Murder in Hyde Park

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Not a pleasant experience?’

  ‘He’s not the most attractive of men.’

  ‘Christine, you know where I am,’ Wendy said. ‘When you’re ready, call me. There’s no need to allow the man to treat you like a piece of meat.’

  ‘There is, and you know it.’

  Wendy walked away, shaking her head in despair.

  ***

  ‘You know what this means?’ Richard Goddard said. He and Isaac were in the chief superintendent’s office on the top floor of Challis Street. In Isaac’s hand, the leather-covered notebook that Domett had handed over.

  ‘Whoever’s in here could be important, influential,’ Isaac said as he held the notebook up.

  ‘Some of the pages are missing,’ Goddard said as he flicked through them.

  ‘Domett was prepared. He knew that if we pushed too hard, attempted to make the connection between the murder and him, he had a bargaining tool, proof positive that it wasn’t him.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Proof positive? No, we don’t think so, although Domett’s street smart, he’s not the type to murder anyone. He’s ripped the pages out to protect other special clientele.’

  ‘Do you want to go there?’ Goddard said, referring to whoever had been in the book.

  ‘We want the murderer, not those who indulge in nefarious activities.’

  ‘Domett? Anything against him?’

  ‘The vice squad might be interested, but it’s unlikely. Two names in the notebook are of interest.’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘Domett’s used a code, but we’re sure that he doesn’t know who they are, not unless he attempted to find out.’

  ‘And you don’t believe that he did.’

  ‘He’s a lazy man, makes enough money to live on without working too hard. Unambitious, the reason he never succeeded as a police officer.’

  ‘Yet he makes more money than me,’ Goddard said.

  ‘One of life’s injustices. Not really relevant, is it?’

  ‘Not really. What does the notebook tell you?’

  ‘A date, a time, and a location.’

  ‘Nothing more?’

  ‘Two phone numbers. We’ve checked them out, nothing there. Larry Hill’s checking the first location now. I’ll be assisting him as soon as we’ve concluded here.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’

  ‘Just giving you a forewarning. The two men could have influence. You could receive a phone call to tell us to back off.’

  ‘If I do, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Keep investigating. We want this murderer. If it’s one of the two men, then give me the name, and I’ll follow through. And take care, we don’t know who or what we’re up against.’

  ‘We do,’ Isaac said. ‘It’s not the first time we’ve come up against one law for the powerful, another for everyone else.’

  ‘You’re right. Keep me posted,’ Goddard said.

  ***

  Isaac knew that the investigation was not over yet, but back at his flat, Jenny was packing the suitcases. It had only been two days before that he had come home more optimistic of a breakthrough than he had been for some time. His parents’ wedding anniversary was in seven days, and it had looked promising that the two of them would make it to the celebrations in Kingston, the Jamaican capital. His parents had purchased a three-bedroom house, complete with swimming pool, in Barbican on Millsborough Avenue, upmarket from where they had both been born in Trench Town.

  Trench Town had been dangerous when they had lived there over forty years before, and it still was. It may have been where Bob Marley and reggae had come from, but it was still the centre of violence, not a place to drive through at night, and not in the day if it could be avoided.

  It wasn’t as if Barbican was entirely crime free, and Isaac’s parents had upgraded the security on their property twice already in the year since they had returned to Jamaica. The first time was after they had returned from the Mahogany Bar at Devon House, the former mansion of a Jamaican who had made his money in Venezuela. That time the burglars had made a run for it. The second time, three men, more determined and carrying guns. Isaac’s father, seeing them as he entered the driveway, had slammed the car into reverse and driven fast to the police station, two minutes away. Being the parents of a detective chief inspector in England carried weight. A police car arrived at the property within five minutes. There were four policemen, and all were armed. The robbers were arrogantly loading the entire contents of the house into a van. A shootout, two of the robbers died at the scene, the third attempted to make a run for it, two policemen in hot pursuit. He died with two bullets to the chest, one to the head.

  Isaac had pleaded with his parents to return to England, but they were adamant. Jamaica was their spiritual home, the place where their extended family could visit, not that Isaac had yet. Always too busy the reason, but he had been born in England, and to him, England was home, not somewhere where the police shot first, asked questions later.

  Jenny, regardless of Isaac’s trepidation, had every intention of enjoying herself, the chance to soak up the sun, to visit Boston Bay and to eat Jerk Chicken at Shaggy’s, and then to go up the winding road to Firefly, the home of Noel Coward, the place where he had died, his grave in the grounds overlooking the sea down below. And to visit Ocho Rios and climb the Dunn River Falls, where James Bond had encountered Honey Rider coming out of the sea. And if time permitted, a weekend at Negril, the haunt of hippies in the sixties, the wealthy in the seventies, and to jump off the cliffs.

  But the visit wouldn’t be yet; he knew that, as did the team. Isaac reflected on previous cases when there had been more than one suspect. Then, as now, it was a case of intensifying the process, pushing that bit harder, working extended hours.

  Larry and Wendy focussed on the two special clients that Nick Domett’s notebook revealed. The dates and the locations could be correlated, although the phone numbers proved to be of no value. The first date, a Thursday, the time, seven in the evening, the location, an address in the country. The two police officers made the trip out to the place, a thatched cottage of picture postcard beauty. A car was in the gravel driveway to one side of the cottage and smoke was coming out of the chimney.

  ‘Strange,’ Larry said. ‘It’s not that cold. Why would someone have a fire?’

  Wendy had seen the car, noticed the confetti on the rear window. The people inside were honeymooners, and they were about to be disturbed on the one night that two people in love should have to themselves.

  It was Wendy who rapped on the cottage door, using a brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head with a ring in its mouth. After what seemed a long time, the door opened. The face of a young man in his thirties peered round it. Through the gap in the door, Wendy could see the reflection in a mirror on the wall at the other end of the room – the man was naked.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Wendy said. ‘We’re from Homicide, Sergeant Gladstone and Inspector Hill.’

  ‘It’s not a good time,’ the reply.

  ‘Unfortunately, we must insist.’

  The door closed, to reopen after three minutes. This time the man was clothed, as was his wife. They were an attractive couple. By this time, Larry had been wised up by Wendy as to the situation. He smiled at the newly-weds: a sign of friendliness, remembering his own honeymoon.

  ‘We’ve a few questions,’ Larry said.

  ‘About us?’

  ‘No. About this house. What can you tell us about it?’

  ‘Nothing. We rented it through Airbnb, nothing more. It had good reviews, mostly from people looking for a romantic weekend, so we booked it online.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Four to five weeks. What’s this about?’ the young woman said. Her husband had identified himself as James Corcoran, adding that they were both lawyers, the same firm, and that they had indeed been married that day in a church ten miles down the road.


  ‘This place was rented out to a person of interest.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Four weeks. We have a date and time and this location.’

  ‘We can’t help you. We booked online, and then we received a receipt and instructions. The key to the cottage was in a box at the rear, a tumbler lock on it. That’s all we know of the place.’

  Larry phoned Bridget to ask her to conduct a search on Airbnb and to find out who the owner was. The only factor in their favour was that the rental accommodation company required payment with a credit card.

  Wendy phoned for a couple of uniforms from the local police station to conduct a door knock in the area, although she didn’t hold out much hope for it. Standard procedure, that was all, and the cottage had probably only been rented for the one day and night. And if Barry Montgomery/Colin Young – having two names was confusing – had been in the cottage, it would have been night-time when he had arrived, and still dark when he had left. Whoever he had met might have come in the day, but even so, if the man was influential, or well-known, then he would have been smart enough not to have been seen.

  The second location was a hotel near Windsor, not far from the castle. The cheerful person at the reception, a woman in her forties, had scanned the records, checked who had been in and out that day, even checked the possibility that the room may have been rented for more than the allotted time.

  ‘We do get those who rent the rooms for more than a good night’s sleep,’ the receptionist said.

  ‘Prostitution?’ Larry said. Not that he thought that was what the woman had meant, but her comment had been ambiguous.

  ‘Young lovers, adulterers, not that we’d know.’

  ‘This would have been two men, one young, the other we are assuming is older.’ Wendy produced a photo of the murdered man and pushed it across the counter. ‘Any recollection? Think carefully before you answer.’

  ‘That’s Colin, Colin Young,’ the woman said.

  Wendy let out a sigh, and mumbled under her breath, not again.

  Yet the woman was not like Christine Mason. She was on the heavy side, with bright red lipstick and too much perfume.

  ‘What can you tell us about him?’ Wendy asked, taking one step back to take a more detailed look at the woman. Christine Mason had exuded wealth, the receptionist did not. She was dressed smartly, but the look was dowdy. Colin Young’s conquests, even if he was willing to take women young or old, money or no money, were always attractive. Christine Mason certainly was, so was Amelia Bentham, and according to Larry, so was Nancy Bartlett.

  But the receptionist, her name badge showing that her name was Ingrid Conlon, was not of the calibre of the dead man’s conquests.

  ‘He stayed here a few times.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was very agreeable, a lovely man.’

  ‘Beautiful?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He had a way with words, made you positively go weak at the knees.’

  ‘We’ll need the dates,’ Larry said.

  ‘I’ll get them for you later. You mentioned prostitution,’ Ingrid Conlon said.

  ‘Colin Young is dead,’ Wendy said. ‘Are you surprised by that?’

  A look of shock on the woman’s face. ‘I’m not sure what to say. He was a guest, but he was the sort of person you felt you knew.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Nothing in itself. I only ever spoke to him here. He was on one side of the counter, I was on the other.’

  ‘The man has a history of seduction. Were you one?’

  ‘No, I was not,’ the indignant reply.

  ‘We’ll accept that for now,’ Larry said.

  ‘You’ll accept it, full stop. I can be enamoured of the man, enjoy talking to him, share a joke, some harmless humour, but I’ll have you know that I’m a happily married woman.’

  The two police officers had heard the pious defence before from murderers, fraudsters, violent criminals. It wasn’t a defence in itself, but Wendy thought that it was probably true.

  The three of them moved away from the reception, another woman taking Ingrid’s place.

  Wendy ordered a tea; the other two, coffee. They were sitting on comfortable chairs in the hotel foyer. There was no hovering manager.

  ‘Mrs Conlon,’ Larry said. ‘Colin Young, whose real name was Barry Montgomery, was a man who used his charms to seduce vulnerable and lonely women.’

  ‘Then he must have made plenty. I’m not a prude, and I’m not shocked by what you’re saying. All I ever noticed was that he made people cheerful in his presence. Old Mrs Winterly always sought him out when he was here.’

  ‘Old Mrs Winterly?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘She’s not that old, only seventy-five, but she always calls herself that.’

  ‘Tell us about her?’

  ‘She obviously has a lot of money. It was about nine months ago that she first checked in. For some reason she’s never left, each week renewing her booking, paying up front.’

  ‘Are you saying she lives here?’

  ‘She told us she enjoyed it in the hotel, good friends, room service, the bed made every day. “Why leave?”, her words, not mine.’

  ‘An active woman?’

  ‘Every day she goes out for a walk. She feeds the pigeons in the park, bread from the hotel, not that we mind. There’s a sign that says they shouldn’t be fed, but Old Mrs Winterly, she doesn’t pay heed to rules and regulations. She used to be a businesswoman, very successful, according to her. Not that I nor anyone else was prying, but she did like to talk, and she did like Colin.’

  ‘A relationship?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, and that’s the truth, but she’s got a mischievous eye, and if you’re saying that Colin was selling himself, then who knows?’

  ‘We’ll need to talk to her,’ Larry said. ‘Any other women he was friendly with?’

  ‘Only Old Mrs Winterly.’

  ‘On one occasion, Colin Young came to this hotel to meet with someone else.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know if he had.’

  ‘This time, it was to meet a man. We assume him to be older, probably prominent or influential.’

  ‘Yet again, I don’t know how I can help you. We see the occasional celebrity in here, but I can’t remember Colin meeting anyone. And besides, if the man in question had booked a room, then they needn’t have met in the foyer.’

  ‘We’ll need a copy of the guests for the date or dates we specify.’

  ‘I’m sure we can arrange that.’

  ‘Where is Mrs Winterly now?’

  ‘She’ll be back soon. I’ll let her know you’re waiting for her.’

  Ingrid Conlon left and went back to the reception counter.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Wendy asked Larry.

  ‘I need a beer,’ his reply. ‘We thought we were on the home run, and now another development, another rich woman.’

  ‘Ingrid Conlon?’

  ‘Innocent, unless there is evidence to the contrary.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, but this Mrs Winterly is an unknown.’

  Chapter 25

  Isaac, after the visit with his chief superintendent, had intended meeting up with Larry Hill, taking the opportunity to get out of the office and to do some real policing. That plan was waylaid; a phone call, another development.

  The first person that Isaac saw as he entered Pathology was Siobhan O’Riley, cheerful as always.

  Isaac and Graham Picket, the pathologist, had a complicated relationship, and each and every encounter of the two was strictly professional, none of the usual banter.

  ‘You’ll find a change today,’ Siobhan said.

  ‘It’ll be a first,’ Isaac’s reply. He always enjoyed talking to Picket’s assistant, never to the man himself.

  Picket sat at his desk. For once it was clear of the usual papers, the laptop and monitor pushed to one side. The office was no bigger, no better than Isaac’s in Challis Street, although he had the
benefit of a plant in one corner, his qualifications framed and up on the wall. Picket had nothing except for a calendar on one wall and a copy of a memo he had circulated to the Pathology Department reminding the staff about documenting, ensuring due diligence, and not to circumvent the process, not to make any assumptions in an autopsy, and to check and double check. And now Isaac could see that the man had an expression that he had not seen before. It was almost friendly, but still no smile.

  ‘Chief Inspector,’ Picket said, clearing his throat. A sign of nerves, Isaac thought. ‘We’ve re-evaluated our findings into the death of Matilda Montgomery.’

  ‘You said it was suicide,’ Isaac responded.

  ‘We hold to that. We conducted a toxicology test at the time and came back with nothing.’

  ‘Are you saying that the woman was taking drugs?’

  ‘Detection is not always that easy. Blood will show it for up to a day, saliva, up to ten, and then there’s urine and hair follicles.

  ‘What are you saying, precisely?’

  ‘Toxicology takes time, not how they want to portray it on a television crime show with their instant results, almost warp speed.’

  ‘Picket, get to the point. If there’s additional information about the woman’s death, then spit it out,’ Isaac said. It felt good to be belligerent with the man.

  ‘Very well. It had been over a month since she had used cocaine, maybe up to three. She wouldn’t have been under the effects when she killed herself.’

  ‘Her brother, Barry?’

  ‘We’ve not concluded our tests. A lot of people do, and most would argue that it’s no more harmful than alcohol.’

  ‘We’re not here to discuss the rights and wrongs of the drug. What more can you tell me?’

  ‘That’s about it. If she had taken it recently, then she could have killed herself as it was wearing off, depression, mood swings, tension, anxiety.’

  ‘But that’s not the case, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m not sure if it has any bearing on our investigation.’

  ‘We found no signs of long-term cocaine usage, no damage to the nasal lining or the septum, cerebral atrophy, no sign of injection.’