DI Larry Hill maintained an uneasy truce with his wife and her faddish diets, but he was looking a lot better since she and his DCI had ganged up on him to moderate his food intake and the pints of beer.
The only thorn in the side of the Homicide department was Seth Caddick, a man who had once temporarily occupied Isaac’s seat as the senior investigating officer in Homicide, only to be unceremoniously eased out after Isaac had solved the case, but now he was back, and this time as his senior. The sycophantic, and to Isaac incompetent, Caddick had somehow managed to attain the rank of Detective Superintendent, and he was in Detective Chief Superintendent Richard Goddard’s office, and he was in charge.
Isaac Cook had respected Goddard, a man who had got on the wrong side of the London Metropolitan Police commissioner, Alwyn Davies. Caddick, a man who for some reason always came up smelling of roses, had been quick to claim it was his leadership that ensured the enviable success rate of the Homicide department, when it was clearly Isaac and his team.
Not that it concerned Isaac unduly, as Goddard had explained that Caddick’s tenure was to be short-lived, but it was already five months, and the man continued to irritate and interfere.
***
Back in the office at Challis Street, Isaac gathered the team. He had phoned Caddick out of courtesy, knowing the man’s reaction if he was ignored. Isaac had come close to insubordination on a couple of occasions, and Goddard, his former senior, had told him to play the game and not to rile the man.
Isaac wasn’t sure how much longer he could put up with Caddick. The man continued to be a mediocre performer, and morale was down, with a few people transferring out of Challis Street, some others just resigning. So far, none of Isaac’s core team had left, and he was hopeful he could keep it that way.
‘Bridget, what do we have?’ Isaac asked. The woman was computer-savvy, and she could find out things about a person that no one else could.
‘James Aloysius Holden, age seventy-two, married to Violet Holden, two children. John, age thirty-seven, a lawyer. His sister, Linda, age thirty-three, a social worker.’
‘Helen Langdon was younger than his daughter,’ Larry said.
‘It sounds indecent to me,’ Wendy said.
‘Bridget, carry on. We can discuss the age difference afterwards.’
‘James Holden, Member of Parliament, self-professed moral crusader, a staunch advocate for prison reform and controls on the internet. And also, a believer in one man, one woman, and total fidelity.’
‘Not practising what he preaches,’ Larry said.
‘They’re all the same,’ Wendy said. She was in her fifties, troubled with arthritis, and putting on weight after giving up a lifetime habit of smoking. She was not an admirer of those born with a silver spoon in their mouth, or the hypocrites in society who preach one thing, do another.
‘Not all,’ Isaac said, ‘but in this case, there’s some explaining to do. What do we know about his wife?’
‘She’s been notified,’ Bridget said.
‘Wendy, it may be best if you come with me. Do we have her address?’ Isaac said.
‘Ebury Street, Belgravia. We can be there in twenty-five minutes.’
As Isaac and Wendy were preparing to leave, in walked their superintendent, Seth Caddick. ‘Where are you off to?’ he said.
‘We’re going to interview the dead man’s wife,’ Isaac replied.
‘Very well. Keep me updated, and make sure your report is in on time.’
Caddick walked out of the office. Larry turned to Isaac. ‘How can you put up with him, guv?’ he said.
‘Play the game, play the game,’ Isaac said. ‘The man’s only keeping the seat warm.’
‘For you?’
‘That’s the word,’ Isaac replied with a wry smile.
‘And who’ll run Homicide?’
‘Are you up to it?’
‘I reckon so. I just need to pass one more exam, and then I’ll be looking for a promotion.’
‘As long as you stay with Homicide.’
‘My wife’s not so keen, not after the time I ended up in the hospital courtesy of a local gang.’
‘That can happen walking down the street,’ Isaac said, realising that it wasn’t entirely accurate. The only reason Larry had not died was due to the ineptitude of his assailants. He had been interviewing a homeless man who had witnessed a murder. His attackers had subsequently dealt with the witness with a knife in the heart.
After the short discussion with Larry, Isaac and Wendy drove out to Ebury Street. ‘Nice houses,’ Isaac said.
‘Out of my budget,’ Wendy replied. She feigned disinterest, although Isaac knew she appreciated the beauty of the buildings.
Outside the Holden home, an elegant three-storey, late Georgian, white-painted house, a uniform stood. ‘The media has been around. I’m here to deter anyone knocking on the door,’ he said. Wendy could tell that he would have preferred to have been anywhere else than at the door of a moral crusader’s home, as it was cold and raining, not an unusual occurrence for the time of year.
From inside the house, the door was opened by a man in his thirties. ‘My mother is resting,’ he said.
Ushered into a room on the left of the hallway, the two police officers waited. A woman entered and placed a tray on the table in front of where they sat. ‘Madam will be here soon. The tea’s freshly brewed,’ she said before leaving.
Violet Holden entered the room. She was helped by John Holden, her son. ‘It’s come as a great shock to my mother, to all of us,’ he said. He was a man of about medium height, his hair cut short, his fingernails manicured, his suit of the best quality.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Violet Holden said.
‘I’m sorry that it’s under such circumstances.’
‘Is it true what they’re reporting?’
