‘I was wild in my youth. You won’t find anything on me, apart from the occasional parking fine, maybe speeding, for the last eight years.’
‘That is correct,’ Larry said. He had seen Bridget’s preliminary dossier on Daniel Solomon and his sister. The man had told the truth.
Wendy saw the Solomon charm in the way he spoke. He was thirty-six, the same age as his half-brother when he had died. The similarity between the two men was astonishing. Comparing them, Wendy had to wonder if breeding counted. Garry had firm features, was a rugged, handsome man, whereas Daniel was rugged but not as attractive.
‘You’re not what I expected,’ Wendy said.
‘My mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Life’s not been good for her.’
‘She cannot handle the children.’
‘Did you see mine?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s okay, and she looks after him well enough.’
‘Your sister’s children?’
‘They have problems.’
‘Would you care to elucidate?’ Larry asked.
‘Not unless it’s relevant.’
Wendy noticed that they had touched a raw nerve. She changed the subject.
‘When Montague Grenfell died, what did you think?’
‘Nothing really. He was someone from my childhood.’
‘Why is your child with your mother?’
‘My wife went back home to look after her dying mother.’
‘She did not take the child?’
‘She knew he would be all right with me.’
Wendy thought the story strange; Bridget could check it out. The man had become edgy, irritable, as though he wanted them to go away. Neither Larry nor Wendy intended to leave until they had answers. One of the women came in from the outside office. Daniel Solomon gave her what she wanted, and she left.
‘Sorry about that. Pressure of work,’ Solomon said. Wendy wondered if it was pre-arranged to hurry them out. She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.
‘When was the last time you saw Montague Grenfell?’ Larry asked.
Solomon looked into the air, searching for an answer. ‘Over twenty years.’
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘I was young. People come, people go. I was not keeping a diary.’ The man’s reply was curt.
Larry wanted the man down the station, formally cautioned, and then he would prise the truth from him. Wendy could see Solomon’s charm dissipating, a characteristic apparently all too familiar in his half-brother.
‘Did you know Garry Solomon or Solly Michaels?’ Wendy asked.
‘My mother mentioned that you had been asking about him. I would have been six or seven when he disappeared. If I had seen him, you could not expect me to remember him.’
‘Tell us about your sister?’
‘Not much to tell.’
‘Humour us,’ Larry said. He knew when someone was avoiding direct answers to direct questions.
‘She’s made some bad decisions in her life.’
‘Men?’
‘Men, drugs, yes.’
‘Have you seen her recently?’
‘Once a week.’
‘Why?’
‘Brotherly love. It is important to some of us, you know,’ Daniel Solomon said bitingly. It touched a raw nerve with Larry, who had a brother that he never saw as a result of a family dispute. It silenced him for a moment.
‘I’m busy. Is there any more that you want?’ Solomon asked.
‘I think that’s about all for now,’ Wendy said.
There was one more call that day, the sister. Wendy made the phone call, a female voice answered. She noticed no great enthusiasm from the woman to meet until Wendy firmly told her that it was now, or else down at Challis Street Police Station. If she wanted, she would organise a marked police car to pick her up.
‘King’s Road, Chelsea. I’ll meet you in front of the Saatchi Gallery.’
Wendy knew there were good restaurants in the area. Interviewing a suspect in one of them would not be inappropriate.
Larry phoned Bridget. ‘Check out Daniel Solomon’s business. I’ll send you the details.’
***
Larry had to look twice when a woman in a smart blue dress introduced herself.
‘Hi, I’m Deidre Solomon.’
Larry realised that this was no ordinary prostitute. The woman, an air of assuredness about her, oozed class and quality. He noticed other men looking her way, other women too.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Wendy said.
‘I can give you one hour of my time,’ Deidre Solomon said.
‘Lunch?’ Wendy asked.
‘I’m a light eater. Why not?’
The three relocated to the restaurant inside the Saatchi Gallery. Larry noted the prices were high. Wendy never looked.
‘What business are you involved in?’ Larry asked.
‘My mother told you I’m a drug-addicted prostitute selling myself to any man with the money.’
‘Something like that,’ Wendy replied.
‘I’m clean now.’
‘And the other part?’
‘I’m not ashamed. I’m still for hire at a price.’
‘You are still a prostitute?’ Larry asked.
‘I prefer gentleman’s companion, but if you want to use a cruder term, then I am.’
‘We met your brother.’
‘Good man. Did you like him?’ Deidre looked over at Wendy.
Larry knew the woman was thirty-seven, though she looked younger. Her breasts were firm, the result of surgery he assumed. The colour of her skin, a light brown, was either a result of cream or a tanning salon. She wore red high-heeled shoes with a stiletto point. If he did not know her history or what she had just admitted, he would have assumed that she was one of the idle rich who strolled up and down King’s Road, flaunting themselves and their credit cards. He could not tell if she had money or made the pretence to induce wealthy men to part with their cash for a few hours of her time.
‘Yes,’ Wendy replied, although his criminal record showed a litany of crimes when he had been younger.
Wendy scanned Bridget’s updates on Deidre Solomon while Larry continued the interview: Deidre Solomon, prostituting, shoplifting.
Nothing major there, Wendy thought.
The brother had been in court on a charge of grievous bodily harm, but it had been dropped on a technicality, and he walked out of
