The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 1 -3

by Phillip Strang

  It was nine in the evening before the meeting concluded. Wendy had to leave to visit her husband, say goodnight to him, not sure if he would recognise her or not. Such a vibrant, active man in his younger days, then senility, then bitterness, and now a shell of a man ‘waiting for the final call from his maker’ as Bridget would say; not that Wendy was religious, but Bridget was. Wendy did not need the religious overtones, but it was good to have a friend who cared.

  Larry took the opportunity to go home as well, promising to be in the office very early in the morning and to follow up on Garry Solomon.

  Bridget, in no great hurry to go home, had another cup of coffee in her hand. ‘I’ll stay a couple of hours, do some preparation work for tomorrow,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll keep you company,’ Isaac said. He had no wish to hurry home. The only things that welcomed him there were a hot chocolate and a cold bed. Not the ideal arrangement, he thought.

  He remembered Linda Harris’s comment, the last time they had spoken, a brief phone call when she had denied responsibility for the murder of Jess O’Neill’s boss: ‘We could have been something more.’

  Isaac wondered if that could have been possible. He had been attracted to her, even slept with her that one time, but she was MI5, a minor cog in the organisation according to her.

  On reflection, he realised that she would have been an ideal woman for him, but she came with too many secrets. He thought to ask his boss if he could find out what had become of her. Richard Goddard would know who to ask, but it was just idle speculation on his part. Isaac knew there would be other women, but it was now a drought after plenty. There had been Sophie White, and then Jess O’Neill, and now, nobody.

  Chapter 12

  With the office empty apart from Bridget, Isaac returned to his office. He picked up the necessary paperwork, put it down again. It was not that he had an issue with it, although there was too much. It was because they had a murder and no motive.

  Garry Solomon, a criminal when he had no reason to be one, had died thirty years previously and had been stuffed behind a wooden structure crudely built around the fireplace.

  But why? Isaac asked himself. The body would be found one day, although thirty years seemed a long time. If it had been placed there temporarily, then why attempt to conceal it, and why had the body not been found before now. Could the house have been unoccupied, unvisited in all those years? It seemed illogical. Bridget had evidence showing that the utility bills and rates had been paid during that time.

  The newspaper placed under the body at the time of incarceration had been clear enough, and the date of vacating the house and the murder were within months of each other. The house was empty when the Baxters had moved in, but what was the condition when they had first seen it? Was it full of cobwebs, creaking doors, rats?

  Isaac regretted not having his previous DI, Farhan Ahmed, with him. Then it would have been the two of them late at night, putting forward the imponderables, throwing up ideas, some valid, some crazy, but somehow it worked.

  Larry Hill, Farhan’s replacement, was an excellent detective inspector, but he was a family man and intended to stay that way.

  Farhan had been too, but his staying late in the office had cost him his marriage, an occupational hazard all too common in the police force. Even the break up of the relationship with Jess, Isaac reflected, had to a large part come about due to his job taking precedence over his emotional responsibilities.

  Bridget interrupted Isaac’s train of thought. ‘I’ve found an address for Garry Solomon’s wife,’ she said.

  ‘Current?’

  ‘Twenty years old, I’m afraid.’

  ‘At least it will give something for Wendy to work on. Do you have a name?’

  ‘Emily Solomon.’

  ‘Any children?’

  ‘None that I can find.’

  ‘The last known address of Emily Solomon is after the death of her husband, Garry?’

  ‘By a few years,’ Bridget said.

  ‘How do you know that it is the same woman?’

  ‘She claimed unemployment benefits. There are documents on record showing that she was the legal wife of Garry Solomon, even a marriage certificate.’

  ‘Married in England?’

  ‘Registry Office, but it’s legitimate. There are even copies of their birth certificates.’

  ‘In that case any children, even Emily Solomon herself, would be legally entitled as beneficiaries of Gertrude Richardson’s estate.’

  ‘That would be correct,’ Bridget said.

  ‘Did you find a copy of Gertrude Richardson’s will?’

  ‘Not yet. Her family lawyer will have a copy.’

  ‘I would prefer to obtain a copy from an independent source,’ Isaac replied.

  ‘First thing in the morning. Is that okay?’ Bridget asked. Isaac looked up at the clock. It was midnight.

  ‘Fine,’ he replied. ‘Larry needs to follow up on Garry Solomon. Any luck with his criminal record?’

  ‘Larry already has a copy,’ Bridget replied. Isaac realised what a great asset she had become to the department, always one step ahead.

  ***

  Isaac was in the office early the next day, as was the team. Wendy was first out of the door, following up on an address for Garry Solomon’s widow. She took the opportunity to smoke a cigarette, once she was free of the office.

  Larry was not long after, and he was heading to Garry Solomon’s last known criminal haunt, although after thirty years it seemed unlikely he would find too many people who remembered him.

  Isaac, at a loose end, decided that Montague Grenfell was worth another visit.

  Wendy’s address for Emily Solomon was close to the centre of London in an upmarket area of Mayfair, which seemed incongruous as the woman had been claiming unemployment at one stage, and Garry Solomon had never risen above being a petty criminal and small-time hooligan.

  Regardless, Wendy knocked at the door of the house. It was a very elegant townhouse, even better than Mavis Richardson’s.

  ‘Emily Solomon?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘Who’s asking?’ The accent was working class, not upper-class Mayfair.

  ‘Constable Wendy Gladstone, Challis Street Police Station.’

  ‘Long way from there, aren’t you?’

  ‘That may be, but I still need to contact Emily Solomon.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Once you confirm that you are Emily Solomon, I will tell you.’

  ‘Long time since I’ve heard that name mentioned,’ the woman said. Wendy could see that she was an attractive woman, who prided herself on her appearance but had not dealt with her speech.

  ‘Are you admitting that you are Emily Solomon?’

  ‘You’d better come in.’

  Wendy entered, noted the grand hallway, the staircase at the rear. She was ushered into a side room and given a chair. It was not so much a request, more of a command.

  ‘Nice place,’ Wendy said.

  ‘It’s all mine.’

  ‘You said it was a long time since you had heard the name Emily Solomon.’

  ‘Twenty years at least.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m not pleased with you being here. Nothing personal, but the past is the past.’

  ‘Any man here?’

  ‘What do you mean? Husband, lover, an idle screw?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s the occasional man when I feel the need. Other than that, I’m here on my own.’

  ‘Where did the money come from?’

  ‘What business is that of yours?’

  Wendy noted no attempt to offer a cup of tea. It was clear that the woman had money, or at least someone did, but the room was cold and unwelcoming. None of the ornaments indicative of a family were on show: no family photos, nothing to suggest any emotional involvement of the woman with another.

  ‘When did you last see your husband?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Garry Solo
mon.’

  ‘Sometime in the eighties, I suppose.’

  ‘I need you to be more specific.’

  ‘Why? It is not a period in my life that I wish to remember.’

  ‘Let’s get the date correct first and then you can tell me why. Any chance of a cup of tea?’

  With the woman in the kitchen, Wendy took the opportunity to look around the room. She rustled through some photos albums but was soon interrupted. She thought she had seen a photo of a man and a woman in Indian clothes, but could not be sure. If it were important, she would claim the album as vital evidence at a later date.

  ‘1979.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘The bastard left me high and dry, not a penny to my name.’

  ‘Garry Solomon?’

  ‘Who else?’ Emily Solomon replied.

  ‘Did you divorce him?’

  ‘Why? We weren’t married, not in this country.’

  ‘There’s a marriage certificate.’

  ‘His idea, not mine.’

  ‘So you were married?’

  ‘I only went through with it because he threatened me.’

  ‘Did he do that often?’

  ‘Often enough, almost strangled me once.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Caught me with another man.’

  ‘Why marry you then?’

  ‘He said it was important for the children.’

  ‘You have children?’

  ‘One son, but he’s just the same as his father. I haven’t seen him for a few years, don’t want to.’

  ‘And your name now?’

  ‘Emma Hampshire.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘I took his name and his money.’

  ‘This house?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘I ensured that when he died it was mine.’

  ‘Tell me about your husband.’

  ‘Garry? We met when we were young. We travelled over to India, sat on a mountain top, the usual hippy stuff.’

  ‘Smoked some weed?’

  ‘Part of the spiritual experience. All Garry could see from it was the chance to screw some of the other women. Free love, they called it.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I was guilty as well.’

  ‘And when you returned to London?’

  ‘Garry set himself up in business and life was good. Then our son comes along, a beautiful bouncing boy.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Garry fell in with a bad crowd: drinking, gambling, screwing the local tarts.’

  ‘What do you know about his family?’

  ‘I met his father once.’

  ‘And his mother?’

  ‘He said she was crazy. Why are you asking these questions?’

  ‘Mrs Solomon, I am afraid that your husband is dead.’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, he has been dead for over thirty years.’

  ‘You’re not upset?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘After his treatment of me? What do you think?’

  ‘Mrs Solomon, I believe we need to discuss this. Another cup of tea?’

  ‘Call me Emma.’

  Wendy’s initial impression of the woman, something of a painted tart, had dissipated. Emma Hampshire appeared to be a woman whom life had initially treated badly, but it was now treating her well.

  ‘What can you tell me about Garry Solomon? Let’s start with his family background.’

  ‘His father I met just the once. I could see where Garry had got his manner from.’

  ‘A charmer?’

  ‘Father and son alike.’

  ‘And the mother?’

  ‘No idea about her, other than she supposedly had money. Not that I saw any of it.’

  ‘Life was tough?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘Not really. We were happy on our return from India, and Garry soon charmed himself into a good job before he set up his own business. I found out later the first job came about after he had screwed the female owner.’

  ‘Like the father,’ Wendy commented.

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Anyway, apart from his inability to keep it in his trousers, Garry was a good provider and a good father.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Started running with the wrong crowd. He liked to socialise, and with a few too many drinks his behaviour would become erratic. Even hit me on a couple of occasions.’

  ‘His mother died.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’ Emma Hampshire appeared to be genuine in her comment. ‘It can be hard to have a child and never see them.’

  ‘Is that the same with you?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘With Garry, it was alcohol; with Kevin, it’s drugs.’

  ‘You never see him?’

  ‘Not for a couple of years.’

  ‘Upsets you?’

  ‘Of course, but what can I do? It’s worse when I see what he has become. He had his father’s charm, and then he gets himself addicted. I caught him shooting up in here once, threw him out on the street.’

  ‘Can we come back to Garry? He changed his name to Solly Michaels. Was there any reason?’

  ‘With me, he was Garry. With his criminal friends, he was Solly. No idea why.’

  ‘Tell me about the criminal activities.’

  ‘Not a lot to tell. He was running a motor repair business, good quality cars. Business was good, and apart from the drinking and the womanising, everything was fine.’

  ‘You accepted the womanising?’

  ‘It used to upset me, but as I said, he was a good father and a good provider.’

  ‘Not such a good husband.’

  ‘Not at all. He was a good husband at first. It was later that he changed.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘All of a sudden, he’s flush with a lot of cash, enough to pay off our house. I asked him about it. He told me just to be thankful and not ask questions.’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘What anyone would think.’

  ‘Drugs.’

  ‘He said it was gambling.’

  ‘What was your reaction?’

  ‘I told him that dealing with drugs was unacceptable and that it was either me and his son or the money.’

  ‘His reaction?’

  ‘He said okay for the first couple of times, but then there’s a fancy car outside, and a tart sitting in the passenger’s seat. I threw a scene, and he threw me out.’

  ‘Literally?’

  ‘He put us into a two-bedroom flat, ensured all the bills were paid, and that I had money to spend.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘He was caught, spent two years in jail, and the money dried up. I’m out on the street with nowhere to go.’

  ‘After that?’

  ‘I was desperate for money. I had a baby in one arm and nowhere to live.’

  ‘Your parents?’

  ‘I was no longer in communication with them after I took off to India with Garry. They were very religious and could never accept free love, living on a commune, and meditating on a mountain top. They had told me before I left not to come back. Both dead now, car accident some years back. They had cut me out of their will, so I never bothered to visit their grave.’

  ‘You’re out on the street, so what did you do?’

  ‘I found a women’s refuge, worked two jobs a day, slowly recovered my life, and then I met Bob.’

  ‘Bob Hampshire? How long were you with him?’

  ‘Twenty-five years until he died of a heart attack.’

  ‘Tell me about him?’

  ‘He was older than me by a few years, but we were a great couple, and he ensured that Kevin went to the best schools. Even offered to marry me, but there was still the marriage with Garry, and besides, the church’s blessing meant nothing to me. And when Bob died, he left money to his previous wife and their children, this house and enough money to me.’

  Chapter 13

  Larry’s day had been spent finding out what he could about Garry S
olomon. His criminal record indicated periods of incarceration starting with a two-year stretch in 1978. The date aligned with the information that Solomon’s widow had stated.

  It was clear that he was then using the name of Solly Michaels, initially reported at his arrest, although shown as Garry Solomon at his court case. From there on, there had been two periods of incarceration interspersed with periods of freedom. The records indicated several addresses over the years, each one progressively less salubrious than the other. Why he had not contacted Grenfell, the family lawyer, and his ex-wife, at least, from about 1981 was still unanswered. The litany of crimes, some minor, some major, indicated an unsavoury character with few moral restraints.

  The last known address, 62 Bakewell Street, Greenwich, close to the Royal Observatory and the site of the Greenwich meridian line, was not what Larry had expected. It had been thirty years since Garry Solomon’s death, but the almost derelict building could not have looked much better then. It was clearly uninhabited and had been that way for some years. Larry phoned Bridget for her to do some checks.

  The information that Bridget had managed to put together had shown addresses firstly in Paddington then slowly moving eastwards and downwards in quality and suburb. Judging by the condition of the house in Greenwich, this had been his last address. There seemed little possibility of finding anyone who remembered him from that time. Without much more to be achieved he visited the local pub. The Green Elephant had seen better days, but it was run down enough to offer the possibility that someone may have known the hapless Garry Solomon.

  ‘A pint of your best,’ Larry said to the man behind the bar. The man reflected the condition of the pub; he was as run down as it was.

  ‘Comin’ up,’ the singularly unfriendly reply.

  ‘One for yourself,’ Larry said.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do.’

  There were a few others in the pub, some slowly getting drunk, some surfing the internet on their phones, but generally it was quiet. Larry wondered how it managed to stay financially viable.

  ‘Did you ever know a Solly Michaels?’ Larry asked. He realised it was a long shot, but it had been a fruitless trip out to Greenwich, and then he had a tiresome trip back to Challis Street afterwards.

  ‘It doesn’t ring a bell.’ The publican had moved closer, taken a seat on his side of the bar.