DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

  ‘It was on the news.’

  ‘We believe that your husband visited that house at some time.’

  ‘You don’t believe he killed the man?’ The woman looked alarmed at the prospect, not sure what to say, other than the inevitable defence of her husband.

  ‘Not at all,’ Wendy replied, although George Sullivan could have been as guilty as any of the others.

  ‘Does the name Solomon mean anything to you?’

  ‘Other than it was the name of the body.’

  ‘And Grenfell?’

  ‘My maiden name.’ Wendy sat up, disturbing the dog, at Victoria Sullivan’s reply.

  ‘Lord Penrith?’

  ‘He was my second cousin. We shared the same grandfather, that’s all.’

  As the old woman hobbled over to make them another cup, Wendy took the opportunity to SMS Isaac. ‘Found him.’

  Isaac’s reply. ‘Good.’

  ‘What was your relationship with Albert Grenfell?’

  ‘We exchanged Christmas cards, attended weddings, but apart from that, not a lot.’

  ‘Any reason?’

  ‘The title and the wealth followed Albert’s line of the family. I’m from the poor side.’

  ‘But you kept in touch.’

  ‘Yes. He was a good man.’

  The dog jumped up and ran to the front door. Its tail was wagging, but it was not yapping. ‘My husband’s home,’ Victoria Sullivan said. A key in the lock and the door swung open.

  ‘Down, boy, down,’ the man said.

  Even though he was in his eighties, George Sullivan looked to be a fit person. Wendy noticed that he stood firm, although he carried a wooden cane in one hand. He took off his coat and came into the room.

  ‘We have a guest,’ his wife said.

  Wendy stood and introduced herself.

  ‘Not often we have a visitor from the police.’

  George Sullivan beckoned Wendy to sit down again. He walked over to the electric fire, the fake flames trying to create the look of a real fire but missing the effect entirely. He stood with his back to it, enjoying the heat.

  ‘What can I do for you? I see that Victoria’s provided you with a cup of tea.’ He looked over at his wife. ‘Any chance of one for me, love?’

  Once his wife had left the room, George Sullivan whispered, ‘Is this about Garry Solomon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I never met him, but I knew the name.’

  ‘You’re a material witness, but you never came forward?’

  ‘I thought about it, but my wife doesn’t know.’

  ‘The parties.’ Wendy ventured a guess.

  ‘I’m embarrassed to tell you now.’

  ‘We need to talk in detail,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Not with my wife around.’ The man appeared concerned not to upset his wife. According to Mavis Richardson, he had been an obnoxious bore the night of the party.

  ‘We either talk here or down the local police station. Which do you prefer?’

  ‘Do you like walking?’ he asked.

  ‘Before arthritis,’ Wendy replied.

  ‘It’s the same with my leg. There’s a park not far from here. We could go there, grab a coffee, and you can ask me what you want.’

  ‘And you will tell me all I need to know?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Victoria Sullivan returned and took a seat. All three drank their tea and spoke about the weather and the dog. It was evident that both were fond of the animal, even though it preferred to lie across Wendy’s feet.

  ‘We’re just going out for a while,’ George Sullivan said.

  ‘Wrap up warm. You don’t want to catch a cold.’ The reply from the dutiful wife.

  ‘Will you stay for tea, sergeant?’ Victoria Sullivan asked.

  ‘Thanks for the offer, but I need to get back to London.’

  Chapter 28

  Wendy pulled up the collar of her coat as she stepped from the heat of the Sullivans’ house into the bracing wind outside.

  ‘Global warming. Makes no sense to me,’ George Sullivan said. Wendy noticed he moved with a slight limp.

  The park was well looked after. Apart from the ducks in the pond, close to where they had entered, there was little movement: a few hardy souls jogging, someone doing yoga, although Wendy did not understand why or how, and a few dog owners throwing Frisbees repeatedly.

  George Sullivan seemed not to concern himself with the cold. Wendy realised that she could not conduct a comprehensive interview while her feet were cold and her hands were shaking.

  ‘There’s a nice café around the corner. We’ll go there,’ Sullivan said.

  Wendy appreciated the gesture.

  The café prided itself on home-made cakes. Wendy chose two for herself. Both of them ordered lattes.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  Wendy went through the procedure, gave him the caution about whatever you say…

  ‘I know the rigmarole. I worked with Army Intelligence back in the 50s. During the cold war, stationed in Berlin, listening in on Russian military communications.’

  ‘Do you understand the language?’

  ‘I did. My mother was Russian. Nowadays, I can just about understand the Russian news on the television. Anyway, you want to know about Bellevue Street.’

  ‘Yes. Do you mind if I record our conversation?’

  ‘I only hope my wife never finds out what I’m going to tell you.’

  ‘That’s not a guarantee I can give,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Whatever happens, I will tell you all I know.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Wendy ordered another latte. She still had the expense account, but it appeared likely that she would not be able to give it much exercise.

  ‘I was friends with Albert Grenfell. We had worked together in Berlin. He was a snob. I suppose you know that already.’

  ‘It’s been mentioned.’

  ‘We started meeting on a social basis. Not often, but whenever he was in London, he would call, and we would go out to a bar or a club.’

  ‘Disreputable?’

  ‘Albert knew with me that I would be discreet, and I was young, not yet married, although I was courting Victoria. Sowing a few wild oats seemed fine at the time.’

  ‘You said he was a snob.’

  ‘What was he doing with me, is that it?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Colonel in Army Intelligence counted for something. It was the cold war, spies and espionage were always in the news. My rank and my job gave me a certain allure. Today, they would say shades of James Bond, but to be honest, I spent most of my time in a room with another ten men listening to boring Russians speaking, and then writing endless reports which would have been filed within ten minutes of someone reading them.’

  ‘Albert Grenfell liked the ideas of spies and espionage?’

  ‘He portrayed this staid, conservative man, but underneath it, he wanted to be daring and dashing and naughty. With me, he could.’

  ‘You started going out to bawdy clubs?’

  ‘Not often. He was married, and his wife watched him like a hawk.’

  ‘You met her?’

  ‘With Victoria?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We have been told that she was at the Richardsons’ party.’

  ‘She thought it was going to be a family gathering.’

  ‘It must have come as a shock.’

  ‘It came as a shock to me as well.’

  ‘Did Albert know beforehand?’

  ‘No, but with the Richardson sisters anything was possible.’

  ‘Are you saying that a family gathering turned into an orgy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Wendy, feeling hungry, ordered pasta; Sullivan ordered the same. The weather had turned bleaker outside, and it was raining heavily. George Sullivan phoned his wife to tell her he would be delayed. ‘She’s a terrible worrier,’ he said.

  ‘Does your wife know any of this?’

  ‘Nothing, an
d that’s the way I would prefer it to stay.’

  ‘You realise the importance of what you’re saying?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that withholding information could be seen as an offence?’

  ‘You had difficulty finding me?’ he said in reply.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Even after all these years, I am afforded some protection, some secrecy, some leniency as to my civic responsibilities.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘Once a spy, even if not James Bond or anything glamorous, always a spy.’

  ‘Does that mean if there was a court case, the truth could be suppressed?’

  ‘Not in the case of Garry Solomon, but otherwise it could be.’

  Wendy realised that it was not a threat, merely a statement of fact. She pressed on, only stopping to eat some more pasta.

  ‘What changed with the family gathering?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘The younger sister.’

  ‘Mavis?’

  ‘Yes, that was her name. I can’t remember the other sister’s name.’

  ‘Gertrude.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. We are all sitting there. I am engaged to Victoria, but she could not come. After so many years, I can’t remember why. Albert’s wife is knocking back straight gin. Apparently, she became semi-alcoholic in later years. I’m drinking heavily, beer mainly, as is Albert. Gertrude is knocking back vodka and lime at a fast rate, and Mavis is drinking wine and something else.’

  ‘Something else?’

  ‘A drug of some sort, although I don’t know what it was.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Albert’s wife becomes unconscious, and they put her in the other room. Mavis, now free of the woman, sits on Michael Solomon’s lap. It doesn’t seem to be the first time, either. She is kissing him full on the mouth, even though he is family. Albert sits there like a stunned mullet, unable to look, unable to look away.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I told you. Albert loved the dirty and the downright sleazy. I took him to some very discreet places where no one knew him, and he was straight into it.’

  ‘Women?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What happened with Mavis?’

  ‘She moves over to Albert. Starts teasing him, tells him to loosen up. She grabs hold and kisses him. Everyone is urging him to go upstairs with her. She grabs hold of him and drags him out of the door.’

  ‘Once they’ve gone?’

  ‘Gertrude comes on to me. Back then, I was a good-looking young man, plenty of energy, always ready for a woman.’

  Wendy could see that he was still good-looking, although no longer young.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I took advantage, and took her upstairs.’

  ‘We are aware of an incident.’

  ‘That was me, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Tell me about it?’

  ‘I came back downstairs after about forty minutes. Albert reappears five minutes later, a sheepish look on his face and a big smile. His wife is still out for the count in the other room, oblivious to what has transpired.

  ‘Gertrude moves over to Albert, Mavis makes for Michael Solomon. The younger sister was more beautiful, and I was drunk and as horny as hell. I made a scene, attempted to grab Mavis. She got angry, and I was evicted from the party. I’m ashamed of my actions, but that’s the truth.’

  The weather had eased outside, as had the conversation. There seemed little more to learn from George Sullivan. Wendy shook his hand and paid the bill.

  As they left the café, feeling yet again the biting cold, George Sullivan turned to Wendy. ‘Mavis and Gertrude Richardson?’

  ‘Both dead, I’m afraid.’

  George Sullivan shrugged his shoulders and moved on, his cane tapping the ground as he walked.

  ***

  Isaac listened as Wendy recounted her meeting with George Sullivan. Wendy felt the man was an innocent bystander, an instinctive reaction on her part. Isaac was more sceptical: too many murders, too many innocent bystanders, but with two murders so far, and another two people dead, he hoped there would be no more.

  A drunken, drug-induced impromptu orgy was hardly the reason for Garry Solomon’s death, and Montague’s death seemed illogical.

  Larry still waited on an update from Bridget. Tracing a thirty-year-old phone number was proving time-consuming. Wendy had managed to find a phone book from the period. The only problem: it listed addresses and then phone numbers. There was no way to look for a phone number and then the address. The only advantage was that the number was in Kingston upon Thames, but even back thirty years, there had been a sizable population. It was only thirty minutes away by car, less by train, but it was a needle in a haystack without an address. Larry pestered Bridget a few too many times before she reacted: ‘I’m going as fast as I can.’

  Larry, realising that he had overstepped the mark, retreated and pretended to tidy his desk. He gave up after ten minutes, and went and made himself a cup of coffee.

  Isaac busied himself waiting for the next development. He did not have to wait for long.

  Keith Dawson, in better humour than on previous occasions, burst into his office. ‘I’ve found something,’ he said. Larry and Wendy, seeing him enter Isaac’s office with Bridget in hot pursuit, moved quickly to find out what was the latest development.

  All five were in Isaac’s office now, a space that was full with three. Isaac suggested they move to a larger room.

  ‘Keith, what is it?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘The man was brilliant, I’ll give him that.’ It was the first time that anyone had seen Dawson with anything approaching a smile on his face, but now…

  ‘Spill it,’ Larry said. ‘What have you found?’

  ‘According to Albert Grenfell, and according to the law, the wealth of the Grenfells, or at least the stately home, the real estate holdings, and the substantive majority of the money, should be inherited by the incumbent lord.’

  ‘Seems fair enough,’ Isaac said. He had resumed his seat, aware that a prolonged speech by Dawson was to ensue. Although he had to admit that Dawson’s usual monotone had been replaced by an excitable speech pattern that was almost pleasant to listen to.

  ‘Are you saying that Malcolm Grenfell is not entitled to his inheritance?’

  ‘He’s entitled if he can find it, but I’ve discovered what Montague did. It’s brilliant.’

  ‘Can you give it to us in language that we can understand?’ Larry asked. He had little time for Dawson and his less than cheery disposition, his usually dull manner of speaking, his ability to walk by you in the office and somehow not see you.

  ‘The wealth of the Grenfells is held in a number of trusts, offshore banks around the world.’

  ‘Illegal?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Dubious, more like. The wealthy are always looking for a way to hide their wealth, avoid tax, avoid death duties.’

  ‘I thought that no longer applied,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Inheritance Tax does.’

  ‘You’d better detail this.’

  Keith Dawson stood up and positioned himself by the whiteboard. ‘To most people, Inheritance Tax is purely an inconvenience. As long as your wealth is below a certain level, then it just means some additional paperwork.’

  ‘Am I liable?’ Wendy asked. She had been contemplating selling her house now that her husband had died.

  ‘As long as it is valued lower than three hundred and twenty-five thousand and you don’t have a few million pounds in an account at your local building society, then you're all right.’

  ‘Nothing to worry about there,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Mind you, a lot of people don’t realise that they could be liable. If your house is worth a million pounds, for instance, then nearly six hundred thousand pounds of it could be liable for a forty per cent tax on your death.’

  ‘Hell,’ Larry exclaimed.

  ‘Don’t worry too much. There are ways to reduce
the liability, give some of your wealth to your children, your wife, and so on. And besides, it only applies at death.’

  ‘What has Grenfell done?’

  ‘He’s taken more than fifty per cent of the Grenfells’ money and put it into overseas accounts. Not strictly illegal, but I can almost certainly guarantee that he was the only person with the knowledge of how to access it.’

  ‘And now he is dead,’ Isaac said. ‘What does this mean?’

  ‘Someone knows how to access it.’ Keith Dawson stood proudly as he announced the first of his great works of deduction.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Someone has been accessing the money since his death.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘Someone has found out the details and the password.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘No. I have found out how to access the account and download a statement. There is another more complex password for withdrawing the money.’

  ‘Are you inferring that Montague Grenfell gave it to someone else?’ Isaac said, momentarily not annoyed with Dawson and his manner.

  ‘Given, taken or forced!’ Dawson emphasised.

  ‘A motive,’ Wendy said.

  ‘It looks good,’ Isaac said.

  Keith Dawson returned to his seat. Isaac reasserted his seniority and stood where Dawson had previously. Wendy was confused about some aspects of Dawson’s presentation. She would ask for his opinion on her financial status later.

  ‘Let me get this right,’ Isaac said. ‘Without the password, it would not be possible for anyone to access the money?’

  ‘The account is listed in Grenfell’s records, although it is cryptic.’

  ‘Cryptic?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘What was he like?’ Dawson asked.

  Isaac, the only person who had met him when he was alive, answered. ‘Pedantic, probably obsessive. His handwriting was extremely small.’

  ‘Some paranoias there,’ Dawson replied.

  ‘You never answered my previous question.’

  ‘He often reversed the words and the numbers. For instance, “word” became “drow”, and “12658” became “85621”.’

  ‘What the hell for?’ Larry asked. His passwords were his wife’s birthday.

  ‘The hard part was knowing when he was using a cryptic variance and when he was not. And then he would vary which variation to use. Sometimes, it would be the reverse, at other times transpose one letter to the right, one to the left. It’s easy once you know what to look for.’