The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 1 -3

by Phillip Strang

  ‘According to my father, he was idle and useless.’

  ‘That was how we knew him, but today...’

  ‘The woman he is with, who is she?’ O’Loughlin’s daughter asked. ‘She’s very attractive.’

  ‘Emma Hampshire,’ Wendy replied. ‘Does the name mean anything to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Emily Solomon?’

  ‘The body in the fireplace?’

  ‘One and the same.’

  ‘My father told me about him just before he died. He told me a lot of things, some I would have preferred not to hear.’

  ‘Why did he do that?’

  ‘He didn’t tell my mother, only me. A last-minute confessional, I suppose.’

  ‘You know about the parties?’

  ‘My father was always faithful to my mother. Always available for my sister and me. I could not believe it.’

  ‘It was true,’ Wendy said. ‘Did he tell you anything else?’

  ‘He told me that his first wife did not want children, whereas he did. It was the reason they broke up, but he was obviously still fond of her.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Her sister was eccentric, and her son was wild. Garry Solomon, am I correct?’

  ‘That's right.’

  ‘And his wife is standing over there.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There was a reason Garry Solomon never contacted his mother. Do you know what it was?’

  ‘He caught her with another man.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘The day he left.’

  ‘Your father knew this?’

  ‘He was dying. Sometimes he was coherent, at other times he was rambling.’

  ‘This other man, did he have a name?’

  ‘He never mentioned it, but he was talking nonsense by them. He was alert when he told me about Mavis and the parties, but a lot of what he said I couldn’t understand.’

  Chapter 33

  Katrina had gone to talk with the staff at Penrith House. All apart from the gardener had resigned and left. All of them had come back for the funeral.

  Isaac had taken the opportunity to talk to Lord Penrith. ‘Good ceremony,’ Isaac said. ‘My condolences.’

  ‘The old boy got a good send-off,’ Malcolm Grenfell said.

  ‘You’ve changed.’

  ‘Still the same rogue underneath.’

  ‘You’re more serious. Is that permanent?’ Isaac asked, although the person he really wanted to speak to was standing on the other side of the room.

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘We’re holding Montague’s body for a few more days,’ Isaac said.

  ‘The man has left me seriously short of funds.’

  ‘You can manage?’

  ‘Manage yes, but until probate is dealt with, I cannot access the majority.’

  ‘And the Richardsons?’

  ‘Up to them.’

  ‘Montague had their proxy.’

  ‘Gertrude has a grandson?’ Malcolm Grenfell posed a rhetorical question.

  Isaac thought the man looked smug.

  ‘You know the answer to the question,’ Isaac replied.

  ‘Emma’s son. He can deal with the Richardsons’ probate.’

  ‘Your relationship with Emma Hampshire?’

  ‘Friends, nothing more.’

  ‘You have a history of friendship with her.’

  ‘It’s no secret that we were involved at one time.’

  ‘While she was married to Garry Solomon.’

  ‘He was treating her badly. I was there as a shoulder to cry on.’

  ‘A man to bed.’ Isaac waited for the reaction.

  Malcolm Grenfell stood still for a moment, his face reddening in anger.

  ‘As you say, a man to bed.’ Grenfell kept his emotions in check. He knew that seducing Garry Solomon’s wife was a motive. He had come so far; he was not going to destroy it by an inappropriate comment.

  I will not let that working-class policeman rile me, Grenfell thought.

  Isaac, a glass of wine in his hand, observed the man. It was clear he was holding something back. Before he inherited the title he had been an easy book to read, but now he had changed.

  Isaac pondered whether the change was permanent, but as his mother would say, ‘a leopard never changes its spots’.

  Grenfell was not a changed man, only a man who pretended to change. His elevation to the title had been too swift, too suspicious, for Isaac to discount skulduggery.

  In a matter of days, the previous incumbent had died, and his successor had met with an unfortunate accident. Too many coincidences for Isaac, no proof.

  Isaac looked down at the floor at Lord Penrith’s shoes. He judged them to be size 7. Gordon Windsor had stated that the unknown footprints at the top of Montague Grenfell’s stairs had been size 10. Scratch one murderer, Isaac thought.

  Grenfell left Isaac and started to circulate the room. Isaac had to agree that he played the part of the lord with great skill. Isaac could hear him discussing plans for a new gym at the local youth centre with a large beefy man with a flushed complexion. Isaac knew the look of a leading councillor in the area. No doubt, an estate agent or local lawyer discussing council business, seeing what was in it for him.

  ‘It’s good to see you here, Chief Inspector Cook.’ Isaac was no longer alone. Emma Hampshire had come over to talk to him.

  ‘I did not expect to see you here,’ Isaac said. He had to admit that she was an attractive woman. She wore a dark dress, obviously expensive, for the occasion.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Did you know Albert Grenfell?’

  ‘I met him once.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Malcolm introduced me to him in London once.’

  ‘Yet you decided to come to his funeral.’

  ‘He was Malcolm’s brother. Besides, Malcolm asked me to come.’

  ‘I was not aware that you were still friendly with him.’

  ‘I told you, or Wendy Gladstone, your sergeant, that we used to see each other from time to time when I was with Bob Hampshire. We moved in the same social circle, nothing more. There is nothing sinister with my being here.’

  ‘Malcolm Grenfell was responsible for your marriage breaking up.’

  ‘The marriage was broken anyway.’

  ‘Did Garry Solomon know about your affair?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘You’re not sure?’

  ‘Not totally. It was not discussed. He had found himself someone else, and that was it.’

  ‘You were upset?’

  ‘I had grown up to believe that marriage was forever, and my husband was dumping me for a younger version. What do you think?’

  ‘Your plans with Malcolm?’

  ‘I’ll wait and see.’

  ‘Does that mean more than you are saying?’

  ‘Not really. I am an affectionate woman. Malcolm for all his faults is a good man.’

  ‘And the other women?’

  ‘He won’t need them,’ Emma Hampshire said before walking away, a smile on her face. Isaac knew what she meant. He felt the need to see Katrina; he found her with the staff.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  ‘Very friendly with his lordship’s friend,’ she said. To Isaac, it sounded as if she was jealous.

  ‘She’s a key witness, you know that.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And now close in with the new lord,’ Isaac said.

  ‘She spent last night here.’

  ‘With Grenfell?’

  ‘Same bed,’ Katrina said. Isaac could see no issue with that revelation, and it was clear that Malcolm Grenfell was not his brother’s murderer. Salacious gossip in the kitchen did not help to solve the murders. Katrina took Isaac by the arm, first to kiss him, and then to take him back into the main room to enjoy himself.

  ‘Stop being a policeman for once,’ she said.

  Isaac and Katrina had booked into a local hotel for the night. Both were an
xious to be there. Isaac thought about what he and Wendy had achieved by attending the funeral. They had not come up with any new leads, other than the knowledge that Emma Hampshire and Malcolm Grenfell were continuing their affair where it had broken off thirty years previously.

  Ger O’Loughlin’s relationship with Albert Grenfell had no relevance. Both men had died of old age, and neither were directly implicated in the murder of Garry Solomon or indirectly in the case of Montague Grenfell.

  The wake at Penrith House concluded at eight in the evening. Lord Penrith bid all the attendees farewell as they left through the front door and down the steps outside to their cars. Isaac observed Emma Hampshire at his side as if she was already the lady of the house.

  Isaac had to admit that he liked her, but for a woman who had come from a lower middle-class background, she had certainly led a charmed life. There had been Garry Solomon who had turned out to be a disappointment. Then there was Bob Hampshire who had worshipped her, as she had him. And now Malcolm Grenfell who made a good pretence of being a changed man. Isaac wondered how long before Grenfell took a wife.

  Back at the hotel, a timeworn building in the village, Wendy along with Isaac and Katrina had a late supper. Wendy enjoyed herself with a spread of cheese and cake. Isaac and Katrina ate sparingly.

  At 11 p.m. Isaac and Katrina went upstairs together, arm in arm. Wendy smiled as they climbed the carpeted stairs. Lucky woman, Wendy thought.

  Wendy realised that she was the same age as Emma Hampshire and that she was lonely. She felt tears in her eyes. She wiped them away with a tissue. It was her first night away from her home since her husband had died, and she did not want to be there in the hotel.

  She sobered up with a strong black coffee and returned to London and the bed she had shared with her husband, the bed where her two sons had been conceived.

  Isaac knew the next morning that Wendy had left: a message on his phone, a note at the reception. He could only sympathise.

  ***

  At eight in the morning, Isaac and Katrina drove back to London. He dropped her off at the hospital where she worked. Isaac then drove to Challis Street. He was in the office by eleven.

  ‘Sorry about last night, sir,’ Wendy said as he entered.

  ‘Nothing to be sorry about,’ Isaac’s reply.

  Bridget came over with a cup of coffee. Isaac thanked her.

  Isaac called an impromptu meeting. ‘What do we have?’ he asked.

  ‘The name of who ordered the grille,’ Larry said.

  ‘It doesn’t prove that he is the murderer,’ Isaac said.

  ‘An accomplice, at least.’

  ‘Can we make it stick?’

  ‘Unlikely,’ Larry had to admit.

  ‘We could bring him in, put him under pressure.’

  ‘He would bring a smart lawyer with him.’

  ‘If the person who installed the grille and the murderer are one and the same, how do we prove it?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘His motive is flimsy,’ Larry said.

  ‘Then make it stronger.’

  It was evident to everyone in the room that Wendy was not in good spirits. Isaac knew that a heavy workload was the best medicine.

  ‘Wendy,’ Isaac said, ‘we need to tie up Montague Grenfell’s murder.’

  ‘Do we call them in?’

  ‘What has Keith found out?’

  Bridget answered. ‘He’ll be here in five minutes. You can ask him then.’

  Five minutes later Dawson entered Isaac’s office. There was a better meeting room down the corridor, but everyone preferred Isaac’s office as it was homelier. Not because of Isaac’s efforts, but Bridget and Wendy, tired of their DCI’s Spartan décor, had put a plant in a pot in one corner. Isaac had come to appreciate it, and each day since, he made sure to water it.

  The office was full before Keith Dawson entered; it was overflowing on his entry. Larry stood up and squeezed himself into a corner.

  ‘The money taken out of Montague Grenfell’s offshore account has been transferred to an offshore bank account in Jersey.’

  ‘Traceable?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Subject to a warrant, yes.’

  ‘Do you have a name for the account?’

  ‘A company name. It doesn’t help.’

  ‘Company register?’ Larry suggested.

  ‘Offshore company, difficult to trace. Whoever took the money is smart. Not as smart as Montague Grenfell, though.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘The Channel Islands may be an offshore banking haven, but they still come under British law. There will be little difficulty in ascertaining who is drawing on that account.’

  ‘How long do you need?’

  ‘Two hours.’

  ‘Okay,’ Isaac said. ‘We reconvene at three in the afternoon. Keith, you’ve got three.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Dawson left the office a happy man. For once he was in his element, finding a felon.

  Keith worked solidly, making phone calls, sending emails, pulling in favours. Bridget brought him a sandwich for lunch, and Wendy kept him supplied with coffee.

  At two in the afternoon, he moved from his seat. ‘I’ve got it,’ he said.

  ***

  The first arrest was made at five that afternoon. Wendy and Larry accompanied by a uniform cautioned the person, applied the handcuffs.

  At seven in the evening, the interview room at Challis Street was occupied. Isaac took the lead role, with Larry to his left. On the other side sat the accused and her lawyer.

  Isaac dealt with the formalities as required. He gave the names of those present, and the fact that the proceedings would be videoed and a transcript would be available at completion.

  All parties acknowledged, including the accused’s lawyer, an imperious little man who looked as though he was going to be trouble.

  ‘My client has committed no crime.’

  ‘We have good reason to believe that she is an accessory to murder,’ Isaac said.

  ‘There is no evidence,’ Leonard Smithers said. Larry knew him, did not like him, but he was smart. Larry had forewarned Isaac to be careful with him.

  Isaac chose not to reply and turned his focus to the accused. ‘Miss Solomon, you have been charged as an accessory to murder. Would you like to comment?’

  Deidre Solomon sat quietly across from Isaac. Her record of prostitution was well known, and there had been a few arrests over the years. It was apparent that she had been preparing to visit a client when she had been picked up. Wendy and Larry had made a point after meeting her in Chelsea to find out where she worked, and the haunts she frequented.

  ‘I am not guilty,’ she said. Isaac had to admit she was a fine-looking woman. Her skin was clear with the slightest trace of makeup, her hair was lustrous, and the dress she was wearing looked as if it had been moulded onto her.

  ‘You are charged with being an accessory to the murder of Montague Grenfell. We have proof.’

  ‘What proof?’ Smithers asked.

  ‘You have been withdrawing substantial amounts of cash from a bank account in the Channel Islands.’

  ‘What has that to do with the murder?’ Deidre Solomon asked.

  ‘That account had been dormant for some time with only a small amount of money in it.’

  ‘I would not know that.’

  ‘In recent weeks, you have been transferring to it from another account at least one thousand pounds a day.’

  ‘It was my money.’

  ‘Are you saying that you earn that every day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who set up the account?’

  ‘I asked someone to do it for me,’ Deidre Solomon said. Leonard Smithers said nothing. His client was handling herself well.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Miss Solomon,’ Isaac said. ‘An offshore account is not easy to open. A friend would not have been able to open it in your name, or that of a company, without the appropriate paperwor
k. I am putting it to you that your brother opened the account. Is that correct?’

  ‘Daniel is good at organising. I’m not.’

  ‘We are arresting your brother for Montague Grenfell’s murder.’

  ‘He did not kill him.’

  ‘Did he tell you this?’

  ‘My client does not need to answer,’ Smithers said.

  ‘He would not harm anyone,’ Deidre Solomon said, ignoring her legal advice.

  ‘He has a history of violence,’ Larry said.

  ‘When he was younger.’

  ‘We have documented proof that you have withdrawn substantial sums of money from this account. We also have proof that the money in that account came from an account that Montague Grenfell used. The evidence is indisputable.’

  ‘I would not know that.’

  ‘Who would?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘My client does not need to answer that question.’

  This time, Deidre Solomon heeded his advice.

  Isaac continued, aiming to break through the woman’s defences, aware that as long as she kept mute, there was not a lot to hold her on.

  ‘We have proof that the withdrawals of the money occurred after Montague Grenfell’s death.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Miss Solomon. Montague Grenfell was killed for a password to an account that you knew about.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He visited you on a regular basis. A lonely old man in need of company, the need to talk. I am putting it to you that in a moment of weakness, he opened up about his life and ultimately the account.’

  ‘This is pure conjecture,’ Smithers said. Isaac ignored him.

  ‘Miss Solomon, you became aware of this account, and possibly while the man was asleep, you managed to check his phone and find the account details.’

  Deidre Solomon said little, other than to lower her head. ‘I did not,’ she whispered.

  ‘And once you were in possession, your brother tried to withdraw money. Do you do this with other clients? Get them heady with love and sex and cheap perfume, and then fleece them.’

  ‘This is harassment,’ Smithers said.

  Isaac was on a roll; he was not about to stop.

  ‘And then when they are vulnerable or asleep, you look for bank accounts on their phones.’

  ‘No. Sometimes,’ the woman admitted, almost screaming the truth out.