Anton Schmidt – an unusual name for an expert in the English language – opened the door to his office in Mayfair.
‘My father was German, but I was born in England, not far from here. A true Cockney. My mother said that I was born within earshot of the bells of St Mary-le-Bow, but I’m not sure if it’s true,’ Schmidt said.
‘I have a video recording of a birthday party. A woman is speaking. I need to know where she is from,’ Sean said.
‘Fine, let me see it.’
Sean put his laptop on Anton Schmidt’s desk and pressed the play button once the recording was ready. Ingrid Bentham’s face was clearly visible.
‘That is the woman in question?’ Anton Schmidt asked. ‘She is very attractive.’
‘And deadly.’
‘The woman in the newspapers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nasty business. Let me watch it for a few minutes, and then I can give you my considered opinion.’
Sean moved out of the office and left Schmidt with the recording. He took the opportunity to purchase coffee from a café below the office. He returned after ten minutes.
‘Northern,’ Schmidt said.
‘Anything more specific?’
‘Originally from the Newcastle area.’
‘Age when she left?’
‘Newcastle, up to her late teens.’
‘And then?’
‘Hard to say. There are indications of London idioms, but they are formed relatively quickly. She has probably been in London for some time, but the original accent remains noticeable. Most people’s accents are formed in their youth. It’s unlikely to stay hidden, no matter how hard they try to conceal it; at least, not to me.’
***
After the first couple of days, progress slowed. Sara and her team now had a clear idea as to where the woman had come from, although no firm information as to who she was. Ingrid Bentham was the name she had been using, but there were no bank accounts in that name, at least none that had any money in them, and the only address they had was the flat she had shared with Gloria. The Chalmers always paid Ingrid in cash, and there was no record with HM Revenue & Customs that any tax had ever been paid.
When questioned, Stephanie Chalmers had said that was what Ingrid wanted. It was a minor point, and the murder investigation team were interested in solving the murder of Gregory Chalmers, not indulging in a tax investigation. The ring, so far, had drawn a blank, other than the assumption that it could have been from the mother, but an uppercase ‘M’ did not seem conclusive.
Bob Marshall, as the DCI in charge of the team, was feeling the heat. It was on record that he and his lead detective in the murder investigation were involved in a personal relationship. Detective Superintendent Rowsome was being questioned by his superiors as to whether this would impact on the effectiveness of the investigation. He had allayed their concerns with a ringing endorsement of his DCI. He knew he had lied. As far as he was concerned, Bob Marshall was after his job, and he did not intend to let him have it. Rowsome knew that he had climbed the promotion ladder as far as he could. There were still another ten years before retirement, and he was hanging on for dear life.
‘I’ve gone out on a limb for you,’ Rowsome said in his phone call to Bob Marshall, two minutes after receiving a grilling from his seniors.
‘The investigation is going well,’ Bob Marshall said. It was not entirely correct, and he half-expected Rowsome to fire back at him.
‘Not from where I’m sitting,’ Rowsome said before hanging up his phone.
Bob Marshall knew that his decision to appoint Sara as the lead instead of Keith Greenstreet was sound, but defending that decision was not so easy. Unless there was a result within the week, he would need to consider replacing Sara. He knew what her reaction would be. He hoped it would not affect their relationship, but if he had to do it, he would.
Sara, increasingly frustrated, wondered what they could do. Each day they met and discussed what to do next. Each day they went over the evidence so far, but there was precious little.
There was no shortage of fingerprints, no question as to the murderer and no stone had been left unturned, but Ingrid Bentham had disappeared. They had traced the name back, only to find that it had come into existence four years earlier. That aligned with Anton Schmidt’s analysis of the woman’s accent. A check of births in the UK had revealed no Ingrid Bentham, other than a woman in her seventies.
It was clear that Ingrid Bentham was not the woman’s birth name, but what was it? Keith had considered travelling up to Newcastle, utilising some of the contacts he had made over the years in other parts of the country.
Sara believed it to be a good idea, only to have it rejected due to budgetary constraints.
‘Sorry, but that’s how it is,’ Bob Marshall had said in the office that day. Sara knew that he had refused not out of any concern over the budget, but because he thought it would be a wasted trip. He received a cold shoulder that night in the bed they shared.
Sara knew that he was under pressure to rein in costs, and under pressure to remove her from her position, but he had no right to place restrictions on her. She was angry and rightly so.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Keith said when told of Bob not approving his trip.
‘We need a breakthrough,’ Sara said, not mentioning the cold shoulder and the cold bed to Keith.
Sean had visited
