Larry wanted the man down the station, formally cautioned, and then he would prise the truth from him. Wendy could see Solomon’s charm dissipating, a characteristic apparently all too familiar in his half-brother.
‘Did you know Garry Solomon or Solly Michaels?’ Wendy asked.
‘My mother mentioned that you had been asking about him. I would have been six or seven when he disappeared. If I had seen him, you could not expect me to remember him.’
‘Tell us about your sister?’
‘Not much to tell.’
‘Humour us,’ Larry said. He knew when someone was avoiding direct answers to direct questions.
‘She’s made some bad decisions in her life.’
‘Men?’
‘Men, drugs, yes.’
‘Have you seen her recently?’
‘Once a week.’
‘Why?’
‘Brotherly love. It is important to some of us, you know,’ Daniel Solomon said bitingly. It touched a raw nerve with Larry, who had a brother that he never saw as a result of a family dispute. It silenced him for a moment.
‘I’m busy. Is there any more that you want?’ Solomon asked.
‘I think that’s about all for now,’ Wendy said.
There was one more call that day, the sister. Wendy made the phone call, a female voice answered. She noticed no great enthusiasm from the woman to meet until Wendy firmly told her that it was now, or else down at Challis Street Police Station. If she wanted, she would organise a marked police car to pick her up.
‘King’s Road, Chelsea. I’ll meet you in front of the Saatchi Gallery.’
Wendy knew there were good restaurants in the area. Interviewing a suspect in one of them would not be inappropriate.
Larry phoned Bridget. ‘Check out Daniel Solomon’s business. I’ll send you the details.’
***
Larry had to look twice when a woman in a smart blue dress introduced herself.
‘Hi, I’m Deidre Solomon.’
Larry realised that this was no ordinary prostitute. The woman, an air of assuredness about her, oozed class and quality. He noticed other men looking her way, other women too.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Wendy said.
‘I can give you one hour of my time,’ Deidre Solomon said.
‘Lunch?’ Wendy asked.
‘I’m a light eater. Why not?’
The three relocated to the restaurant inside the Saatchi Gallery. Larry noted the prices were high. Wendy never looked.
‘What business are you involved in?’ Larry asked.
‘My mother told you I’m a drug-addicted prostitute selling myself to any man with the money.’
‘Something like that,’ Wendy replied.
‘I’m clean now.’
‘And the other part?’
‘I’m not ashamed. I’m still for hire at a price.’
‘You are still a prostitute?’ Larry asked.
‘I prefer gentleman’s companion, but if you want to use a cruder term, then I am.’
‘We met your brother.’
‘Good man. Did you like him?’ Deidre looked over at Wendy.
Larry knew the woman was thirty-seven, though she looked younger. Her breasts were firm, the result of surgery he assumed. The colour of her skin, a light brown, was either a result of cream or a tanning salon. She wore red high-heeled shoes with a stiletto point. If he did not know her history or what she had just admitted, he would have assumed that she was one of the idle rich who strolled up and down King’s Road, flaunting themselves and their credit cards. He could not tell if she had money or made the pretence to induce wealthy men to part with their cash for a few hours of her time.
‘Yes,’ Wendy replied, although his criminal record showed a litany of crimes when he had been younger.
Wendy scanned Bridget’s updates on Deidre Solomon while Larry continued the interview: Deidre Solomon, prostituting, shoplifting.
Nothing major there, Wendy thought.
The brother had been in court on a charge of grievous bodily harm, but it had been dropped on a technicality, and he walked out of the court a free man. Still, to Wendy, it was interesting that the man was capable of violence.
‘Do you know Montague Grenfell?’ Larry asked.
‘Daniel said you would ask.’ Deidre Solomon ate a salad, and even then, very slowly. Wendy assumed she had a problem keeping the weight off, and semi-starvation was a necessity.
‘And?’
‘Yes. I knew him.’
‘How?’
‘With my father when I was a child.’
‘And?’ Larry persisted, the hesitancy in the woman’s reply concerning him.
‘He came to see me occasionally.’
The woman’s statement caused Wendy to put down her fork. ‘You knew him?’ she asked.
‘He was a nice old man.’
Wendy realised that they had uncovered something very relevant. She pushed her plate to one side, even though a small amount of food remained. Larry had chosen a salad, the same as Deidre Solomon, daughter of Michael Solomon, the paid lover of Montague Grenfell, if what she had told them turned out to be true. The woman had no reason to lie, and by her own admission she had placed herself and her brother at the top of the list of prime suspects.
Larry spoke to the gallery staff, showed his ID. They organised a private room. The two police officers and Deidre relocated there. One of the waitresses brought in three coffees.
Larry formally cautioned Deirdre, told her that evidence given could be used in a court of law. Neither he nor Wendy had expected any more from her other than a denial of any knowledge, and a vague recollection of Montague Grenfell.
‘Could you please elaborate on your relationship with Montague Grenfell?’ Larry asked. He was the more senior of the two police officers. He would take the lead role in the interview.
‘He contacted my agency and arranged a booking.’
‘He knew your name?’
‘Not my professional name. He had chosen me from a website.’
‘Did he at any time know who you were?’
‘Never.’
‘But you knew who he was?’
‘The family history. I knew.’
‘Did that concern you?’
‘Why? He was not related, other than my father had been married to one of his cousins.’
‘The man was in his seventies,’ Wendy said.
‘He was no great stud, but he was good for his age.’
‘Why did you tell us?’ Larry asked.
‘My brother said that it’s always best to be open with the police. If they find out later, it’s more incriminating.’
‘Wise man, your brother,’ Larry admitted.
‘Did Montague Grenfell tell you anything we should know about? Wendy asked.
‘Such as?’
‘Family secrets.’
‘I was not there receiving his confession. His visits to me were not religious.’
‘Carnal?’ Larry asked.
‘That’s what I do. He was lonely; his wife had died, and he wanted company.’
‘And screwing?’ Wendy said.
‘Say it for what it was, a fuck. And why not?’
‘Are most of your clients lonely old men?’ Larry asked.
‘No doubt some are married, but I don’t ask.’
‘You asked Grenfell?’
‘Never. Sometimes he talked, but then I knew who he was and some of what he was saying.’
‘Did he discuss his brother?’
‘No, but I know there are two. My father told me that before he died.’
‘There’s only one now.’
‘Okay, one.’
‘Are you interested as to which one?’ Wendy asked.
‘Why should I be?’
‘We ask the questions, you answer.’
‘For the record,’ Deidre Solomon said, ‘I knew very little about the Grenfells, other than they were upper class and I was not. Satisfied
?’
‘Satisfied.’
Wendy had another question. ‘Your mother is looking after two children of yours. What is the situation?’
‘You’ve seen my criminal record?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you know that I sold myself on the street for years until I kicked heroin, or it kicked me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I overdosed, woke up restrained in a drug rehabilitation centre.’
‘Who paid?’
‘I assume it was my father.’
‘Private hospital?’ Wendy asked.
‘Expensive. I saw a few celebrities in there. Some of them so pure, butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths.’
Larry looked at Wendy. They both understood what Deidre’s statement meant.
‘And after you left?’
‘I tried making an income standing up, but the money was lousy. In the end, I went back to what I know best.’
‘Screwing for money?’ Wendy asked.
‘Why not? I still had the looks even after years of abuse. I sold myself from a hotel room for a few months, and when I had enough money, I fixed up the boobs, then the arse. The rest is courtesy of good makeup.’
‘You’ve done a good job,’ Wendy said.
‘Thanks.’
‘After you had sorted yourself out?’
‘I found an agency, went on their books. They phone me and either I take the job or I don’t.’
‘You refuse?’ Larry asked.
‘I’m not into bondage.’
‘Your children?’
‘The unfortunate offspring of my earlier years.’
‘You don’t care for them?’ Wendy asked.
‘I try, but they bring back unpleasant memories. You’ve seen them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Reflection of the men I screwed.’
‘Is that why you leave them with your mother?’
‘I offered to put them up for adoption, but she wants to keep them.’
‘Not what she says.’
‘My mother is not well. You do realise that?’
‘Yes. She needs help.’
‘I’ve offered, but she only screams at me, calls me a dirty whore.’
‘Are you?’ Wendy asked.
‘I was, not now.’
Chapter 31
Gordon Windsor was still a little miffed when Isaac met up with him. ‘You’ve no right to question my competency,’ he said. He had just returned from another murder. Isaac was aware of the details, and if he had been free, he would have been assigned as the senior investigating officer. As it was, he was still involved in two murders. One appeared to be reaching a resolution, although in this case, as with so many others, there was always an unforeseen piece of evidence or a statement that took them off in another direction.
Isaac had formed his opinion as to who was responsible for both murders, but the evidence, at best, was flimsy and would not hold up. A confession was necessary, and for that pressure would need to be applied.
He was not willing to apply that pressure until he was confident of a conviction.
‘I apologise, but I have every right,’ Isaac said.
‘I’ll accept your apology, but for the record: Mavis Richardson was old, her health was indicative of her age, she suffered a heart attack, and last, but by no means least, the pathologist knew of her importance. Full tests were carried out, looking for the slightest hint of an induced death. Nothing was found.’
‘Exhuming her would be pointless?’ Isaac asked.
‘Pointless, unless you like paperwork.’
‘Are you certain that Gertrude Richardson died of natural causes?’
‘DCI, you’re clutching at straws. Did you see her son?’
‘Not closely.’
‘Well, I did, as did Gertrude Richardson. It almost turned my stomach, but the woman stood there and looked. Wendy Gladstone could not take it either. What do you think a mother would feel after being confronted with the thirty-year-old corpse of her long-lost son?’
‘And her dying?’
‘The woman was eighty-seven and reclusive. She barely ate and was very frail. It was a good job Wendy Gladstone was with her when she died. Otherwise, she may have become a thirty-year-old corpse herself.’
‘Montague Grenfell?’
‘He fell down the stairs and broke his neck.’
‘Is it possible to ascertain whether he slipped or was pushed?’
‘You’ve read my report?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t believe there is any ambiguity, do you?’
‘Not as to the cause of death, but you did not specify that he had been pushed.’
‘It’s in the report. The footprints at the top indicated a scuffle. Whether he had been pushed or not is not clear. I left the report open-ended.’
***
Isaac, realising that he may have just been wasting Gordon Windsor’s time, returned to the office. He knew what the issue was: it was that as the senior investigating officer he was increasingly confined to Challis Street. He enjoyed the cut and thrust out in the field, probing, asking questions when they were not welcomed, receiving answers, sometimes truthfully given, sometimes not. And in this case, a lot of the answers were just that, not truthful.
The children of Michael and Mary Solomon had brought in a hitherto unknown element. Bridget was checking out the son, while Wendy conducted some more investigations into Deidre.
Larry had enjoyed the photo gallery of Deidre on the agency’s website – draped across a bed, showing what the lucky client was to receive. Wendy just saw it as lewd, but it was not for her to comment, and she was certainly not a prude. The prices for a half-hour, two hours, a full day seemed excessive to her, but the woman they had met said that she catered to the well-heeled, and in the case of Montague Grenfell, well-aged.
Wendy had submitted her expenses for the meal at the Saatchi Gallery on her return. Isaac had duly signed his approval, but he knew his DCS would hit the roof. The economy drive throughout the force was gaining momentum, and Isaac knew that once their current murder case, cases, were concluded, he would be asked to make cuts.
Isaac wanted more people for his department, not fewer. He saw it as ironic that there were financial cuts to be made, yet the consultants brought in from outside to oversee the exercise were paid excessively.
Isaac had studied economics at university, and the amount of money allocated for the purpose of saving money would have been better spent elsewhere: an extra person to ease the burden carried by Wendy and Larry, someone to deal with his paperwork.
His relationship with Katrina Smith was going well. He knew that it was a momentary passion, as did she, but neither felt any great disappointment. Both of them were still young, especially Katrina.
They met when they could, spent nights at his flat, but she was busy working in London, discussing her future, and Isaac was burning the midnight oil on the current murder investigation. He only hoped that there were to be no more deaths.
He had put forward a cogent case to his DCS for more staff, only to receive a terse reply.
‘Economy drive. There’s not much I can do about it. Wrap up this case, and I’ll see what I can do.’
Which to Isaac meant one thing: no additional help now, and when the heat is off, then why do you want more.
Not that he could blame his DCS. He had had a rough time when Commissioner Shaw, a man who had guided his career, accepted a peerage. His replacement, a cheerless man, had not taken a shine to the DCS.
Isaac, down at New Scotland Yard the day of his first speech to the people in the building, had listened intently to the new commissioner, Alwyn Davies, had said: ‘…open-door policy, always open to suggestions. If you want to come and see me, be direct. I have no time for the inept and the ingratiating. Results are what I want.’
It had been meant to inspire the assembled personnel, and although they had clapped, few believed what they had heard.
Clichéd comments were all very well, but that was what they were, clichéd.
In the six months since taking over, Commissioner Davies had become disliked by most in the Met. He had proven himself to be a singularly unfriendly man, and those who had taken up the offer to knock on his door had invariably been met with a rebuff. Most of them had retreated, tails between their legs.
It had been the same for DCS Goddard until he had got the measure of the man, and the former commissioner Charles Shaw had found him a place on a government committee looking into crime.
Sensing that DCS Goddard had friends in high places, as well as his known association with MacTavish, the chief government whip, had ensured that Alwyn Davies now treated Goddard with kid gloves.
***
Larry had checked with Dawson. Deidre Solomon’s drug rehabilitation had been paid for by Montague Grenfell. Michael Solomon had not been a Richardson or a Grenfell, but by default he had come under their umbrella. Larry could not see how Gertrude Richardson would not have known of her husband’s whereabouts, but it was a moot point, as there was no one to confirm it.
Daniel and Deidre Solomon had been seen as irrelevancies, minor players out on the periphery of the investigation, but now they were front and centre.
Deidre’s acknowledgement that she had known Montague Grenfell had come as a shock. She must have known the reaction it would have caused with Larry and Wendy.
Bridget had managed to obtain her school records, and it was clear that Deidre was of moderate intelligence, whereas her brother was always top of his class, especially in mathematics.
A subsequent visit to the school, a charmless red-brick building, had been made by Wendy.
‘Deidre Solomon. Yes, I remember her,’ Brenda Hopwood, a dowdily dressed woman, said. Wendy imagined her shrouded in a nun’s habit which would have seemed appropriate. Around her neck, she wore a large cross, which she constantly touched.
‘What can you tell me about her?’
‘More interested in boys than books. Always had her skirt hitched up around her waist.’
Wendy thought it a crude comment from a woman who looked as if she visited the church every day to pray for forgiveness, although Wendy could not see the prune of a woman sinning, or even breathing.
‘Sexually active?’ A more clinical term from Wendy.
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1 Page 57