‘He sounded like a man of advanced years. He was coherent if a little slow in his responses. Apart from that, he was found to be in control of his faculties. And let me make this clear. If the man’s last will and testament is to be contested, it is up to those contesting it to prove that he did not have the required mental capacity or did not properly understand and approve the content of the will.’
‘Will you stand up in court and defend your position?’ Isaac said.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Cook, we are a reputable organisation. There is no need for us to defend what we have stated. The standard tests were conducted, the results were appropriate. As far as we are concerned, the man was sane.’
‘Even with his wife upstairs in her bed for thirty years.’
‘Even then, although we did not know of that. A murderer, a rapist, those who commit outrageous and disturbing abuses against other people or commit terrorist acts could all be sane. It may be that others will say they are not, but the tests are specific in so far as Mr Lawrence was concerned. His wife in her bed will no doubt sway the general public, but in law it will have little bearing. If others wish to dispute the will the man signed, then they can, but the law is not on their side in this matter. I realise that is not what people would expect, but the onus of proving mental incapacity is on those disputing.’
Wilde, no doubt, had a list of clients impressed by the letters after his name. To be associated with a disputed will, with him having to argue in a court of law that a man who he had declared sane had in fact been living with the skeletal remains of his wife, was not going to be well regarded in the media.
Isaac could only imagine the headlines in the press: ‘Billionaire sane even though his dead wife was propped up in their bed,’ says a prominent psychoanalyst. Other media outlets might not be so kind, running quizzes on how to determine your sanity: ‘Do you have your dead wife upstairs? If you do, then you’re sane’; ‘If she’s in the kitchen making you tea, then suspect borderline mad’. Facebook could well have a field day, with the amateur pundits providing comedy.
‘Mr Wilde,’ Larry said, ‘are you seriously expecting us or anybody else to believe that your tests, as detailed as they may have been and even if they were in line with agreed procedures, were not impacted by his dead wife being upstairs? And before you answer, remember that not only did he put her in the bed, he had previously buried her for some months and stripped her carcass, cutting chunks off her body, before putting her in with flesh-eating beetles. Can we be expected to believe that the man was sane, can any court of law, can you?’
‘I hold by what I said,’ Wilde said. He sat down, a dejected look on his face. ‘I know what you’re saying. There are some who still regard what we do as charlatanism, an opportunity for the criminally insane to get off serving a sentence in a normal prison, to be confined to a mental institution with three meals a day and daytime television, even after they’ve murdered or committed other ghastly crimes.’
‘We intend to contact two other psychoanalysts,’ Isaac said. ‘One in America, the other in Australia. Will they answer the same as you?’
‘They will.’
‘Any gain to yourself?’ Larry said.
‘We were paid for our services, that is all.’
‘A lot of money?’
‘Yes, but that’s to be expected. Any legal challenges to the man’s inheritance were expected to be rigorous. Anything other than total diligence on our part would have left us open.’
‘And Leonard Dundas?’ Isaac said.
‘I have no idea what Dundas’s arrangements were. All I know is that Gilbert Lawrence understood what he was signing and that he had the mental faculties to do so. Regardless of how your investigations turn out, we acted correctly.’
‘And if he murdered his wife?’
‘Did he?’
‘We have no proof, but if he did?’
‘The tests were conducted according to accepted criteria.’
***
A father and son meeting after so many years should under normal circumstances be a cause for celebration, Ralph Lawrence realised, although he could not see it that way. He had never been paternal, no more than the mother of the boy had been maternal. It had always been agreed between Ralph and the then Mrs Lawrence that no child should result from their union. However, when Ralph had been flush with money, and the alcohol had flowed, as well as ganja, in Negril, Jamaica, the one-time hippy resort that had become the playground of the rich and famous, Yolanda had become pregnant. Neither she nor Ralph had been excited at the time, each blaming the other, but nine months later the boy had been born on a rainy day in London.
A cause of celebration it should have been, but Ralph had taken one look and decided fatherhood wasn’t for him. His wife had taken a look as well and felt maternal love for what she had produced. For the sake of the child, active and healthy with a fine pair of lungs as he went through teething, the reluctant parents had tried their best, even ensuring that their son was well looked after. By the time of his fifth birthday, the young Michael was sent off to school. With him out of the way for most of the day, Ralph reverted to type and started to stay out longer, Yolanda also finding herself another lover.
Ralph had known that his wife was easy, the reason he had been attracted to her in the first place. He had never wanted the perennial wallflower, the stay-at-home wife, the meal on the table at dinnertime sort of woman. He had wanted someone wild and free, the same as him.
Both Ralph and Yolanda looked across the table one night, as the young Michael sat in his chair eating his meal.
‘We’re not cut out for this,’ Ralph said. It was the first time in several months that he had said something that his wife could agree with, the arguments, the separate beds, having become the norm.
‘He’s still our son,’ Yolanda said.
‘What do you suggest?’
‘When he reaches seven we can send him to a boarding school. In his holidays, he can come and stay with either of us.’
And that was that, so much so that in the years from his seventh birthday up until he was eighteen, father and son had not seen each other more than a handful of times. And even then it had always been for short periods, and neither felt comfortable in each other’s presence. Not that Yolanda, the mother, had been any better: always off here and there with one wealthy lover or another. Very soon the periods away from boarding school became a succession of brief contacts for the young Lawrence with his parents, intersected with activities such as hiking in Scotland or learning to surf in Hawaii, or whatever else the wealthy did with their children until they grew up.
The drugs came about after a weekend with the son of a banker at his house in the north of England. Two friends who had boarded together for the last five years, each looking out for the other. Michael Lawrence, extrovert and charming, his friend Billy, shy and introvert. It was the former who secured the two women, both eighteen and attractive, working class. With an empty house, the two friends seduced the women, not difficult given the amount of alcohol in the house, and it was them who introduced Michael and Billy to heroin.
Neither had been able to resist the descent into hell. Billy had died at the age of twenty-three, alone and destitute, after his father, desperate to protect his reputation, had thrown him and Michael out of the house after coming home early and finding the two of them cavorting with the women in the indoor swimming pool.
And now Ralph Lawrence found himself in the same room as his son. Each looked at the other, and then out of the window at the rehabilitation centre. Outside the weather was frosty and overcast, reflective of the mood in the room.
‘It has been a long time,’ Ralph said.
‘Time moves on,’ Michael said. He stood calmly, sedated or whatever the centre did to a person; Ralph didn’t know, didn’t want to either. He had spent a lifetime drinking, never once succumbing to anything more harmful than cocaine, the occasional joint of marijuana, and as for injecting into
a vein, that wasn’t for him. He had seen it, who hadn’t in the circles he had moved in, but a fear of needles and an aversion to the sight of blood had served him well.
‘You’re looking well,’ Ralph said.
Both men struggled to come to terms with the current situation, and neither was enamoured of the other. Even when Michael had been growing up, and on the rare occasions that they had met, it had been difficult. A few hours away from the school at the weekend, a meal at a restaurant, a brief chat about school and what the other was up to, and then back to the school, both of them breathing a sigh of relief.
And now the two of them together, one older and supposedly wiser, the other in his thirties. It was the only time in nearly twenty years that both had been sober or detoxed. An uneasy stillness filled the room. Eventually, Michael took the initiative and approached his father, his right hand held out. Both men shook before Ralph put his arms around his son and embraced him. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘We’ve both stuffed up, but now’s our chance to put it right.’
The two men left the room and walked down the corridor outside. Both of them felt a little embarrassed about their momentary show of emotion. Ralph had to admit to feeling good for the embrace, Michael was not so sure. To him, this was the man who had deserted him, had thrown his mother away. Whatever Yolanda Lawrence may have been, Michael, through the years at boarding school, had maintained a vision of his mother as someone of loveliness, someone who would come and rescue him. But she had never come, and Michael could only blame the man at his side.
‘It wasn’t wise, you coming here,’ Michael said as the two men sat down next to a coffee machine in the centre’s dining room. Ralph took two coffees and gave one to his son.
‘I wasn’t sure if I should, but Caroline said it was important. How is the treatment?’
‘The need remains.’
‘Unpleasant?’
‘It has been, but there is a greater cause.’
‘My father’s fortune,’ Ralph said.
‘I cannot wait a year.’
‘The drugs will return?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not used to feeling normal. Is this what it’s like?’
‘If you mean boring and uneventful, then yes,’ Ralph said. ‘Normality is that. I miss my previous life, but then I’m older.’
‘My mother?’
‘We’ll find her. The last I heard she was in the Caribbean, but that’s a few years ago.’
‘Why are you here, father? To gloat?’
Ralph shifted uncomfortably on his seat. The man he was talking to was a stranger, although the resemblance between the two men was noticeable. ‘You went to Caroline and then to Dundas, why?’
‘There were two police officers.’
‘DCI Cook?’
‘He was one of them. They told me about the one million pounds if I straightened myself out.’
‘The money would not have convinced you to change.’
‘It didn’t, but Giles Helmsley encouraged me.’
‘I know him, did you know?’
‘He never mentioned it.’
‘No doubt he wouldn’t. I was told that he was an anarchist.’
‘He is. He understands what needs to happen, and the cause needs money.’
‘Giles Helmsley needs money. Is he still the same malignant worm?’
‘He is a great man.’
Ralph realised that even without drugs, his son had fallen under the influence of Helmsley, a man who had few redeeming features.
‘Then we must disagree as to what you want, but it is still possible for us to work together for our mutual benefit, would you agree?’ Ralph said. As much as his son was alien to him, he had to admit that he liked the man, even if his attachment to Helmsley was of great concern.
‘For our benefit, then yes. But you, father, must do your part. If I am to work with you and my aunt, then you must agree to mend your ways.’
‘I’ll not get a job in an office, but let’s see. I can still sell, maybe there are opportunities for me in this country.’
‘And no hustling, breaking the law. We must be beyond reproach.’
‘We will be. It is strange, Michael. I almost feel excited at the prospect.’
‘I do not. It will be hard for me, but with you and Giles, I will persevere. I also want to see my mother one more time.’
‘Why only one?’ Ralph said.
‘Neither of us was put on this earth to live to a ripe old age, and neither of us has a woman who is devoted to us, we to them.’
Ralph said nothing, only thought to himself that Yolanda, wherever she was and whoever she was with, would look good dead and in bed. His son had reopened wounds that had been closed for too long.
Chapter 15
The atmosphere in Homicide was tense. It had been six weeks, and not one person had been put forward as the possible murderer of Gilbert Lawrence. The question of Dorothy Lawrence was still unresolved, and her remains had not been released for burial.
‘Update,’ Isaac Cook said. His mood had worsened in the last week, understandable given the current situation. In the past, the DCI’s temperament had remained constant even when the pressure was on, but now he could see unresolved questions begging for an answer.
Larry Hill was standing, his usual pose, Bridget grasped a file of papers in her hand, and Wendy Gladstone nursed her left leg, not wanting to show that her arthritis was giving her trouble, not fully conscious that rubbing the sore area only made her pain more noticeable to the others.
‘Ralph Lawrence is visible,’ Wendy said.
‘Doing what?’ Larry asked.
‘He’s moved out of the hotel and into a small flat in Bayswater.’
‘Not his style, is it?’
‘Not at all, but the man’s inheritance is conditional on him and his son sorting themselves out.’
‘That was for one year,’ Isaac said. ‘Neither of them is going to last that long. The son’s a hopeless junkie.’
‘He’s still in rehabilitation and doing well by all accounts,’ Bridget said.
‘How do you know?’
‘I phoned them up.’
‘They may have just given you the standard response,’ Larry said.
‘They may have, but you can check, can’t you?’
‘We can.’
Wendy was unsure what to do. In the past, she would have been involved looking for someone who was missing, but now all the main players were visible. Leonard Dundas and his daughter were most days at their office, Caroline Dickson and her husband, Desmond, were to be found at Desmond’s place of business or at home, and Ralph Lawrence was either at his flat or out at the son’s rehabilitation centre. And Molly Dempster could be found at her small house most days of the week.
‘Bridget, the papers you’re holding?’ Isaac said.
‘I’ve checked with the psychoanalysts in Australia and America. They’ve applied similar tests to Kingsley Wilde, and I’ve checked on the internet to see if there have been similar cases to this that would set a precedent.’
‘Have there been any?’
‘Not with a dead wife upstairs. Disputed wills can take years to resolve and a great deal of money. There was one case in the United States where so much money was spent to secure the inheritance that the legal costs were more than the money the complainant ultimately received.’
‘Has a case been registered yet by any of Lawrence’s family?’ Isaac said.
‘Not yet. They have twelve years to dispute the will, indefinite if fraud is proven.’
‘Ralph Lawrence has to stay out of trouble for a year, the same as the son. Neither of them is capable. Is Giles Helmsley still around?’
‘He’s visited Michael on a couple of occasions. On the third, he was ejected after making a scene about his right to see his friend whenever he wanted without visiting hours.’
‘Quoting the anarchist bible?’
‘According to the person I spoke to,’ Bridget said, ‘he made a
fool of himself, spoke about the upcoming revolution when he and his people would take over, and he would remember those who had removed him from the building.’
‘If he took Wilde’s tests, what do you reckon?’ Isaac said.
‘He’d pass.’
***
Leonard Dundas, almost as old as Gilbert Lawrence, knew that his days as a solicitor were numbered, even his days on earth. Not a spiritual man, he could only reflect on what he had achieved. The son of a minor civil servant, a man who punched the time clock at work every morning, a newspaper under his arm. And then at the end of the day, he punched out and took the bus to his council house in a nondescript suburb, with a non-descript wife, only to sit by the radio of an evening smoking his pipe.
Dundas remembered it only too well: the sheer drudgery, the infinite boredom of a father who every year took his two-week holiday and booked into the same boarding house in the same seaside resort. And there would be the man with his wife and children, strolling up and down the promenade, sitting on the beach in rented deck chairs, and then, for a treat, fish and chips.
The one positive, Leonard Dundas realised as he sat at his desk, that his father had been a disciplined man, a trait inherited by the son. His father was a creature of circumstance, the son was as well, but he had had the benefit of an education and the chance to see some of the world. His mind was not closed to the opportunities, and a chance encounter with a young man about town by the name of Gilbert Lawrence had been opportune for both of them. To Dundas, Gilbert was a friend, as was his wife, but the children, Caroline and Ralph, were of little consequence.
He judged Caroline to be competent, although financially not astute. Ralph had been the bane of Gilbert’s life, and neither father nor son had much in common apart from a mutual disdain for each other, not like his daughter, Jill. To Leonard, his daughter was a person of great worth, even to Gilbert who had expressed his admiration for her. And now, Leonard knew, as he sat calmly in an attempt to slow the shaking of his hand, to ease the aching in his back and the throbbing in his chest, he had complete confidence that Jill would maintain Gilbert’s legacy, and his as well.
Murder of a Silent Man Page 11