‘In that case any children, even Emily Solomon herself, would be legally entitled as beneficiaries of Gertrude Richardson’s estate.’
‘That would be correct,’ Bridget said.
‘Did you find a copy of Gertrude Richardson’s will?’
‘Not yet. Her family lawyer will have a copy.’
‘I would prefer to obtain a copy from an independent source,’ Isaac replied.
‘First thing in the morning. Is that okay?’ Bridget asked. Isaac looked up at the clock. It was midnight.
‘Fine,’ he replied. ‘Larry needs to follow up on Garry Solomon. Any luck with his criminal record?’
‘Larry already has a copy,’ Bridget replied. Isaac realised what a great asset she had become to the department, always one step ahead.
***
Isaac was in the office early the next day, as was the team. Wendy was first out of the door, following up on an address for Garry Solomon’s widow. She took the opportunity to smoke a cigarette, once she was free of the office.
Larry was not long after, and he was heading to Garry Solomon’s last known criminal haunt, although after thirty years it seemed unlikely he would find too many people who remembered him.
Isaac, at a loose end, decided that Montague Grenfell was worth another visit.
Wendy’s address for Emily Solomon was close to the centre of London in an upmarket area of Mayfair, which seemed incongruous as the woman had been claiming unemployment at one stage, and Garry Solomon had never risen above being a petty criminal and small-time hooligan.
Regardless, Wendy knocked at the door of the house. It was a very elegant townhouse, even better than Mavis Richardson’s.
‘Emily Solomon?’ Wendy asked.
‘Who’s asking?’ The accent was working class, not upper-class Mayfair.
‘Constable Wendy Gladstone, Challis Street Police Station.’
‘Long way from there, aren’t you?’
‘That may be, but I still need to contact Emily Solomon.’
‘Why?’
‘Once you confirm that you are Emily Solomon, I will tell you.’
‘Long time since I’ve heard that name mentioned,’ the woman said. Wendy could see that she was an attractive woman, who prided herself on her appearance but had not dealt with her speech.
‘Are you admitting that you are Emily Solomon?’
‘You’d better come in.’
Wendy entered, noted the grand hallway, the staircase at the rear. She was ushered into a side room and given a chair. It was not so much a request, more of a command.
‘Nice place,’ Wendy said.
‘It’s all mine.’
‘You said it was a long time since you had heard the name Emily Solomon.’
‘Twenty years at least.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not pleased with you being here. Nothing personal, but the past is the past.’
‘Any man here?’
‘What do you mean? Husband, lover, an idle screw?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s the occasional man when I feel the need. Other than that, I’m here on my own.’
‘Where did the money come from?’
‘What business is that of yours?’
Wendy noted no attempt to offer a cup of tea. It was clear that the woman had money, or at least someone did, but the room was cold and unwelcoming. None of the ornaments indicative of a family were on show: no family photos, nothing to suggest any emotional involvement of the woman with another.
‘When did you last see your husband?’
‘Which one?’
‘Garry Solomon.’
‘Sometime in the eighties, I suppose.’
‘I need you to be more specific.’
‘Why? It is not a period in my life that I wish to remember.’
‘Let’s get the date correct first and then you can tell me why. Any chance of a cup of tea?’
With the woman in the kitchen, Wendy took the opportunity to look around the room. She rustled through some photos albums but was soon interrupted. She thought she had seen a photo of a man and a woman in Indian clothes, but could not be sure. If it were important, she would claim the album as vital evidence at a later date.
‘1979.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘The bastard left me high and dry, not a penny to my name.’
‘Garry Solomon?’
‘Who else?’ Emily Solomon replied.
‘Did you divorce him?’
‘Why? We weren’t married, not in this country.’
‘There’s a marriage certificate.’
‘His idea, not mine.’
‘So you were married?’
‘I only went through with it because he threatened me.’
‘Did he do that often?’
‘Often enough, almost strangled me once.’
‘But why?’
‘Caught me with another man.’
‘Why marry you then?’
‘He said it was important for the children.’
‘You have children?’
‘One son, but he’s just the same as his father. I haven’t seen him for a few years, don’t want to.’
‘And your name now?’
‘Emma Hampshire.’
‘Married?’
‘I took his name and his money.’
‘This house?’ Wendy asked.
‘I ensured that when he died it was mine.’
‘Tell me about your husband.’
‘Garry? We met when we were young. We travelled over to India, sat on a mountain top, the usual hippy stuff.’
‘Smoked some weed?’
‘Part of the spiritual experience. All Garry could see from it was the chance to screw some of the other women. Free love, they called it.’
‘And you?’
‘I was guilty as well.’
‘And when you returned to London?’
‘Garry set himself up in business and life was good. Then our son comes along, a beautiful bouncing boy.’
‘What happened?’
‘Garry fell in with a bad crowd: drinking, gambling, screwing the local tarts.’
‘What do you know about his family?’
‘I met his father once.’
‘And his mother?’
‘He said she was crazy. Why are you asking these questions?’
‘Mrs Solomon, I am afraid that your husband is dead.’
‘As far as I’m concerned, he has been dead for over thirty years.’
‘You’re not upset?’ Wendy asked.
‘After his treatment of me? What do you think?’
‘Mrs Solomon, I believe we need to discuss this. Another cup of tea?’
‘Call me Emma.’
Wendy’s initial impression of the woman, something of a painted tart, had dissipated. Emma Hampshire appeared to be a woman whom
