The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 1 -3

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘It’s old, and the condition is not great, but do you recognise the boy on the bicycle?’

  Emma Hampshire studied the photo for a couple of minutes. ‘It’s Garry.’

  ‘Are you certain?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘He looks just the same as Kevin at that age.’

  ‘You took a while to answer,’ Larry said.

  ‘It just made me sad that Kevin is not here.’

  ‘He is fine,’ Wendy said.

  ‘You’ve seen him?’

  ‘Last week.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘He was clean and living in Hampstead.’

  ‘Can I have his address?’ Emma Hampshire asked.

  ‘He seems to blame you for boarding school, and breaking up the marriage with his father.’

  ‘That’s unfair, but he doesn’t know the full story. The boarding school was strong on discipline, and Kevin needed it. He was difficult, the same as his father. It was for his own protection, not because I wanted to spend more time with Bob.’

  ‘And the other issue?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘Garry poisoned his mind with a story about my screwing another man in his bed. I was not the guilty party, but a young child is susceptible to manipulation. Kevin believes his father’s version, not mine. Besides, I would like to see my son.’

  ‘I will talk to him and see if he agrees.’

  ‘You couldn’t just give me the phone number?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s privileged information.’

  ‘I understand. Please let him know that I care.’

  ‘I will.’

  Sitting outside in Larry’s car, he asked Wendy what she had thought of Emma Hampshire’s reply relating to the marriage break up.

  ‘Who knows the truth. It’s what the son thinks that’s important, and she seems genuine in her affection towards her son.’

  ‘Is that why you slipped her the phone number?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about the people in the other photos?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Mavis Richardson is the only one who would know.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If it was one of their wife-swapping parties, the other people may want to maintain their confidentiality. Mavis Richardson may not answer, or possibly give us false information.’

  ‘We only know of two who are still alive, Mavis Richardson and Ger O’Loughlin,’ Larry said.

  ‘I’m not up to a trip to Ireland,’ Wendy said.

  ‘That’s understood. We’d better go and see Mavis Richardson. If she lies or is elusive, then I will need to go to Ireland.’ The idea of a trip appealed to Larry.

  ‘You’d better make it soon.’

  Mavis Richardson, as always, was accommodating and sociable. Even though their visit was arranged with at short notice, she still prepared some food and tea. Wendy nibbled at a biscuit, her eyes welling up with tears. Mavis Richardson asked if she was alright.

  Wendy wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and thanked her for her concern.

  ‘We have two photos. We would appreciate it if you will look at them carefully and tell us who you recognise,’ Larry said. Wendy sat quietly, stoically putting on a brave face, not certain if she was able to talk without showing emotion.

  Mavis Richardson took the photos and placed them on the table. She went to a cupboard in the corner of the room and returned with a magnifying glass. She looked at them for a few minutes.

  ‘The woman in the floral dress is Gertrude. The other woman in the pale blue dress, that’s me, although a lot younger.’

  ‘The other woman?’ Larry asked.

  ‘The photos must be fifty years old. I can’t remember.’

  ‘1962 or 1963?’

  ‘That sounds about right.’

  ‘What about the men?’

  ‘Michael Solomon and my husband, Ger, but you must have recognised them.’

  ‘We needed you to confirm,’ Wendy said. She had managed to compose herself.

  ‘There are two other men and a woman,’ Larry said.

  ‘It’s over fifty years. My memory is not as good as it used to be,’ the old woman said. Larry realised that it was the first time that she had alluded to her advanced years, a clear indication that she knew exactly who the other people in the photos were.

  Further encouragement from Wendy to Mavis Richardson to think hard came to no avail.

  ‘Was it one of those parties?’ Wendy asked indelicately.

  ‘Keys in a hat?’ Mavis Richardson replied.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Probably, but formal introductions were not always necessary. The people who came changed from time to time.’

  Larry and Wendy stayed for another twenty minutes, but realising that the woman was not going to identify the other people, they left.

  ‘She is probably on the phone now,’ Larry said once they were clear of the house.

  ‘And those others will be covering their tracks.’

  ‘What about Ger O’Loughlin?’

  ‘You’d better take a flight today,’ Wendy said. ‘I’ve got to deal with some issues.’

  Larry took her home. He phoned Isaac on the way to update on Mavis Richardson and to get his approval for a flight that day. Bridget, in Isaac’s office when Larry called, spoke briefly to Wendy.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Larry asked as he dropped Wendy at her front door.

  ‘The funeral director is here. My sons are here as well. I will be okay, and besides, Bridget is coming over later. Have a safe flight.’

  Larry drove to his house, picked up some clothes and an overnight bag, and made his way out to the airport. He rang the O’Loughlins’ phone number. The voice on the other end, of a softly-spoken Irish woman, told him to hurry, as her father would only last a few more days.

  ***

  Larry arrived at the O’Loughlins’ house at eight in the evening. He had checked into a hotel near to the airport on his arrival. His plan was to show the photos to O’Loughlin, spend the night in Ireland, maybe have a drink or two, and then catch an early morning flight back.

  ‘He can’t talk to you tonight,’ a pleasant middle-aged woman said as he entered the house.

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Let’s see how he is. He has had a relapse. He is on some medication, but tomorrow morning around nine should be fine.’

  Larry phoned Isaac to tell him about the delay. Isaac, as usual, was still in the office. Bridget had left to be with Wendy.

  ‘We need to know the names,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Malcolm Grenfell?’ Larry asked. ‘Any luck finding him?’

  ‘The first address did not check out. Bridget is trying to find somewhere else, but she’s distracted with Wendy.’

  ‘You can’t blame her, sir.’

  ‘I realise that.’

  Larry took the opportunity for a few drinks that night and a good meal. The next day, he arrived back at O’Loughlin’s house at 9 a.m. as agreed.

  ‘He’s better, but you can only have five minutes.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Larry said.

  He was shown into Ger O’Loughlin’s room. Wendy had said that the man, although incapacitated and connected to a ventilator, was coherent. The man that Larry saw seemed incapable of speech, barely raising his head to acknowledge him.

  ‘Detective Inspector Larry Hill. I’m a colleague of Constable Wendy Gladstone.’

  ‘Please sit down,’ the man said in a whisper.

  ‘I have two photos. We need to identify the people in the photos.’

  ‘Show me.’

  Larry gave the man’s daughter the first of the photos. She placed a pair of glasses on her father and held the photo in front of him.

  ‘Mavis, Gertrude,’ the old man said.

  ‘The other woman?’

  ‘Albert Grenfell’s wife, Elizabeth.’

  ‘The men?’

  ‘Michael, myself.’

  ‘The other two men?’

  ‘Albert Gre
nfell and a friend of his. I don’t recall his name.’

  ‘My father needs to rest.’

  ‘I need to know who the other man is.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the man said feebly. Larry could see that he was fading fast. He now had two more names: names that would cause the investigation to look in new directions.

  By 3 p.m. Larry was back in the office in Challis Street.

  Isaac was back as well, after looking for the mysterious younger brother of Montague Grenfell.

  ‘We need someone to question Lord Penrith,’ Isaac said.

  ‘You’ve met him,’ Larry said. ‘It has to be you.’

  ‘What do we hope to gain from this?’ Isaac posed a rhetorical question.

  ‘We know he was an attendee at Bellevue Street, as was his wife.’

  ‘What about her?’ Bridget asked.

  ‘She has been dead for ten years.’

  ‘It is the unknown man that we need to identify. Do you think his lordship knows?’ Larry asked.

  ‘It’s a reasonable assumption.’

  ‘But he is suffering from dementia.’

  ‘With dementia, people tend to remember events and people from years before. It’s possible he may remember.’

  ‘Is he communicative?’

  Isaac made a phone call. Bridget smiled quietly to herself.

  ‘According to his nurse, he comes and goes. A visit there is always uncertain, but regardless, I will go up in the morning,’ Isaac said. ‘Larry, can you look for Malcolm Grenfell?’

  ‘Wendy will be back in the morning,’ Bridget said.

  ‘All three of you focus on this man.’

  Chapter 19

  Isaac phoned Katrina Smith to tell him of her plans.

  ‘Come up tonight. There are plenty of rooms in the house.’

  Isaac left the office early, ostensibly to take advantage of a few more hours of possible coherence from the lord.

  He arrived at eleven in the evening. Katrina made him a light supper and showed him to his room. It was ageing, as was the rest of the house, but it had a four-poster bed and a view overlooking a lake at the rear. Katrina never made it back to her room that night.

  Refreshed and feeling a lot better the next morning thanks to the nurse, Isaac made his way downstairs to the kitchen. Katrina was already there with an English breakfast for him: eggs, bacon and two sausages. A pot of coffee was brewing on the Aga cooker.

  ‘You’ll need to keep your strength up,’ she said.

  Isaac had to admit that he liked her.

  ‘His lordship is not too well,’ Katrina said.

  ‘Later?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Maybe after I have had a chance to get some food into him.’

  Isaac ate his breakfast as they talked. Normally, he would have an orange juice, sometimes a bowl of cereal, but today he was going to be well-fed. After he had finished with the main course, there were two slices of toast and home-made jam.

  Katrina left and went to look after her patient. Isaac sat down with his laptop and connected to the internet using his phone.

  Wendy was soon on the phone.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Better for being in the office. Bridget and Larry are making a fuss of me.’

  ‘Good. You know what is required?’

  ‘Malcolm Grenfell.’

  ‘Judging by the condition of the current lord, he is about to inherit Penrith House and a title. No idea if there’s any money involved.’

  ‘Old money,’ Wendy said. ‘They don’t like to flash it around, but there will be plenty of cash somewhere.’

  ‘Which reminds me,’ Isaac said. ‘Montague Grenfell’s legal and financial records.’

  ‘Bridget has someone on them. Do you want to speak to her?’

  ‘Put her on the phone.’

  ‘Bridget, you’ve been working on Grenfell’s papers. Anything interesting.’

  ‘Keith Dawson is here. He’s over from Fraud.’

  ‘Yes, I realise.’

  ‘He’s not here at the present moment, but I can give you an update.’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Grenfell’s papers are meticulous. Not only does he look after the Richardsons’ legal and financial matters, but he also looks after the Grenfells. All that he told us regarding Gertrude’s and Mavis’s relationship and financial status appears to be correct. Gertrude was wealthy, although did not know or chose to ignore it.

  ‘Garry Solomon kept in contact with Montague Grenfell on an infrequent basis, and when requested, Grenfell would send him money. However, it was infrequent, and there is no reason to believe that they actually met. Kevin Solomon, the son of Garry Solomon, has been looked after as well. The drug rehabilitation, the flat in Hampstead, all paid for by Gertrude Richardson.’

  ‘Did she know?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Impossible to say. Grenfell had full authority in relation to Mavis’s and Gertrude’s legal and financial affairs. There is no indication that he abused that privilege. Also, the Grenfells are extremely wealthy, even if, as you say, the house where you currently are does not indicate that.’

  ‘Is there any more?’

  ‘Keith Dawson will update you with more detail as you require.’

  ‘Thanks. Put Wendy on the phone again.’

  ‘I’m here, sir,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Malcolm Grenfell, find him today. It’s important.’

  ‘How is Katrina Smith?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘Take that smile off your face, or your promotion next week to sergeant will be delayed.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ It was the first time that anyone had seen Wendy smile in the office since her husband had passed away.

  ‘Your husband?’

  ‘The funeral is next week.’

  ‘I would like to attend.’

  ‘I would appreciate that, sir.’

  Isaac put down the phone, smiled at Wendy’s cheeky comment.

  ***

  ‘You can try now,’ Katrina said as she walked back into the kitchen at Penrith House.

  Isaac could see the resemblance to the man in the photo, although the man in the bed was old and decrepit and drooling, whereas the man in the picture had been young and vibrant with a full head of jet-black hair.

  ‘How can I help you?’ the man asked, lying almost horizontal on his back in the bed. His head was propped up by two large pillows.

  ‘I’ve explained to Lord Penrith as to why you are here,’ Katrina said.

  ‘We need to identify a man in an old photo,’ Isaac said.

  Katrina took the photo and held it in front of the old man.

  ‘Michael Solomon.’

  ‘We have identified Michael Solomon, Ger O’Loughlin and yourself. There is another man there.’

  ‘George Sullivan.’

  ‘Do you know where we can find him?’

  ‘Haven’t seen him in years.’

  ‘Where was the last time?’

  ‘He has a house in Berkshire.’

  ‘Does he have a title?’

  ‘George, no way. Good man, good in business, but no title.’

  ‘That’s all you are going to get,’ Katrina said.

  Lord Penrith closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  ‘I doubt if he will last more than a few days. I’m not sure if I can make this weekend.’

  ‘It was a good job I came up today. I’d better get back to London.’

  ‘Do you fancy lunch before you leave?’

  ‘What’s for dessert?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘What do you want?’ Isaac smiled at Katrina ’s suggestive response. At two in the afternoon, he left for the drive back to Challis Street. He would be in the office before 5 p.m. He needed Malcolm Grenfell, as well as George Sullivan, assuming he was still alive.

  The key players were dying at an increasingly frequent rate, and the one reality of the case was that the murderer, if not dead, may soon be as a result of the ageing process.

  Whatever way Isaac loo
ked at it, he realised there was hardly likely to be a conviction, only a conclusion to the case.

  Isaac walked into the office just before the end of day meeting started. Bridget was there, fussing over him as he entered. As soon as he had sat down at his desk, there was a cup of coffee in front of him.

  ‘Grenfell’s financial and legal dealings? Anything new?’

  ‘No more than what I told you before. It appears that for the last fifteen years, his only clients have been the Grenfells and the Richardsons. What he had told you before he died seems to be correct.’

  ‘The only problem,’ Isaac said, ‘is that he only gave truthful answers to questions asked. If I didn’t ask, he never answered, and now he is dead.’

  ‘There is only one anomaly,’ Bridget said.

  ‘Yes. What’s that?’

  ‘Malcolm Grenfell.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘The records show that Malcolm Grenfell was receiving a substantial payment each month for basically doing nothing.’

  ‘How was it recorded?’

  ‘Purely listed as expenses.’

  ‘I don’t see anything unusual,’ Isaac said. ‘From what we know of the Grenfells and the Richardsons, they look after their own, black sheep or no black sheep. Even Michael Solomon when he left Gertrude remained friendly with Montague Grenfell, and Garry Solomon, whether he was in trouble with the law or not, always had the possibility of help from his mother, Gertrude.’

  ‘Even if she didn’t know?’ Bridget said.

  ‘The truth as to whether she did or did not has gone to the grave with Gertrude and the family lawyer.’

  ‘Wendy and Larry have been looking for the younger son.’

  ‘Were you able to help them?’

  ‘I believe they have found him, sir.’

  ‘Good. We need to meet him soon.’

  ‘Is he a suspect, sir?’

  ‘Everyone is a suspect, whether they are alive or not.’

  ***

  ‘Malcolm Grenfell?’

  ‘Yes. Who are you?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Larry Hill, Constable Wendy Gladstone,’ Larry said.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You’re a hard man to find,’ Wendy said.

  ‘I value my privacy.’

  To Larry and Wendy, it hardly seemed their idea of privacy. The man lived well. An attractive house in Henley to the west of London, its back garden running down to the River Thames. In the driveway, there was a Mercedes, the same registration that Bridget had found against the man’s name.