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.
‘Yes.’
‘Her brother, Daniel?’ Wendy asked.
‘Clever boy. I remember him well. Always with one girl or another.’
‘He’s a good-looking man,’ Wendy said.
‘I suppose he was back then.’
‘You said clever?’
‘He was always top of the class.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Not really. I caught him gambling once outside.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing. What became of him?’
‘He’s doing fine now.’
‘And his sister?’
‘She’s fine too.’
Wendy did not see the need to elaborate on the fact that Daniel Solomon had a criminal record, although no trouble for a few years, and that he was running his own business and in financial difficulty. Nor did she intend to tell the woman that Deidre had found herself a good career with what she had learnt at the school, namely the ability to hitch up her skirt and screw for money, a lot of money from what she could see.
Wendy had done the calculations. Deidre Solomon, assuming she spent twenty hours a week flat on her back, could make more money in one week than she did in three months.
***
DCS Goddard was pushing for an arrest. Isaac called in the team. Keith Dawson came, now a valued member, even if his ability to interface with the rest of the team was suspect.
Wendy had tried to relate to him, but he had been cold and dull. Larry had invited him down the pub one night after work, which Dawson had readily accepted. The man had sat at the bar, said little, nothing about his life, and had drunk his five pints and gone home. Larry realised after he had gone that Dawson had landed him with the bill.
Wendy’s house sale was going ahead. There had been an offer, too low, but the estate agent was hassling her to accept. Keith Dawson had been firm when he had told her not to accept.
She was anxious to get out of the house as, due to its dampness, her arthritis was causing her lots of pain.
She could only reflect that when a case was in full swing, and when her husband had been dying, she had not had time to think about the pain. She had read a book on positive thinking, heal yourself with the power of the mind. It made some sense, but she had soon tired of it. To her, the pain was real, the house was damp, and no amount of mumbo jumbo was going to change that.
‘Larry, what do we have?’ Isaac asked.
‘Daniel Solomon’s in financial trouble. His sister is prostituting herself.’
‘Apart from that.’
‘That’s it for the present moment. Keith is accessing Daniel Solomon’s bank accounts, tax returns. Are they under suspicion?’
‘We’re not discounting them.’
‘Wendy?’ Isaac looked in her direction. She held a cup of coffee in her hand, as usual.
‘I’ve checked Daniel and Deidre Solomon’s school. Deidre has taken the only career path open to her. Her brother was a smart person then, still is by all accounts.’
‘Criminal records?’
‘None from either for a few years.’
‘Keith, what have you found out?’
‘Daniel Solomon’s bank accounts appear to be in order, although I’ve only started checking. His tax returns have been filed on time. Nothing to report there, other than he had overpaid last year, and he received a payment back.’
‘Is his company viable?’
‘He has a serious cash flow problem.’
‘Deidre Solomon. Have you accessed her bank accounts?’
‘Not yet, although she would probably deal in cash mainly.’
‘Why?’ Isaac asked.
‘The men who use her services don’t want a credit card transaction being traced back to her, or, as is often used, a hairdressing salon. They would not want their wives to know.’
‘Explanation accepted.’
‘If they are implicated, it would be Daniel who would be coordinating,’ Larry said.
‘And Deidre who had the lever,’ Wendy added.
‘One screws, the other fleeces,’ Larry said.
‘Apart from your wording, is that what we think happened?’ Isaac asked.
‘No proof.’
‘Keith, we need you to dig deep. Let us know when you find something,’ Isaac said.
Chapter 32
‘Tom will be here soon. I’ve got a rush job. Come in two hours, and you can borrow him for an hour,’ Sean O’Reilly said.
Larry arrived at O’Reilly’s on time. Tom Wellings was just finishing the rush order, although his speed was anything but a rush. The man moved calmly and with purpose. Larry noted that once he had completed one task, he would tidy before moving on to the next.
‘Five minutes,’ Wellings said.
‘That’s fine.’
Sue Baxter had been forewarned that they would be coming. She worked only five minutes from the house, and their visit would coincide with her lunch break. It had been some time since she had seen a policeman at her house, and she had hoped no more would be coming. The uniformed police outside on the street maintaining vigilance over the crime scene had long gone, as had the tape across the door into the murder room.
The Baxters had been given access to the room and had set to work to bring it up to the standard of the rest of the house.
Larry had been impressed when he walked through the front door. ‘You’ve done a great job,’ he said.
‘Thank you, DI Hill,’ Sue Baxter said proudly. Ted Hunter, the handyman who had made the grim discovery, had shown himself to be a competent man, although, as Sue Baxter’s husband would have said, ‘He still overcharged us.’
Not that the complaint would have been too forceful, as Sue Baxter, ever anxious, had phoned a local estate agent for a valuation. With booming prices in the area and the agent’s determination to put it on the market, he had given them a good price, one hundred thousand pounds over what they had paid for the house and its renovation.
Sue enthusiastically had wanted to list the house immediately. It had been her husband who had said no. A renovation of a small house in Manchester, and a larger one in London, was enough for him, and besides, the house was still a crime scene.
‘I doubt if we are allowed to sell it yet,’ he had said. He knew it was probably not correct, but it sufficed.
‘Okay,’ his wife had said, and besides, she loved the house and the neighbourhood.
Larry preceded Tom into the house. ‘This is Tom Wellings,’ Larry said, introducing him to Sue Baxter.
‘You’ve done a great job here, Mrs Baxter,’ Wellings said.
‘Thank you.’
Larry noticed the photos lining the hallway that showed the transformation from neglected and unwanted to loved and homely.
All three entered the murder room. The walls had been painted, the floorboards had been sanded and varnished. The centrepiece of the room, the fi
replace, was resplendent in its glory.
‘It gives the room character,’ Sue Baxter said.
It gave Larry a chill down his back thinking about what had lain there for thirty years. Sue Baxter, despite her initial aversion when the body had been found, made no reference to the death and the mummified corpse. Larry assumed that if she could, she would have a photo of the body up on the wall in the hallway.
‘Tom has worked for the company that installed the grille over the door for over thirty years,’ Larry said.
‘Closer to fifty,’ Tom Wellings replied. He was a man with an uncluttered mind. He did not fill his mind with considering the world situation, politics, and the state of the economy. He had gone through life ensuring he had enough money in his pocket to keep a roof over his head, clothe, and feed himself, nothing more. It had given him the ability to remember trivial details that others had forgotten.
‘We fitted the bars on the window,’ he said.
‘We took them down,’ Sue Baxter said. ‘Aesthetically they were not right.’
‘Oversize. We used what we had in stock.’
‘You remember, Tom?’ Larry asked.
‘Business was quiet. Old man Dennison had laid off a couple of people, so I helped out here.’
Larry had to take a seat. Here, encompassed within this man, was the first positive lead into the murder of Garry Solomon for some time.
‘What do you remember?’ Larry asked.
‘It was a long time ago. It may need a cup of tea for me to remember.’
‘I’ll get you one,’ Sue said. ‘No more speaking until I come back.’
Larry wanted to continue with Tom, but the man was adamant. ‘When she comes back,’ he said.
Larry only hoped he could prevent her from talking to the media again.
‘I’m all ears,’ Sue Baxter said on her return. She should have been back at the school where she taught, but there was no way she was going to be prised out of the chair she was sitting in.
Tom sat, content with his cup of tea.
‘Would you like to continue?’ Larry asked. ‘I’ll record this if it’s okay.’
‘Fine by me,’ Tom said. He appeared to appreciate the attention.
Larry placed his iPhone on the coffee table and hit record.
‘We fitted the bars first. We had made a miscalculation, and I had to cut a little off one side.’
‘Who let you into the house?’ Larry asked.
‘I’m coming to that,’ Tom said.
‘Please, carry on,’ Sue Baxter said. She was excited, almost wetting herself from what Larry could see.
‘It took us a couple of hours to install the bars. I used Ramset bolts to hold them in place.’
‘We had trouble taking some out, so we just plastered over them.’ Sue Baxter said.
‘The grille?’ Larry asked.
‘It was awkward to carry, and we had trouble manhandling it into place.’
‘Why were you installing the grille?’ Larry asked.
‘We received an order and the man paid up front.’
‘It was a man?’
‘I remember him. A tall man. He spoke well.’
‘His name?’
‘I don’t remember him ever giving it to us, although he gave us all a tip at the end of the job.’
‘I’ll need to show you some photos later, see if you can identify him.’
‘Fine by me,’ Wellings said.
‘What was the house like?’ Sue Baxter asked.
‘Not much to say. It was empty, although it appeared to be in good condition. There was a toilet down the hallway which we used, and I noticed a woman’s touch.’
‘What do you mean?’ Larry asked.
‘There were some small towels.’
‘What did that mean to you?’
‘I suppose it had only recently been vacated, nothing more.’
‘Was an explanation given as to why you were installing a grille?’
‘Never asked. It wasn’t any of my business.’
Larry realised that in this one man was the possible solution to a case that had baffled them for so long.
Sue Baxter pried for more information, but there was no more available.
Wellings thanked her for her hospitality, complimented her one more time on how good the house looked.
Larry’s car was outside. The two men drove a mile down the street, away from Sue Baxter’s eagle eyes.
Balancing the laptop on his knees, angling the screen, Larry showed Tom Wellings the photos he had: some old, some new.
‘That’s him.’
‘One hundred per cent?’
‘I’d say ninety-nine.’
‘Good enough for me,’ Larry said.
Larry dropped Tom Wellings back at O’Reilly’s and headed straight back to Challis Street. He was in a hurry, and the traffic was not helping. He almost ran a red light on one occasion; the fine for doing so, his responsibility.
Isaac was excited on his return. ‘Well done,’ he said.
***
Albert Grenfell’s funeral, conducted in the church next to Penrith House, was a sombre affair. Isaac could see Malcolm Grenfell suitably dressed in a black suit leading the mourners. Wendy had come up as well. Isaac thought it may be a good idea to have two police officers present.
Isaac had brought Katrina Smith, who was in a black dress. Wendy had driven up on her own after Isaac had mentioned that he was taking someone.
Wendy, not wishing to be a wallflower, had organised a police issue car. She noticed the furtive glances from Isaac to Katrina during the ceremony.
Both the police officers noted who was present: Emma Hampshire was with Malcolm Grenfell. Also present was George Sullivan, the previously hidden man, now very visible. His wife sat at his side.
There were some other people there, some distinguished, others dressed in plain business suits. A later investigation identified them as other aristocrats or local dignitaries from the area. They did not concern Isaac.
Ger O’Loughlin’s daughter, the woman that Wendy had met in Ireland, was present. It did not seem suspicious, although Wendy would check later.
Apart from those clearly visible, there were no other family members. In light of recent developments with Montague Grenfell’s murder, his body had not been released.
Malcolm Grenfell read one prayer during the service, his tone mellow and humble. Isaac thought that he handled it well, considering that he had not been fond of his brother, and he was an idle fornicating man of little worth. Perhaps the title of Lord Penrith had caused a change in him, though Isaac saw that as unlikely. Malcolm Grenfell would always be the same. There was no frivolous woman around, although Emma Hampshire looked to be very friendly with him. Maybe he preferred older women after all, or at least, Emma Hampshire.
Kevin Solomon, Emma’s son, was nowhere to be seen, which was not suspicious as he had not known the Grenfells, apart from Montague briefly.
Katrina was very emotional during the service and held onto Isaac’s arm. After the funeral Isaac and Wendy intended to do some probing. It would be inappropriate to conduct formal interviews, but a conversation would be fine.
Isaac thought the friendship of Lord Penrith and Emma Hampshire unusual. Their one-night stand many years ago was well known, but now they looked as if they were about to rekindle it.
Wendy needed to know why O’Loughlin’s daughter had attended. There had never been any information indicating that Ger O’Loughlin and Albert Grenfell’s relationship justified his daughter attending the funeral.
Intrigue within intrigue, Isaac thought. He was certain they had Montague Grenfell’s murderer in the bag, apart from the proof to hammer home a confession.
Even Garry Solomon’s case was close to conclusion, although the case against the one person now clearly identified thanks to Tom Wellings was inconclusive.
After the ceremony, the mourners moved back to Penrith House, a ten-minute walk or a five-minute drive. I
saac and Katrina chose to walk, Wendy drove. As usual, the weather was cold, and she needed to warm up with the car heater. She imagined that Penrith House would be cold and draughty; enough weekend trips when her sons had been younger to the homes of the aristocracy reminded her of that fact. She had wondered then, with all their titles and their wealth, why they didn’t keep themselves warm. Lord Penrith’s finances, courtesy of Keith Dawson, had shown that it was horrendously expensive, and although the Grenfells had plenty of money, it was finite.
Isaac surmised with Malcolm Grenfell as the incumbent lord, the move from finite to infinitesimal would not take long.
At the house, everyone was ushered into the main sitting room. A log fire burned at one end. Wendy made straight for it.
Malcolm Grenfell made a speech as to how his brother, a pillar of society, had served the community well and had enhanced the good name of the Penriths. He pledged that he would attempt to live up to his good name. Emma Hampshire stood close by, smiling as he spoke.
The leader of the local council spoke. He thanked the former lord for his generosity in restoring the local library, helping in the cost of repairing the clock tower at the council offices. Others, lords mainly, offered their condolences.
The speeches concluded within ten minutes, and the food and alcohol were brought out. Wendy eyed them with glee. She helped herself to a plate and a glass of wine, a good vintage according to the label.
‘I’m surprised to see you here,’ she said to Ger O’Loughlin’s daughter.
‘Why?’
‘I was not aware of any contact between your father and Albert Grenfell,’ Wendy said.
‘You never asked.’ Wendy realised that was true. Then, they had been interested in why O’Loughlin had left Mavis Richardson, not in his friendship with the Grenfells.
‘They were friendly?’
‘They maintained contact, conducted business together. I don’t think there was any more to it than that.’
‘Did you meet him when he was alive?’
‘A few times. My father liked him.’
‘Malcolm Grenfell?’ Wendy asked.
‘Today is the first time that I have met him. He’s not what I expected.’
‘His reputation was not good.’
The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 1 -3 Page 58
