‘How can I help you?’ the man asked, lying almost horizontal on his back in the bed. His head was propped up by two large pillows.
‘I’ve explained to Lord Penrith as to why you are here,’ Katrina said.
‘We need to identify a man in an old photo,’ Isaac said.
Katrina took the photo and held it in front of the old man.
‘Michael Solomon.’
‘We have identified Michael Solomon, Ger O’Loughlin and yourself. There is another man there.’
‘George Sullivan.’
‘Do you know where we can find him?’
‘Haven’t seen him in years.’
‘Where was the last time?’
‘He has a house in Berkshire.’
‘Does he have a title?’
‘George, no way. Good man, good in business, but no title.’
‘That’s all you are going to get,’ Katrina said.
Lord Penrith closed his eyes and fell asleep.
‘I doubt if he will last more than a few days. I’m not sure if I can make this weekend.’
‘It was a good job I came up today. I’d better get back to London.’
‘Do you fancy lunch before you leave?’
‘What’s for dessert?’ Isaac asked.
‘What do you want?’ Isaac smiled at Katrina ’s suggestive response. At two in the afternoon, he left for the drive back to Challis Street. He would be in the office before 5 p.m. He needed Malcolm Grenfell, as well as George Sullivan, assuming he was still alive.
The key players were dying at an increasingly frequent rate, and the one reality of the case was that the murderer, if not dead, may soon be as a result of the ageing process.
Whatever way Isaac looked at it, he realised there was hardly likely to be a conviction, only a conclusion to the case.
Isaac walked into the office just before the end of day meeting started. Bridget was there, fussing over him as he entered. As soon as he had sat down at his desk, there was a cup of coffee in front of him.
‘Grenfell’s financial and legal dealings? Anything new?’
‘No more than what I told you before. It appears that for the last fifteen years, his only clients have been the Grenfells and the Richardsons. What he had told you before he died seems to be correct.’
‘The only problem,’ Isaac said, ‘is that he only gave truthful answers to questions asked. If I didn’t ask, he never answered, and now he is dead.’
‘There is only one anomaly,’ Bridget said.
‘Yes. What’s that?’
‘Malcolm Grenfell.’
‘What about him?’
‘The records show that Malcolm Grenfell was receiving a substantial payment each month for basically doing nothing.’
‘How was it recorded?’
‘Purely listed as expenses.’
‘I don’t see anything unusual,’ Isaac said. ‘From what we know of the Grenfells and the Richardsons, they look after their own, black sheep or no black sheep. Even Michael Solomon when he left Gertrude remained friendly with Montague Grenfell, and Garry Solomon, whether he was in trouble with the law or not, always had the possibility of help from his mother, Gertrude.’
‘Even if she didn’t know?’ Bridget said.
‘The truth as to whether she did or did not has gone to the grave with Gertrude and the family lawyer.’
‘Wendy and Larry have been looking for the younger son.’
‘Were you able to help them?’
‘I believe they have found him, sir.’
‘Good. We need to meet him soon.’
‘Is he a suspect, sir?’
‘Everyone is a suspect, whether they are alive or not.’
***
‘Malcolm Grenfell?’
‘Yes. Who are you?’
‘Detective Inspector Larry Hill, Constable Wendy Gladstone,’ Larry said.
‘What do you want?’
‘You’re a hard man to find,’ Wendy said.
‘I value my privacy.’
To Larry and Wendy, it hardly seemed their idea of privacy. The man lived well. An attractive house in Henley to the west of London, its back garden running down to the River Thames. In the driveway, there was a Mercedes, the same registration that Bridget had found against the man’s name.
‘You’ve changed your address,’ Larry said.
‘I’ve lived here for five years.’
Wendy felt that she did not like the man, but then she had little time for the class structure that pervaded the country. If she had admitted to it, she would have stated that she was a socialist.
It was clear that there was a woman in the house, her shrill voice shouting for Grenfell to come back.
‘I have a visitor. This is not a convenient time. Come back later.’
‘Are you used to the police knocking on your door?’ Wendy asked.
‘Too often for me.’
‘Why?’
‘The neighbours don’t agree with the parties I have here.’
‘Loud, are they?’ Larry asked.
‘They are welcome to come, but they are all frustrated, members of the local golf club, regular churchgoers.’
‘And you are not?’
‘Hell, no. You only get one shot at life. I intend to enjoy myself.’
‘And if that includes women and drinking and making a noise?’ Wendy asked.
‘Not so much for the drink, but the women, yes.’
‘We are from Homicide,’ Wendy said.
‘Wait a minute. I’ll tell her to make herself presentable before you come in.’
Two minutes later, Malcolm Grenfell returned. ‘Come in.’
The woman sat on a chair in the kitchen. She was wearing an evening dress, even though it was early in the day. In her hand was a glass of champagne.
‘Hi, I’m Lucy,’ she said. ‘Is Malcolm in trouble again?’
Wendy thought she was in her early twenties. Larry could not but look at her more than he should. Both of them would have agreed that she was vivacious, although only Larry would have appreciated the visible bare breast.
‘Go upstairs,’ Grenfell said. ‘I’ll be there shortly.’
‘You’d better be hard when you get
