‘Long way from Christine and her sister,’ Isaac said.
‘You’ve met them both. Attractive, educated, well-dressed. His assistant wasn’t any of those. He told me that the last time he’d been in London was five years ago. Any way of checking if that’s true?’
‘Not unless the man admits to it. Bridget said. ‘What about the woman in the office? Any chance of her talking?’
‘Unlikely. If the tattoos on the knuckles are any indication, she’s been on the wrong side of the track on more than one occasion. She was polite to me, but only because she had to be. And Hislop looks like he can’t be trusted not to do a quick respray on a stolen car.’
‘Larry, any benefit in you and Wendy going up to Liverpool, giving them both the third degree?’ Isaac asked.
‘Not for me,’ Wendy said. ‘I’ve got to meet with Christine Mason again. We need confirmation as to whether Archibald Marshall was telling us the truth or feeding us a line.’
‘What he told us will be true,’ Isaac said.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He knows you’ll check with her. He’s played it well, destroyed our case against him, protected the woman. She’ll not be the same the next time you meet her.’
‘Even so, I intend to.’
***
Isaac had made the trip out to the hospital to see how Janice Montgomery, the mother of Matilda and Barry, was faring. It had been a short visit, as Stanley Montgomery had seen him arrive and had reminded him that it was a family matter, his wife was his responsibility, and that the police fishing for information about anything untoward, or an innuendo, an aside from his wife about an unrevealed truth, was not going to happen. The woman was unconscious, under medication and unlikely to see out the night.
And that was how it was: at one thirty in the morning, when the hospital was at its quietest, Janice Montgomery passed away, the only person at her side, her husband. The man had protected her all her life, or so he believed, but in the end, time and illness and heartbreak had sealed her fate.
Isaac learnt later in the day that Stanley Montgomery had wept uncontrollably at his wife’s passing. Isaac felt sorrow for the man, empathy, even though neither liked nor respected the other.
Due to the woman’s integral position in the murder investigation, she would be subjected to an autopsy.
Janice Montgomery’s death raised ethical questions about how Homicide would continue to investigate a man who had lost two children and a wife in a short space of time, yet could still be a murderer.
Isaac met up with his senior, Chief Superintendent Goddard, a man of wisdom and experience. Goddard’s office up on the top floor of the building commanded a view out over the city, whereas Homicide’s two levels below looked out on a wall across the road.
‘Could he have killed his son?’ Goddard asked, from his side of the desk.
‘Stanley Montgomery is an anachronism. He has an old-fashioned view on morality, a need to control his family, yet he protected them, and clearly loved his wife and daughter.’
‘The son?’
‘He had disappointed him.’
‘No contact?’
‘None that we know of, although our only source on that is Stanley himself. And he’s not likely to tell us, not if he’s guilty, or even if he’s innocent.’
‘We can’t let a murder enquiry be prolonged out of sentimentality. If you think the man’s a strong possibility, then you’ve got to maintain the pressure, force him to falter. And remember, he’s emotionally vulnerable now. It’s an easier job for you.’
Isaac left Richard Goddard’s office more unsure than when he had gone in. Stanley Montgomery deserved to be left alone to grieve. It was the right thing to do, the humane thing to do, but the man did have a motive, albeit obscure and hard to fathom. But then that was the man, out of step with the modern day, holding onto a belief system that belonged to another century.
Wendy went to meet Christine Mason. The woman was contrite. She sat behind her laptop in her office at the Fitzroy. She averted her gaze, not wanting to look Wendy in the eye.
Archibald Marshall was nowhere to be seen.
‘Where is he?’ Wendy asked.
‘He’s at head office,’ Christine replied. It was clear that she did not want to speak and was attempting to give Wendy the brush off. It wasn’t going to work.
‘Saving your skin?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Christine, let’s get this straight. We know that Marshall has abused his position, committed a crime, even forced you to sleep with him.’
‘I misjudged him. He’s a good man.’
‘Rubbish,’ Wendy said. ‘Let’s be honest with each other. He’s going to protect you from criminal prosecution. Now that’s fine, and no doubt he thinks he’s a regular Boy Scout doing his good deed for the day, but it doesn’t stop the fact that he and you are guilty of a crime.’
‘You’ve got it all wrong.’
‘Have you considered the fact that he could have killed Colin Young?’
‘Why?’
‘Marshall’s besotted with you.’
‘He professes love when we…’
‘When he’s screwing you, is that it?’
‘He wants me to say it to him as well.’
‘Have you?’
‘Once, but I didn’t want to.’
‘Christine, hold to your story if you must, but be warned. Archibald Marshall could be a murderer, and you’ve got the dirt on him. If he thinks his hold over you is weakening, or we’re closing in, he could remove the one person who could threaten him. He’s not a stupid man. If killing you will help him, he could come up behind you in this office, on the way home, when you’re in bed with him. A swift blow to the head, a cord around your neck, and you’re gone.’
‘He wouldn’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he does love me. I’ve known that for months.’
‘How?’
‘The way he used to look at me, the attempts to be near me.’
‘An intensely jealous man, he would have been upset with you and your lover.’
‘He never said anything, not once, but I knew.’
‘And now he’s using blackmail to get what he wants. His love could be an obsession, don’t you realise that, and now he’s plucked the golden goose, found out that you’re mortal, the same as other women.’
‘I am safe with him. He will protect me. I can’t say any more to you.’
Wendy stood. There was no more to say. Christine Mason was taking the only avenue open to her, but it was a dangerous route she was travelling.
As Wendy pulled the door closed on the way out, she looked back at Christine. ‘If he’s a murderer, you’re in mortal danger. Remember that, and please phone me if you’re frightened. The wrath of your husband, a possible prison sentence, are better alternatives than being dead.’
‘I can’t agree, but I will remember your kindness and understanding,’ Christine said.
With the door closed, Christine buried her head in her hands. She knew that Sergeant Wendy Gladstone had been right in what she had said. With Archibald Marshall, her situation was perilous. She would not sleep with him again.
***
Isaac had not expected to hear from Gwen Hislop, but she had phoned him up, asked him to come out to where she lived.
Isaac arrived at the small house in Kingston upon Thames, ten miles to the south west of Challis Street Police Station. It was a tidy house, Isaac had to admit, although lacking in any charm. The garden out front was concrete, and inside the house it was functional, but nothing more. The home of an economical person, Isaac thought.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Gwen said. She was dressed casually, a tee-shirt that had seen better days, a pair of blue jeans. She wore no shoes, and her hair was uncombed.
‘Apologies for the look, but I’m not in court today, working from home.’
‘That’s fine,’ Isaac said a
s he sat down in a chair that looked old and worn, but was surprisingly comfortable. ‘You said it was important.’
‘Terry, my former husband, phoned.’
‘You still use his surname.’
‘I qualified when we were married. It was just easier to continue using it, although I’ve not heard from him for a long time.’
‘Sergeant Gladstone went up to Liverpool to interview him. Did he mention it?’
‘He didn’t phone for a social chat.’
‘Angry?’
‘Drunk more than angry, but he wasn’t friendly. On the contrary, he resented the suggestion that my sister and I had put him forward as a person of concern.’
‘His words?’
‘His contained some expletives. I’ve no intention of repeating them to you.’
‘You’re a lawyer. You’re used to difficult, argumentative, and violent people. Why do you need me here?’
‘Off the record, that’s why.’
‘I’m a police officer, nothing’s totally off the record.’
‘I can understand that, but I needed to talk to you without others listening in. No recording what we’re talking about, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Terry was never violent towards Christine or me, that’s a fact.’
‘But?’
‘After I broke up with him, and before we were divorced, he took out a friend of mine. Spite on his part, stupidity on hers.’
‘It didn’t go well?’
‘She’s no longer a friend, obviously. It didn’t last long, up until he started bringing Christine and me into the relationship. Telling her that I was a bitch, and that Christine was a better lay, a better person, and he should have chosen her, not me.’
‘He told Sergeant Gladstone that it was always you.’
‘He had a notion of the virgin wife, I suppose. I was the virgin, Christine was the substitute. Not that I knew when I married him, not about Christine, but you know this already. Anyway, he started to become paranoid, constantly on about the bitch I was with my airs and graces, my education and then becoming qualified, aspirations of becoming a judge, a QC.’
‘Was he right?’
‘I never shoved it down his throat, and I certainly didn’t have airs and graces. Yes, I was ambitious, but for the two of us.’
‘He saw himself as the provider?’
‘He was fine with me working. It was when I started bringing more money home than him of a week that he felt it. To him, it was a castration, not to me. The money went into our joint account, and he had access to it.’
‘An educated man, Terry?’
‘Enough to get by in life, not enough to obtain professional qualifications. He wasn’t stupid, on the contrary, but he didn’t have the interest in completing a degree.’
‘Whereas you did.’
‘I worked hard, damn hard, another problem with him. He felt neglected; I felt tired.’
‘The man’s ego has taken a hammering, the marriage falters, and so on. It’s not a unique situation.’
‘Exactly. We all move on, that’s how the world works. I’ve got my career, he’s got my friend.’
‘You’ve still not told me the reason why I’m here,’ Isaac said. He enjoyed being in the woman’s company, her manner of speaking, her education, both alluring characteristics.
‘After this friend of mine has heard him going on about Christine and me for one too many times, she finally snaps, tells him the relationship’s off.’
‘His reaction?’
‘He hits her, and hard.’
‘Did she report it to the police?’
‘No. She came around to me, asked for my advice, looking for a shoulder to cry on.’
‘Were you the shoulder?’
‘I was upset with her, but she hadn’t done anything wrong, not really. Terry and I were separated, and he was a free agent, so was I.’
‘Have you remarried, formed any relationships?’
‘Not that it’s important, but no. I busied myself with my career, and there has been the occasional fling, nothing serious, and certainly not love. I love my sister, but we’re not cast from the same die. She craves love and attention, I don’t.’
‘Are you worried that Terry has become violent again?’
‘I’m concerned. I’ve no reason to take it any further, and besides, for what? He’s abusive on the phone, but that’s not a crime.’
‘Unnecessary, though.’
‘That’s not the point. If he can phone me up, give me a piece of his mind, then he can phone Christine, find out where she lives. He could cause trouble.’
‘According to Sergeant Gladstone, the man is still bitter about your sister. He’s struggling with his business, and he’s gone to seed. Old animosities, emotional conflicts could be coming to the forefront again. Could he attack Christine?’
‘I don’t know. And Christine is a foolish woman around men.’
‘We know that. What else do you know about your sister’s recent history?’
‘I only know what was said at the police station. As I said, she’s my sister. We don’t always see eye to eye, and I don’t approve of her frivolous affairs.’
‘Do you know about them all?’
‘No, and I don’t want to. Such behaviour always leads to trouble.’
‘Terry Hislop is still a suspect for the murder of Colin Young, now known to be Barry Montgomery,’ Isaac said.
‘It seems unlikely though. He would have killed Christine, not her lover.’
‘Who knows what the state of his mind is.’
‘You’re correct. Please don’t aggravate Terry, don’t let him hurt Christine.’
‘And you. He knows your phone number, he must know your address.’
Chapter 21
Janice Montgomery’s autopsy revealed nothing unusual, apart from a weak heart and being malnourished, but that had been known. There was nothing to indicate that her husband, Stanley, had been responsible.
Isaac, regardless of Stanley Montgomery’s aspersion that the police were to blame for his wife’s medical condition before her death, had not heard from the man. Wendy had met with him on one occasion, found him to be quiet with little to say. It had been an uncomfortable conversation, and whereas there were still questions to be asked, she hadn’t had the heart to ask them.
In the office at Challis Street, Bridget Halloran continued with the paperwork, ensuring that all reports were in on time, the case for the prosecution was updated.
So far, the murder count stood at one. Nobody wanted Christine Mason added to the total, and Wendy had advised her to be careful. Christine had confided that Archibald Marshall had become extremely upset at her refusal to go with him to one of the vacant rooms upstairs, and as a result he had threatened to withdraw his support for her and to ensure she paid for her crimes.
Wendy’s take on Marshall’s changed attitude had been to advise the woman to maintain two sets of records, one for the hotel, another for evidence that the man had also been guilty of a crime.
It was not unusual, not with arrogant, manipulative men, scheming women – it was not gender specific – the belief that if they could hoodwink their boss, or in Marshall’s case the hotel chain, they could also hoodwink the police.
And with Marshall threatening Christine again, Wendy knew she’d be doubling her efforts to make sure the man did not come out on top.
Homicide Department, the early-morning meeting. The core team were in Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook’s office. The mood was sombre.
‘It’s time to wrap up this case,’ Isaac said. The team sat attentive, knowing that this was the make-or-break meeting where the facts were laid out before them, when everyone had to stand up and be counted, to justify their actions so far, the plans going forward.
There were enough facts, more than one possible murderer. People would need to be put under pressure, to breaking point if needed.
Isaac sat in his chair, a grimace on his fac
e. ‘Larry, what’s your status?’ he asked.
Larry, standing up with his back against the office door, paused for a moment before speaking. ‘It’s not that simple,’ he said.
Not the answer that Isaac wanted to hear, but it was an open forum. It was for his detective inspector to continue.
‘Consider who we have. Stanley Montgomery, the father. And then we have Terry Hislop, a man capable of violence, as well as Archibald Marshall.’
‘There’s no proof of violence against Marshall,’ Wendy said.
‘Besotted with Christine Mason? Her messing around with Colin Young? He’s still a candidate.’
‘Who else?’ Isaac asked.
‘Christine for the murder of her lover. We know he was playing around with Amelia Bentham, possibly some others.’
‘We’ve not found any more,’ Larry said. ‘Not since the men and Nancy Bartlett that he was contracted out to by Nick Domett of Gents for Hire.’
‘Conclusive that his escorting days were over?’
‘No. It’s just that we’ve found no more proof. If he was freelancing, picking up a woman, and as we know now, men, at clubs and hotels in London, then we’ve not found any evidence. Even though Nancy Bartlett and Christine Mason have admitted to giving him money, it doesn’t look as though the man was a total bastard,’ Wendy said.
‘What do you mean by that?’ Isaac asked.
Larry answered the question. ‘He could have bled them for a lot more, especially Nancy Bartlett, and Cranwell, the accountant, was seriously embarrassed by his indiscretion. A closet homosexual, Cranwell; he’d not want it bandied around the city, and especially not to his wife.’
‘The other men?’ Isaac asked.
‘I don’t think they would have cared. I’d go for either Cranwell or Nancy Bartlett.’
‘With Cranwell, it’s fear of being outed? With Nancy Bartlett, it’s anger at being dumped?’ Wendy said.
‘That’s about it. Mind you, she never gave the impression that she was a vengeful woman nor was she angry when I interviewed her,’ Larry said.
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