‘Over forty years.’
‘Have you seen your husband since then?’
‘Not once. Vanished off the face of the earth.’
‘Does it concern you?’
‘Not really. He always had a roving eye.’
‘And the woman?’
‘Who do you think it was?’ She looked at Wendy.
‘Your sister.’
‘Who else? Back then she was a terrible tart. She could not find a man for herself, so she took everyone else’s.’
‘That was a long time ago. Have there been other men in your life since then?’ Larry asked.
‘Plenty, but I’ve seen no need for a piece of paper and a name change. A few have moved in here, but none have stayed for long.’
‘And now?’ Wendy asked.
‘I’m eighty-five, what use would a man be to me now?’
‘Companionship.’ Larry ventured a comment.
‘If I were lonely, which I am not, I’d get a dog. Anyway, you did not come here to talk about my love life. What do you want?’
‘A body has been discovered at Bellevue Street.’
‘Number 54?’
‘It was found in a boarded-up fireplace.’
‘I’ve not seen the house for over forty years, ever since that night.’
‘Which night?’ Wendy asked.
‘The night I caught the two of them screwing in my bed.’
‘It is a long time to bear a grudge against your sister,’ Wendy said.
‘I forgave her within a week. It’s her who can’t forgive.’
‘Forgive what?’
‘She was in love with him, and he upped and disappeared.’
‘Why did he disappear?’
‘No money.’
‘This house is yours?’
‘As well as Bellevue Street and the mansion in Richmond.’
‘We were led to believe that the house in Bellevue Street was jointly owned,’ Wendy said.
‘Legally, not financially.’
‘Could you please explain?’ Larry asked.
‘It’s simple. I was careful with my money and my men; she was not. Is this integral to your investigation, the Richardson family history?’
‘The body appears to have been placed in the fireplace in early 1987.’
‘I moved out in ’76.’
‘You owned it in 1987.’
‘That’s true, but it would have been empty.’
‘Could you please elaborate on the financial arrangement with your sister?’ Larry asked.
‘The properties, all of them, were joint ownership. Given to us by our father on his deathbed. Gertrude became involved with a few unsavoury men, who fleeced her while professing love. I bailed her out; the family lawyer kept a record. In the end, she ended up with nothing but a place to live and God knows how many cats.’
‘You let her stay there?’ Wendy asked.
‘That was the last deal. I would provide a roof over Gertrude’s head in return for no more demands.’
‘And she agreed?’
‘She had no alternative. I believe I have given you enough of my time. I’ve got a social event to attend.’
Wendy and Larry realised there were more questions to ask, but they would have to wait for another time. Besides, their DCI wanted them back at the office.
Chapter 4
Isaac saw the validity of an end of day briefing and an update on activities concluded so far, activities planned for the next day. He knew that once the investigation into the body in the fireplace became more intense, it would become a luxury.
Wendy and Larry were back in the office, as was Bridget, who was enjoying her newly elevated position.
‘I’ll update on what we know so far,’ Isaac said. Larry sat with a coffee in his hand.
‘DCI, is it a confirmed murder?’ Wendy asked.
‘Not yet. We’re still waiting for the result of the autopsy.’
‘Sir, you’ve met Gordon Windsor?’ Larry asked.
‘He was over at Pathology. Forensics is inspecting the clothing.’
‘Any identification?’ Wendy asked.
‘Not yet, and it looks as though the clothing may yield no clues, other than an approximate date when it was purchased.’
‘Is 1987 a probable date?’
‘It appears to be around that time. Wendy, your update.’
‘Bridget found an address for Gertrude Richardson, one of the joint owners of the property before the Baxters bought it.’
‘Did they own it in the 80s?’ Isaac asked.
‘They purchased it in 1972, sold it three months ago,’ Bridget said.
‘Did they live in it around the time the body was placed in the fireplace?’
‘According to Mavis Richardson, she moved out in the 70s,’ Wendy said. ‘It’s best if I conclude my report first.’
‘Please do,’ Isaac said.
‘To reiterate, Bridget found an address for Gertrude Richardson in Richmond. It was a substantial house, mansion even, close to the park. I knocked on the front door. An old woman, later identified as Gertrude Richardson, came to the door. She was in a bad way.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She was unwashed, the house showed severe neglect, and it appears that she lives in the kitchen at the back, surrounded by numerous cats that smelt awful.’
‘What did she tell you?’
‘It’s what she didn’t say that’s important.’
‘That’s an ambiguous statement. What do you mean?’
‘She’s an embittered and reclusive woman who does not acknowledge that she has a sister.’
‘Senile?’
‘I don’t think so. More likely a family feud.’
‘What else did she say?’
‘She stated that she had not been in the house in Bellevue Street for over forty years.’
‘Did she give a reason?’
‘No, but I believe I know why. Eventually the woman acknowledged, somewhat reluctantly, that she had a sister, but had not seen her for over forty years.’
‘Dates coincide with Bellevue Street?’ Isaac asked.
‘I’ll address that in a minute. She explained that she had sold the house in Bellevue Street because she had no money. I asked her why she had not sold the mansion in Richmond as it was more valuable. She said she could not. She was not willing to elaborate. Besides, she cut me short and hustled me out of the door.’
‘And the sister?’ Isaac asked.
‘I’ll let DI Hill answer that question.’
‘Wendy had drawn a blank on the first address for Mavis O’Loughlin, the sister,’ Larry Hill said. ‘Bridget found another and I met up with Wendy at the address. A three-storey terrace opposite the park in Primrose Hill.
‘Wendy knocked on the door to no avail. I went around the back. A woman opened the back door and started quizzing me, assumed I was from the sister.’
‘Why would she do that? You showed her your badge?’
‘Eventually, when she calmed down. After that, she let Wendy in at the front, and I entered through the back door.’
‘A total opposite to the sister,’ Wendy said.
‘What do you mean?’ Isaac asked.
‘Mavis O’Loughlin, who has now reverted to her maiden name, is an elegant woman who keeps her house in pristine condition. Apart from the reason we were there, she was good company.’
‘What did she have to say?’
‘She has not spoken to her sister since 1976, or thereabouts, and has not seen her husband since then.’
‘Related or coincidental?’
‘Related. Mavis Richardson came home unexpectedly and found her husband in bed with her sister. She threw both of them out onto the street.’
‘And the sisters have not spoken since?’ Isaac asked.
‘That’s unclear. According to Mavis O’Loughlin, her sister had a tendency to become involved with the wrong type of men. Some of them had taken advantage and fleeced her for money. The debts inc
urred were covered by her sister, who gradually accumulated the properties under her name.’
‘She allows her sister to live in squalor, while she lives in luxury?’ Bridget asked.
‘I don’t think we can make that assumption. She forgave her sister for sleeping with her husband a week after the event, or at least, she said she did. Why the squalor, and now the animosity from both women, is unclear,’ Wendy said.
‘I suggest you find out as soon as possible,’ Isaac said. ‘Larry, can you assist?’
‘No problem. Can you update us when the pathologist’s report and forensics come through?’
‘Will do,’ Isaac said.
***
It was late at night, as Isaac drove home to the flat he shared with Jess, that he received the phone call that was to intensify the focus on the case. ‘It’s murder,’ Gordon Windsor said.
‘How?’ Isaac asked.
‘Signs of trauma, suffocation.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’ve just driven over to the pathologist’s. I came as soon as he phoned me up with the news.’
It was unusual for the pathologist to work so late into the night, but this body was important. The media were hovering for information; a thirty-year-old corpse had raised their interest. And now, Sue Baxter had been selling the story to a Sunday newspaper; there, emblazoned on the front page, the photos she had taken. She had dutifully handed over the camera as requested by Larry Hill, kept the memory card for herself. Isaac realised that she could be trouble if she kept talking, and now with a clear murder, the media would be pressing her for more news.
‘I’ll be there as soon as possible,’ Isaac replied to Gordon Windsor. It was already close to ten in the evening, and Jess had made a special attempt to be at home for an intimate meal that night. Isaac phoned her to let her know that he was further delayed; she was not pleased.
Isaac had seen the signs before. How many times had someone moved in, fully understanding the challenges that a senior police officer in Homicide faced? How many times had the woman said that she understood, when clearly she did not? He had hoped that with Jess he could finally settle down. After all, she was the executive producer of a successful and long-running television drama, and as such, used to long hours and broken engagements. Sure, he had been looking forward to the evening with some good food, a few drinks, and an early and romantic night. He had to admit that the romance was withering. And then there was the issue with Linda Harris and the fact that he had slept with her, while he and Jess were only flirtatious. Her name had come up in an argument two nights previously; she was bound to be mentioned again. He had to admit that he loved, had loved Jess before she moved in, and he sensed it was the same with her, but he could see only another three to four weeks before the relationship came to a conclusion. He was sorry, but there was nothing he could do to change the situation.
‘It looks like murder to me,’ the pathologist, a tall, thin man, said. Isaac judged him to be in his late fifties, maybe early sixties. He had met him before and had found him to be an unusually unsociable man.
‘Why do you say that?’ Gordon Windsor asked. Both he and Isaac were standing close to the body: internal organs, or at least what remained of them, clearly visible. It was not a sight that Isaac appreciated, and if he was being totally honest, he would have to admit that he could be squeamish, but this was important, and people, senior people, were looking for answers and a resolution to the case.
‘Clear sign of trauma around the head, and if I’m not mistaken, evidence of suffocation.’
‘Enough to stand up in a court of law?’ Isaac asked.
‘Not yet. I’ve just given you my professional opinion.’
‘How long before you’re sure?’
‘Could be weeks. I’ll need to get Forensics to run tests.’
‘What can they find?’
‘Why are you asking me? You are the detective chief inspector. Didn’t they teach you anything at the police college?’
Isaac had seen that he was making polite conversation; the pathologist saw it as wasted time. ‘Of course, DNA, fingerprints, drugs in the system,’ he replied. Isaac realised it was a flippant response, but did not appreciate the pathologist’s lecture. Maybe the friction with Jess is getting to me, he thought.
‘There’s trauma around the head, but not the level of bleeding that I would normally expect. Mind you, after so many years, I can’t be sure.’
‘You are confirming murder?’ Isaac needed clarity on that one piece of information.
‘Tied up, bag over head, trauma around the cranial regions. It seems conclusive.’
‘Any chance of identification?’ Isaac asked.
‘Not from me. Forensics may have better luck.’
‘What can you tell us with some degree of certainty?’
‘Male, aged in his late thirties, early forties. Caucasian, height close to six feet. Apart from that, it is hard to tell any more. There is a clear sign of a broken right leg and a dislocated thumb. Apart from that, the body indicates that the man had been in good physical shape.’
‘Hair colour, skin colour?’ Gordon Windsor asked.
‘Dark hair. Skin colour almost certainly white, but that’s only because I’m classifying the body as Caucasian.’
‘English?’ Isaac asked.
‘Hard to tell. We live in a multicultural society. Not sure that can be confirmed, although DNA analysis may help.’
‘Any indication from his clothing?’
‘Bought in England. We found a few labels so it may be possible to localise where it was bought. Some of the clothes looked as though they were made to measure, not out of a high-street store.’
‘If it’s murder, it hardly seems clever to conceal the body fully clothed,’ Gordon Windsor said.
‘Or hide it in a fireplace in an empty house,’ Isaac said. ‘But then, we don’t know the state of mind of the person who placed him there, do we?’
‘Must have been someone handy with wood to have built the fireplace covering.’
‘If you two have finished postulating, I’m off home,’ the pathologist said. ‘I’ve spent too many hours here today for you.’
‘We’re finished,’ Isaac replied. ‘Many thanks.’
‘Don’t thank me. Just sign for my expenses when you receive the bill.’
***
Larry Hill and Wendy Gladstone, as agreed with their DCI, visited Gertrude Richardson. It was his first visit, her second. The welcome at the door, the same as before. ‘What do you want?’ the elderly woman asked.
‘We have some more questions,’ Wendy replied.
‘I told you last time that I sold the place. Why bother me?’
‘We’ve spoken to your sister,’ Larry said.
‘And who are you? I don’t like men coming here.’
‘Detective Inspector Larry Hill. I work with Constable Gladstone.’
‘That may be, but you’re not welcome here, and neither is she.’
‘I could make this official,’ Wendy said.
‘Maybe you could, and then it will be in the newspapers. How you took a prominent member of society, eighty-five and infirm, and carted her off down to the police station.’
‘Prominent?’ Wendy asked.
‘Once I was. Always in the society pages. Even met the King on a couple of occasions.’
‘That’s a long time ago to be claiming prominence, don’t you think?’
‘My name still counts for something.’
Both Wendy and Larry were intrigued, although neither said anything, other than to look at each other with a momentary glance and an imperceptible shake of the head.
‘Can we come in?’ Wendy asked.
‘I don’t want him near my cats. They don’t like men, neither do I.’
‘You did once.’
‘Long time ago, maybe. Naïve then, not now.’
‘Can we use another room?’ Wendy asked. The old woman was correct in that they would no
t be taking her in handcuffs down to the police station, nor would they be forcing her to do or say anything other than voluntarily given.
‘If you must. You don’t want a cup of tea, do you?’
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ Larry said. Wendy wished he had not answered in the affirmative.
‘The room on the left. There are some chairs in there. I’ll be back in five minutes.’
Granted entry, Larry and Wendy moved to the room on the left. It was clear that it had not been used for many years. The dust pervaded the air as they disturbed it. Larry found a chair close to the window; Wendy, another near a magnificent open fireplace. The walls were adorned with a selection of oil paintings, some old, some valuable. One of the women portrayed, dressed in the style of the seventeenth century, bore a striking resemblance to the old lady who was now making them a cup of tea. Wendy hoped the hygiene would be a little better this time; realised it probably would not.
Ten minutes later, Gertrude Richardson returned with one cat following. It made straight for Larry and jumped up on his lap. ‘I’ve never seen that before,’ the woman said.
‘I have a couple of cats at home,’ Larry said. ‘We’re very fond of them, the wife and I.’
‘If my cat likes you, then so will I.’
‘Do you get many people in here?’ Wendy asked. She had made sure to choose what looked to be the cleanest cup.
‘There’s a woman who comes once a week to check on me and bring my shopping.’
‘You don’t go?’ Larry asked.
‘I’ve not been out of the front gate in five years.’
‘That’s a long time,’ Wendy said.
‘There’s nothing out there that interests me.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘As long as I’ve got my cats, then I want nothing else.’
‘We met up with your sister,’ Larry said.
‘I told her.’ The old woman looked in Wendy’s direction. ‘I don’t have a sister.’
‘The woman with your name,’ Wendy reminded her.
‘What did she have to say?’
‘She told us that you fell out with her over a man.’
‘What if I did?’
‘It’s important.’
‘Not to me.’
‘Is that right?’
‘I suppose it is, but there’s more to it than me just screwing him. And besides, she was no better.’
The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 1 -3 Page 36