‘Not for my grandfather’s fortune?’
‘I don’t need it, and that’s the truth,’ Yolanda said, but it meant staying with a man in Antigua who did not move her the way that he should. Ralph still did, although he was older and definitely fatter, and the innate charm he’d had when he was younger had diminished. She knew that she would choose him over her current man. Ralph had been a dreamer who was always living on the edge, one day rich, another poor, but if he could secure some of his father’s fortune, then maybe…
‘I sorted myself out for it,’ Michael said.
‘You were in a bad way the last time I saw you.’
‘Once an addict, always an addict.’
‘And this Giles Helmsley that your father mentioned?’
‘I’m not sure now although he made sense before.’
The two, if they would admit it, would have said that they were enjoying talking to each other. Ralph Lawrence took another quick look through the window of the restaurant, anxious to ensure he wasn’t seen by Michael. He returned to his car and made a phone call.
‘People like Helmsley prey on the weak and vulnerable,’ Yolanda said. ‘Are you vulnerable?’
‘If I hadn’t been neglected, then maybe it would have been different.’
‘Don’t lay your guilt on me.’
‘I’m not. Off the drugs, I realise that life is not certain. Sometimes, certain events are for the better, sometimes they aren’t. If we had lived a conventional life, you and my father, as well as me, it still would have given no guarantees.’
‘It wouldn’t, and you’ve fared well, although you’ve made some bad decisions, so has your father.’
‘Have you, mother?’
‘Your father still moves me, but he was not a steady provider. He could have made something of himself, but in the end, he only managed to stay one step ahead of the law, and to bed as many women as he could.’
‘Mother, you’ve bedded enough men from what I’ve heard.’
‘I’m not innocent, none of us is, but I’m here in England. What are we going to do? Can you forgive? Can I love you as I should?’
‘We can try,’ Michael said.
Neither drank alcohol, ordering instead orange juice. Yolanda knew that she had been drinking more than she should in recent months, an attempt to compensate for the boredom of living in a hot country, and friends who judged you by the money in your bank, not your worth as a person.
‘Then we need to help your father,’ Yolanda said.
‘If I have money, I’ll weaken. You must know that?’
The two finally ordered a meal and made idle conversation. Yolanda talked about her travels, not mentioning all of the men, even the ones who had treated her badly, one who had even hit her. Michael talked about his time on the street, his attempts to sort himself out, the places he had slept, the people he had met. Even the woman he had wanted to be with, but she had overdosed on heroin one night, and he had watched her die.
It was late when they left the restaurant, Yolanda walking with her son to the centre, leaving him at the door and kissing him on the cheek, Michael responding by putting his arms around his mother and holding her close.
Outside on the road, Ralph waited. Once she was in the car, they spoke, but not for very long. Yolanda, emotionally drained, soon succumbed to sleep as Ralph drove. At the hotel, Ralph escorted her to her room. He did not return to his car that night.
***
Molly Dempster walked into Challis Street Police Station. She was well dressed and had applied make-up. Isaac and Larry did not recognise her at first, although Wendy did.
‘Miss Dempster, what brings you here?’ Wendy said.
‘I’ve got a confession to make,’ Molly replied, her voice quivering.
Wendy feared for the worst and called over Isaac. ‘It’s not that,’ Molly said. ‘Is there somewhere we can sit?’
An interview room was found along the corridor. It was not intimidating, and it was just the three of them. Isaac felt obliged to follow the correct procedure and to advise the woman that her conversation was being recorded. She acknowledged the fact.
‘You spoke of a confession,’ Wendy said.
‘I’m embarrassed to tell you. It complicates your enquiries.’
Apart from the standard activities, the investigation into the death of Gilbert Lawrence had stalled, and it was causing problems, not only within Homicide and for Detective Chief Superintendent Goddard but with Commissioner Alwyn Davies, the head of the London Met. Neither Isaac nor Goddard had any time for Davies, with both regarding him as the worst head of that august organisation in living memory, but he couldn’t be ignored.
‘Take it nice and slow,’ Wendy said. In another situation, she would have gone and sat with the woman, but in the interview room, she sat alongside her DCI.
The two police officers waited while the woman composed herself.
‘Ralph is my son,’ Molly said. Wendy almost fell off her seat, Isaac’s mouth opened with a gasp.
‘This comes as a great surprise,’ Isaac said.
‘It’s something I’ve lived with for many years. Nobody knew except for Gilbert and Dorothy, and now they’re both dead, the secret could have gone to my grave.’
‘You’d better take your time,’ Wendy said. She felt a flush of emotions come over her: horror, disgust, love, confusion. She didn’t know which one was prevalent, although she had always regarded the housekeeper as one of life’s gentle souls, a person who never sought attention or fame or wealth but completed her daily tasks and went home to watch the television or to read a book. And in one sentence, the woman
