‘A pint of your best,’ Larry said to the man behind the bar. The man reflected the condition of the pub; he was as run down as it was.
‘Comin’ up,’ the singularly unfriendly reply.
‘One for yourself,’ Larry said.
‘Don’t mind if I do.’
There were a few others in the pub, some slowly getting drunk, some surfing the internet on their phones, but generally it was quiet. Larry wondered how it managed to stay financially viable.
‘Did you ever know a Solly Michaels?’ Larry asked. He realised it was a long shot, but it had been a fruitless trip out to Greenwich, and then he had a tiresome trip back to Challis Street afterwards.
‘It doesn’t ring a bell.’ The publican had moved closer, taken a seat on his side of the bar.
‘How about Garry Solomon?’
‘Are you the police?’
‘Detective Inspector Hill.’
‘Any problems concerning me?’
‘Not at all. Bakewell Street is the last known abode of Garry Solomon, also known as Solly Michaels.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Thirty years.’
‘I’ve been here for forty. If he was a drinker, then he would have been in here.’
‘Why’s that?’ Larry ordered another two pints: one for him, the other for the publican.
‘Thirty years ago, we were the busiest pub in the area. Nowadays, as you can see...’
‘What changed?’
‘The boutique pubs. This pub no longer suited the up and coming trendies.’
‘Bitter about it?’ Larry asked.
‘Not really. I own the lease and the building, and as long as enough people come through the door to pay the bills, then I’m fine.’
‘Garry Solomon would have probably been down on his luck, although he would have dressed well.’ Larry knew that the body in the fireplace was expensively dressed, which did not tie in with the house and the area Garry Solomon had been living in.
‘There was a Solly that used to come in here, but that would have been back in 1984.’
Larry checked his records. In December 1983, Garry Solomon had been released from prison after serving twelve months, with time off for good behaviour. The charge, possession of a prohibited drug.
‘Looks to be the same person,’ Larry said. He noticed that the advice came at the cost of two more pints of beer.
‘There’s not a lot to tell you. He came in here every night for a couple of months, drank his fair share of alcohol, and then he disappeared.’
‘What date would that have been?’
‘February 1984, give or take a few weeks.’
It would take another two pints before Larry concluded with the publican. It was clear that the time difference between Greenwich and Garry Solomon’s death was relevant. The period prior to Greenwich, while it may have some bearing on his demise, did not seem as important.
Larry phoned Isaac, explained the situation, and the reason why he was not in a condition to drive back to the office.
It had happened a few times to Isaac as well, and he fully understood. He told Larry to take an early night, and he would see him in the morning. At least Larry’s wife would see him at a sociable hour, but not in the best condition.
***
The following day, Larry had to find out where Garry Solomon had gone after leaving Greenwich and before his untimely death. There was a period of three years and a change in fortune to be accounted for. In Greenwich, he had been destitute, an ex-prisoner. At the time of his death, he had been affluent; at least, that was the assumption judging by the clothes that he had been wearing at the time of his death.
Bridget was checking out the ownership of the house in Greenwich, and Isaac had another planned meeting with Montague Grenfell. Isaac’s suspicions, as always, came back to the family lawyer. Wendy had found Garry Solomon’s wife, now she had to find his son.
Neither were regarded as primary suspects in his death, as the construction of the fireplace surround at the house in Bellevue Street had required someone of strength, and Wendy could not envisage Emma Hampshire as being capable, and the son would have only been thirteen at the time.
As Bridget was still checking on the information Larry wanted, he decided to contact some of Garry Solomon’s earlier contacts. His criminal career had not been particularly long, lasting from his first prison sentence in 1977 through to his death in 1987. There had been two terms in prison, the first lasting twenty-four months, the second, twelve months. Seven years of freedom out of ten, which to Larry seemed to be statistically correct for the average villain.
If he had become involved in drug trafficking, it could only indicate one thing, that he was short of money. But then, there was Montague Grenfell stating that money was available for the asking, but Garry Solomon had never asked, which seemed illogical.
From what the team had managed to source, neither the father nor the son was short of charm or the willingness to stick their hand out for assistance. According to Gertrude Richardson, she had not seen Michael Solomon since he left in the seventies and her son since 1970.
‘There’s a secret,’ Isaac said to Larry on his arrival in the office.
Bridget was checking the title deeds for the house in Greenwich, and yet again it was all leading back to Montague Grenfell. The ownership was not clear, but the attempts at obscuring it were. It was obvious that it would have required a smart legal mind to put it all in place. And why was
