‘Something else?’
‘A drug of some sort, although I don’t know what it was.’
‘What happened?’
‘Albert’s wife becomes unconscious, and they put her in the other room. Mavis, now free of the woman, sits on Michael Solomon’s lap. It doesn’t seem to be the first time, either. She is kissing him full on the mouth, even though he is family. Albert sits there like a stunned mullet, unable to look, unable to look away.’
‘Why?’
‘I told you. Albert loved the dirty and the downright sleazy. I took him to some very discreet places where no one knew him, and he was straight into it.’
‘Women?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened with Mavis?’
‘She moves over to Albert. Starts teasing him, tells him to loosen up. She grabs hold and kisses him. Everyone is urging him to go upstairs with her. She grabs hold of him and drags him out of the door.’
‘Once they’ve gone?’
‘Gertrude comes on to me. Back then, I was a good-looking young man, plenty of energy, always ready for a woman.’
Wendy could see that he was still good-looking, although no longer young.
‘What did you do?’
‘I took advantage, and took her upstairs.’
‘We are aware of an incident.’
‘That was me, I’m afraid.’
‘Tell me about it?’
‘I came back downstairs after about forty minutes. Albert reappears five minutes later, a sheepish look on his face and a big smile. His wife is still out for the count in the other room, oblivious to what has transpired.
‘Gertrude moves over to Albert, Mavis makes for Michael Solomon. The younger sister was more beautiful, and I was drunk and as horny as hell. I made a scene, attempted to grab Mavis. She got angry, and I was evicted from the party. I’m ashamed of my actions, but that’s the truth.’
The weather had eased outside, as had the conversation. There seemed little more to learn from George Sullivan. Wendy shook his hand and paid the bill.
As they left the café, feeling yet again the biting cold, George Sullivan turned to Wendy. ‘Mavis and Gertrude Richardson?’
‘Both dead, I’m afraid.’
George Sullivan shrugged his shoulders and moved on, his cane tapping the ground as he walked.
***
Isaac listened as Wendy recounted her meeting with George Sullivan. Wendy felt the man was an innocent bystander, an instinctive reaction on her part. Isaac was more sceptical: too many murders, too many innocent bystanders, but with two murders so far, and another two people dead, he hoped there would be no more.
A drunken, drug-induced impromptu orgy was hardly the reason for Garry Solomon’s death, and Montague’s death seemed illogical.
Larry still waited on an update from Bridget. Tracing a thirty-year-old phone number was proving time-consuming. Wendy had managed to find a phone book from the period. The only problem: it listed addresses and then phone numbers. There was no way to look for a phone number and then the address. The only advantage was that the number was in Kingston upon Thames, but even back thirty years, there had been a sizable population. It was only thirty minutes away by car, less by train, but it was a needle in a haystack without an address. Larry pestered Bridget a few too many times before she reacted: ‘I’m going as fast as I can.’
Larry, realising that he had overstepped the mark, retreated and pretended to tidy his desk. He gave up after ten minutes, and went and made himself a cup of coffee.
Isaac busied himself waiting for the next development. He did not have to wait for long.
Keith Dawson, in better humour than on previous occasions, burst into his office. ‘I’ve found something,’ he said. Larry and Wendy, seeing him enter Isaac’s office with Bridget in hot pursuit, moved quickly to find out what was the latest development.
All five were in Isaac’s office now, a space that was full with three. Isaac suggested they move to a larger room.
‘Keith, what is it?’ Isaac asked.
‘The man was brilliant, I’ll give him that.’ It was the first time that anyone had seen Dawson with anything approaching a smile on his face, but now…
‘Spill it,’ Larry said. ‘What have you found?’
‘According to Albert Grenfell, and according to the law, the wealth of the Grenfells, or at least the stately home, the real estate holdings, and the substantive majority of the money, should be inherited by the incumbent lord.’
‘Seems fair enough,’ Isaac said. He had resumed his seat, aware that a prolonged speech by Dawson was to ensue. Although he had to admit that Dawson’s usual monotone had been replaced by an excitable speech pattern that was almost pleasant to listen to.
‘Are you saying that Malcolm Grenfell is not entitled to his inheritance?’
‘He’s entitled if he can find it, but I’ve discovered what Montague did. It’s brilliant.’
‘Can you give it to us in language that we can understand?’ Larry asked. He had little time for Dawson and his less than cheery disposition, his usually dull manner of speaking, his ability to walk by you in the office and somehow not see you.
‘The wealth of the Grenfells is held in a number of trusts, offshore banks around the world.’
‘Illegal?’ Isaac asked.
‘Dubious, more like. The wealthy are always looking for a way to hide their wealth, avoid tax, avoid death duties.’
‘I thought that no longer applied,’ Isaac said.
‘Inheritance Tax does.’
‘You’d better detail this.’
Keith Dawson stood up and positioned himself by the whiteboard. ‘To most people, Inheritance Tax is purely an inconvenience. As long as your wealth is below a certain level, then it just means some additional paperwork.’
‘Am I liable?’ Wendy asked. She had
