His time of reflection soon came to a conclusion. ‘Are you ready?’ Wendy asked.
‘Let’s go,’ he replied. Another visit out to meet the younger sister.
Larry drove. Wendy sat in the passenger’s seat, telling him about her husband and his condition. It was not a subject he wanted to hear about, but she seemed to want to talk. He could at least acquiesce and offer comment when required, encouragement when needed.
‘They reckon another three to six months,’ she said soulfully. He had noticed that she was a cheerful woman until she spoke about her husband. He could only assume they were close.
He understood, as he and his wife were close, although sometimes they argued like cats and dogs. She put it down to her fiery Irish Roman Catholic upbringing; he, to his growing up in a rough area in a rough town in the north of England. Their arguments, he reflected, only lasted a short time, and neither dwelled for weeks on why they had argued in the first place. Money was often the main reason, and a promotion to DCI would help.
‘Anyone at home for you?’ Larry asked Wendy.
‘My last son moved out. All I have there are a television and rising damp.’
‘Not ideal.’
‘Arthritis,’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The dampness in the house is playing havoc with my aches and pains. I intend to sell it as soon as possible.’
‘And your husband, are you close?’
‘We were, but with dementia, it’s hard to remember back to that time. Every time I go to visit, I have to take a tablet to calm myself down. Anyway, enough of my complaining. You’re a good listener.’
‘We’re here,’ he said.
Exiting the car, they both made their way to the front door of Mavis Richardson’s house. The woman opened the door on Wendy’s second knock.
‘I’ve had Montague Grenfell on the phone,’ Mavis said. She was obviously upset.
‘What did he tell you?’ Larry asked. Even though the woman was upset, she still managed to ensure they were all seated and had a cup of tea.
‘He’s had a visit from a Detective Chief Inspector Cook.’
‘Our senior,’ Wendy said.
‘Michael Solomon’s dead,’ Mavis Richardson said.
‘Had you any idea what happened to him after he left your sister?’ Larry asked.
‘I saw him about ten years ago, purely by chance. I was in the city, and he walked by. We recognised each other instantly.’
‘What happened?’ Wendy asked.
‘We sat down and had a coffee.’
‘Anything more?’
‘Nothing more. He asked after Gertrude. He seemed to be genuinely concerned. We parted, and I never saw him again.’
‘Did you tell your sister?’
‘We were not talking, and besides, it would only have brought up unpleasant memories.’
‘Secrets best left unspoken?’ Wendy asked.
‘This is a murder enquiry, you do realise this?’ Larry said. He had just poured himself a second cup of tea.
‘Garry?’ Mavis Richardson asked.
‘It’s possible.’
‘Not proven.’
‘We’re conducting DNA analysis.’
‘You could be forced to give evidence, explain what all the secrets are.’
‘Two old women, no more than a few years left for either of us. I don’t think the fear of imprisonment would be a catalyst for us to talk. Besides, some secrets must remain hidden, regardless.’
‘Are these secrets that important?’ Wendy asked. She had helped herself to a small cake.
‘Yes.’
Chapter 8
Forensics wasted no time once they had a sample of Gertrude Richardson’s DNA. A mitochondrial DNA sequence from the mother and the body matched. Confirmation of the body as Garry Solomon accelerated the investigation. Wendy had the unpleasant task of telling Gertrude. She did not relish it, but she would do it with all haste.
Isaac made an appointment to meet Montague St John Grenfell, the sisters’ lawyer. Isaac realised he knew more than he had told them so far; he needed to be pressured. It was now a full-blown murder investigation; the time for evasion belonged in the past.
Wendy, not in the best of spirits, made the trip out to Richmond. Her husband continued to wane, and now she had bad news for Gertrude Richardson, a woman with whom she felt an affinity. Sure, she did not live in a mansion surrounded by cats, but she could empathise with the loneliness of the old woman. Wendy’s husband may have been difficult when he had been at home, but he had been there when she arrived. All she had now was a stone-cold house where her voice echoed. Sometimes, she felt like screaming when she got home. Challis Street was not warm and inviting, but at least there were people and noise and activity. The long hours of a murder case suited her fine; telling an old woman that her only child had died thirty years previously did not.
‘It’s Garry. I’m sorry.’
‘I always knew it was.’
‘Any more than a mother’s instinct?’ Wendy asked.
‘Too much dirty laundry, too much history,’ the woman said. Wendy could see the sadness etched on her face, regardless of the brave manner in which she laboured around the kitchen, stroking one cat and then another. She offered Wendy a cup of tea; Wendy accepted, even offered to make it for her. Gertrude Richardson declined.
‘I’d like to see him.’
‘It’s thirty years.’
‘I’ve seen dead bodies before, and he’s still my son.’
‘You said that before. What did you mean?’
‘I can’t talk about that now. I just want to see my son.’
‘I’ll arrange it for you. Do you want me to stay here with
