Murder in Hyde Park

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Give us the précised version,’ Larry said. He didn’t need to know all the details, only if the letter was a confession.

  I, Stanley Edward Montgomery, of sound mind and in control of all of my faculties, confess to the murder of my son, Barry Montgomery. I am also responsible for the suicide of my daughter, Matilda, the death of my wife, Janice.

  None of the three in Isaac’s vehicle concurred with the man’s view of himself as sane.

  ‘There’s a page relating to the distribution of assets,’ Isaac said. ‘A brother in Scotland, a sister in Wales. No mention of his wife’s family, no bequests to charity.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Larry said.

  ‘There’s more.

  I am sorry for what happened to Barry, and I wish that it could have been different. But he had chosen a different path in life. The need to rebel was strong in him, and whereas I had given him and his sister strong discipline and good values, he rejected them. I knew of his descent into depravity, his prostituting himself for money, something I abhor. It could not be allowed to continue, to sully the good name of Montgomery, to upset his mother, a fragile person but kindly and loving.

  ‘It’s a confession,’ Wendy said.

  ‘It’s a suicide letter, an unburdening of the man’s soul,’ Isaac said. ‘Wait till I’ve finished reading before commenting.’

  Matilda, a young woman of good values, committed suicide because of my intractability, my unwillingness to embrace her brother, a person she loved dearly, as did her mother. My anger towards him had abated to some extent, and I had hoped that in time he would understand the devotion I had given to the family, the desire to protect them from the evils of the world, the wanton greed, the promiscuity. I now realise that I had failed and that Janice, my wife, and the mother of Barry and Matilda, was unwilling to continue. She died in great sorrow, and yet, even though I had wished to join her, I could not. My body is too strong, my resolve would not allow it. There was only one solution to my dilemma, and if you are now reading this letter, then I have been successful.

  ‘That’s it,’ Isaac said, ‘apart from his signature at the bottom.’

  ‘Date?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Two days ago.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Wendy said. ‘Stanley Montgomery was the murderer?’

  ‘He’s confessed but given no proof,’ Larry said.

  ‘That’s the crux of it,’ Isaac said. ‘We could accept the man’s letter at face value, and wrap up the investigation, but where’s the proof? What he’s admitted to is that he was responsible for his son’s murder. Does that mean that he hit his son on the head in Hyde Park and left him to drown in the Serpentine, or is he confessing that he failed to guide his son as a child, and then the man had left the family home and sunk into depravity and despair, which had ultimately resulted in his murder.

  ‘I’d say the latter,’ Larry said.

  ‘Are we agreed that this investigation is not concluded?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘We have to. If we don’t, then a murderer could still be free.’

  Isaac knew that Jenny was out buying presents to take to Jamaica, and time was marching against them making the flight, but murder was murder; he couldn’t allow the easy option to take precedence over his professional responsibilities.

  Chapter 30

  Isaac was gratified that his team were not willing to accept the suicide letter as a murderer’s confession. Other police officers would not have been as thorough; some would have wrapped up the case, hoping that no one else was murdered. However, that wasn’t how he worked, although Richard Goddard, his chief superintendent, wasn’t pleased that the murder inquiry wasn’t over yet.

  ‘Are you certain on this?’ Goddard asked. He was in Isaac’s office.

  ‘He could have killed his son, that’s true.’

  ‘You’re not convinced?’

  ‘Not yet. We’ve not been able to connect him to the murder scene, although his alibi was weak. And then, he’s claiming that he was responsible for his daughter’s death, but why?’

  ‘His mind was disturbed.’

  ‘We can agree on that, and no doubt the trauma he had put his family through over the years rendered them all unstable, to some extent. Barry Montgomery seems to have been the sanest of the lot in that he got away from his father.’

  ‘But selling himself doesn’t seem such a great idea.’

  ‘Not in itself, although from what we’ve been told, he was a man in control of himself. Janice Montgomery, the mother, wasn’t, but then she had a weak personality, easily led.’

  ‘Or Stanley Montgomery had beaten her into submission,’ Goddard said.

  ‘We’ve no proof of violence against the man.’

  ‘Constant brow-beating, interminable criticism of whatever she did.’

  ‘There’s no crime against him for his wife’s death, but I’ll go along with your assessment. It still doesn’t explain Matilda Montgomery’s suicide though.’

  ‘It depends on your perspective.’

  Isaac had great respect for his chief superintendent, a man of experience and clear thought.

  ‘If, as you say, Matilda Montgomery committed suicide, with no other person in the house, then what was going through her mind?’ Goddard continued.

  ‘We don’t know. There was no letter from her, unusual in a suicide.’

  ‘Why didn’t she write a letter? Have you considered that?’

  ‘Statistically, she would have been expected to.’

  ‘Statistics aside, she took time arranging her death. She may have been under great strain but she was careful to be tidy, and according to Windsor’s report, she had tied the knot in the rope with care and precision.’

  ‘Cold and passionless, some would say.’

  ‘Why? I’d say that she was a highly emotional woman who had decided on a course of action, and nothing could dissuade her. You’ve said before that her life was ordered, and that there were no broken romances, no issues at work, and that she had sufficient money in her bank account.’

  ‘Where’s this going?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘You’ve interpreted a suicide letter as a possible confession.’

  ‘But we’ve not accepted it at face value. We still need to prove it one way or the other.’

  ‘Credit to you and your team for that, but it’s raised a concern. Your focus is now on Stanley Montgomery at the expense of your other suspects.’

  ‘To some degree.’

  ‘Not some, a lot. And if I was the senior investigating officer in this case, that’s the approach that I’d be taking. The others who could have done it have alibis, weak motives, or neither the strength nor the malice to commit murder.’

  ‘There wasn’t a lot of strength required, but you’re right about the malice. A discarded woman, a hotel manager who has proven himself to be a despicable character, a husband who now knows of his wife’s involvement with the murdered man, an ex-husband of the sister who felt that Christine Mason had cheated him of fatherhood. None of them shows the necessary intent to kill.’

  ‘But Stanley Montgomery does.’

  ‘An intense man, a man with deep and hidden thoughts, a dark heart.’

  ‘Yet you say that he loved his family with intense emotion.’

  ‘His family, he may have, but he had little affection for others, those that had disappointed him.’

  ‘Barry Montgomery?’

  ‘Exactly. Stanley felt anger towards him, there was the probability of violence.’

  ‘Coming back to Matilda. The woman was smart, and from what we know, she had emotional problems.’

  ‘Everyone has issues, but yes, according to Amelia Bentham, the only person who could claim to know her, Matilda could throw up a wall if anyone got too close.’

  ‘Matilda, from what she’s read about the body in Hyde Park, is certain that it’s her brother. Possible?’

  ‘That’s what we believe. In fact, we had placed a photo in the newspapers and on the television.’
/>
  ‘But no one came forward. Why was that?’

  ‘The body didn’t look like the Barry Montgomery that Matilda would have known. He had dyed his hair, had it cut short.’

  ‘A sister would know, and what about Amelia Bentham? Even Christine Mason and the other women he was messing around with?’

  ‘Amelia Bentham was out of the country, and Barry and Matilda Montgomery’s parents don’t have a television, not even a radio. Stanley didn’t want the wickedness, the licentiousness of the world to enter his domain.’

  ‘Matilda’s figured out that her brother’s been murdered,’ Goddard said. ‘She doesn’t know about the other people, probably doesn’t know that he’s been prostituting himself. To her, he’s the one constant in her life, the one person who understands, the one person she truly loves. The woman is still struggling with her upbringing, still racked with emotional issues, and there’s her brother, the rock in her life, the one person she can talk to, and now he’s dead.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that she killed herself because of that?’

  ‘Why not? Her brother’s dead, and she shuts down emotionally. She doesn’t know what to do, how to react, but then she starts thinking. Remember she doesn’t know about the other people in her brother’s life, apart from Amelia.’

  ‘Matilda knew that Amelia was in love with her brother.’

  ‘So she’s not blaming her. There’s only one possibility, her father.’

  ‘That’s what he had written.’

  ‘Stanley Montgomery’s letter was succinct and to the point. Matilda’s was non-existent. Other people write pages of semi-coherent nonsense, about life and love and the problems with the world, but with her, nothing.’

  ‘If she had written anything, it would have been to say that she blamed her father and that he was the murderer.’

  ‘But she couldn’t,’ Goddard said. ‘Her father was another constant in her life, even if he had not been a constant for good, and he was a man who demanded loyalty, and Matilda had to consider her mother. If she had written that letter, it would have accused her father, and she couldn’t. Detached from reality, her suicide would have been a robotic act. She wouldn’t have felt pain or suffering, just her life slipping away.’

  ‘It doesn’t make Stanley Montgomery a murderer,’ Isaac said.

  ‘I’d agree with that hypothesis. I suggest you find out who it is before too long.’

  ***

  Nick Domett, part-time male escort – if you were desperate, Wendy thought – sat across from her and Larry. His escorting activities were not of interest, his position as the principal of Gents for Hire was.

  ‘We were fellow officers once,’ Domett said. ‘Give me a break. I’ve broken no law, and I’ve helped you where I can.’

  ‘The specials?’ Larry said. ‘We can’t find out who they are. The case has gone cold, and you’re the missing link in the chain.’

  ‘I told you before, more than once. An envelope, sometimes a parcel, money inside, and where to go. That’s all I know.’

  ‘An ex-police officer is inherently nosey; you know that as well as we do.’

  ‘So what if I was nosey? If someone wants to keep their identity confidential, who am I to worry? Good money, much better than the usual, and if their demands were perverted, what concern was it of mine?’

  ‘Perverted? How do you know this? Did Colin Young tell you this?’

  ‘Not him. He was always careful in what he said, but some of the others, they like to talk from time to time. Almost a badge of honour to some of them, what happened.’

  ‘Define perverted,’ Wendy said. The three were in Domett’s office, and for once, it was clean.

  ‘Whips, bondage, submission, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Polite company. Do you want me to tell you more? You’ve both been around, you both know how far people can sink.’

  ‘We do,’ Larry said. He, for one, did not want Domett to recount tales of beatings, and bodily fluids, and carnal savagery. He had come across a place once before at his previous station, in the cellar of a Victorian terrace house, implements on the walls and hanging from the ceiling.

  ‘There was none of that with Colin Young, not in a cottage or a hotel room,’ Wendy said.

  ‘He wasn’t into that, not too much of it anyway. Tying up the client and humiliating him, he would have done that. It’s some of the other men I employ who are more willing.’

  ‘The same specials as Colin Young?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. If you’re trying to find out who they are through me, then you’re wasting your time. I just don’t know, and that’s the truth.’

  ‘And if you did, you wouldn’t tell us.’

  ‘I gave you all that I had. If you can’t find out who these men were, then either you’re not good police officers or they’ve covered their tracks well.’

  Larry did not appreciate the slur on his and Wendy’s abilities, not from a man who by his own admission had failed as a police officer, concealed the fact by pretending that a company that hired out men for sex was more profitable. And judging by the look of the office and the man, that may not have been true.

  Domett, Larry and Wendy agreed after they had left him to his phone calls and organising that night’s activities, wasn’t going to give them much more.

  ‘He’s smart enough to take his special clientele’s money, smart enough not to ask too many questions,’ Larry said.

  Wendy had to agree and nodded her head, unable to speak as she took the first bite of a McDonald’s burger. Larry knew that his wife would have a few words if she knew that he was joining his sergeant, but it did not stop him ordering one for himself.

  ***

  It wasn’t usual; in fact, Isaac couldn’t remember it happening before, but he was in a conference room at Challis Street and across from him were Gordon Windsor and Graham Picket.

  ‘I don’t appreciate your chief superintendent pulling rank,’ Picket said. ‘I’ve got an autopsy on this morning, a ninety-year-old man. You’d think they’d let him rest in peace, but his family are known tearaways, and he had plenty of money. No point opening me up when I’m gone, I can barely pay the bills as it is.’

  Isaac had never seen the man so verbose. In his office or if he was bent over a cadaver in Pathology, he said very little, only answering questions when asked.

  ‘What’s the aim of this meeting?’ Gordon Windsor asked. An agreeable and competent man, he was also a friend of Isaac’s.

  ‘We need to decide if Stanley Montgomery murdered his son, and if not, then who did.’

  ‘Agreed, but where do Picket and I come into this? We conducted our investigations, filed our reports.’

  ‘We’re not convinced that Montgomery killed his son.’

  ‘Specifics,’ Picket said. ‘The man’s confessed, so I’m told, yet you want me and Windsor to give you a hitherto hidden fact to either validate the man’s claim or to disprove it.’

  ‘In a nutshell, yes.’

  ‘Stanley Montgomery was a robust man of sixty-three. He could have killed his son. Is that what you want?’

  ‘Can we prove it wasn’t him?’

  ‘How?’ Windsor asked. ‘We submitted our reports. The rock hit the man at an oblique angle. It also leads us to believe that the person was right-handed, and that force was applied.’

  ‘Enough to kill?’

  ‘If it had hit at the right place; if the dead man hadn’t pulled away.’

  ‘Too many variables, that’s what you’re saying?’

  ‘Isaac, we’re not sure where you’re going with this. The father could have killed the son, so could any number of other people.’

  ‘Amelia Bentham?’

  ‘If this is going nowhere, I need to leave,’ Windsor said.

  ‘I’ll be right behind you,’ Picket added.

  There’s one possibility,’ Isaac said. ‘Matilda Montgomery.’

  ‘Wild speculation on your pa
rt, or is there any reason to bring her in as a possible suspect?’

  ‘She’s the one person we’ve not considered. Was she strong enough?’

  ‘She wasn’t a bodybuilder, nothing like that, but it was clear when I examined her that she was fit, as was her brother.’

  ‘She wasn’t a jogger, we know that.’

  ‘Swimming, walking, visits to the gym, that sort of thing.’

  ‘My apologies for bringing you both here today,’ Isaac said. ‘You’ve both helped a great deal.’

  ‘We said nothing new,’ Gordon Windsor said.

  ‘Neither of you did, but it helped to clarify the investigation for me.’

  ‘Matilda Montgomery?’

  ‘It’s a possibility. A tragedy if it was.’

  Chapter 31

  Amelia Bentham wasn't much help, Wendy had to admit as the two of them sat in a café not far from Pembridge Mews. It was eleven in the morning, and Amelia was anxious to get away by midday for a photo shoot. The woman’s behaviour was out of character, Wendy thought, as in the past she had always been cooperative, willing to chat, wanting to assist as best she could, but now she was holding back.

  ‘It’s been a hard week,’ Amelia, as attractive as ever, said.

  ‘Amelia, she was your friend, and now my chief inspector’s got this bee in his bonnet that Matilda could have killed her brother.’ Wendy knew that Isaac wasn’t fixated on the woman’s guilt, had purely raised the possibility, but she wasn’t going to let Amelia know that. She wanted more from the woman, and she was sure there was more: the evasive answers, avoiding eye contact, both indicators that something was amiss.

  ‘I must go,’ Amelia insisted, rising from her chair, Wendy taking hold of her shoulder, pushing her back down again.

  ‘I’m sorry, but you’re going to tell me what you’ve been trying to avoid since we came in here.’

  ‘There’s nothing, honestly.’

  Not good enough for Wendy. She had come to like the well-balanced woman from an aristocratic family who did not use that fact for her benefit, no more than her parents. She was willing to work hard, and to make her way in the world, successfully as it turned out.