‘Tom’s in the office,’ Sean O’Reilly told Larry, having found him in the café.
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘It’s the only place nearby. I always come here for my lunch,’ O’Reilly said. Larry had assumed that the man always indulged in a pub lunch, but chose not to comment.
The two men walked the short distance back to O’Reilly’s premises.
‘This is Tom Wellings,’ O’Reilly said.
‘Please to meet you, Detective Inspector.’
Larry observed a small, sprightly man who had stood up rapidly on his arrival. The face etched with lines showed a healthy tan, no doubt from years of standing outside in the yard where the metal was stored, or leaning over a fabrication with a welding torch in his hand.
‘How long have you been here, Tom?’
‘Ever since I left school. It must be fifty years at least.’
‘Don’t you ever feel like retiring?’ Larry asked, making general conversation before asking the important questions.
‘To do what? Go fishing, play golf?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Not for me. I will keep working until they take me out of here in a wooden box. Anyway, Sean pays me enough to pay for my drinks.’
‘You don’t look like a drinker.’
‘Drink me under the table, will our Tom,’ Sean O’Reilly said.
‘Tom, in 1987 a metal grille was installed at an address on Bellevue Street. Do you remember that job?’
‘Business was booming back then. I would not be able to remember that far back, or at least, specific jobs.’
‘Is there any way to jog your memory?’
‘We used to store the job cards and the accounts up in the roof when they were no longer needed. Fire hazard, I suppose, if the truth is known. They may still be there.’
‘Can we look?’ Larry asked.
‘I suppose so,’ Sean O’Reilly said. ‘I’ve not been up there, so it won’t be too pleasant.’
‘Let’s look anyway.’
Tom led the way. At the top of the old building, there was a small door into a roof cavity. Sean O’Reilly fetched a hacksaw to remove the lock that was secured to the door.
‘What a mess,’ Larry said.
All that could be seen in the light of Larry’s phone was a mass of papers. The smell was overpowering. All three men retreated for fresh air.
‘Are you certain it is in there?’ Larry asked Tom.
‘Old man Dennison was a stickler for keeping paperwork. He thought it may be needed someday for another job.’
‘Old man?’ Larry asked.
‘Back then I was only in my twenties. Bill Dennison was in his sixties. I suppose that makes me Old Man Wellings now.’
‘You? Old? Never,’ Sean O’Reilly said.
‘I will need to get some people from Challis Street. Is that okay by you?’
‘Sure,’ O’Reilly said. ‘You’re welcome to whatever you can find.’
Larry phoned Gordon Windsor.
Early the next morning two juniors from Gordon Windsor’s department arrived at Sean O’Reilly’s premises. Larry pitied them the task ahead. He stayed with them until midday and then excused himself. He had a funeral to attend.
The two juniors by that time were cursing, but as Larry had observed, they were diligent in their approach. The paperwork they retrieved was being placed carefully in containers for transportation. It would take five to six hours to complete the retrieval. From there on, it would be a case of sifting through the papers looking for 1987 and Bellevue Street and number 54.
***
The church was only two streets from Wendy’s house. She arrived dressed in black, her two sons on either side of her. Bridget walked behind them.
Isaac had arrived early, as had DCS Goddard. Both men wore black suits. Larry came a little later, as he had picked up his wife. She had met Wendy once, instantly liked her, and wanted to be present.
Mavis Richardson, who had come to know Wendy during her visits to her house, sat at the rear of the church on her own. Isaac thought it a decent gesture from a woman who was in mourning herself. Firstly, for Gertrude Richardson, then Montague Grenfell, and lastly, Ger O’Loughlin, her ex-husband. News of his death had been phoned through to Larry by his daughter earlier in the morning.
Everyone was in the church when the coffin arrived. The priest, an elderly, grey-haired man, conducted the service. He was a softly-spoken man, his voice ideal for the solemnity of the occasion, although Isaac thought that at any other time his monotone would put everyone to sleep. Both sons and Bridget rose from their seats to give a bible reading.
Isaac shed a tear, as did the other members of the department. Once the coffin had left with the immediate family following the hearse in their cars, the others filed out of the church.
Isaac noticed that Mavis Richardson had left promptly, her BMW moving down the road.
Wendy’s house had not been suitable for the wake. A hall adjoining the church had been hired. Wendy returned from the burial later in the afternoon. Isaac gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, as did Larry’s wife. Larry gave her a hug, as did DCS Goddard.
She thanked everyone, especially their DCS.
The wake was not a time for mourning, more a time for celebration for the life of Wendy’s husband.
Both sons made brief speeches.
Isaac was asked to speak on behalf of the police department, as a special request from Wendy. He was used to public speaking, having been involved in enough press conferences in his time. He had even been on television, met the prime minister on a couple of occasions.
Isaac spoke about Wendy’s husband, his achievements in life, his devoted wife, his two sons. He said that her husband had supported his wife, an invaluable member of the London Metropolitan Police. It was a nice touch to the day’s proceedings. Wendy thanked him later.
Eventually,
