Murder in Hyde Park

by Phillip Strang

  ‘What do you think? It’s for generating revenue, not that they pay me much. Back in Nigeria, I was a schoolteacher, a lot of respect.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  ‘Less money back there. I’m better off doing this, copping the abuse, and taking night classes to upgrade my qualifications for England.’

  ‘Best of luck,’ Larry said as he took three pairs of overshoes and gloves from the boot of the car.

  ‘Here, put these on,’ he said to Wendy and Amelia on his return.

  Amelia turned the key in the lock of the front door of Matilda Montgomery’s mews house. Inside, Larry could see that the place was neat and modern. Whoever the woman was, she wasn’t poor. Larry stayed outside. The old man from further up the mews came over.

  ‘A good-looking woman,’ he said.

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘We speak from time to time. Very polite. If I’d been younger, she would have been my sort.’

  ‘You’re not that old.’

  ‘Eighty-three next month. My days of chasing pretty girls are over.’

  ‘For me, too,’ Larry said.

  ***

  Inside the two-storey house, Wendy led the way, giving explicit instructions to Amelia to keep her hands in her pockets as much as possible, and not to deviate from the route she took through the house. It was clear that the house had been extensively renovated.

  ‘Was Matilda here when the renovations were done?’ Wendy said.

  ‘Some of the time. These buildings are old, they need constant work. She has good taste.’

  The ground floor was open plan, and the kitchen, a skylight above it to let in natural light, could be seen from the front door. Where the garage door was at the front on the left, there was no room for a car, but there was a bedroom with an en suite instead. There was nothing out of place, and the cleanliness did the woman credit.

  Upstairs, two more bedrooms and a roof terrace. Wendy checked the first bedroom, neat and tidy, everything in its place, a picture of a sea view on the wall, a flat-screen television secured by brackets. In the wardrobe, the woman’s clothes, some with plastic covers over them, the rest neatly pressed.

  A scream came from the other room. Wendy, looking around, realised that Amelia Bentham, though under strict instructions not to wander off, had done so.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Amelia said as she staggered back, Wendy grabbing hold of her. She moved the woman to one side, a chair conveniently to hand for her to sit on.

  Wendy rang Larry. ‘It’s a crime scene. Let DCI Cook know.’

  ‘I heard the scream. Is it…?’

  ‘She’s hanging from a beam.’

  Wendy turned around, found Amelia blankly staring into space. She was muttering to herself.

  ‘Amelia saw the body. I’m leaving here and going over to her house.’

  ‘I’ll be up to have a look,’ Larry said.

  ‘No point, not unless you’re fully kitted up. I’ll backtrack with Amelia, try to keep the traces of our presence minimal.’

  ‘Suicide?’

  ‘There’s no sign of a struggle.’

  Chapter 11

  ‘It’s not going to become a habit, is it? Two bodies in a week?’ Gordon Windsor, the senior crime scene investigator, said. It wasn’t the first murder investigation that he and Isaac had worked together, and the flippancy reflected the two men’s respect for each other.

  Isaac looked up at the dead woman, considered what had driven her to such despair. She’d been dead for twelve to fourteen hours, Windsor had said, even though it wasn’t his responsibility to offer an opinion, knowing full well that the DCI would be anxious to follow up on the woman’s death.

  The two men were both kitted in the standard wear for a crime scene: coveralls, overshoes, nitrile gloves. Larry was out in the street with the uniforms, and Wendy was across the road with the Amelia Bentham. Pembridge Mews, a cul-de-sac, was closed off at the junction of Pembridge Villas; the only traffic allowed through, the crime scene investigators and the local residents. The traffic on the busy thoroughfare on Pembridge Road was heavily delayed as a result of Matilda Montgomery’s death. The parking enforcement officer’s statement that after 3 p.m. any vehicle, police or otherwise, would be removed no longer held true, at least for the police. Camera crews from two of the television stations had attempted to take advantage, one of them receiving a ticket for their nerve, and then a tow truck, while the other, sensing the situation, had driven down another street, finding a spare parking spot.

  ‘Are you confirming suicide?’ Isaac asked as he stood back from the body. No one in the house showed any emotion, although one of the CSIs had said that he liked the house, and how much it would be to buy a place like it, and there was no way he could do it on the measly pittance he received.

  Isaac knew the man wasn't insensitive. It was how some dealt with the situation, others succumbing to a few too many drinks of a night, and one or two were known to vomit in the gutter at the end of their shift. Isaac wasn’t any of those, inured as he was to death. And hanging there, the body of Matilda Montgomery. He could see, in spite of the pained expression on her face and the cord around her neck, that she had been an attractive woman in life. Yet she had committed suicide. Colin Young was now known to be Barry Montgomery, her brother, proven by a photo of the two in the kitchen, Amelia in the background with a beaming smile.

  ‘You couldn’t be wrong about the suicide on this one?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Pathology will check if she had been taking drugs, but I doubt they’ll find anything. The woman committed suicide, open and shut case,’ Windsor replied.

  Isaac didn’t like open and shut cases, they invariably had a flaw somewhere, but he trusted Gordon Windsor. The woman, if she had not been seen out and about for several days, must have stayed in the house, and then decided to kill herself. Downstairs, the CSIs were working their way through the rooms, relaying to Windsor and Isaac that nothing was out of order. No one else had been in the house, at least for a week, and food had been taken from the refrigerator, cooked and eaten, the dishes washed up afterwards and neatly put away, handles at the front, labels on the jars of food pointing forward. A clear sign of a possible obsessive-compulsive disorder.

  ‘Did she kill her brother?’ Windsor asked. The two men were now downstairs and on the street.

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ Isaac said. ‘Inconsolable grief at what she had done, followed by days on her own, commiserating with herself, and then what we saw upstairs. How long before you remove the body?’

  ‘Later today. A messy hanging, the way the rope was around her neck. She would have suffered for a while.’

  ‘And regretted it?’

  ‘Who knows the state of her mind. Most suicides are either drugged or drunk, sometimes both. Not with her from what we can see. The beam’s only eleven feet off the ground, so she climbed up the step ladder, threw the rope around the beam, and the noose around her neck, and then stepped off. It’s almost as if she wasn’t sure whether to go through with it.’

  ‘The ladder was tipped over,’ Isaac said.

  ‘She could have panicked, thrust her foot out in despair, hoping to find the ladder, kicking it over.’

  ‘Not a nice way to go.’

  ‘At least that’s solved the murder of Colin Young. Confirmed as the brother?’

  ‘Their parents will be in Challis Street within a couple of hours.’

  ‘Fratricide. You don’t see it often.’

  ‘The act of killing a brother. Not a lot; in fact, I can’t remember another case. According to Matilda’s friend, the dead woman was close to her brother. But he’s still an unknown. We may have a name, but his movements are still unclear, and why was he with Christine Mason?’

  ‘He could have been serious about the woman, ashamed to admit that he felt love for her. An Oedipus complex, the Mason woman being the mother substitute. Mind you, they always get it wrong. If you read your Greek mythology, Oedipus didn’t lust after hi
s mother. He never knew who she was, and when he found out, he gouged out his own eyes, not wanting to see the wickedness of the world and what he had done.’

  ***

  Isaac knocked on the door of Amelia Bentham’s house and went in. In the living room, Wendy sat with Amelia. The situation appeared calm, and there were no tears.

  ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Cook,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Amelia said, standing up to shake his hand. She was a fine-looking woman, he had to admit, reminded him in some ways of Jess. Why do I keep thinking of her, when I’m with Jenny? Isaac thought to himself.

  ‘A coffee?’ Amelia asked.

  ‘A juice, if you’ve got one.’

  ‘Fresh orange. I squeezed it myself this morning.’ Amelia got up from the sofa where she had been sitting and went into the kitchen. A minute later she returned with a jug and three glasses. Isaac poured the juice for them all, taking a gulp before speaking.

  ‘Matilda?’ Amelia asked.

  ‘I’m sorry to say it, but she committed suicide.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Not long, twelve to fourteen hours.’

  ‘Gordon Windsor?’ Wendy asked, preferring something stronger than orange juice, but not mentioning it to the woman who had a well-stocked drinks cabinet on one side of the room.

  ‘He doesn’t believe that alcohol or drugs are involved.’

  ‘Not Matilda. She could be a bit on the puritanical side sometimes. No drugs, weakens the resolve she would say. And alcohol made her come out in hives. At least that was what she said, although I’m not sure she believed it, just used it to avoid accepting drinks from drunken fools at the pub.’

  ‘She visited them?’

  ‘And clubbing. She liked to have a dance, a good laugh, and then be back at a reasonable hour.’

  ‘And you, Miss Bentham?’

  ‘I like to kick on sometimes.’

  ‘Men?’

  ‘There was one man that Matilda went out with a while, but he never stayed the night.’

  ‘Waiting for the right man,’ Isaac said.

  ‘She’d have you convinced that she was, but I doubt it. She had a notion of eternal love, no such thing nowadays.’

  ‘These days they want the honeymoon before the wedding.’

  ‘They always did,’ Wendy said. ‘It was up to the woman to control the situation.’

  ‘Guilty, I’m afraid,’ Amelia said. ‘I’ve been known to have the occasional one-night stand. I doubt if Matilda had.’

  ‘Let’s come back to the current situation,’ Isaac said. He enjoyed talking to the woman, refreshingly open, no doubt a lot of fun. ‘Barry, her brother, you knew him?’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘How well?’

  ‘If you want to know whether I slept with him, then you’d better ask.’

  ‘Miss Bentham, did Barry Montgomery and you have an intimate relationship?’

  ‘Infrequently, but yes. Matilda disapproved, not that she ever mentioned it, and it didn’t affect my friendship with her. Matilda was not always at home, and if Barry was there, and I was free, then we’d hook up. A few drinks, an early night. Nothing serious, and not love. He was a philanderer, a man who liked to put it about.’

  ‘A jogger?’

  ‘At 5 a.m. sharp, every day, rain or shine, whether I was in his bed or he was in mine. I’d joke with him that he was wasting his energy on running while I was around.’

  ‘His reaction?’

  ‘He’d just smile, and it never stopped him running.’

  ‘Matilda, any signs of obsessive-compulsive behaviour?’

  ‘The jars in the cupboard, nothing in the fridge past its use-by date?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She was always cleaning, even when I was over there. It wasn’t irritating, but she had the symptoms.’

  ‘And Barry Montgomery?’

  ‘The 5 a.m. jogging, rain or shine, when there was meat on the plate?’ Amelia gave a smile. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Barry died not long ago. Did you know about that?’

  ‘Not until your sergeant told me. And you think that Matilda did it?’

  ‘Logically that would be the conclusion. The sister, grief-stricken, dwells on the enormity of what she’s done, sits in her house, her mind churning over, impossible thoughts, disturbing thoughts, and then in a fit of remorse kills herself.’

  ‘I always thought she was stable, more stable than me. But she was young and without a man, who knows? Maybe she was frustrated, maybe she had an unhealthy relationship with her brother.’

  ‘Incestuous?’

  ‘I’ve never considered it, but who knows what goes on behind closed doors.’

  ‘Miss Bentham, have you someone to be with you?’

  ‘It’s not needed, not now. Wendy’s been a dear. My mother is arriving in thirty minutes. I’ll go home for a few days.’

  ‘I’ll take you to where you can meet her,’ Wendy said. ‘The uniforms will be restricting access to the street for some time.’

  ‘I’ll pack a bag. Just drop me off at Starbucks, up the road.’

  ‘Your address, mobile number, email?’ Isaac said.

  ‘I’ve already got it,’ Wendy said. ‘Miss Bentham’s been an ideal witness.’

  ***

  Matilda Montgomery’s body was finally taken down and transported to the mortuary at ten in the evening. The floodlights which had illuminated the house were extinguished at eleven.

  The old man who had spoken to Larry earlier in the day, before the woman had been found, had complained that the police were disturbing his sleep with their constant noise. Larry had dealt with the public relations and ensured him that he was an invaluable help to the investigation, and the woman that he had expressed a fondness for, too young for him, he had admitted, had died a sad and lonely death. It was a time for forbearance and forgiveness. In the end, the old man had wandered back to his house. Others in the mews had been interviewed, their details taken. No one had a bad word to say about Matilda Montgomery, all saying that she was quiet, no loud parties, no strange men.

  The owners of two houses had made mention that Amelia Bentham, well-connected with a titled father, was not as quiet and that she had the occasional man over. Not that the latter observation came as a surprise, as the woman had admitted to Isaac and Wendy that she wasn’t a shrinking violet.

  In a comfortable room at Challis Street, the parents of Matilda and Barry Montgomery sat. ‘Our daughter, we’d like to see her,’ the father said. He was in his sixties, his hair greying, signs of baldness on top. An upright posture and he was tall, even taller than Isaac.

  ‘You’ve been made aware of the situation?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘We have,’ Mr Montgomery said. Wendy looked for signs of emotion from the man but couldn’t see any.

  ‘After we’ve spoken, gathered a few facts, we’ll go to where your daughter is.’

  ‘Now look here, Inspector Cook. I’m not used to waiting, and she’s our daughter. I demand to see her.’

  ‘Your daughter has died under tragic circumstances. Surely you don’t want us to hurry our investigation?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ the father blustered. ‘But I don’t want lamebrained excuses, either.’

  ‘May I ask your profession?’ Isaac said.

  ‘Senior civil servant, Home Office.’

  Short and sweet, Isaac noted. The man had said all he intended to, and he had no intention of revealing more about his life.

  The mother of the dead siblings sat demurely. Compared to her husband, she was a small woman.

  ‘Mrs Montgomery, I’m sorry for your loss,’ Wendy said.

  ‘I’ll speak for us,’ her husband said. ‘There’s a chain of command here, and I’ll communicate with DCI Cook, he will communicate with me.’

  Wendy was not sure if it was male chauvinism, misogyny, or just pig-ignorance, but decided that it was the latter, as the man, tall as he was, had a
roundish face, eyes that were too close to one another, and a flattened nose, almost pig-like. It was a character assassination, she knew it, and if she had said it out loud to the man, she would have been on a disciplinary. Even though he was a grieving father, he was still a pig.

  ‘I believe that a formal interview will be necessary,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Not today, it isn’t.’

  ‘As you say. Is there anything you can tell us that will help us to understand what drove your daughter to such an act?’

  ‘She’s a Montgomery. A Montgomery doesn’t indulge in such weakness. Re-examine your evidence. Matilda did not die by her own hand.’

  ‘Our investigation leads us to the conclusion.’

  Matilda Montgomery could possibly have been traumatised by an overbearing and bombastic father, Isaac realised – the reason for her need to line up the jars and the food containers one next to the other, as if they were on the parade ground, her father inspecting that all was spick and span, a charge if they weren’t, a thrashing, bare backside, for a misdemeanour.

  ‘I believe that we need a comment from Mrs Montgomery,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Very well. Janice, say something,’ her husband said, giving her a nudge with his hand.

  ‘I’m sorry that Matilda’s died, but Stanley’s correct. You must have got it wrong. A Montgomery would not do such a thing.’

  ‘What was their childhood like?’ Wendy asked.

  Montgomery looked over at her as if she was not worthy to lick his boots. ‘Boarding school for both of them.’

  ‘At what age?’

  ‘What’s this got to do with it?’

  ‘It’s important,’ Isaac said. ‘Sergeant Gladstone is attempting to get a profile of their childhood, find out who may have known them, wished them harm.’

  ‘Matilda was sent to boarding school at the age of seven. She came back for the holidays, and she wanted for nothing.’

  Except for a mother’s love, a father’s guidance, Wendy thought.

  ‘And your son?’

  ‘I don’t have a son.’

  ‘But we know that Barry Montgomery was your son.’

  ‘I disowned him years ago.’