The key date: January 21, 1987, based on the newspaper found under the body; the assumption was that the body and the paper had been placed in the fireplace at the same time, but that was for Gordon Windsor to confirm. He had phoned Isaac five minutes earlier to say that identification should be possible. So far, he had not concluded his investigation, other than to confirm that the body was definitely male, Caucasian, and clothed. No papers had been found, but they had not checked all the pockets yet, as after so many years, with water ingression from the chimney, coupled with coal dust and pigeon feathers, every part of the body and the clothing was rotten and welded together. He indicated that it would be another twenty-four hours before an initial evaluation would be concluded, and then there would need to be a full autopsy.
Bridget, continuing her search with Wendy sitting close by, turned her attention to the relevant date. The records, easily obtained from the local council’s database, showed ownership from the late 1980s up to the present time when the Baxters had bought the property. It also showed that the rates had been paid meticulously during that period, and the electricity had been connected.
Bridget gave two names on the deed of ownership: Gertrude Richardson and Mavis O’Loughlin, nee Richardson. Their addresses, or at least their last known addresses, had not been updated for twenty years. A search of births and deaths indicated that both were alive, and would be eighty-seven and eighty-five years of age respectively.
Wendy had the addresses, but after so long, they seemed to be a long shot, although both were in London and she could get out to one that day. Glad of the opportunity she informed DCI Cook on the way out. The police constable decided to visit her husband on the way, hopeful that he would be in an agreeable mood, even remember her name. She felt guilt that she was not with him more often, but life has its consequences. Her husband, a loyal local government employee, had not put his affairs in order, and she had to pay for the house and the nursing home. She had to work, and she was glad to. The arthritis that had given her trouble had subsided, although she realised it was only temporary due to the warmer weather.
Bridget, meanwhile, happy to be in the office, continued with the documentation that a murder investigation always entails. As firm a friend as she was with Wendy, as fond of a few too many drinks and idle gossip as they both were, Bridget was an office person, Wendy enjoyed being out in the field.
Bridget set to work with the filing, setting up the databases, collating what they had so far. Even at this early stage, she knew it would be another three to four hours before she could consider going home; not that it concerned her, as she was in her element.
Larry Hill had found himself a desk and was setting it up to suit him. He preferred a desk facing the window. Logging on to the department’s intranet was proving difficult, but Bridget had said she would be over in five minutes to sort it out for him.
The team, supplemented by several other officers, were collecting and tagging retrieved goods from the house: precious few as it turned out. Others were preparing a case for the prosecution if a culprit was found and brought to justice. It seemed premature to Isaac Cook, in that so far there was no culprit, but procedures were procedures. Even he, a product of university and police training college, could see that the Metropolitan Police was becoming over-bureaucratised. It had been fine with the former commissioner, Charles Shaw, but he had moved on to the House of Lords.
Richard Goddard was looking for an assistant commissioner’s position in a couple of years, and the new head of the London Metropolitan Police did not seem to be overly keen on him. The warm relationship with his predecessor had been good, but the new man did not have the charm or the willingness to respond to Goddard’s pandering.
Even Isaac had to reflect on his future. He could see detective superintendent, possibly detective chief superintendent, but commissioner…
He needed a mentor to guide him to the top. He needed Detective Chief Superintendent Goddard, although he needed him to make commissioner first, and that was looking shaky. It was a momentary distraction to reflect on past events. It was the present that was important, and that consisted of a body slowly being unwrapped from its blankets.
Chapter 3
Wendy was clearly the most active as she had a defined task. Isaac, for once at a loose end, decided to visit Gordon Windsor.
Wendy’s first address was in Richmond. The address showed it as close to the park. She arrived to find what was, on first impression, an imposing mansion. She entered through the front gate and rang the doorbell. The chimes echoed through the house.
Five minutes later, an old and wizened woman leaning on a stick came to the door. ‘What do you want?’
‘Constable Wendy Gladstone.’
‘Are you after a donation or something?’
Wendy could see that the woman was embittered.
‘I need to ask you some questions about a property in Bellevue Street, Holland Park.’
‘Sold it.’
‘We are aware of that, but there are still some questions we need to ask.’
‘Ask then. I don’t have all day to stand here talking.’
‘Would it be better if I came in?’
‘If you must.’
As Wendy moved through the house, the main rooms on either side appeared to be unused. The
