Emma Hampshire hung up, unsure whether she had been right in confronting a man who had meant something to her once. She knew him as unpredictable, his actions uncertain, and his morality of little consequence if it came between him and the life he wanted. She realised that Malcolm Grenfell and Emma Hampshire had a lot in common. He had offered her the title of Lady Penrith, half-joking, half-drunk. She had spent too much time on her own since Bob Hampshire’s death, too much time pining, too much time waiting for a man to occupy her bed.
Malcolm Grenfell was a lecher, a rogue, a man who partied and whored, but she could control him. A lord needs respectability, she would give it to him.
***
Larry Hill was in the office at Challis Street when Rose phoned from the crime scene examiner’s office. ‘Detective Inspector, we found something.’
Larry inexplicably found himself excited at the prospect of meeting up with the woman again. ‘Twenty minutes,’ he replied.
‘I’ll supply the coffee this time,’ Rose said.
‘We found this,’ she said later as they sat in the café.
‘It’s what we’ve been looking for.’
‘There’s a contact phone number.’
The photocopy that Larry had in his hand was not clear. Age and the rain seeping through the roof where it had been stored had yellowed it badly.
‘We’ve put the original into an evidence bag and labelled it,’ Rose said.
‘Send it to Forensics and ask if they can pick up the details. In the meantime, can you send me a scanned copy.’
‘Once I’m back in the office.’
‘Thanks. We have a lady in the office who is great with computers. She may be quicker than Forensics.’
Larry realised on leaving that they had spent forty minutes chatting. It was not as if he was interested in pursuing a relationship with Rose. He was happily married and intended to stay that way. It was just that it was flattering, good for his ego, to have the company of an attractive woman for a short period.
***
‘Mavis Richardson died of natural causes,’ Gordon Windsor said. Isaac Cook had phoned the senior crime scene examiner for an update.
One less murder to deal with, Isaac thought.
The need to wrap up the case was long past. He had discounted the possibility of a conviction for Garry Solomon’s murder. All the people who knew him had since died, except for Malcolm Grenfell and Emma Hampshire. The revelation of their affair had come as a shock.
The reason for Garry Solomon’s unwillingness to contact his mother continued to baffle Isaac.
The mother had been at the party that night he had come home unexpectedly and found his aunt on top of his father. He must have known or assumed that his mother was with another man, but that should have evoked anger and hurt, hopefully followed by forgiveness.
There had been several years between that night and when he had left the house at the age of nineteen. Isaac wondered what his relationship had been with his mother in those years. Was it distant, loving, or ambivalent? The only person who may have an inkling was Malcolm Grenfell, as all the others who may have known were dead.
Isaac did not relish the trip up to Leicestershire again as the sight of the ageing Lothario cavorting with young women did not excite him. Before he met Katrina Smith, he would have been curious, as his love life had taken a definite turn from good with Jess to lukewarm, and on to non-existent.
Isaac phoned Lord Penrith, not expecting more than a few moments of his time. If the man was reluctant to speak, he would set up an interview at a police station, bring the man in, formally caution him, and then put him on the spot.
‘Lord Penrith, DCI Isaac Cook.’
‘Yes, DCI. What can I do for you?’ Malcolm Grenfell said. Isaac noticed the man spoke with respect, and he sounded sober. A good start, Isaac thought.
‘Answers to questions,’ Isaac said.
‘Let me have your questions.’
‘You knew Garry Solomon when he was young.’
‘I’ve already told you this. We were at the same school, although he was three years younger than me.’
‘Did you acknowledge each other. Look out for the other?’
‘Hell, no. We used to treat his year like shit.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve not been to boarding school?’
‘No such luck,’ Isaac replied. He had been to the local comprehensive from the age of eleven, and whereas it had served him fine, it had not had a great record of academic achievement.
‘Luck! No luck if they send you to the school we went to.’
‘What do you mean?’ Isaac asked.
‘Boarding schools for the offspring of the rich and the influential are only there to satisfy the egos of the parents, and as a dumping ground for their children.’
‘Bad?’
‘Sadistic teachers. They ruled with an iron rod as well as a wooden cane, split at the end to increase the pain for the unfortunate student who received ten of the best across his arse.’
‘I thought that wasn’t allowed.’
‘Corporal punishment, the last vestige of privilege for exclusive boarding schools.’
‘It sounds sadistic.’
‘It was, but any student dumped there was invariably angry with their parents.’
‘Did you receive any discipline?’
‘More than most.’
‘And Garry?’
‘After he seduced the headmaster’s daughter?’
‘Yes.’
‘They beat the shit out of him. I had left by then, but I heard about it soon after.’
‘What did you think?’
‘He went up in my estimation.’
‘It didn’t stop you sleeping with his wife.’
‘Garry changed. He was treating her badly.’
‘Were the two of you serious?’
‘I suppose we were. She was, still is, a good-looking woman, and back then, the idea of marriage appealed.’
‘And now?’
‘Marriage? I don’t think so. I’m still young enough, and you know what the title gets me?’
‘A better class of woman.’ Isaac pre-empted Malcolm Grenfell’s expected crass reply.
‘That’s right. Is that what you phoned me for?’
‘Garry Solomon never contacted his mother after the age of nineteen.’
‘That’s probably correct.’
‘Do you know the reason why?’
‘He never spoke about it. I know about the party.’
‘Which party?’
‘Where his aunt was screwing his father.’
‘That was seven years before he walked out on his mother. And then he sends her a postcard from India two years later.’
‘Montague would have known.’
Every time the answer is Montague, and he is not available, Isaac thought. Montague Grenfell’s burial, after the body had been released, was due to be conducted in three days’ time. Isaac planned to attend the service, the body then to be interred in the family plot in the churchyard adjoining Penrith House.
‘Anyone else?’
‘Emma, maybe, but no one else. It’s a long time ago.’
‘You mentioned that Montague had secrets. Can you elaborate?’
‘Nothing concrete, but he had too many fingers in too many pies. Impossible to resist fudging the numbers.’
‘Would you?’
‘If I had his acumen, probably.’
Isaac terminated the phone call. In three days’ time, he would be in Leicestershire. It would be a good time to conduct a formal interview. While Malcolm Grenfell had been polite on the phone, Isaac had little time for the man who, without the benefit of money and now a title, would have been out on the street scrounging for food and money.
***
Wendy was on the phone in the office following up on all the George Sullivans that Bridget had managed to identify. Bridget had used a set of criteria to narrow the field: ag
e, wealth, reference in Burke’s Peerage, school attended.
She had looked for a correlation between Albert Grenfell, who was known to be a snob, and George Sullivan, the criteria reflecting the fact that Albert was hardly likely to be friendly with someone who was not of an equal social standing.
Regardless, George Sullivan was a common name, and Burke’s Peerage had not helped, as the only George Sullivan had gone to school in Scotland, whereas Albert had gone to Eton.
Wendy, as usual, was diligent in her pursuit of Sullivan. Her mood had improved after the funeral, and one night of the week she would stay with Bridget, and another night Bridget would stay with her. Bridget, she had found out, was allergic to cats, and had come up in a rash on her arms.
Larry had the paperwork with Bridget and Forensics. The phone number on the work order was indecipherable. He could see a four and an eight and a couple of other numbers, but there should be more. As for the name alongside the phone number, the rats had eaten that many years previously.
DCS Goddard was keeping his distance and had not been in the murder room for seven days. Isaac expected to hear from him at any time.
Keith Dawson continued to wade through Montague Grenfell’s papers. He said little, only grumbled occasionally. Bridget ignored his protestations. He had even complained to his boss, who had complained to Isaac, who told him that there were two murders, maybe more, and if DCS Goddard needed to ensure Dawson stayed in the office with them, he would call him up.
The last comment from Dawson’s boss. ‘He’s a miserable sod. Keep him for as long as you want.’
Isaac had met up with Katrina Smith on a couple of occasions, although not as many as he would have liked. She had found herself a job in London and was already working long hours.
She had spent a few nights at his flat, but it was early days for both of them, and no decision had been made for her to move in on a more permanent basis. Besides, her mother was prudish, and Katrina would not want to upset her without giving her fair warning.
As Albert’s and his brother Montague’s bodies had been released at the same time, there was to be a joint funeral. Katrina would travel up with Isaac for the funeral. They planned to spend the night in a hotel.
Wendy was going as well, mainly to take note of who attended and whether there were some unknown faces, maybe the elusive George Sullivan or maybe someone they had not taken into account.
Wendy and funerals were happening too often for her liking. There had been Gertrude Richardson’s, and then her husband’s. Now she had Albert and Montague Grenfell’s to attend, and then two days after, Mavis Richardson. Both Larry and Wendy planned to attend her funeral, as both had come to know her well. Her death and their attendance at her funeral did not excuse her from any crime that may have been committed, but she was dead. Her guilt or otherwise would be decided at a later date.
Larry thought they were drawing blanks and there would never be a resolution for a thirty-year-old murder. Isaac, more optimistic, refused to accept his view.
Bridget’s attempts to clean up the scanned copy of the work order to read the phone number for Bellevue Street had not worked. She had tried Photoshop: reduce the hue, increase the saturation, lighten, darken.
The most she had ascertained was that the number was probably in London and that it began with a five and ended with an eight. She had made a guess of what the missing numbers may have been, made a few phone calls, but only received the sound of a disconnected line.
‘Phone numbers have changed since then,’ Bridget had said. Regardless, she knew that a full phone number, no matter how old, could be traced, and an address and a name attached to it.
Isaac moved over to the white board in the corner. On it was listed the victims, their relationship to the suspects, possible motives, current addresses, their backgrounds and histories. He was certain that somewhere on that jumbled board was the solution to both of the murders. Instinct told him that Garry Solomon’s and Montague Grenfell’s murders were related; although it may not be the same murderer, the same basic motivator remained, but what?
Montague Grenfell had been pushed down a flight of stairs. Even if a culprit was found, they could easily claim self-defence, an argument, an unfortunate accident. A murder conviction seemed unlikely, more likely manslaughter unless a full confession was received. Garry Solomon was murder, no one would dispute that, but why hide his body in that fireplace? Isaac had had restless nights thinking over that.
To put the man’s body in a house owned by his mother and his sister seemed callous. The condition of the body had made it impossible to ascertain whether he had been murdered in the house or elsewhere.
Michael Solomon had been friendly with his son on a casual basis but hadn’t told the boy’s mother, and had not attempted to look for him after his disappearance.
Isaac knew that somebody knew something, but who and what.
‘Larry, let’s go and see Michael Solomon’s widow,’ Isaac said. It was more an act of frustration on his part than a reasoned action.
‘What are you thinking, Isaac?’ Larry asked.
‘Too many unknowns. Michael Solomon may have said something to his second wife.’
‘He only had the one wife,’ Wendy said.
‘As you say,’ Isaac acknowledged.
Chapter 26
Larry and Isaac could hear the sound of babies crying when they arrived at the house. Larry knocked on the door. A woman came to the door, her hair not brushed, her face showing anger. ‘What do you want?’
‘DI Larry Hill. This is Detective Chief Inspector Cook.’ Both men showed their ID badges.
‘Come in. Find a seat if you can.’
In the hallway of the house was a pushchair which they had to push to one side to get through. Once past, there were the remains of a child’s dinner. They stepped over it and went into the only room that appeared to show any semblance of homeliness.
Five minutes later the woman came in. Isaac noticed that she had changed her dress and brushed her hair.
‘Mrs Solomon,’ Isaac said. ‘Sorry to arrive unannounced.’
‘Call me Mary.’
‘Mary, you met his son.’
‘Solly?’
‘We refer to him as Garry Solomon.’
‘Still the same man.’ The voice of a crying baby echoed through the walls. Isaac found the noise irritating; Larry appeared ambivalent.
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘How would I know?’ Mary said. ‘Sometime in the eighties. I only knew him as my husband’s friend.’
The cry of another child and Mary Solomon rushed out of the door. The sound of a smack, more crying, and Mary’s harsh voice: ‘Shut up, shut up. You’ll be the death of me.’
Isaac could see the need for a visit from Child Welfare.
‘Her children have dumped their offspring on her,’ Larry said.
‘No right to hit children, is it?’
‘No. She needs assistance, not our criticism.’
Mary Solomon returned. ‘Sorry about that. DI Hill knows the situation. If the house were not in my name, I would walk out and leave my son and daughter to it. As it is, I’ve taken a court order against my daughter for maintenance.’
‘You don’t see her?’ Larry asked.
‘Not often, but I’m not surprised,’ the woman said. More crying from the other room. She continued speaking, determined to ignore it. ‘DCI Cook, my daughter is a whore, selling herself up in the city. She is either flat on her back with her legs open, or in a ditch drugged out of her mind. My apologies for talking about my daughter like that, but that’s the reality.’
‘You need help,’ Isaac said.
‘If someone wants to help, they can take the children. My daughter’s are mongrels anyway.’
Isaac could see the frustration in the woman. He could even sympathise, but a child was a child, even if it had no redeeming features and bad blood, the result of a prostitute and her client. He wanted
to dislike the woman but found he could not.
‘We know that Garry Solomon, Solly, disappeared in 1987. Did your husband ever mention him after that?’
‘Not that I remember. Mind you, he was only my husband’s friend to me, and not a good friend at that. Does it matter?’
‘Probably not, but we are still not sure what happened the night Garry Solomon died.’
‘Long time ago. Most are dead, I suppose.’
‘Would your daughter know?’
‘Unlikely. She was only nine years old back in 1987. A pretty little thing then, not the tattooed tart she is now.’
Mary Solomon rushed off back to the other room at the sound of breaking plates. Larry and Isaac excused themselves and left.
‘Wasted trip, Isaac,’ Larry said.
‘I suppose so.’
‘Must be tough when your children turn out bad.’
‘Yes,’ Isaac said, his mind distracted as he considered the case. ‘What I don’t get is why no one missed Garry Solomon. He was visible, and then he disappears.’
‘And his mother Gertrude never went looking for him.’
‘Precisely,’ Isaac said. ‘He was never more than ten to fifteen miles from her, apart from his time in India. What are the chances of not inadvertently bumping into each other?’
‘It’s always possible.’
‘Garry Solomon was killed for a reason, yet there is no reason. His mother never finds him, and he never contacts her, apart from a postcard from India.’
‘Something happened on his return to sever the relationship, and it was not when he was nineteen.’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Who do we ask?’
‘Emma Hampshire and Barbara Bishop.’
Isaac and Larry took the opportunity of an early lunch. Larry, feeling guilty and remembering the ear-bashing he had received after eating a steak on a previous occasion, kept to an orange juice and a Greek Salad. He eyed Isaac’s plate, wished he had ordered pasta as well.
***
Wendy, drawing blanks on finding George Sullivan and aware of Isaac’s wish to visit Emma Hampshire, suggested that she go with him instead of Larry. Isaac agreed with her recommendation.
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