Isaac had not pursued the matter any further, and besides, he had not had a lot of time. If he was not in the office, he was worrying about the case. If he was not worrying, he was with Katrina Smith.
Once in the office, fully involved in the deliberating, the discussing, the attempts to find a solution, the time would pass unnoticed. Almost as if the hands of the clock on the wall had stopped rotating.
He knew that was why Jess O’Neill had moved out, and probably why Katrina Smith would not be in his life for too long. He sometimes wondered, not often, as he had little time for day-dreaming and idle speculation, if it would be different with Katrina, although he assumed it probably wouldn’t be.
He was a man who looked for a long-term companion, the patter of little feet rushing to him when he walked in the door at night after a hard day's work, the embrace of a loving woman, but he could see himself as a life-long bachelor whose life was interspersed with a succession of women. He had seen Malcolm Grenfell in his sixties playing around with women young enough to be his daughter. Isaac did not want that for himself. He resolved to find someone to share his life with, but would it be Jess O’Neill or Katrina Smith, maybe even Linda Harris, although he did not know where she was.
‘Isaac, Isaac.’
‘Sorry, deep in thought,’ Isaac replied, rubbing his eyes, pretending to put pen to paper.
‘Fast asleep more likely,’ Larry said. ‘Don’t worry. We’re all feeling that way.’ He had news, vital news, for his DCI.
‘Too many hours here,’ Isaac replied.
‘We have a phone number for the grille.’
‘And?’
‘It’s an old number. I tried dialling, but it came up blank. Just a hollow ring on the other end.’
‘But traceable?’
‘Bridget is working on it.’
‘Great. Keep me posted.’
Wendy came into Isaac’s office. ‘Sir, I’m drawing a blank on George Sullivan.’
‘How many likely candidates?’
‘In Berkshire and surrounding counties, over thirty.’
‘Have you contacted them all?’
‘We’ve tried to be selective. No point phoning a George Sullivan unless he’s in his late seventies to eighties, is there?’
Isaac leant back in his chair. Wendy was looking for a measured response when he could not think of one. She was the best there was at finding people, whether they wanted to be found or not. Isaac knew that she would find George Sullivan, even if he was buried in a churchyard somewhere or his remains were ash.
‘You’re right.’ The only useful comment that Isaac could offer.
‘He could have moved around the country, but collating that amount of information will take some time,’ Wendy said.
‘Bridget is weighed down,’ Isaac replied. ‘And now she is working on the phone number that Larry has found. What will this number tell us, Larry?’ Isaac asked.
‘Who ordered the grille to be installed.’
‘So, someone gave them the key to enter the house, but not to enter the room. On the one hand, someone is trying to conceal a body, and on the other, they give a third party access to the murder scene. It all sounds bizarre to me,’
‘What do you mean, sir?’ Larry asked. Wendy was in the room, so the familiarity of addressing his boss by his first name was not appropriate.
‘Did they install the bars on the windows.’
‘It appears that way, sir.’
‘If they entered the room, were they alone?’
‘After thirty years? Who would know?’
‘What about the old man that is still working there?’
‘It’s a thought. I could take him to the house. It may jog his memory.’
‘You’d better do it today,’ Isaac said. Larry cursed under his breath. He was an experienced police officer, and he had not thought of it. He had been slowly gaining the confidence of his DCI, and here he was, making the most basic of errors. Thirty years was a long time, but Tom Wellings came from an age before computers and smart phones.
Larry remembered that his father in his seventies could remember phone numbers and car registrations from his youth, but had no idea as to his own phone number. If anyone asked, he would open his wallet and take out a piece of paper with it typed on.
***
Bridget hurried into the office. Usually she shuffled along maintaining a predictable pace. Encountering her in the corridor was always a chore. Isaac moved fast, as did Larry, but with Bridget, it was the same lumbering forward momentum, and it was impossible to get by. But this time, she was moving fast, even knocking off some papers precariously perched on the top of Larry’s filing cabinet.
‘I’ve found an address,’ she said.
‘George Sullivan?’ Isaac asked.
‘It looks possible.’
‘Wendy, fancy a trip to the country,’ Isaac asked.
‘Ready and willing.’
‘Go easy on expenses,’ Larry reminded her. He knew she would still have a slap-up meal in a quality restaurant. ‘Necessary to maintain cover,’ she would say afterwards.
Besides, if she came back with a result, he would sign the expense form.
Wendy took the printout from Bridget and left the office. Five minutes later, just long enough for her to collect her handbag with the police issue credit card, grab the keys to the police car, and she was gone. She always carried a small bag with her in case there was an overnight stay involved. Berkshire was not far, only thirty-five miles down the M4, no more than an hour, sometimes less if the traffic was flowing, although it could take longer at peak times. It was eleven in the morning before
