Wendy had been with Gertrude Richardson when she had looked at the mummified, skeletal remains of her son. She had also been in her mansion preparing some food when the old woman had died, and now she had two of the woman’s cats in her home, and they were still not domesticated enough to exit the house to conduct a call of nature. Bridget had her own problems at home; her layabout live-in lover, a council worker, was becoming lazier and more slovenly. She always prided herself on a tidy mind, a tidy house, and now he wasn’t even washing the dishes after inviting his equally slovenly friends over. She could see that she was about to show him the door. The two women had discussed moving in together once Wendy’s husband had passed away.
Larry, a happily married man, did not envy his DCI the lifestyle that he lived, although he knew of his reputation for beautiful women; who did not in the police station in Challis Street.
It was nine in the evening before the meeting concluded. Wendy had to leave to visit her husband, say goodnight to him, not sure if he would recognise her or not. Such a vibrant, active man in his younger days, then senility, then bitterness, and now a shell of a man ‘waiting for the final call from his maker’ as Bridget would say; not that Wendy was religious, but Bridget was. Wendy did not need the religious overtones, but it was good to have a friend who cared.
Larry took the opportunity to go home as well, promising to be in the office very early in the morning and to follow up on Garry Solomon.
Bridget, in no great hurry to go home, had another cup of coffee in her hand. ‘I’ll stay a couple of hours, do some preparation work for tomorrow,’ she said.
‘I’ll keep you company,’ Isaac said. He had no wish to hurry home. The only things that welcomed him there were a hot chocolate and a cold bed. Not the ideal arrangement, he thought.
He remembered Linda Harris’s comment, the last time they had spoken, a brief phone call when she had denied responsibility for the murder of Jess O’Neill’s boss: ‘We could have been something more.’
Isaac wondered if that could have been possible. He had been attracted to her, even slept with her that one time, but she was MI5, a minor cog in the organisation according to her.
On reflection, he realised that she would have been an ideal woman for him, but she came with too many secrets. He thought to ask his boss if he could find out what had become of her. Richard Goddard would know who to ask, but it was just idle speculation on his part. Isaac knew there would be other women, but it was now a drought after plenty. There had been Sophie White, and then Jess O’Neill, and now, nobody.
Chapter 12
With the office empty apart from Bridget, Isaac returned to his office. He picked up the necessary paperwork, put it down again. It was not that he had an issue with it, although there was too much. It was because they had a murder and no motive.
Garry Solomon, a criminal when he had no reason to be one, had died thirty years previously and had been stuffed behind a wooden structure crudely built around the fireplace.
But why? Isaac asked himself. The body would be found one day, although thirty years seemed a long time. If it had been placed there temporarily, then why attempt to conceal it, and why had the body not been found before now. Could the house have been unoccupied, unvisited in all those years? It seemed illogical. Bridget had evidence showing that the utility bills and rates had been paid during that time.
The newspaper placed under the body at the time of incarceration had been clear enough, and the date of vacating the house and the murder were within months of each other. The house was empty when the Baxters had moved in, but what was the condition when they had first seen it? Was it full of cobwebs, creaking doors, rats?
Isaac regretted not having his previous DI, Farhan Ahmed, with him. Then it would have been the two of them late at night, putting forward the imponderables, throwing up ideas, some valid, some crazy, but somehow it worked.
Larry Hill, Farhan’s replacement, was an excellent detective inspector, but he was a family man and intended to stay that way.
Farhan had been too, but his staying late in the office had cost him his marriage, an occupational hazard all too common in the police force. Even the break up of the relationship with Jess, Isaac reflected, had to a large part come about due to his job taking precedence over his emotional responsibilities.
Bridget interrupted Isaac’s train of thought. ‘I’ve found an address for Garry Solomon’s wife,’ she said.
‘Current?’
‘Twenty years old, I’m afraid.’
‘At least it will give something for Wendy to work on. Do you have a name?’
‘Emily Solomon.’
‘Any children?’
‘None that I can find.’
‘The last known address of Emily Solomon is after the death of her husband, Garry?’
‘By a few years,’ Bridget said.
‘How do you know that it is the same woman?’
‘She claimed unemployment benefits. There are documents on record showing that she was the legal wife of Garry Solomon, even a marriage certificate.’
‘Married in England?’
‘Registry Office, but it’s legitimate. There are even copies of their birth
