‘What did you say to her?’
‘I was polite.’
‘Have you met her?’
‘I said I would. She sounded lonely.’
‘I think she is,’ Wendy said.
‘I was angry at the time, but now I'm all right,’ Kevin Solomon said. ‘Do you want a drink?’
‘Coffee for me,’ Larry said.
‘Make that two,’ Wendy added.
‘Mavis Richardson, it is assumed, will be the executor of Montague Grenfell’s will, and the proxy for his business and legal affairs.’
‘What has that to do with me?’
‘Your agreement with Montague. Was it watertight?’
‘I signed some papers, but I’ve been so spaced out for the last few years, I don’t know. He could have made me sign anything.’
‘That’s unlikely,’ Wendy said.
‘Why?’
‘We have had qualified people checking his paperwork. The man was meticulous, and there is no trace of his cheating anyone. And besides, you’re family.’
‘Illegitimate family, wrong side of the bed.’
‘It appears to be a minor distinction.’
‘Enough to keep my father from the title.’
‘Does that concern you?’
‘My mother said it upset him.’
‘What else did your mother say?’
‘Most of the time I was either drunk or injecting myself.’
‘Do you intend to stay clean?’
‘I spent two years at university studying law, one of my few clean periods. I plan to make sure my mother gets her fair share after my grandmother died. I don’t trust anyone.’
Wendy looked around the room. It was clear that Kevin Solomon had tidied the place, a sure sign that his mother was intending to visit. Wendy was pleased as animosity between mother and child is always unpleasant. Her sons had always been there for her except in their troublesome teens and early twenties. Then, it had been too much alcohol and wanting to bring females home. She had relaxed her strict rule on a couple of occasions, and an unknown female face at the breakfast table the next morning had given her a slight tinge of regret that she had agreed, but apart from that, it had been fine. Finally, she had drawn the line when two females and one son had presented themselves at the table one morning looking for bacon and eggs. She had made it clear that she was not a hotel nor a brothel, and if either son wanted to avail themselves of the local talent, they’d better find somewhere else.
Not that she could blame the females, as her sons took after their father with their rugged good looks, but threesomes in her house had been too much.
She had relented when her two boys had matured and settled down with steady girlfriends.
The funeral of her husband was scheduled for later in the week. She had asked Isaac to give a eulogy as he had met her husband several times over the years, and she knew he would say the right words. The sons would speak as well. Wendy knew that she would be incapable.
She had appreciated the opportunity to continue at work, and the case had focussed her mind away from her husband’s death. Bridget continued to stay at Wendy’s house, although one son or another was always there. Still, Bridget was female and would understand more than the sons what their mother was going through.
‘Wendy, Wendy.’
‘Yes, Larry. Sorry.’
Wendy, comfortable in Kevin Solomon’s flat, had drifted off, probably fallen asleep for a few minutes. Her sleep pattern had been disturbed since her husband had died, and her regular eight hours had been replaced by short periods of one or two hours, sometimes three, sometimes none.
Severely embarrassed, Wendy apologised.
Kevin Solomon said not to worry.
‘Do you intend to make a legal claim on the estate?’ Wendy asked, pretending to be fully alert, and now sitting forward on the comfortable chair.
‘If there is an issue, although, as you say, Montague Grenfell was an honourable man.’
‘We believe that to be the case, but…’
‘Malcolm Grenfell?’ Kevin Solomon said.
‘What do you know about him?’ Larry asked. Wendy had moved towards the window, aiming to take in the breeze from outside, attempting to wake herself. The toll of the last few weeks was catching up with her, and once everything had settled down, she intended to take a break, sit in the sun somewhere. Hopefully, Bridget would come. If she didn’t, she would go on her own.
‘My mother told me what she knew once I was old enough to understand.’
‘Your mother seems to have no financial problems.’
‘My mother is not concerned about the money, only that she, as the widow of Gertrude Richardson’s son, and I, the grandson, are treated in the correct manner.’
‘And why should Malcolm Grenfell be an issue?’ Wendy asked. She had resumed her seat, confident that she would not embarrass herself again. She knew the answer but wanted to hear it from Solomon.
‘Somehow, the Grenfells and the Richardsons are inexorably linked.’
‘Is there more to the story than we know?’ Larry asked.
‘From what my mother has told me, the aristocracy, or at least, the Grenfells’ version, abide by a different set of values. According to my mother, I should never trust them.’
Wendy could only agree. She had only risen as far as a sergeant in the London Metropolitan Police, but she took pride in that she had benefited society, helped to reunite lost and alienated children with their parents, taken a major part in putting some villains and murderers in jail. Just because someone put ‘Lord’ before their name meant little to her.
‘Your mother is coming?’ Wendy asked.
‘In about an hour.’
‘Are you looking forward to see her?’
‘Yes. I would appreciate some time to prepare.’
‘Fine,’ Wendy said.
Outside in the car, with the heater on, the two police officers evaluated what Kevin Solomon had said.
‘He seems to know a lot about the Grenfells,’ Larry said.
‘At least, his mother does. Did she ever meet any of them?’
‘She never met Gertrude Richardson, although she could have met some of the others. Did she meet Montague Grenfell personally? I suppose we will never know.’
As they sat in the car, they saw Emma Hampshire exit a black London taxi. She waved to the two of them but did not come over to speak. She appeared to be in a good mood, and her son had obviously told her about the two police officers sitting outside.
Larry suggested knocking on the door and questioning the woman. Wendy, sentimental and motherly, was firm in her response.
‘No. Those two have a lot of talking to do,’ she said.
***
Malcolm Grenfell, the newly incumbent Lord Penrith, was up and about by eight in the morning. The lord’s young woman was still sleeping off the effects of the drunken excess from the previous night.
Isaac made sure to give the impression that he had just arrived. His lordship was not pleased to see him, although Isaac was not sure whether that was because of Grenfell’s throbbing head, or whether he was just an arrogant man, or whether acquiring the title had somehow elevated him above the law and probing questions.
Regardless of what the man wanted or thought, Isaac had questions, Grenfell had the answers.
‘Who is going to deal with the reading of the will and the legal and financial matters after your brothers’ deaths?’
‘Which brother? The former lord, or Montague?’ Malcolm Grenfell made the pretence of eating his breakfast, although not in the kitchen with the staff. He was sitting at one end of a large table in a formal dining room. Isaac sat at the other end. He realised that if he had not come with the authority of the London Metropolitan Police, he would be in the kitchen, and would be expected to bow and scrape.
Katrina had forewarned Isaac that Malcolm Grenfell was taking his responsibilities as Lord Penrith very seriously, especially the part where the pea
sants fawned to their master. She had stated that once the previous lord was in the funeral home, then she was leaving, which was that day.
‘Montague gave executor powers to that woman, Mavis Richardson. Not that she can do much, too old,’ Malcolm Grenfell said.
‘You know her?’
‘Not intimately, as Montague obviously did.’
‘What are you inferring?’
‘I know about Montague and the Richardson sisters.’
‘What do you know?’
‘Don’t be obtuse. The fact that they were screwing each other.’
‘Kevin Solomon?’
‘What about him?’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Never met him, although I went to the same school as his father.’
‘Garry?’
‘If he had only the one father, then Garry. Is there another one?’
The cook came in with a pot of tea. She poured a cup for Isaac, poured another for his lordship. As she left the room, and with Malcolm Grenfell’s back to her, she cocked her nose in the air and held a finger underneath. Isaac smiled; he knew the universal gesture for someone with airs and graces and a snob.
‘You were about the same age as Garry Solomon,’ Isaac said.
‘I was three years older.’
‘Did you spend time with him?’
‘When we were in our teens, we would go out drinking, chasing girls.’
‘Later?’
‘He met up with Emily. After that, we lost contact. I never saw him again.’
‘You knew Emily?’
‘She was a good-looking woman. Fancied her myself, but she wanted Garry.’
‘Have you seen her since?’
‘Around London. We moved in the same social circles. Nothing sinister.’
The young woman who had arrived with Grenfell walked into the room. Isaac thought it was more a crawl than a walk, as she was rubbing her eyes and trying to focus. Her hair was tousled, and she was wearing a dressing gown. It was tied loosely at the waist, her breasts almost exposed.
‘Are you going to make me a Lady?’ she asked of Grenfell after planting a semi-drunken kiss on him.
‘Later maybe. I’m busy for the present.’
The woman, young enough to be Penrith’s daughter, sat down on a spare chair. ‘I want breakfast,’ she slurred.
Judging by Grenfell’s facial expression, her chances of him marrying her were slim. Isaac could see that she was going to be dumped within a short period of time. He felt sorry that such a young girl felt the need to hang around with a man in his sixties, instead of finding someone her own age. Not that it concerned him, as in his years of being an active member of the police force, he had seen many unlikely couples, some happy, others not so.
‘Go down to the kitchen with the rest,’ Grenfell barked, or attempted to, but his voice was still subdued and raspy after the wine of the previous night.
The woman ambled out of the door.
‘What did you speak to Emily Solomon about?’
‘It’s been a few years, but she had moved on from Garry, or he had moved on. Regardless, she was very cosy with Bob Hampshire.’
‘You knew Hampshire?’
‘Good man. He worshipped Emily, although she called herself Emma with him.’
‘And her?’
‘She was devoted to him.’
‘Tell me about Mavis Richardson. How is she going to deal with Montague’s complex legal and financial matters?’
‘I’ve no idea. What is the legal process in such issues? She is clearly not up to the task.’
‘And Albert?’
‘I will deal with it. There is a lawyer in the town who is reputable. I’ll put the matter in his hands.’
‘Trustworthy?’
‘He will be with me. This is all mine now. I don’t intend to let anyone cheat me out of my dues.’
‘And the woman you brought up?’
‘I was the brother of a lord before.’
‘Better class of woman now?’ Isaac said contemptuously.
‘I hope so.’
Isaac left the man to his breakfast. He needed to see a friendly face; he needed to see Katrina.
Chapter 22
Larry was leaning back in his chair at Challis Street. Wendy had left early, some last-minute arrangements for the funeral. Bridget was busy, collating all the paperwork that a murder enquiry created.
She was still helping Wendy with her reports, or Sergeant Wendy Gladstone, as her promotion had come through. Bridget had managed to get Isaac’s paperwork under control, and if she focussed, she could complete it within an hour.
Bridget enjoyed working in the department, even if the hours could be long, but there was not much for her at home. The former live-in lover had been unceremoniously shown the door two weeks earlier. She had come home late and he had been sitting down with a couple of friends in the kitchen, drinking beer.
‘We need some food,’ he had demanded.
‘Get your friends out of here and clear up this mess.’ Bridget saw red. The lover lived there rent free. The only requirements on him were that he kept the place clean and showed her the attention she craved.
‘Woman, do what you’re told or you will feel the back of my hand.’
He had tried it once before, but it had been early in their relationship, and she had forgiven him after he had sobered up, but now…
Coupled with the pressure of work and her friend Wendy’s sadness, Bridget reached a decision. A well-built woman and surprisingly strong, she grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck and ejected him through the back door. The other two men sheepishly retreated.
The trio had stood outside the house for thirty minutes before she phoned Wendy, who phoned a contact down at the local police station. The trio spent the night in a prison cell. Bridget ensured that her previous companion’s clothes were deposited at the police station. According to Wendy, he was warned by the local police that if he attempted to make contact with Bridget, he would be thrown in the cells for a week.
Bridget had been sad for a few days but soon got over him. Wendy offered her one of her cats for comfort, but she declined. Besides, both of the women were looking to pool their resources and move in together. Bridget’s house seemed the best possibility, as Wendy’s was cold and damp. They had even discussed buying a small flat somewhere warm, renting it out to holidaymakers when they did not need it.
Larry’s phone rang. ‘Grant Meston. We met at the Baxters.’
‘How are you?’
‘Fine.’
‘Any update on the grille at the Baxters?’
‘It was installed in February 1987.’
‘You knew that already.’
‘I have the name of the company that installed it.’
‘And the name of who paid for it?’
‘No such luck. It was a long time ago. I made a quick phone call to save you the trouble, but no one remembered.’
‘Send me an email with the address, and I’ll get out there,’ Larry said.
Isaac arrived back in the office just after midday. Katrina Smith was still up in Leicestershire and would be down in London later that night. Isaac offered to pick her up at the station, but she had declined. Her mother was picking her up, and she should spend some time with her.
Bridget rushed into Isaac’s office with a cup of coffee on his arrival. Larry came in soon after.
‘Take a seat,’ Isaac said. He had been a little weary after the drive down, but Bridget’s caffeine-rich coffee soon revived him. Five minutes later, DCS Goddard entered the room. He was in an ebullient mood. Isaac wondered why but assumed he had been pressing the flesh with the movers and shakers again.
DCS Goddard saw a protégé in Isaac; DCI Isaac Cook saw a mentor in DCS Goddard. It did not isolate Isaac from his boss’s wrath and frustration; a kick up the arse when it was needed.
Today was not one of those days.
Bridget brought another coffee for their DCS.
He thanked her.
‘What’s the latest, Isaac?’
‘Loose ends, sir.’
‘DI Hill, what are you up to?’ Goddard asked.
‘We know where the grille that prevented entry into the murder room was constructed, sir.’
‘And when are you going out there?’
‘As soon as I leave this meeting.’
‘Wendy?’ The DCS looked at Isaac.
‘The funeral is tomorrow.’
‘Who will be going?’
‘All of us.’
‘Fine. I will be there as well,’ Goddard said. ‘Bridget, what have you to report?’
It was evident to Isaac that someone was asking Richard Goddard questions, or just winding him up to bring the case to a conclusion. Someone influential, but who and why? Isaac did not see it as important, and besides, it was a murder enquiry, and setting a schedule for murderer apprehended, murderer convicted, case closed did not work. As far as Isaac was concerned everyone was doing their best, even Wendy who should be on compassionate leave. But he had known the DCS longer than anyone else in the department, and when you needed support or advice, his door was always open.
‘Montague Grenfell seems to have been an exceptionally precise man, very honourable and decent.’
‘He still ends up murdered.’
‘We’re not sure about that,’ Isaac said.
‘There is a scuffle. He falls down the stairs, dead at the bottom. That’s murder in my book.’
Isaac knew that his DCS was baiting him. ‘It could have been a disagreement that unfortunately had fatal consequences.’
‘Gordon Windsor’s report stated clearly that the man had been manhandled through the door of his office. He then attempted to wedge his foot against the wall at the top of the stairs. It looks conclusive to me.’
‘As you say, conclusive.’ Isaac saw no validity in contradicting his senior’s opinion.
‘Were Garry Solomon and Montague Grenfell killed by the same person?’ DCS Goddard asked.
‘It seems unlikely,’ Isaac said.
‘Why?’
‘There is almost thirty years between the two murders. There must be a strong possibility that the murderer of Garry Solomon is dead.’
‘How much longer do you need with this case? I’m being asked to keep costs under control.’
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