‘A lot of work, a lot of money.’
Isaac continued. ‘The house is over one hundred and thirty years old. It is a substantial three-storey construction that is showing the wear and tear of many years of neglect. No doubt one of the slum dwellings of the fifties and sixties, but the area is now gentrified and upmarket. However, it appears to have been rented out as single room bedsits during the nineties. After that, we believe that it has remained unoccupied up until the Baxters moved in, disputed property by all accounts. We’ll need to investigate the history further.’
‘Any name for the body?’ Goddard asked.
‘Not yet,’ Larry Hill said.
‘Gordon Windsor will let us know as soon as he can, but at this present time we are assuming the body to be male, aged in his thirties. No more at this time, as the body was wrapped in some blankets and tied with rope,’ Isaac said.
‘The cause of death?’ Wendy Gladstone asked.
‘We’ll need to wait for confirmation.’
‘It’s not much to go on,’ DCS Goddard said.
‘Not much, sir. Bridget, can you check out the history of the house: who has lived there, who owned it? Wendy, follow up on any relevant names, go and visit.’
‘Yes, sir,’ they both answered.
‘Larry, can you get back to the house, see how the investigating team is going? See what else they can find.’
‘DCI, what about you?’ Goddard asked.
‘I’ll stay here, put the team together, keep in contact with Gordon Windsor.’
***
Larry Hill quickly returned to the house. Trevor Baxter was there, upset that he was not allowed in until a thorough investigation was completed. The Baxters were not unreasonable people, just concerned that it was their house where the body had been found. Apparently, his wife was now talking about returning at some stage. Larry had to explain that it could be some weeks, possibly longer, before they would be given clear access. Trevor Baxter had been offered a serviced two-bedroom apartment by his company for a month, and they were moving in that day.
The crime scene investigation team did not have much to say, other than the house was in a reasonable if neglected state. Apart from the body, they did not expect to find much more of interest, and after thirty years, they were hardly likely to find any fingerprints or DNA. In fact, they assumed they would come up with nothing, other than where the wood that had concealed the body and the fireplace had come from, maybe some information on the screws used. They did not see themselves being on the premises for longer than a day.
Larry phoned Isaac with the news. It was not unexpected. With little to be achieved, he returned to Challis Street, passing by his old station to wish them well and to tidy his desk. Detective Chief Superintendent Goddard had pulled some strings, and the transfer to the Murder Investigation Team had been immediate.
Wendy and Bridget, glad to be working together, were looking into the history of the house. Bridget, a dab hand with a computer, quickly found out the salient facts regarding the house: built in 1872, and purchased by a wealthy businessman who had made his money with a few upmarket clothing stores. A local newspaper of the period attested to the fact. After that, a succession of owners: one who had committed suicide in the back bedroom in the twenties, as the economy went into a severe depression, another who had spent time in prison for living off the illegal earnings of prostitution. Even one who had run for Parliament, but failed to receive more than three hundred votes. The 1950s and 1960s showed a period as low-cost accommodation, housing immigrants flooding into the country. It was good their period of interest was later, as the records from that period were sketchy.
The key date: January 21, 1987, based on the newspaper found under the body; the assumption was that the body and the paper had been placed in the fireplace at the same time, but that was for Gordon Windsor to confirm. He had phoned Isaac five minutes earlier to say that identification should be possible. So far, he had not concluded his investigation, other than to confirm that the body was definitely male, Caucasian, and clothed. No papers had been found, but they had not checked all the pockets yet, as after so many years, with water ingression from the chimney, coupled with coal dust and pigeon feathers, every part of the body and the clothing was rotten and welded together. He indicated that it would be another twenty-four hours before an initial evaluation would be concluded, and then there would need to be a full autopsy.
Bridget, continuing her search with Wendy sitting close by, turned her attention to the relevant date. The records, easily obtained from the local council’s database, showed ownership from the late 1980s up to the present time when the Baxters had bought the property. It also showed that the rates had been paid meticulously during that period, and the electricity had been connected.
Bridget gave two names on the deed of ownership: Gertrude Richardson and Mavis O’Loughlin, nee Richardson. Their addresses, or at least their last known addresses, had not been updated for twenty years. A search of births and deaths indicated that both were alive, and would be eighty-seven and eighty-five years of age respectively.
Wendy had the addresses, but after so long, they seemed to be a long shot, although both were in London and she could get out to one that day. Glad of the opportunity she informed DCI Cook on the way out. The police constable decided to visit her husband on the way, hopeful that he would be in an agreeable mood, even remember her name. She felt guilt that she was not with him more often, but life has its consequences. Her husband, a loyal local government employee, had not put his affairs in order, and she had to pay for the house and the nursing home. She had to work, and she was glad to. The arthritis that had given her trouble had subsided, although she realised it was only temporary due to the warmer weather.
Bridget, meanwhile, happy to be in the office, continued with the documentation that a murder investigation always entails. As firm a friend as she was with Wendy, as fond of a few too many drinks and idle gossip as they both were, Bridget was an office person, Wendy enjoyed being out in the field.
Bridget set to work with the filing, setting up the databases, collating what they had so far. Even at this early stage, she knew it would be another three to four hours before she could consider going home; not that it concerned her, as she was in her element.
Larry Hill had found himself a desk and was setting it up to suit him. He preferred a desk facing the window. Logging on to the department’s intranet was proving difficult, but Bridget had said she would be over in five minutes to sort it out for him.
The team, supplemented by several other officers, were collecting and tagging retrieved goods from the house: precious few as it turned out. Others were preparing a case for the prosecution if a culprit was found and brought to justice. It seemed premature to Isaac Cook, in that so far there was no culprit, but procedures were procedures. Even he, a product of university and police training college, could see that the Metropolitan Police was becoming over-bureaucratised. It had been fine with the former commissioner, Charles Shaw, but he had moved on to the House of Lords.
Richard Goddard was looking for an assistant commissioner’s position in a couple of years, and the new head of the London Metropolitan Police did not seem to be overly keen on him. The warm relationship with his predecessor had been good, but the new man did not have the charm or the willingness to respond to Goddard’s pandering.
Even Isaac had to reflect on his future. He could see detective superintendent, possibly detective chief superintendent, but commissioner…
He needed a mentor to guide him to the top. He needed Detective Chief Superintendent Goddard, although he needed him to make commissioner first, and that was looking shaky. It was a momentary distraction to reflect on past events. It was the present that was important, and that consisted of a body slowly being unwrapped from its blankets.
Chapter 3
Wendy was clearly the most active as she had a defined task. Isaac, for once at a loose end, decided to visit Gordon Wi
ndsor.
Wendy’s first address was in Richmond. The address showed it as close to the park. She arrived to find what was, on first impression, an imposing mansion. She entered through the front gate and rang the doorbell. The chimes echoed through the house.
Five minutes later, an old and wizened woman leaning on a stick came to the door. ‘What do you want?’
‘Constable Wendy Gladstone.’
‘Are you after a donation or something?’
Wendy could see that the woman was embittered.
‘I need to ask you some questions about a property in Bellevue Street, Holland Park.’
‘Sold it.’
‘We are aware of that, but there are still some questions we need to ask.’
‘Ask then. I don’t have all day to stand here talking.’
‘Would it be better if I came in?’
‘If you must.’
As Wendy moved through the house, the main rooms on either side appeared to be unused. The smell pervading the house was unpleasant – stale urine. Upon reaching the kitchen at the back of the house, she could see why. There were cats everywhere, and they were not fussy where they made their mess. It was clear that no attempt had been made for a very long time to keep the area clean. In the corner of the kitchen was an old camp bed.
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’
Wendy could only answer in the affirmative if she wanted the woman to open up, although she couldn’t see any clean cups.
The woman reluctantly moved over to the sink and pulled out a cup from the filthy water in the basin. She gave it a quick shake and a wipe with a cloth that a cat had been sitting on. Wendy shuddered at the lack of hygiene, although she knew that a cup of tea invariably loosened most tongues, and she needed this woman to talk.
‘What can you tell me about Bellevue Street?’
‘Not much.’
‘It’s part of a police investigation.’
‘Nothing to do with me, is it?’
‘I don’t know. What can you tell me about it?’
‘I sold it.’
‘You’ve already said that.’
‘What else do you want me to say?’
Wendy could see that the conversation was going nowhere. ‘Why did you sell it?’ she asked.
‘Needed the money.’
‘This must be worth more than the house you sold.’
‘Can’t sell this one.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘You ask too many questions.’
‘It’s my job.’
‘That’s maybe, but I don’t like people sticking their noses into my business. Every month, the council is around here complaining about the cats. Even gave me a clean-up order.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Same as I’m about to do with you. I told them to bugger off and leave me alone.’
‘I could make it official, take you down the police station.’
‘Just you try it.’
‘This is going nowhere,’ Wendy said.
‘Then you’d better leave.’
‘Before I go, let me clarify a couple of points.’
‘Hurry up, I’ve got the cats to feed.’
‘Your name is Gertrude Richardson?’
‘What if it is?’
‘Do you have a married name?’
‘Never bothered to get married. I shacked up with a few, slept with a few more.’
‘You have a sister by the name of Mavis O’Loughlin.’
‘I don’t have a sister.’
‘The records clearly state that you do. She’s two years younger than you.’
‘If you mean that thieving bitch!’
‘That’s who I mean.’
‘Haven’t seen her in forty years, don’t want to.’
‘Any reason?’
‘You’re sticking your nose in where it’s not wanted again.’
‘We know that the two of you had joint ownership of the house in Bellevue Street.’
‘Maybe we did. What’s that got to do with it?’
‘The sale of the house would have required both of you as signatories.’
‘Not me. I gave a proxy to my lawyer.’
‘Can I have his name?’
‘Why?’
‘We found a body at the house.’
‘What’s my lawyer got to do with it?’
‘You don’t seem very concerned about what I just told you.’
‘Should I be? Seen plenty of dead people in my time. One more won’t make any difference.’
‘The body has been there for up to thirty years.’
‘Don’t look at me. I haven’t set foot in that house for over forty years, maybe longer.’
‘Any reason?’
‘My business. If you’re finished sticking your nose in, you’d better leave. The cats are hungry, and I’m tired. Come here talking about dead bodies, upsetting the cats. You’re also upsetting me, an old woman of eighty-seven, going on eighty-eight.’
Wendy, sensing that her time had come to a conclusion, rose from the old wooden chair she had been sitting on. ‘Just one question before I leave.’
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘Your sister?’
‘Don’t have a sister.’
‘The one that used to share your surname.’
‘I’ve not seen her since Bellevue Street. Dead as far as I’m concerned.’
‘But she signed the sale documents for the house.’
‘Somebody did. May have been her, I suppose.’
***
Isaac found Gordon Windsor down at Pathology. The body, now revealed, was clearly male. It was lying flat on a table, or at least in an approximation of flat; years of being bent over had tightened it rigid. The clothing was with Forensics who were conducting fibre analysis, attempting to find any clues that would assist. According to Windsor, a positive ID was proving difficult.
‘Too many years wrapped in blankets being shat on by pigeons. Add in the water and the coal dust, and the body and the clothing have almost been mummified. That explains the unusually good condition of the skin.’ Isaac, used to dead bodies – not as old as this one, though – could only agree.
‘The newspaper? Placed there at the time of death?’ Isaac asked.
‘It looks to be that way, but why would someone bother to place a newspaper first unless they saw it as a time capsule? Instead of a few artefacts, they thought a dead body was more appropriate. Macabre, if that was the case.’
‘The cause of death?’
‘We’ll need to wait for the autopsy. No visible signs of trauma, although that would be hard to ascertain given the condition of the body.’
‘How long before they get back to us?’
‘Hard to say,’ Gordon Windsor said. ‘No point rushing a pathologist. They take their time, afraid to get it wrong in case they have to stand up in court and defend their findings.’
‘Give me a call,’ Isaac said. He had seen enough, and watching the pathologist slice a body with a scalpel from up near the shoulders down to below the navel was not agreeable, even at the best of times. He had seen a pathology examination during police training; he did not want to see another.
***
Larry Hill, once he had settled in and Bridget had sorted out his IT problems, was anxious to be out on the road. He, like Wendy, did not relish extended periods in the office. He phoned her; she was glad of the call.
‘I’m trying to find Mavis O’Loughlin,’ she said.
‘Address?’
‘No one there. Looks unoccupied to me.’
‘What’s the plan?’
‘Ask Bridget, see if she can come up with something.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Larry said.
Bridget spent another twenty minutes before she came up with some additional leads. Larry planned to meet Wendy and to go from there.
Wendy had tried the house in Belgravia with no success. Bridget found another possibility in Primrose Hill, three miles to t
he north. Wendy agreed to meet Larry at the address.
The location did not look promising on their arrival. It appeared to be empty, although it was a well-maintained freestanding property. To Larry, it looked very expensive. Wendy knocked at the door, Larry walked round to the back. As he approached the back door, it opened abruptly. An elderly woman appeared; she was elegantly dressed. Larry judged her to be in her eighties.
‘You can tell that bitch sister of mine that she’s getting none of it.’
‘Detective Inspector Larry Hill. We are looking for a Mavis O’Loughlin.’
‘What’s the police got to do with this?’
‘We’re not from your sister.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘We need to ask you a few questions about the property you jointly owned in Bellevue Street, Holland Park.’
‘She’s not getting any more money. I’ve given her enough already.’
‘Your relationship with your sister is not our primary concern. Do you think we could come in?’
‘The woman at the front banging on the door?’
‘Constable Wendy Gladstone.’
‘Very well. I will let her in. You can come in the back door. Remember to wipe your feet.’
Wendy could only reflect on the difference between Gertrude’s mansion and Mavis’s house. The property was exquisite, with everything in the right place. Wendy, who appreciated a clean house but rarely achieved it, was astonished at the cleanliness.
‘Can we confirm your name as Mavis O’Loughlin?’ Wendy asked.
‘I reverted to my maiden name, Mavis Richardson.’
‘Would it be appropriate to ask why?’ Larry asked.
‘Not really, but I’ll tell you anyway.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I caught the bastard cheating on me. Both of them naked in my bed.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I kicked them out and then threw his clothes out of the window.’
‘How long ago?’ Wendy asked.
The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 1 -3 Page 35