited to the office of Leonard Dundas on the following day. She knew it had to be important, but she had never asked for anything from her employers and had never once been tempted to take anything from the house: not a bar of soap, nor washing up liquid, nor even some money occasionally. All that she purchased for the home she accounted for in her neat and meticulous handwriting. She felt great sorrow for the man who had died, even sadness for a woman who had died decades before. She could only imagine the anguish that her husband must have gone through. If she had known, she would have made an effort to soothe the man.

  Caroline, she knew, was a compassionate woman. She’d ask her tomorrow at Dundas’s for three months to move out of the house that Gilbert Lawrence had let her live in. She had saved some money and could afford to pay the rent for a while. After that, she could live with her sister, though she didn’t want to. Molly knew that as much as she loved her sister, the woman could drive her mad with her untidiness, her need to smoke in the house. Gilbert’s death had signalled to Molly the closing of her life, and all she could do was resign herself to the inevitable. She sat down again on the kitchen chair and shed a tear, not only for Gilbert and Dorothy but for herself.

  Chapter 6

  An auspicious occasion, the reading of the last will and testament of Gilbert Aloysius Lawrence: recluse, property magnate.

  Isaac knew that the accolade of philanthropist would not be used in any obituary, not even at the man’s funeral, as he had never given much to anyone outside of his family, and only to charity when it came with a sizeable reduction in tax.

  Bridget, in the office, had checked back for any press cuttings in the last thirty years and had found very little. The name of Lawrence had appeared in the financial sections of the newspapers from time to time, but apart from that, there was not much of interest.

  Ralph Lawrence had more column inches devoted to him, due to his behaviour in his teens, starting with drunken and loutish and culminating in appearing in court on a charge of passing fake cheques.

  As Bridget had said to Isaac, the man’s a habitual conman, no perceivable morals, good or bad, a rotten egg as her father would have said. All that could be found about Caroline Dickson, née Lawrence, were the details of her wedding, as well as a photo.

  Isaac sat in the reception area of Leonard Dundas’s office; he was early. The young woman at reception had given him a coffee and a magazine to read, although those coming in through the door were of more interest. Jill Dundas, Leonard’s daughter, came over and introduced herself. Isaac found her to be polite, but not friendly, purely professional. He judged her to be in her forties. She was wearing a dark blue jacket with matching trousers, a white blouse. If her look was anything to go by, she was a worthy person to take over from her father, Leonard, who had come into the office looking tired, more so than the first time Isaac had met him.

  ‘It’s a nightmare,’ Leonard Dundas said. ‘When Gilbert was alive, he kept his finger on the pulse. But now, his death has left a lot of people anxious.’

  ‘What sort of people?’

  ‘Tenants, lending institutions, overseas banks.’

  ‘Why? Surely everything is secured.’

  ‘Secured, yes, but people are people, they panic. And besides, what’s to worry about? Gilbert was solvent, and no lease agreements have been impacted.’

  ‘Was Lawrence still buying?’

  ‘He never stopped.’

  ‘New instructions?’

  ‘It depends who inherits.’

  ‘Ralph gave us the slip at Heathrow. We’re trying to find him and his son,’ Isaac said.

  Caroline Dickson entered the office, nodded at Isaac. Her husband accompanied her, as did Emma, Gilbert’s sister. Molly Dempster came in looking a little unsure of the surroundings. The receptionist gave her a cup of tea, and showed her where to go, and ensured she was seated comfortably. Isaac could see through the open door that Caroline gave the housekeeper a brief hug.

  The door to where Dundas was to read the will closed soon after. Isaac strained to listen but could hear nothing. A man walked into the solicitor’s office. He was puffing, and he looked as though he had had a rough night. Isaac knew that he was face-to-face with Ralph Lawrence.

  ‘Where’s the meeting?’ Ralph said to the receptionist.

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Ralph Lawrence. Sorry for being late, traffic.’

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Cook,’ Isaac said, standing up to introduce himself. ‘We missed you at Heathrow.’

  ‘You didn’t miss me. I missed you. Subtle difference.’

  ‘There are some questions we have for you.’

  ‘After we’ve dealt with finding out who my father has given his money to. He was a difficult man, we never got on, although I suppose you know that. And my mother upstairs in the house. I thought he was smarter than that. Did he kill her?’

  ‘Not that we can prove. Is there any reason he would have?’

  ‘None that I can think off. I liked him when we were young, but then he became remote, thought that throwing money at our education, paying for overseas trips, was the solution.’

  ‘Challis Street Police Station after the reading, okay?’

  ‘As long as he hasn’t given it all to the Battersea Dogs Home, that’ll be fine.’

  Ralph Lawrence rushed away, entering through the door into the room where the rest of the family, as well as Molly Dempster, sat. Isaac craned his neck to see the reaction of the others but could see little. The one man who had remained elusive, the one man that his family had not wanted to see, and for whom Wendy had been searching, had walked into the solicitor’s office.

  Isaac took his phone out of his pocket. ‘Wendy, Ralph is at Dundas’s. Get down here, take a good look at him, and make sure he doesn’t give us the slip again.’

  ***

  Leonard Dundas rose to speak. The others in the room held their breath, looked nervously around them, all except Molly who sipped her tea. She would have admitted to being baffled as to why she was there, and what was being said. She had an aunt who had left her a teapot once when she had died, but the handle had fallen off long ago, and all she received from her parents, who had been as poor as church mice, was a demand from the council to pay the electricity or it would be cut off.

  And there in that room was Ralph, looking much older than the last time she had seen him, vaguely smelling of aftershave and alcohol.

  Such an attractive young man, she remembered, always trying to sneak a girl into the house, never getting past his father, but he had charmed Molly as well as the girls, and if the coast was clear, she had turned the occasional blind eye – not that she appr
oved. She was strict Presbyterian, and they didn’t do such things, not before marriage. Not that it stopped a few in the congregation, she knew that.

  Caroline sat on the other side of the room. She was clutching her husband’s hand, hard.

  I, Gilbert Aloysius Lawrence, presently of 47 Atherton Street, Kensington, London, England, hereby revoke all former testamentary dispositions made by me and declare this to be my last will.

  Those present listened as the preliminary declarations were made, and the nomination of Leonard Dundas as the man’s executor. In the event of his being unable to complete his duties, then Jill Dundas was to take the role of executor. Caroline Dickson and Ralph Lawrence waited for the distribution of the estate. The fact that their father’s solicitor had been nominated as the executor concerned Caroline, not so much Ralph, as long as he received his fair share.

  To Molly Dempster, a person who has shown great loyalty to the family, I extend my thanks.

  The housekeeper looked up when her name was mentioned. Ralph was instantly suspicious that Molly and her father had been involved, but he took a further look, and realised that both of them had been too old, and Molly had always been the eternal spinster, but…

  The house that she currently occupies will be signed over to her. The deeds will be made available in her name, and she is to continue to receive her salary until her death. Also, all costs relating to council rates, electricity, gas, and maintenance will be paid out of my estate. A fund will be established to cover this. As well, a one-off payment of one million pounds will be deposited in a savings account for her use.

  One house down, over two hundred more properties, Caroline and Ralph thought. Neither of them had any problem with Molly receiving the house and the money. Molly sat stunned, not sure what to make of what had been said. Ralph leaned over and whispered in her ear. ‘He’s given you the house,’ he said.