The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 1 -3

by Phillip Strang

  Chapter 7

  Isaac woke early the next morning after a restless night. Jess had left, a note attesting to the fact on the kitchen table. She clearly stated that she would return during the day and remove her belongings. He sat down for a few minutes, shed a tear in sadness, his momentary remorse disturbed by a phone call.

  ‘We’ve only got one more person to find,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In the office. Bridget and DI Hill are here as well.’

  ‘It’s only six.’

  ‘We agreed last night to meet at five in the morning.’

  ‘Your husband?’

  ‘Not good.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said.

  ‘And you, sir?’

  ‘The inevitable.’

  ‘I thought it was that, sir. I hope it wasn’t too unpleasant.’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘It helps to stay busy, keep the mind occupied.’

  ‘I’ll be in the office in twenty minutes.’

  ‘DI Hill and I will be out by then. Bridget will be here.’

  ‘Keep me posted.’

  Twenty minutes later, as stated, Isaac arrived in the office. Bridget welcomed him with a cup of freshly-brewed coffee. He could see the motherly touch. Wendy had obviously told her the story.

  ‘Two of the three were easily confirmed on Facebook,’ Bridget said. ‘DI Hill contacted them. There’s only one left, and he seems a distinct possibility.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘He would have been thirty-six in 1987.’

  ‘After 1987?’

  ‘There is no further record of him.’

  ‘Does this person have a name?’

  ‘Solly Michaels. You do understand the significance.’

  ‘Yes, it’s clear.’

  ‘Where are DI Hill and Wendy?’

  ‘They’ve gone to see Gertrude Richardson. Obtain a DNA sample, if she’s willing.’

  ‘And if she’s not?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Difficult to force a woman in her late eighties, DCI.’

  ‘Almost impossible. We’ll deal with it if we come to that hurdle.’

  ***

  Wendy thought it was too early to knock on the door in Richmond. Larry said it was too important to wait any longer. They rang the doorbell three times before the door slowly opened.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘There’s been a possible development.’

  ‘I’m feeding the cats. Come back later.’

  ‘It would be easier to deal with it now. There are questions to be asked.’

  ‘I sold the house. What more do you want?’

  Wendy was concerned that the old woman would not hold up under questioning. She had considered bringing another policewoman skilled in dealing with a medical situation should it occur, but decided against it, as she knew the nature of the woman who confronted them at the door.

  ‘We need to talk to you about your husband.’

  ‘I’ve not seen him for a long time.’

  ‘We found him,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Come in,’ the old woman said. ‘We can talk in the room we used before.’ Wendy could see that the woman was disturbed by the revelation.

  The same cat followed them into the room, sat on Larry Hill’s lap as before. This time, he did not intend to disturb the conversation by standing up to shake it off.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Gertrude Richardson asked.

  ‘I’m sorry, but he died of old age. You must have known.’

  Wendy could see that Gertrude was close to tears. She moved over close and put her arm around the woman. Gertrude Richardson nestled her head into Wendy’s shoulder, appreciative of her compassion. ‘He was a lovely man. I never knew why he left, although he was always playing up.’

  ‘What did you do about it?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘Turned a blind eye. It was the way he was, but he always came back to me at night.’

  ‘How many years were you together?’

  ‘Eighteen years, on and off.’

  ‘On and off?’ Larry queried.

  ‘Sometimes I’d move out, sometimes he would, but it was a good marriage. Maybe unconventional, but we lived in London during the swinging sixties. A lot of promiscuity then, and we were both guilty. When did he die?’

  ‘Eight years ago, in Fulham.’

  ‘Did he marry again?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We never got divorced.’

  ‘Bigamy?’

  ‘It’s a bit late to prosecute him now.’

  ‘Too late,’ Wendy said. ‘There’s another question I must ask. You will not like it.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Did you have a child?’

  ‘Yes,’ the woman replied meekly.

  ‘And his name?’

  ‘Garry Solomon.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘I’ve not seen him since he turned nineteen. He was wild, always in trouble. Took after his father, I suppose.’

  ‘Did you look for him?’

  ‘For a long time. Even hired a private investigator, but he had disappeared. I received a postcard from India a couple of years later saying that he was fine, but since then, nothing.’

  ‘Did it upset you?’

  ‘For a while, but I was never overly maternal. I was not a good mother, I wanted to party too much, and Michael was not a good example. I thought India was better for him, although I would have liked to have seen him again. I suppose I never will now.’

  ‘I need to take a sample of saliva. Would that be acceptable?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘We need to collect a sample of your DNA for analysis.’

  ‘Are you saying the body is Garry?’

  ‘We don’t know, but we must eliminate all possibilities.’

  ‘I understand.’

  After the sample had been taken, Wendy turned to the woman. ‘Do you want someone to stay with you?’

  ‘I’ve got my cats. Besides, I always assumed he would come to an unpleasant end. I never imagined it would be in Bellevue Street.’

  ‘It’s not been proven,’ Larry said. He had purposely said little during the interview.

  ‘It will be.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘A mother knows. I can’t explain it.’

  ***

  With a clear reason, Isaac decided to confront Montague Grenfell. As the family lawyer, he should have been more forthcoming about the child of Gertrude Richardson and Michael Solomon. Isaac saw the man as being evasive in hiding information.

  ‘I never spoke of the son because it is part of a confidentiality agreement that I have with the two sisters,’ Grenfell said after Isaac had climbed the stairs to the lawyer’s office.

  ‘Why a confidentiality agreement?’

  ‘Do you believe the body to be that of Garry Solomon?’

  ‘It’s not proven.’

  ‘But it looks likely?’

  ‘A strong possibility, but why Bellevue Street and why a fireplace? Too many unknowns at the present time.’

  ‘If it is him,’ Grenfell said, ‘where was he for sixteen, seventeen years?’

  ‘Unknown, although we know he was in India two years after he disappeared.’

  ‘He was trouble.’

  ‘We know, but since he disappeared there has been no record of him, or at least no record of a Garry Solomon. We’ve not checked for a Solly Michaels, and we’ve not checked with the fingerprint department.’

  Grenfell went to make some tea. He almost spilt it on his return, due to the shaking of his hands. It concerned Isaac as on his previous visit they had been firm.

  ‘Did you know that Michael Solomon was dead?’

  ‘I knew.’

  ‘And you didn’t tell his wife?’

  ‘What could I tell her? That he was living not far from her and married to another woman with a couple of children. It would only have caused more troubl
e.’

  ‘But you’re her lawyer?’

  ‘I’m also her cousin and godfather to her son. What kind of bastard would I have been if I had destroyed her belief?’

  ‘What belief is that?’

  ‘That her son is well and happy in India, and her husband is overseas. Better to let sleeping dogs lie. And if I told her that her husband was living in a bigamous relationship, professionally I would have needed to tell the police. I couldn’t do that to either Gertrude or Michael Solomon.’

  ‘You knew Michael Solomon?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘What kind of man was he?’

  ‘He was my friend.’

  ‘Why did he leave Gertrude?’

  ‘That’s another story.’

  ‘I could make it official.’

  ‘Confirm the body as Garry Solomon first. Until then it remains a secret.’

  ***

  Larry Hill had been enjoying his time with the team at Challis Street, and he had a great deal of respect for his DCI. He knew some of the truth regarding the death of Sally Jenkins, the murdered woman whose case he had been responsible for. It irked DI Hill that the woman’s death had been classified as murder by person or persons unknown. He was aware that his senior knew more, and he had quizzed him on more than one occasion, only to be told that it was classified, and the final report was confidential and came under the Official Secrets Act.

  There was not much more that he could do about it, but he saw it as a blot on his career. An unsolved murder invariably reflected on the senior police officer assigned to the case. DCI Cook had told him that it did not, although in this case he even admitted that it irked him as well. Larry Hill saw an inference from Isaac that he knew who the murderer was, but he was not telling either.

  Still, Larry Hill had to reflect that working with the team at Challis Street was a lot better than his previous police station. There, it had been office-bound more times than not, dealing with endless paperwork, and the senior man, a detective superintendent, had not been someone he could respect. On the couple of occasions that he had met Detective Chief Superintendent Richard Goddard, he had found him to be a decent man. A little humourless, but he left the team alone as much as possible, and he and Isaac seemed to have a good relationship.

  Larry enjoyed being out with Wendy Gladstone, found her to be capable and compassionate, even if she was ageing, and did not move with the agility that he did. He reflected on how well she had handled Gertrude Richardson when she had been told about the death of her husband, and the possible death of her son.

  Some secrets were clearly integral to the case. It now appeared that the time spent following up on the two elderly sisters had not been time wasted.

  He did not complain about the hours he was working, although his wife, used to him being home at a reasonable time, gave the occasional gripe. He knew that she understood and was always supportive. With the newfound prestige of his position at Challis Street, the possibility of a promotion up to detective chief inspector in a couple of years seemed a distinct possibility.

  His time of reflection soon came to a conclusion. ‘Are you ready?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he replied. Another visit out to meet the younger sister.

  Larry drove. Wendy sat in the passenger’s seat, telling him about her husband and his condition. It was not a subject he wanted to hear about, but she seemed to want to talk. He could at least acquiesce and offer comment when required, encouragement when needed.

  ‘They reckon another three to six months,’ she said soulfully. He had noticed that she was a cheerful woman until she spoke about her husband. He could only assume they were close.

  He understood, as he and his wife were close, although sometimes they argued like cats and dogs. She put it down to her fiery Irish Roman Catholic upbringing; he, to his growing up in a rough area in a rough town in the north of England. Their arguments, he reflected, only lasted a short time, and neither dwelled for weeks on why they had argued in the first place. Money was often the main reason, and a promotion to DCI would help.

  ‘Anyone at home for you?’ Larry asked Wendy.

  ‘My last son moved out. All I have there are a television and rising damp.’

  ‘Not ideal.’

  ‘Arthritis,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The dampness in the house is playing havoc with my aches and pains. I intend to sell it as soon as possible.’

  ‘And your husband, are you close?’

  ‘We were, but with dementia, it’s hard to remember back to that time. Every time I go to visit, I have to take a tablet to calm myself down. Anyway, enough of my complaining. You’re a good listener.’

  ‘We’re here,’ he said.

  Exiting the car, they both made their way to the front door of Mavis Richardson’s house. The woman opened the door on Wendy’s second knock.

  ‘I’ve had Montague Grenfell on the phone,’ Mavis said. She was obviously upset.

  ‘What did he tell you?’ Larry asked. Even though the woman was upset, she still managed to ensure they were all seated and had a cup of tea.

  ‘He’s had a visit from a Detective Chief Inspector Cook.’

  ‘Our senior,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Michael Solomon’s dead,’ Mavis Richardson said.

  ‘Had you any idea what happened to him after he left your sister?’ Larry asked.

  ‘I saw him about ten years ago, purely by chance. I was in the city, and he walked by. We recognised each other instantly.’

  ‘What happened?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘We sat down and had a coffee.’

  ‘Anything more?’

  ‘Nothing more. He asked after Gertrude. He seemed to be genuinely concerned. We parted, and I never saw him again.’

  ‘Did you tell your sister?’

  ‘We were not talking, and besides, it would only have brought up unpleasant memories.’

  ‘Secrets best left unspoken?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘This is a murder enquiry, you do realise this?’ Larry said. He had just poured himself a second cup of tea.

  ‘Garry?’ Mavis Richardson asked.

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Not proven.’

  ‘We’re conducting DNA analysis.’

  ‘You could be forced to give evidence, explain what all the secrets are.’

  ‘Two old women, no more than a few years left for either of us. I don’t think the fear of imprisonment would be a catalyst for us to talk. Besides, some secrets must remain hidden, regardless.’

  ‘Are these secrets that important?’ Wendy asked. She had helped herself to a small cake.

  ‘Yes.’

  Chapter 8

  Forensics wasted no time once they had a sample of Gertrude Richardson’s DNA. A mitochondrial DNA sequence from the mother and the body matched. Confirmation of the body as Garry Solomon accelerated the investigation. Wendy had the unpleasant task of telling Gertrude. She did not relish it, but she would do it with all haste.

  Isaac made an appointment to meet Montague St John Grenfell, the sisters’ lawyer. Isaac realised he knew more than he had told them so far; he needed to be pressured. It was now a full-blown murder investigation; the time for evasion belonged in the past.

  Wendy, not in the best of spirits, made the trip out to Richmond. Her husband continued to wane, and now she had bad news for Gertrude Richardson, a woman with whom she felt an affinity. Sure, she did not live in a mansion surrounded by cats, but she could empathise with the loneliness of the old woman. Wendy’s husband may have been difficult when he had been at home, but he had been there when she arrived. All she had now was a stone-cold house where her voice echoed. Sometimes, she felt like screaming when she got home. Challis Street was not warm and inviting, but at least there were people and noise and activity. The long hours of a murder case suited her fine; telling an old woman that her only child had died thirty years previously did not.

  ‘It�
�s Garry. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I always knew it was.’

  ‘Any more than a mother’s instinct?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘Too much dirty laundry, too much history,’ the woman said. Wendy could see the sadness etched on her face, regardless of the brave manner in which she laboured around the kitchen, stroking one cat and then another. She offered Wendy a cup of tea; Wendy accepted, even offered to make it for her. Gertrude Richardson declined.

  ‘I’d like to see him.’

  ‘It’s thirty years.’

  ‘I’ve seen dead bodies before, and he’s still my son.’

  ‘You said that before. What did you mean?’

  ‘I can’t talk about that now. I just want to see my son.’

  ‘I’ll arrange it for you. Do you want me to stay here with you?’

  ‘There’s a room upstairs. I would appreciate the company.’

  Wendy had prepared for such an eventuality; she had brought a change of clothes and a washbag just in case. Isaac told her to stay, do what was necessary, and to keep asking questions, no matter how gentle, how innocuous.

  ***

  Isaac realised that Montague Grenfell, even though he was in his seventies, was mentally and physically stronger. He had scheduled the appointment for two o’clock in the afternoon at the lawyer’s office. As he walked briskly up the three floors to the office, he realised that an early morning jog before coming to work was doing him good.

  It had been a couple of weeks since Jess had moved out, and in that time there had been no one else in his flat. He had to admit he missed her, and the only time she had contacted him was to let him know that she had paid the electricity, as they had agreed when she had moved in. An independent woman, she had intended to contribute to the upkeep of their shared accommodation.

  She also let him know that she still loved him, and if…

  Isaac felt sadness talking to her, but realised that the if… was not going to happen. And besides, he felt better, if sadder, being a free man. He wanted to settle down, realised he probably never would. He was not sure how it would impact on his career with the Metropolitan Police, but realised it probably would not. After all, he, the son of Jamaican immigrants, had made detective chief inspector in record time, in a society that stated equality for all, but rarely was equal. He was still after the top job at the Met, and if he was single and black and the son of immigrants, so be it. And besides, he would achieve it in record time.