DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

  Goddard left soon after. The two men were firm friends, but sometimes Isaac’s senior could rile him. As Isaac saw it, he had a competent team, everyone was giving one hundred per cent, but until there was a breakthrough, they were going nowhere. They knew the identity of the body, although why he died remained a mystery. Montague Grenfell had been integral to providing the reason, but now he was dead, and according to Gordon Windsor and his team, he had been pushed down the stairs outside his office.

  Isaac knew full well that falling down a flight of stairs was not an automatic neck break, and there remained a possibility that his death was unintentional. However, the reason why he was at the bottom of the stairs was important, as was the identity of the person who had scuffled with him.

  The main suspects were all ageing, and it was hard to believe they would have had the strength. Even with his false leg, Montague Grenfell was a fit man. He was ten years younger than Mavis Richardson, only seventy-five, and as fit as a man of sixty-five.

  There was still one key person unaccounted for: Malcolm Grenfell, the soon to be Lord Penrith.

  According to Katrina Smith, the bed-ridden incumbent lord was a decent man, even if he could be snobbish and she had grown fond of the man. Regardless, the next weekend she was taking time off to come and see her mother in London and to meet up with Isaac. Isaac realised that the mother might not receive many hours of her time. He smiled at the thought, which caused Bridget to look his way.

  ‘Good thoughts?’ she said.

  ‘I suppose so.’ Isaac did not intend to elaborate. ‘We need to find Montague Grenfell’s younger brother,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘What did you find out in Leicestershire?’ Bridget asked.

  ‘Not a lot. Only that he had not been there for some time. His current whereabouts are unclear.’

  ‘I have conducted some checks already.’

  ‘What did you find?’

  ‘Malcolm Grenfell is twelve years younger that Montague. That would give his age as sixty-three.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘There appears to be no record of work, although there is a Mercedes registered in his name and a driving licence.’

  ‘A man of independent means, is that it?’ Isaac said.

  ‘More likely a scrounging parasite, sir.’

  ‘You may be right. Regardless, we need to find him. How is Wendy’s situation?’

  ‘Still with her husband.’

  ‘A job for Larry.’

  ‘He’ll be in soon,’ Bridget said.

  ***

  ‘I was going to Bellevue Street this morning,’ Larry said on his arrival at the office.

  ‘The grille in the basement?’ Isaac replied.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What is its condition?’

  ‘It’s been damaged, but our people should be able to work with it.’

  ‘What’s your feeling?’

  Both men were sitting in Isaac’s office. The relationship between the two men continued to warm.

  ‘Obviously, it was put there to deter people from entering the room.’

  ‘The whole scenario is illogical. How does anyone expect to keep a body hidden indefinitely in a fireplace?’

  ‘Maybe it was only meant to be there temporarily,’ Larry said.

  ‘And then it became impossible to remove, so someone puts up the grille in an attempt to conceal what was inside the room.’

  ‘It makes some sense, but it’s still bizarre. And then there is the wooden structure around the fireplace.’

  ‘Focus on the grille for now. The reasons will become clear later.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll see you later,’ Larry said. He put his empty cup on the sink in the kitchen area in the main office and left.

  Isaac walked over to Bridget’s desk. ‘Let me have Malcolm Grenfell’s address,’ he said. He was glad of the opportunity to get out of the office.

  ***

  Larry Hill arrived at the house in Bellevue Street at nine thirty in the morning. Gordon Windsor’s people were already there, as was Sue Baxter, camera in hand. The woman was becoming a nuisance, and neither Larry nor Isaac had forgiven her for sounding off to the local newspaper about matters which would have been best kept confidential.

  Larry reminded her again that it was a murder investigation, and what she saw and heard was not to be repeated outside the confines of the house. As usual, she said that she fully understood, and it was only for a record of the renovations on the house.

  Larry had to admit that the Baxters had done a good job, and apart from a few rooms, the murder room included, the house was looking good. Larry realised that it was as well that his wife was not present, as she had been niggling him for the last few months to spend more time at home and to commit to painting the inside, at least.

  He could not see the problem as their house was warm and pleasant, and the last thing he wanted at the weekend was to take hold of a paintbrush. Still, he realised on seeing what the Baxters had achieved that maybe his wife was right.

  What was the more pressing problem, though? The current murder investigation was taking all his time, and the most he wanted at home was a good sleep. And judging by the way the deaths kept occurring, and the long hours that Isaac committed everyone in the department to, the time for home renovations was not possible.

  His wife had made it clear that if he did not have the time, then she would get in a handyman to do it. Larry had said fine until he realised how much that would cost.

  ‘Where’s the grille?’ Grant Meston asked. He was a good-looking man with flaming red hair and a ruddy complexion. Gordon Windsor had recommended him as the best crime scene investigator in his department.

  ‘Down in the basement. They put it down there, part of Trevor Baxter’s wine cellar eventually.’

  The two men walked down the stairs off the hallway, followed by a camera, followed by Sue Baxter. The area downstairs was small and lit by a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

  ‘We need extra lights down here,’ Meston said. ‘I’ve some out in the car. I’ll go and fetch them.’

  ‘Why don’t you take it upstairs?’ Sue Baxter asked.

  ‘Not if we want to avoid more damage.’ Grant Meston was already annoyed by the camera and the woman. Larry had forewarned him to keep his detailed findings to himself until they were clear of the house.

  The crime scene investigator climbed the stairs and went to fetch the lights. Larry, eyes adjusting to the dim light, looked around the area. It was clear that Trevor Baxter’s aspirations to a wine cellar were in the early realisation stage. Baxter had cleared a small corner, a mop and bucket testament to the fact. On the floor, some wine shelves, the sort they sell in the shops, were already holding several bottles of wine.

  ‘My husband’s hobby,’ Sue Baxter said.

  ‘The looking at them or the drinking?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Any good wines here?’

  ‘Better than the average. Leave them for a few years, and they will be great.’

  Grant Meston returned. He had run an electric cord down from a socket in the hall. Soon, two powerful fluorescent lights lit the area. No longer needing to focus to see the detail in the basement, Larry could see the grille. It had been pushed up against the far wall. Judging by the marks on the faded paintwork, it had suffered some damage when it had been removed.

  ‘What can you find out from that?’ Sue Baxter asked.

  ‘There may be some stamps on the metalwork that will give us a year,’ Meston replied, cognisant of Larry Hill’s warning about Sue Baxter.

  ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Sure.’ Sue Baxter left for upstairs.

  ‘Would it be easier to take it down to your office?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Normally, I would agree, but the grille’s been in place for thirty years. Any fingerprints, DNA, will have long been destroyed.’r />
  ‘Your initial observations?’

  ‘Late 80s, I would say. Give me ten minutes while I check it out. Distract Mrs Baxter if you can.’

  Larry left and went upstairs. He found Sue Baxter in the kitchen. ‘Grant’s fine. He doesn’t want tea.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘No, he’s okay. He just wants to be left alone to conduct his investigation. He will be up here later.’

  ‘My husband wanted to use the grille for his wine cellar.’

  ‘It is part of a police investigation now, as is the basement. At least, it is for the time being.’

  ‘When can we have the front room back?’

  ‘It doesn’t upset you as to what was found in there?’ Larry asked.

  ‘The first day it did.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Not anymore. It’s as if the house had a character, almost like a haunted house.’

  ‘It’s not haunted, is it?’

  ‘No. Not at all. ‘Have you found the murderer?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Larry sipped his tea. The woman continued to probe.

  ‘We found some old photos,’ she said.

  ‘Of the house?’

  ‘They were hidden at the back of an old wardrobe. Slipped down the back, I suppose.’

  ‘Why didn’t you reveal this to the police?’ Larry asked, aware yet again that the woman would have sold them to the newspapers if she could.

  ‘I never thought any more about them.’

  Larry decided to ignore her blatant lie. Sue Baxter was as sharp as a tack, he knew that, and she never forgot. Regardless, he needed the photos.

  ‘Can I see them, please?’

  Sue Baxter opened a drawer in the table where she was sitting and handed them to Larry. There were four photos in total, all of them heavily marked from years of neglect.

  It was clear that one showed the garden at the rear, another a picture of a child on a bicycle, and the other two a gathering of a group of adults. The adults appeared to be sitting on a sofa.

  ‘We think that is the room where the body was found,’ Sue Baxter said.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Larry asked.

  ‘The window at the rear. The curtain material seems to be the same as we found in there the day we opened the room.’

  ‘And the people?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘You realise that these photos may become a crucial piece of evidence, yet you decided to keep them from the police.’

  ‘I forgot, honestly.’ Sue Baxter went on the defensive, regretting that she had told DI Hill about the photos.

  ‘I need to take them for evidence.’

  ‘Will I get them back at some stage?’

  ‘In time.’

  Grant Meston had come into the kitchen before Larry had a chance to remind Sue Baxter that withholding evidence was a criminal offence, as was talking to the media without receiving clearance. It was a moot point as her offences could not be proven to be intentional.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ Sue Baxter asked.

  ‘Yes, please,’ Meston replied.

  ‘What did you find?’ Larry asked, mindful that he had asked Grant Meston not to reveal too much in front of Sue Baxter.

  ‘The age matches. I have taken some numbers off the hinges. It should be possible to match them to a date.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Nothing more. I have put crime scene tape across the grille, and across the door leading down to the basement. Mrs Baxter, please do not go down there.’

  ‘My husband’s wine?’

  ‘He will have to leave it alone for the time being.’

  Larry had to admit that although Sue Baxter could stick her nose in where it was not wanted, she was an excellent hostess. The two men stayed for another cup of tea and some sandwiches. Twenty-five minutes later, they stood outside the front gate of the house.

  ‘What’s the true story?’ Larry asked.

  ‘I found a piece of paper under one corner of the grille. It had been painted over initially, but with time, the paint has lifted.’

  ‘Did you take a photo?’

  ‘I sent one to your email.’

  ‘What does it show?’

  ‘It’s a receipt for the grille, or at least, that’s what I assume it is.’

  ‘Date?’

  ‘As best as I can tell, February 1987.’

  ‘One month after the murder,’ Larry realised. ‘Could one person have installed it?’

  ‘With some difficulty. The person would need to know how to use a drill with a masonry bit for the Ramset bolts.’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘Unlikely, unless they were very practical.’

  Chapter 18

  By the time, Larry arrived back in the office, Wendy was there. He could see that she had been crying. Bridget was consoling her. ‘It was for the best,’ she was saying.

  ‘I know, but he was a good man.’

  Larry, realising what had happened, came over and put his arm on Wendy’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied meekly.

  ‘You’d better go home,’ Larry said.

  ‘DCI Cook’s already said that,’ Bridget said.

  ‘I prefer to be here. Too many memories there,’ Wendy said. ‘Tell me about the case.’

  Larry had experienced the same feelings when his mother had died five years previously. Sitting around remembering helped little. It was best to keep the mind busy and elsewhere.

  ‘Do you need any help with the arrangements?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Thanks for offering, but my sons will deal with it.’

  ‘If you want to work?’

  ‘I do. Please update me.’

  ‘Sue Baxter, the lady of the house in Bellevue Street, has found some photos.’

  ‘Are they relevant?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘They are old and grainy, but I think they are.’

  ‘When did she find them?’

  ‘Long enough ago to have informed us before.’

  ‘Have you seen them? What do you reckon?’

  ‘There is one with a child on a bicycle. It may be Garry Solomon. Another two photos show a gathering of adults. We need to identify them.’

  ‘Leave it with me.’

  ‘You will look after Wendy?’ Larry said to Bridget.

  ‘Don’t worry. She'll be all right with me.’

  Isaac arrived back in the office soon after, his search for Malcolm Grenfell curtailed due to the death of Wendy’s husband.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Wendy,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, DCI. He was old and barely recognised me, but we had been together for a long time. To me, he was still the strapping young man that I met when I was nineteen. I was a bit wild then, but he soon settled me down.’

  ‘We’re here for you. Whatever you want, just let us know.’ Isaac put his arms around Wendy and gave her a hug.

  DCS Goddard arrived soon after to offer his condolences.

  Wendy, not wishing to feel sorry for herself, an understandable reaction under the circumstances, obtained the photos from Larry. She passed them over to Bridget, who had soon found a programme on her computer to enhance them, and to remove some of the marks. Within twenty minutes, the photos were immeasurably improved.

  Wendy could see the resemblance of the young boy on the bicycle to the more recent photo of Garry Solomon at nineteen. Under normal circumstances, the mother would have been the ideal person for a positive identification, but Gertrude Richardson was dead. Failing that, there would have been Montague Grenfell, but he was dead as well. Mavis Richardson would have been the next logical choice, but the team had decided that the knowledge of the photos should, at least for the time being, remain concealed from the Richardsons and the Grenfells.

  The team had agreed that two of the adults were Gertrude and Mavis Richardson, and Michael Solomon and Ger O’Loughlin were probably two of the men, but there were three others in the photos. Isaac thou
ght that one bore similarities to Montague Grenfell, but he was not sure. As to the other man and woman, no one had any ideas.

  Isaac, after he had updated his senior, resumed his search for Malcolm Grenfell.

  Wendy thought Garry Solomon’s widow, Emma Hampshire, would be a good person to talk to about the boy on the bicycle. Larry said he would go with her.

  Wendy acted as though she was fine, but everyone in the office could see through the veneer. Her sons had phoned, asked how she was. The eldest had spoken to Bridget, who put Isaac on the phone.

  Isaac told them not to worry as they would look after their mother and bring her home at night.

  ***

  Emma Hampshire was preparing to go out when Wendy and Larry knocked on her door.

  ‘Can we take a few minutes of your time?’ Wendy asked. ‘This is Detective Inspector Hill.’ Larry briefly flashed his ID badge.

  ‘I was just going to the gym,’ Emma Hampshire said. ‘Personal trainer, so he charges me if I am there or not.’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Larry said.

  ‘What can I do for you?

  ‘I want to show you a photo,’ Wendy said. Larry had to admit that she was holding up well, better than he had when his mother had died.

  ‘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.’