DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

  ‘A nightmare,’ Isaac said.

  ‘The password to withdraw from the offshore account was not there. He must have memorised it.’

  ‘The money would have been lost if he had not given it to someone?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Not entirely. It may have taken some time to access, years maybe, but it was not completely lost. Let me rephrase. As long as someone knew about the account.’

  ‘His executor was Mavis Richardson,’ Isaac said.

  ‘She may know the password. You’d better ask her,’ Dawson, who had taken little interest in the department, said.

  ‘She’s dead,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Murdered?’ Dawson asked.

  ‘Natural causes.’

  ‘It’s very convenient.’ Dawson’s usual morose style of speech had returned.

  ‘I’ll give Gordon Windsor a call,’ Isaac said.

  ‘I attended her funeral,’ Wendy said. ‘You know that.’

  ‘I know,’ Isaac replied, aware that the woman’s body may need to come up again, a lengthy process with endless paperwork.

  Chapter 29

  ‘I don’t give a damn what Dawson said. The woman died of natural causes,’ Gordon Windsor said when Isaac phoned him up. Isaac had known the man for many years, and this was the first time he had known him to be angry. With the London Met, Isaac realised that Gordon Windsor had a flawless record, and Dawson’s aspersions, purely based on Montague Grenfell’s records, were reflecting on his professional judgement, and that of the pathologist who had conducted the autopsy of Mavis Richardson.

  ‘It’s only an idea.’ Isaac tried to calm the man down.

  ‘You’ll never get the permission anyway, and if you did, what tests do you want us to conduct?’ Windsor said, his previous outburst slightly mellowed.

  ‘Toxicology?’ Isaac suggested. Even he had to admit that the possibility of Mavis Richardson dying of anything other than old age seemed remote, but he had to sound out Gordon Windsor.

  ‘The woman was eighty-five. She had led an active life and drank a little too much at times. There were signs of smoking, although minor. Clearly, her blood pressure was a little high.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Tablets in her bathroom. We checked with her doctor, standard procedure, and he confirmed.’

  ‘Until we have further reason Mavis Richardson stays where she is.’

  ‘Messy business digging up the dead, although she’s not been buried long,’ Gordon Windsor said. Isaac could only agree.

  Gordon Windsor hung up the phone. Isaac regretted calling him, regretted reminding him that he had made a mistake once in the past, where he had confirmed that the man had died of self-inflicted wounds but it was later found out to be murder.

  Isaac was well aware that he had made mistakes over the years, pursued one person believing him to be guilty only to find that the unattractive and ill-mannered man was innocent, whereas the attractive and agreeable person turned out to have personal issues and a desire to kill.

  Isaac knew that a police officer was fallible, the same as everyone else. He understood the need for procedures and paperwork as they maintained a detachment that allowed the focus to be directed to facts and evidence, not to assumptions and instincts.

  It was only when he was confronted with endless paperwork that he became downhearted. DCS Richard Goddard could only sympathise, but as he had said, ‘what the new commissioner wants, he gets.’

  Goddard and Cook regarded each other as friends. Isaac had been over to the DCS’s house on a few occasions, had even been invited to the wedding of his eldest daughter. On that occasion, he had taken Jess. That was the time when their romance was full on. She had enjoyed the ceremony and the reception immensely; even hinted to Isaac to make an honest woman of her. It was also before their first argument over Linda Harris.

  Isaac realised that he kept reflecting back to Jess. Linda Harris had been attractive and briefly available, Sophie White had always been there, and Katrina Smith, his current girlfriend, was certainly attractive and he liked her a lot, but always there was Jess O’Neill in the back of his mind.

  It concerned him sometimes, wondered if it was love. He just did not know. He considered whether he should phone Jess up, take her out, but he was aware that Linda Harris would reappear, not as a physical incarnation but as a mental barrier. He could forget that he had been foolish and lustful that night, but Jess never would.

  He collected his thoughts and refocussed on the paperwork.

  No point regretting the past, he thought.

  Isaac managed another twenty-five minutes at his desk, completed a couple of reports, but it was long enough for him. Keith Dawson had caused everyone in the department to analyse the investigation.

  Larry Hill, untidy desk aside, was going through his notes. A clear motive for Montague Grenfell’s death had been given, and it could only mean one thing: the murderer was alive, and he had the password.

  Wendy was talking to Keith Dawson, the majority of the conversation spent on the case, the rest spent on her financial status and Inheritance Tax. Dawson’s constant reiteration that there was nothing to worry about was not helping.

  She knew she was numerically dyslexic, and his analysis on a piece of paper showing what she owned and what she owed meant little to her. ‘If I take your assets, here in the left column, and your liabilities in the right column and subtract, you are below the threshold.’

  Bridget sat to one side. It seemed clear to her, but for Wendy it was not.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be there with you,’ Bridget said.

  ‘You understand what Keith is saying?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘It’s all quite simple.’

  ‘Not to me,’ Wendy replied, feeling a little stupid that the simplest mathematics left her confused.

  ***

  Isaac could see that he needed to give his people direction. He called them into his office. ‘Gordon Windsor is adamant that Mavis Richardson died of natural causes,’ he said.

  Wendy was pleased to hear Windsor’s comment. Bridget, who professed a belief in the Almighty and the afterlife, thanked God. Both women had not liked the idea of digging the old woman up just after she had been buried. To them it was disrespectful.

  Larry, who had no such concerns, had said after Dawson’s statement, ‘Dig her up.’

  Isaac had been brought up by Jamaican parents to believe in God and the Almighty, but also to be fearful of evil spirits. His English education had discounted the evil spirits, but he maintained an abiding respect for God, even if his visits to church were relegated to Christmas and Easter.

  ‘I suggest we focus on Montague Grenfell’s death,’ Isaac said.

  ‘I thought we were,’ Larry said.

  Isaac thought Larry’s comment was condescending, but let it pass.

  ‘Do we have a list of suspects, sir?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘There are two issues to consider: firstly, who would have known about the secret account, and secondly, who would have had the strength to manhandle Grenfell to the top of the stairs.’

  ‘Malcolm Grenfell,’ Larry said.

  ‘He’s the most likely suspect, but can we prove it?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Does he have an alibi?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘We know that Grenfell died between the hours of 11 p.m. and 2 a.m. on the night of the twenty-fifth.’

  ‘Malcolm Grenfell will not have an alibi.’

  ‘Other than he was at home with his woman,’ Isaac said.

  ‘‘Judging by the condition of the girl we met, she would not be reliable,’ Larry said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Bridget asked.

  ‘Drunk, spaced out. She was there with Malcolm Grenfell for a good time and money, nothing more. Besides, he has dumped her now. May be hard to find.’

  ‘Who else would have known?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘Mavis Richardson, obviously. Possibly Albert.’

  ‘They are both dead.’ Larry stated the obviou
s.

  ‘Agreed, but who else would have known?’

  ‘Montague Grenfell was not the sort of man to tell anyone,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Agreed, so let’s look at the more unlikely.’

  ‘Emma Hampshire, Kevin Solomon, and the other children of Michael Solomon,’ Larry said.

  ‘What about George Sullivan?’ Wendy added.

  ‘You said he was an old man,’ Isaac reminded her.

  ‘He is, but he’s still agile.’

  ‘We are not aware of any contact between Michael Solomon’s other children and Montague Grenfell. According to their mother, neither of them are of any consequence. The son follows after his half-brother Garry.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Bridget asked.

  ‘Petty criminal.’

  ‘Apparently, the daughter, a heroin addict, is selling herself up in the city,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Hardly great recommendations for the offspring of Michael Solomon,’ Larry said.

  ‘As you say.’

  ‘Should we check them out?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘We only have their mother’s opinion on her children. She’s probably correct, but we need to check.’

  ‘Bridget, compile a dossier on Michael and Mary Solomon’s two children. Aim to have it prepared for our 5 p.m. meeting,’ Isaac said. ‘In the meantime, Larry, follow up on who ordered the grille to be installed at Bellevue Street. Wendy, what are your plans?’

  ‘I will see if I can get the contact details from Mary Solomon for her two children.’

  ‘And you, DCI?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Gordon Windsor. I will go and visit him, have a chat. I upset him earlier, and Montague Grenfell’s death is still not conclusive. It could have just been an accident.’

  ‘There were two sets of footprints,’ Larry said. ‘Both men’s shoes.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, but if we are about to place pressure on our suspects, then we need our facts to be double-checked.’

  ‘Don’t forget about Emma Hampshire and Kevin Solomon,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Kevin Solomon has some legal training, and Emma Hampshire knows more than she says,’ Isaac replied. ‘Both of them are highly suspect.’

  ‘I hope it’s not Emma Hampshire,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Personally, I would agree, but professionally we charge the guilty person, not choose on whether we like them or not.’

  ‘I understand,’ Wendy replied.

  ***

  Mary Solomon was not pleased to see Wendy on her doorstep again. ‘What the hell do you want?’ she screamed, attempting to make her voice heard over the crying of the baby that she held in one arm. Wendy could see that the woman had no idea with babies, and was holding it too tight. It was clear from the smell that it was in need of changing.

  ‘Let me have it,’ Wendy said. The baby quietened as she felt Wendy’s warm body against it. Wendy, ever practical, took the baby into the bathroom up the stairs and cleaned it. Afterwards, she found a baby’s bottle and filled it with milk. Soon, the baby was resting quietly.

  ‘That’s Deidre’s,’ Mary Solomon said. Wendy remembered that on a previous visit Mary Solomon had said that the baby had been affected by its mother’s drug addiction. Wendy could see neglect by its grandmother more than the afflictions of its birth mother.

  ‘I need to talk to your children.’

  ‘Why do you want to speak to them?’

  Wendy had noticed that the woman’s hands were shaking slightly. Wendy recognised that this could be the early signs of Parkinson’s, although it could just be nerves, but why? Was it because Wendy wanted to talk to her son and daughter, or because she was incapable of looking after three young children?

  ‘Standard procedure in a murder enquiry.’

  ‘But they don’t know the people murdered.’

  ‘I agree that is probably true, but we still need to interview them.’

  ‘They come here to pick up the children.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Deidre sometimes once a week, sometimes it’s as long as three weeks.’

  ‘It’s not for you to look after them. What do you use for money?’

  ‘She gives me the money that a drunk has given her after he has screwed her.’

  ‘Not a very pleasant thing to say about a daughter,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Do you want me to say “for favours given”. Does that sound more palatable to you? She is a prostitute who opens her legs for any man who has the price. No other way to put it.’

  Wendy could see that the woman was embittered and under strain, but her estimation of her daughter seemed inappropriate.

  ‘Your son?’

  ‘He comes here every night, picks up his child and leaves.’

  ‘Does he give you money?’

  ‘Half what the child care facility up the road would charge. I’m not even on the minimum wage.’

  ‘But they’re your grandchildren.’

  ‘Maybe they are, but they are mongrels.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My children and their children. I should never have married that lecherous bastard, and then it was not legitimate. They are all bastards, legally or otherwise.’

  Wendy could see no reason to prolong the conversation. ‘I need their contact details.’

  ‘They’re on my phone.’

  Wendy took the details and left. She was certain the woman had serious issues, and the children should not be in her care. She had resolved once before to contact the appropriate authorities. This time, she would do so after she had contacted the woman’s two children.

  Chapter 30

  ‘Nothing to do with me,’ Daniel Solomon said when Wendy contacted him.

  ‘So far, I’ve only given you my police rank and told you I was from Homicide.’

  ‘Has my mother implicated me?’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘Montague Grenfell’s death.’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘He was friendly with my father when I was younger.’

  ‘I can come and see you now, or you can present yourself at Challis Street Police Station.’

  ‘It’s best if you can come and see me. I will send you the details. Give me an hour.’

  Wendy, with time to spare, went into a café not far from Mary Solomon’s house. She was upset at the condition of the woman, and the neglect that the children in her care were showing. A latte calmed her down.

  She phoned Larry. ‘I’m meeting with Daniel Solomon, Garry Solomon’s half-brother.’

  ‘Do you want me there?’

  ‘I’m not sure what to expect.’

  ‘Give me fifteen minutes.’ Larry was pleased at the opportunity to get out of the office.

  Wendy had expected to find Daniel Solomon in a rundown office down a back alley, not a street-front location. The office was modern and well equipped, with three desks, a person sitting at each one.

  ‘Daniel Solomon, pleased to meet you.’ Wendy saw in front of her a relatively short man with good features and a pleasant smile. He was dressed smartly and wearing a suit jacket, but no tie. He was not what she expected.

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Hill,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Coffee?’ Solomon asked.

  ‘Yes, please. Two sugars for me, none for DI Hill.’

  ‘Business is good,’ Solomon said once they were sitting in his office at the rear. He had closed the door securely after they entered.

  ‘The sign outside says industrial cleaning,’ Wendy said.

  ‘I set it up five years ago,’ Solomon said. ‘I managed to pick up some government cleaning contracts. Never looked back.’

  ‘We are aware that you have a record,’ Larry said.

  ‘I was wild in my youth. You won’t find anything on me, apart from the occasional parking fine, maybe speeding, for the last eight years.’

  ‘That is correct,’ Larry said. He had seen Bridget’s preliminary dossier on Daniel Solomon and his sister. The man had told the truth.

&nbs
p; Wendy saw the Solomon charm in the way he spoke. He was thirty-six, the same age as his half-brother when he had died. The similarity between the two men was astonishing. Comparing them, Wendy had to wonder if breeding counted. Garry had firm features, was a rugged, handsome man, whereas Daniel was rugged but not as attractive.

  ‘You’re not what I expected,’ Wendy said.

  ‘My mother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Life’s not been good for her.’

  ‘She cannot handle the children.’

  ‘Did you see mine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s okay, and she looks after him well enough.’

  ‘Your sister’s children?’

  ‘They have problems.’

  ‘Would you care to elucidate?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Not unless it’s relevant.’

  Wendy noticed that they had touched a raw nerve. She changed the subject.

  ‘When Montague Grenfell died, what did you think?’

  ‘Nothing really. He was someone from my childhood.’

  ‘Why is your child with your mother?’

  ‘My wife went back home to look after her dying mother.’

  ‘She did not take the child?’

  ‘She knew he would be all right with me.’

  Wendy thought the story strange; Bridget could check it out. The man had become edgy, irritable, as though he wanted them to go away. Neither Larry nor Wendy intended to leave until they had answers. One of the women came in from the outside office. Daniel Solomon gave her what she wanted, and she left.

  ‘Sorry about that. Pressure of work,’ Solomon said. Wendy wondered if it was pre-arranged to hurry them out. She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Montague Grenfell?’ Larry asked.

  Solomon looked into the air, searching for an answer. ‘Over twenty years.’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘I was young. People come, people go. I was not keeping a diary.’ The man’s reply was curt.