Larry returned to the office. Wendy joined Isaac outside Emma Hampshire’s house. She was pleased to see Kevin Solomon’s car parked across the road.
‘Emma, this is DCI Cook,’ Wendy said. She had phoned ahead to tell Emma Hampshire that they were coming.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Isaac said. Wendy noticed that Emma Hampshire, although thirty years older than her boss, visibly blushed as he took her hand firmly and shook it.
The Isaac Cook charm, how can any woman resist it? Wendy thought.
Kevin Solomon came to the door and introduced himself. Wendy could see that mother and son were getting along fine.
‘Come in please,’ Emma Hampshire said.
Wendy knew that she would have to make a point of forewarning the woman if they visited again. On the table in the dining room there were sandwiches, some cakes, and a pot of freshly-brewed coffee.
‘Coffee, DCI?’ Emma Hampshire asked.
‘Thank you.’
It was clear that Kevin Solomon was moving back in with his mother; the suitcases in the hallway testament to the fact.
According to Keith Dawson, Emma Hampshire and her son would be well provided for once Gertrude Richardson’s assets had been dealt with.
Kevin, as the only legitimate descendant of Gertrude, was to be given the responsibility of handling probate, but as he was not a qualified lawyer, he intended to re-engage with his studies.
A fellow student when he had been studying, now qualified, would deal with Gertrude. Mavis presented another problem. She had no descendants, and Kevin’s father had not been on good terms with her. Kevin believed that her wealth should go to his mother as well, but Mavis’s will had been ambiguous. She had placed sole responsibility in the case of her death with Montague Grenfell, and he was dead. Failing that, she had named her sister, although her sister may not have known, and she was dead too.
According to Kevin’s understanding, a decision about her assets would require legal advice.
The death of Montague Grenfell was apparently causing other difficulties. The incumbent Lord Penrith may have had access to the stately home, and sufficient funds to maintain his singularly self-indulgent lifestyle, but the bulk of the wealth remained out of reach.
‘What can I help you with?’ Emma Hampshire asked, directing her gaze at Isaac.
‘We have not been able to find out the reason for the animosity of your first husband towards his mother,’ Isaac said.
‘I never knew.’
‘We are aware of an incident when he was twelve, although he remained in the family home until he was nineteen, barring time at boarding school, so we do not believe that the incident was the catalyst.’
‘I believe it was.’
‘Did he tell you the details?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘When we were in India.’
‘And then there is the postcard he sent when he was there,’ Isaac said.
‘We were at a retreat in the hills, puffing hash, attempting to come closer to nirvana.’
‘And?’
‘Have you tried it?’
‘No,’ Isaac replied. There had been some uppers and downers sold around the schoolyard when he was in his teens. He had tried one once, made him sick and sad. He never tried them again. Even the drunken nights with his mates, he had largely avoided; the alcohol put him to sleep and affected his ability to chat up the young women.
‘Garry was melancholy, at peace with the world. He wrote the postcard, put a stamp on it, and put it in the mail. The next day he tried to get the postcard back. Even offered a bribe, but it was too late. The postcard was on its way, and there was nothing he could do about it.’
‘His mother treasured it. Did you contact her?’ Isaac asked.
‘I phoned her once after Garry had left me.’
‘Why?’ Wendy asked.
‘Curious, I suppose. If Garry could treat me the way he did, and he hated his mother so much, then what was she like?’
‘And what was she like?’
‘She knew who I was. Accused me of turning her son against her. It was not a pleasant conversation. In the end, I slammed the phone down.’
‘Did Gertrude Richardson ever mention this to you?’ Isaac asked Wendy.
‘Never, but my time with her was limited. She was friendly that last night when she had seen Garry, but she died soon after.’
‘She saw him after thirty years!’ Emma Hampshire looked astonished.
‘Yes,’ Wendy replied.
‘What did he look like?’
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Mrs Hampshire,’ Isaac said.
‘Please call me Emma.’
‘At any time did you have reason to believe that someone would want your husband dead?’
‘After he left me, he fell in with a bad crowd. They may have.’
‘He was found in a house belonging to Gertrude and Mavis Richardson. Did you ever visit that house?’
‘Bellevue Street? I never visited, although I knew about the mansion.’
‘How?’
‘Garry pointed it out once.’
‘He never thought to go in?’
‘He said he used to visit there as a child, nothing more.’
Isaac turned his focus to Kevin, the son. ‘What do you know about your family history?’
‘Mum’s told me about Malcolm Grenfell. Is that what you are asking?’
‘Yes.’
‘People make mistakes, and I can believe what she tells me about my dad. I can remember him vaguely, but I never saw any presents or Christmas cards from him after he left. As if he didn’t care.’
‘Bob Hampshire did,’ Isaac said.
‘He was a good man.’
‘Why the drugs?’
‘Susceptible to them. My father’s generation became alcoholic, my generation took drugs.’
Isaac felt that the interview was going nowhere. If Emma Hampshire knew anything, she was keeping it close to her chest. As for Kevin, he may have been too young.
Wendy thought that Emma Hampshire and her son were good people. Isaac tended to agree, but experience had taught him that the most unlikely people were often closer to the action than appeared at first glance. He was not ready to discount either of them yet.
***
Isaac and Wendy drove over to Barbara Bishop’s house in Knightsbridge. There appeared to be no one at home on their arrival. Wendy phoned the woman’s mobile. Barbara Bishop appeared five minutes later.
‘Yoga class,’ she said.
‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Cook,’ Wendy said.
The woman, wearing yoga pants and a tee shirt, looked up at Isaac. ‘I need a shower. Give me five minutes. Help yourself to coffee, the cups are in the cupboard to the right of the sink,’ she said.
Wendy took up the offer, found some biscuits as well. Ten minutes later the woman returned, dressed in a white blouse and a short skirt.
Mrs Bishop, by your own admission you were the last person to see Garry Solomon alive.’
‘I told Constable Gladstone this last time.’
‘I am aware that you spoke to Sergeant Gladstone, and that you were very cooperative. Sometimes it pays for a different police officer to ask the same questions. Garry Solomon’s death is highly suspicious, but we have no reason for it.’
‘He was a good man with me,’ Barbara Bishop said. ‘I would have married him if he had been available.’
‘What did he feel about you?’ Isaac asked.
‘He loved me. I’m certain of that.’
‘Did he say so?’
‘A woman knows, it doesn’t need words.’
‘What mood was he in when he left that day?’
‘Cheerful.’
‘And where was he heading?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You asked him?’
‘He said he would be only forty minutes and then he was
going to take me out to the movies.’
‘Did you see anyone suspiciously loitering in the street?’
‘No.’
Chapter 27
Forensics had come back. ‘We managed to get you the phone number off the work order you sent us,’ a deep woman’s voice said. Larry recognised the tell-tale sign of a heavy smoker.
‘Can you email it to me?’ Larry asked.
‘It will be in your inbox within ten seconds,’ the woman replied, a rasping cough interrupting her speech.
Larry had been back in the office when the woman had phoned. He had not had much to do that morning other than to tidy his desk, always a bit of a mess due to his habit of not tidying the night before. He could not understand how Isaac managed to keep his so tidy, and then there was DCS Goddard. Their DCS’s penchant for a clean desk was legendary. ‘Clean desk, clean mind,’ he would say if pressed.
Larry sipped his coffee, pressed the key repeatedly to refresh the inbox on his laptop. Bridget had said that it was not necessary, but he was impatient. In forty seconds, not the ten promised, he saw that he had received a new email. It was what he wanted. Bridget was working hard in her corner of the office. Larry had mentioned before to Isaac that she needed help, but Bridget, when asked, had resisted any assistance. ‘It’s the way I work best. If I am not under pressure, I lose focus,’ she had said.
Isaac had not pursued the matter any further, and besides, he had not had a lot of time. If he was not in the office, he was worrying about the case. If he was not worrying, he was with Katrina Smith.
Once in the office, fully involved in the deliberating, the discussing, the attempts to find a solution, the time would pass unnoticed. Almost as if the hands of the clock on the wall had stopped rotating.
He knew that was why Jess O’Neill had moved out, and probably why Katrina Smith would not be in his life for too long. He sometimes wondered, not often, as he had little time for day-dreaming and idle speculation, if it would be different with Katrina, although he assumed it probably wouldn’t be.
He was a man who looked for a long-term companion, the patter of little feet rushing to him when he walked in the door at night after a hard day's work, the embrace of a loving woman, but he could see himself as a life-long bachelor whose life was interspersed with a succession of women. He had seen Malcolm Grenfell in his sixties playing around with women young enough to be his daughter. Isaac did not want that for himself. He resolved to find someone to share his life with, but would it be Jess O’Neill or Katrina Smith, maybe even Linda Harris, although he did not know where she was.
‘Isaac, Isaac.’
‘Sorry, deep in thought,’ Isaac replied, rubbing his eyes, pretending to put pen to paper.
‘Fast asleep more likely,’ Larry said. ‘Don’t worry. We’re all feeling that way.’ He had news, vital news, for his DCI.
‘Too many hours here,’ Isaac replied.
‘We have a phone number for the grille.’
‘And?’
‘It’s an old number. I tried dialling, but it came up blank. Just a hollow ring on the other end.’
‘But traceable?’
‘Bridget is working on it.’
‘Great. Keep me posted.’
Wendy came into Isaac’s office. ‘Sir, I’m drawing a blank on George Sullivan.’
‘How many likely candidates?’
‘In Berkshire and surrounding counties, over thirty.’
‘Have you contacted them all?’
‘We’ve tried to be selective. No point phoning a George Sullivan unless he’s in his late seventies to eighties, is there?’
Isaac leant back in his chair. Wendy was looking for a measured response when he could not think of one. She was the best there was at finding people, whether they wanted to be found or not. Isaac knew that she would find George Sullivan, even if he was buried in a churchyard somewhere or his remains were ash.
‘You’re right.’ The only useful comment that Isaac could offer.
‘He could have moved around the country, but collating that amount of information will take some time,’ Wendy said.
‘Bridget is weighed down,’ Isaac replied. ‘And now she is working on the phone number that Larry has found. What will this number tell us, Larry?’ Isaac asked.
‘Who ordered the grille to be installed.’
‘So, someone gave them the key to enter the house, but not to enter the room. On the one hand, someone is trying to conceal a body, and on the other, they give a third party access to the murder scene. It all sounds bizarre to me,’
‘What do you mean, sir?’ Larry asked. Wendy was in the room, so the familiarity of addressing his boss by his first name was not appropriate.
‘Did they install the bars on the windows.’
‘It appears that way, sir.’
‘If they entered the room, were they alone?’
‘After thirty years? Who would know?’
‘What about the old man that is still working there?’
‘It’s a thought. I could take him to the house. It may jog his memory.’
‘You’d better do it today,’ Isaac said. Larry cursed under his breath. He was an experienced police officer, and he had not thought of it. He had been slowly gaining the confidence of his DCI, and here he was, making the most basic of errors. Thirty years was a long time, but Tom Wellings came from an age before computers and smart phones.
Larry remembered that his father in his seventies could remember phone numbers and car registrations from his youth, but had no idea as to his own phone number. If anyone asked, he would open his wallet and take out a piece of paper with it typed on.
***
Bridget hurried into the office. Usually she shuffled along maintaining a predictable pace. Encountering her in the corridor was always a chore. Isaac moved fast, as did Larry, but with Bridget, it was the same lumbering forward momentum, and it was impossible to get by. But this time, she was moving fast, even knocking off some papers precariously perched on the top of Larry’s filing cabinet.
‘I’ve found an address,’ she said.
‘George Sullivan?’ Isaac asked.
‘It looks possible.’
‘Wendy, fancy a trip to the country,’ Isaac asked.
‘Ready and willing.’
‘Go easy on expenses,’ Larry reminded her. He knew she would still have a slap-up meal in a quality restaurant. ‘Necessary to maintain cover,’ she would say afterwards.
Besides, if she came back with a result, he would sign the expense form.
Wendy took the printout from Bridget and left the office. Five minutes later, just long enough for her to collect her handbag with the police issue credit card, grab the keys to the police car, and she was gone. She always carried a small bag with her in case there was an overnight stay involved. Berkshire was not far, only thirty-five miles down the M4, no more than an hour, sometimes less if the traffic was flowing, although it could take longer at peak times. It was eleven in the morning before she turned the key in her car. She turned left as she exited the Challis Street car park. The traffic was relatively light for the time of day, apart from a truck blocking the road two miles away. She knew the area well, and she diverted down a few side streets. Soon she was heading through Chiswick and onto the M4.
The address was 81 Charter Street, Reading. Wendy found it with little difficulty. It was an attractive house, indicative of the area. A neat garden out the front, some flowers; the season was unfavourable for them to bloom, although they looked ready to once the coldness in the air had been replaced with the rays of the sun. A small dog yapped inside the house as Wendy pushed open the gate at the front. The yapping was quickly accompanied by a woman’s shrill voice. ‘Stop the barking, or I’ll have the neighbours complaining,’ it said.
Wendy noticed that the dog took no notice. She had had a dog when she first married. A spritely Yorkshire terrier who would jump up when she came in, but not for her husband, who was more disciplined
with the animal. Still, her husband had shed more tears than her when it had died at the age of thirteen.
After that, both of them vowed no more dogs, although their two sons had had a collection of rabbits, guinea pigs, even salamanders, but none ever lived for long, and no one ever formed an emotional attachment. Wendy could not say that about the two cats she now owned. She realised that she had become fond of them, and she would be sad when they departed.
After two attempts at ringing the bell on the house, a two-storey terrace built in the 1950s, the door opened.
‘Sergeant Wendy Gladstone, Challis Street Police Station. I’m with Homicide,’ Wendy said.
‘No bodies here,’ the woman replied. She was attempting to hold back the dog which wanted to surge forward and welcome the visitor.
Wendy could see that making friends with the dog would gain the confidence of the woman. She bent down and patted it, even though it was old and scruffy, a mongrel of indeterminate parentage.
‘He doesn’t take to strangers,’ the woman said.
The dog barked at Wendy’s touch but stopped soon after. It was clear that the dog did not go out often, and it was in need of a good bath.
‘You’d better come in. No point standing out there in the cold. Cup of tea?’
‘Yes, please.’
Wendy noted that the house had seen better years; the wallpaper was fading, and the carpet was threadbare in certain areas. It was a good house in a good street, but the inside showed neglect, whereas the gardens, front and rear, showed love and affection. It seemed incongruous, but probably not related to Wendy’s current line of enquiry.
The woman came back with two mugs of tea. ‘Sorry, there’s no sugar, although I have sweetener if you prefer.’
‘Sweetener is fine,’ Wendy answered. The dog had taken his place next to her. The smell of it was distracting.
‘May I ask your name?’
‘Victoria Sullivan.’
‘And your husband is George?’
‘Yes.’
‘May I ask where he is?’
‘He will be back soon,’ the woman replied. ‘Why are you interested in George?’
‘You are aware of a body that was found in a fireplace?’
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1 Page 54