‘Are we ruling out Garry Solomon’s widow?’ Isaac asked.
‘He treated her badly at one stage,’ Larry said.
‘I’m trying to find the son,’ Wendy said.
‘Is he important?’ Isaac asked.
‘Not for the murder, but he may know something.’
‘But he was only thirteen when Garry Solomon died.’
‘That may be, but so far we have a body, apparently affluent, but no motive, and why hide it in a fireplace?’ Wendy said.
It was a question that had concerned Isaac since the case began. Why not in the basement under the floor, and then covered with concrete, or a grave in the backyard. It was almost as if the discovery was to be expected.
‘Let us look at who could have placed the body in the fireplace,’ Isaac said to the team.
‘The body would have required one person, but sealing the fireplace? That would have probably required two people,’ Larry said. He had propped the back of his chair up against the wall, the two front legs not touching the floor.
‘Are we assuming one person?’ Bridget asked.
‘So far, we’ve being looking for a motive, not how many people could have been involved,’ Isaac replied.
‘Could be one or two,’ Larry said.
‘But why the fireplace?’ Wendy asked.
‘It seems illogical unless they intended to come back and seal the fireplace with bricks.’
‘Whoever placed the wooden structure around the fireplace must have been physically strong, so that discounts any of the women that we know of. The only people capable would have been Michael Solomon and Mavis Richardson’s missing husband, Ger O’Loughlin,’ Isaac added.
‘And Montague Grenfell,’ Larry said.
‘Of course, there’s always the family lawyer. It always comes back to him.’
‘Ger O’Loughlin is not missing,’ Wendy said.
‘Can he be contacted?’ Isaac asked.
‘Mavis Richardson will know how to contact him.’
With no more to be discussed, the team went back to their work. Wendy had spoken to Emma Hampshire, told her that it was important to contact her son. She had been reluctant to comply, but had given Wendy the address.
***
Kevin Solomon, a man of forty-three, was not difficult to find. The address, a two-bedroom flat in Hampstead, was in remarkably good condition for a man who had a history of drug abuse. Bridget had checked out his criminal record, found a history of drug possession, a few arrests for being drunk and disorderly, but no prison sentences, and no major crimes.
‘The flat, is it yours?’ Wendy asked. She had been invited in after showing her badge.
‘Out of my price bracket,’ Kevin Solomon replied. Wendy had to admit he was a good-looking man, not what she had expected.
‘What is your price bracket?’
‘Cheap, exceptionally cheap.’
‘No money?’
‘If I have some, I spend it.’
‘A remarkably frank admission,’ Wendy said.
‘Honesty, it’s part of my rehabilitation.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m a drug addict, heroin mainly. For years, I was crazy for it. I would do anything for the next hit.’
‘Crime?’
‘Petty sometimes, or else I would hire out as a male escort.’
‘Pay well?’
‘Well enough for the next injection.’
‘That doesn’t explain the accommodation.’
‘It’s owned by the family.’
‘Which family?’
‘My grandmother’s.’
‘We were not aware that you had any contact with them.’
‘My father didn’t, although I knew from my mother about the family lawyer.’
‘Montague Grenfell?’
‘Yes, him.’
‘Have you met him?’
‘Once, when he came here and gave me the key to the flat.’
‘Did your father have any contact with his mother or Grenfell?’
‘He hated them. I doubt if he made contact.’
‘And you?’
‘Whatever the issue was between my father and his mother, I never knew.’
‘Did you meet her?’
‘I knocked on her door once. I was drugged out, attempted to explain who I was. She slammed the door in my face.’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘Living in a mansion fit for condemning. She must have assumed that I wanted to steal her money.’
‘Did you?’
‘Not really. I am not an ambitious man, lazy would be a more apt description. I knew I was in trouble with my addiction, and I was looking for somebody, anybody, to help.’
‘There was your mother.’
‘She wasn’t much help.’
‘I met her,’ Wendy said. He had made them both a cup of coffee. Whereas he had given up drugs, he had not given up cigarettes. Both were sitting in the main room of the flat smoking, a luxury both obviously enjoyed.
‘What did you think?’ Kevin Solomon asked.
‘I liked her. She seemed genuinely concerned about you.’
‘Maybe she is, but I don’t see her often.’
‘Any reason?’
‘She was quick enough to ship me off to boarding school.’
‘She said your father walked out on you two.’
‘After he had caught her screwing another man. Did she tell you that?’
‘Tell me about your father.’
‘He disappeared when I was three or four. I don’t remember him.’
‘You never saw him again?’
‘Once, when I was about ten or eleven, but never again.’
‘Did Bob Hampshire treat you well?’
‘He was a good man, more like a father than my father.’
‘Why the bitterness towards your mother?’
‘She shipped me off to boarding school.’
‘Only that?’
‘It’s enough.’
‘I’m afraid that your father is dead.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I knew about the drug trafficking and the prison sentences. From what my mother told me, he ran with the wrong crowd. He was always bound to get his wings clipped at some time.’
‘Your father died in 1987 when you would have been thirteen.’
‘Unpleasant death?’
‘Murdered, unfortunately.’
‘His death means nothing to me. I was upset when Bob Hampshire died, but my father’s death leaves me cold. Does that sound callous?’
‘Not at all,’ Wendy
