Isaac did not relish the trip up to Leicestershire again as the sight of the ageing Lothario cavorting with young women did not excite him. Before he met Katrina Smith, he would have been curious, as his love life had taken a definite turn from good with Jess to lukewarm, and on to non-existent.
Isaac phoned Lord Penrith, not expecting more than a few moments of his time. If the man was reluctant to speak, he would set up an interview at a police station, bring the man in, formally caution him, and then put him on the spot.
‘Lord Penrith, DCI Isaac Cook.’
‘Yes, DCI. What can I do for you?’ Malcolm Grenfell said. Isaac noticed the man spoke with respect, and he sounded sober. A good start, Isaac thought.
‘Answers to questions,’ Isaac said.
‘Let me have your questions.’
‘You knew Garry Solomon when he was young.’
‘I’ve already told you this. We were at the same school, although he was three years younger than me.’
‘Did you acknowledge each other. Look out for the other?’
‘Hell, no. We used to treat his year like shit.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve not been to boarding school?’
‘No such luck,’ Isaac replied. He had been to the local comprehensive from the age of eleven, and whereas it had served him fine, it had not had a great record of academic achievement.
‘Luck! No luck if they send you to the school we went to.’
‘What do you mean?’ Isaac asked.
‘Boarding schools for the offspring of the rich and the influential are only there to satisfy the egos of the parents, and as a dumping ground for their children.’
‘Bad?’
‘Sadistic teachers. They ruled with an iron rod as well as a wooden cane, split at the end to increase the pain for the unfortunate student who received ten of the best across his arse.’
‘I thought that wasn’t allowed.’
‘Corporal punishment, the last vestige of privilege for exclusive boarding schools.’
‘It sounds sadistic.’
‘It was, but any student dumped there was invariably angry with their parents.’
‘Did you receive any discipline?’
‘More than most.’
‘And Garry?’
‘After he seduced the headmaster’s daughter?’
‘Yes.’
‘They beat the shit out of him. I had left by then, but I heard about it soon after.’
‘What did you think?’
‘He went up in my estimation.’
‘It didn’t stop you sleeping with his wife.’
‘Garry changed. He was treating her badly.’
‘Were the two of you serious?’
‘I suppose we were. She was, still is, a good-looking woman, and back then, the idea of marriage appealed.’
‘And now?’
‘Marriage? I don’t think so. I’m still young enough, and you know what the title gets me?’
‘A better class of woman.’ Isaac pre-empted Malcolm Grenfell’s expected crass reply.
‘That’s right. Is that what you phoned me for?’
‘Garry Solomon never contacted his mother after the age of nineteen.’
‘That’s probably correct.’
‘Do you know the reason why?’
‘He never spoke about it. I know about the party.’
‘Which party?’
‘Where his aunt was screwing his father.’
‘That was seven years before he walked out on his mother. And then he sends her a postcard from India two years later.’
‘Montague would have known.’
Every time the answer is Montague, and he is not available, Isaac thought. Montague Grenfell’s burial, after the body had been released, was due to be conducted in three days’ time. Isaac planned to attend the service, the body then to be interred in the family plot in the churchyard adjoining Penrith House.
‘Anyone else?’
‘Emma, maybe, but no one else. It’s a long time ago.’
‘You mentioned that Montague had secrets. Can you elaborate?’
‘Nothing concrete, but he had too many fingers in too many pies. Impossible to resist fudging the numbers.’
‘Would you?’
‘If I had his acumen, probably.’
Isaac terminated the phone call. In three days’ time, he would be in Leicestershire. It would be a good time to conduct a formal interview. While Malcolm Grenfell had been polite on the phone, Isaac had little time for the man who, without the benefit of money and now a title, would have been out on the street scrounging for food and money.
***
Wendy was on the phone in the office following up on all the George Sullivans that Bridget had managed to identify. Bridget had used a set of criteria to narrow the field: age, wealth, reference in Burke’s Peerage, school attended.
She had looked for a correlation between Albert Grenfell, who was known to be a snob, and George Sullivan, the criteria reflecting the fact that Albert was hardly likely to be friendly with someone who was not of an equal social standing.
Regardless, George Sullivan was a common name, and Burke’s Peerage had not helped, as the only George Sullivan had gone to school in Scotland, whereas Albert had gone to Eton.
Wendy, as usual, was diligent in her pursuit of Sullivan. Her mood had improved after the funeral, and one night of the week she would stay with Bridget, and another night Bridget would stay with her. Bridget, she had found out, was allergic to cats, and had come up in a rash on her arms.
Larry had the paperwork with Bridget and Forensics. The phone number on the work order was indecipherable. He could see a four and an eight and a couple of other numbers, but there should be more. As for the name alongside the phone number, the rats had eaten that many years previously.
DCS Goddard was keeping his distance and had not been in the murder room for seven days. Isaac expected to hear from him at any time.
Keith Dawson continued to wade through Montague Grenfell’s papers. He said little, only grumbled occasionally. Bridget ignored his protestations. He had even complained to his boss, who had complained to Isaac, who told him that there were two murders, maybe more, and if DCS Goddard needed
