The last comment from Dawson’s boss. ‘He’s a miserable sod. Keep him for as long as you want.’
Isaac had met up with Katrina Smith on a couple of occasions, although not as many as he would have liked. She had found herself a job in London and was already working long hours.
She had spent a few nights at his flat, but it was early days for both of them, and no decision had been made for her to move in on a more permanent basis. Besides, her mother was prudish, and Katrina would not want to upset her without giving her fair warning.
As Albert’s and his brother Montague’s bodies had been released at the same time, there was to be a joint funeral. Katrina would travel up with Isaac for the funeral. They planned to spend the night in a hotel.
Wendy was going as well, mainly to take note of who attended and whether there were some unknown faces, maybe the elusive George Sullivan or maybe someone they had not taken into account.
Wendy and funerals were happening too often for her liking. There had been Gertrude Richardson’s, and then her husband’s. Now she had Albert and Montague Grenfell’s to attend, and then two days after, Mavis Richardson. Both Larry and Wendy planned to attend her funeral, as both had come to know her well. Her death and their attendance at her funeral did not excuse her from any crime that may have been committed, but she was dead. Her guilt or otherwise would be decided at a later date.
Larry thought they were drawing blanks and there would never be a resolution for a thirty-year-old murder. Isaac, more optimistic, refused to accept his view.
Bridget’s attempts to clean up the scanned copy of the work order to read the phone number for Bellevue Street had not worked. She had tried Photoshop: reduce the hue, increase the saturation, lighten, darken.
The most she had ascertained was that the number was probably in London and that it began with a five and ended with an eight. She had made a guess of what the missing numbers may have been, made a few phone calls, but only received the sound of a disconnected line.
‘Phone numbers have changed since then,’ Bridget had said. Regardless, she knew that a full phone number, no matter how old, could be traced, and an address and a name attached to it.
Isaac moved over to the white board in the corner. On it was listed the victims, their relationship to the suspects, possible motives, current addresses, their backgrounds and histories. He was certain that somewhere on that jumbled board was the solution to both of the murders. Instinct told him that Garry Solomon’s and Montague Grenfell’s murders were related; although it may not be the same murderer, the same basic motivator remained, but what?
Montague Grenfell had been pushed down a flight of stairs. Even if a culprit was found, they could easily claim self-defence, an argument, an unfortunate accident. A murder conviction seemed unlikely, more likely manslaughter unless a full confession was received. Garry Solomon was murder, no one would dispute that, but why hide his body in that fireplace? Isaac had had restless nights thinking over that.
To put the man’s body in a house owned by his mother and his sister seemed callous. The condition of the body had made it impossible to ascertain whether he had been murdered in the house or elsewhere.
Michael Solomon had been friendly with his son on a casual basis but hadn’t told the boy’s mother, and had not attempted to look for him after his disappearance.
Isaac knew that somebody knew something, but who and what.
‘Larry, let’s go and see Michael Solomon’s widow,’ Isaac said. It was more an act of frustration on his part than a reasoned action.
‘What are you thinking, Isaac?’ Larry asked.
‘Too many unknowns. Michael Solomon may have said something to his second wife.’
‘He only had the one wife,’ Wendy said.
‘As you say,’ Isaac acknowledged.
Chapter 26
Larry and Isaac could hear the sound of babies crying when they arrived at the house. Larry knocked on the door. A woman came to the door, her hair not brushed, her face showing anger. ‘What do you want?’
‘DI Larry Hill. This is Detective Chief Inspector Cook.’ Both men showed their ID badges.
‘Come in. Find a seat if you can.’
In the hallway of the house was a pushchair which they had to push to one side to get through. Once past, there were the remains of a child’s dinner. They stepped over it and went into the only room that appeared to show any semblance of homeliness.
Five minutes later the woman came in. Isaac noticed that she had changed her dress and brushed her hair.
‘Mrs Solomon,’ Isaac said. ‘Sorry to arrive unannounced.’
‘Call me Mary.’
‘Mary, you met his son.’
‘Solly?’
‘We refer to him as Garry Solomon.’
‘Still the same man.’ The voice of a crying baby echoed through the walls. Isaac found the noise irritating; Larry appeared ambivalent.
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘How would I know?’ Mary said. ‘Sometime in the eighties. I only knew him as my husband’s friend.’
The cry of another child and Mary Solomon rushed out of the door. The sound of a smack, more crying, and Mary’s harsh voice: ‘Shut up, shut up. You’ll be the death of me.’
Isaac could see the need for a visit from Child Welfare.
‘Her children have dumped their offspring on her,’ Larry said.
‘No right to hit children, is it?’
‘No. She needs assistance, not our criticism.’
Mary Solomon returned. ‘Sorry about that. DI Hill knows the situation. If the house were not in my
