‘A lovely man.’
‘Apparently, you have known him since you were children.’
‘We’re cousins, poor cousins.’
‘Poor hardly seems an appropriate word.’
‘Compared to his family, we were virtual paupers. Sure, we were not on our uppers, cap in hand, but their wealth was immense. One of the richest families in the country.’
‘Your background?’
‘Gertrude and I are the only children of Frederick Richardson, a wealthy landowner and property developer in the north of England. My father and Montague’s father were half-brothers. One was conceived in the marital bed, the other was not. You must realise which of the two was illegitimate.’
‘Then you and your family have no claim to the title and the wealth?’
‘My father and Montague’s father were brought up as brothers. Their father made no distinction, although the right of succession did. The first claim to the title belonged to the eldest son, assuming he was legitimate.’
‘If either you or your sister had a son, then he is in the line of succession?’
‘It’s a long line, and the legitimate heirs take precedence, and besides, neither of us have had any offspring.’
***
The name on the clothing tag, although faded, had shown up under ultraviolet. Bridget had a printed scan. The name stated ‘Clement Jones and Sons. Gentleman Tailors’. It was not hard to find, located as it was on Savile Row, the address for the discerning and wealthy purchaser of men’s clothing in London.
Wendy and Larry left soon after. They showed their IDs on arrival and were quickly moved into a small office at the rear. ‘Not good for business, having a couple of police officers out the front asking questions,’ the manager said.
‘Sorry about that,’ Larry said.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘We need to identify the purchaser of a shirt made in the 1980s. Would that be possible?’
‘Difficult, but not impossible.’
As the men spoke, Wendy took the opportunity to look around the office. Everywhere there seemed to be samples of clothing, as well as numerous bookkeeping records. It smelt musty, although not unpleasant, as it was interspersed with the smell of leather and fabric. The manager, a fat, red-faced man, elegantly dressed in a suit with a waistcoat, and sporting a bowtie, seemed ideally suited to such an august establishment. Larry, who had an affinity for dressing well, could only admire what was for sale in the shop at a price he could never afford.
‘How much for a suit here?’ Larry asked.
‘Up to four thousand pounds,’ the manager said.
‘A lot of money.’
‘As you say, a lot of money, but the men who come in here don’t look at the price, just the quality.’
‘What type of men?’ Wendy asked.
‘City men, bankers, stockbrokers, the occasional pop star.’
‘Any villains?’ Larry asked.
‘Confidentiality is crucial in our business.’
‘Which means?’ Wendy asked.
‘Everyone who comes in here is treated equally. We don’t ask their politics or where the money came from, only their inside leg measurement.’
‘You would have records from 1986 or thereabouts?’ Larry asked.
‘From 1904, if you need. That’s how long we’ve been here.’
‘Mid to late eighties is all we need. What do you need from us?’
‘A sample of the fabric, a photo of the garment, and a copy of the tag.’
‘We can give you a copy of the label now and a picture of the garment. We will need to get a special release of a sample in a day or so.’
‘What’s so important?’ the manager asked.
‘We need to identify the owner,’ Wendy said.
‘Dead?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Not the body in the fireplace?’
‘Confidentiality is crucial in our business, the same as yours,’ Larry said.
‘Let me have a look at the tag,’ the manager said.
Wendy handed over the photocopied image.
‘1985 to 1986,’ the manager said.
‘You can tell that from one glance?’
I remember the tag. We had taken on a new supplier of labels in 1985, but they proved unsatisfactory.’
‘Any reason why?’ Wendy asked.
‘The labels frayed after a year or so, especially if someone had put the garment in a washing machine. We ceased using them in late 1986.’
‘And the shirt?’ Wendy handed over a photo.
‘Long slim cotton with double cuffs, white in colour.’
‘Can you give us a name?’
‘It was a popular line, maybe sold three to four hundred in that colour. The best I can do is give you a list of all who purchased it. Any idea as to the age of the person?’
‘Late thirties, early forties,’ Larry said.
‘That helps. I should be able to reduce that number to seventy or eighty.’
‘When can you give us the list?’
‘Ten minutes.’
‘That soon?’
‘Everything’s computerised, and once a customer comes in, we keep him on record. No computers here in the 80s, but we’ve updated since then.’
‘No one after about 1987,’ Wendy reminded the manager.
‘I figured that. It is still about seventy to eighty. Help yourself to a cup of tea while I sort it out.’
Wendy exited the shop with the list on a USB memory stick. Larry exited with a ready-to-wear shirt, which the manager had let him have for fifty per cent off the list price. Both were pleased with their visit to the shop.
Chapter 6
Forensics were taking a long time, too long for Isaac. He phoned them to see how much longer. They said another week at most. He was a man used to being proactive, and for too long he had been waiting for others to do something, rather than himself. His position within the team at Challis Street meant
