‘And you were just getting in the mood for a return bout.’
‘I’m a healthy young female with needs, the same as everyone else.’
‘I’m not criticising,’ Wendy said. ‘I’ve been there, done that, got the badge.’
‘I bet you have,’ Amelia said, a smirk on her face. ‘The fire still burns hot?’
‘Not as hot as it once did. Now, getting back to Barry. He had another woman; did you know that?’
‘Not that it was any of my business, but no. We were friends, nothing more.’
‘This other woman was older than him by a few years, married.’
‘Attractive?’
‘Yes, but not as attractive as you.’
‘Thanks, but that’s how I need to be. A life of starving myself and doing the right exercises. Not much fun sometimes. Mother does nothing and look at her.’
‘This woman is nearly twenty years older than him, old enough to be his mother. Barry had spent time with her, professed love.’
‘Love? Barry?’
‘Incapable?’
‘I’m not saying he is, but the man was beautiful. An unusual term to use about a man, but he was. Physical perfection, a woman’s ideal.’
‘But you didn’t fall for him?’
‘You’ve met my parents, sensible people. I take after them. Perfection is fleeting, a façade that fades with time. It’s the inner person that ensures contentment; the outer layer is for the momentary pleasure.’
‘A good lover?’
‘The best. I’ve tried a couple since, but they don’t measure up. I don’t know where he learnt his technique, but he was a master at his trade.’
‘A gigolo?’
‘Not with me. I wasn’t about to give him money, he knew that. This other woman, what about her? Rich, starved of love?’
‘Starved of love appears likely. She’s not noticeably rich, although she had access to some; not enough for a serious gigolo.’
‘What’s enough? Not everyone’s driven by greed. What if he only wanted enough to live well, sleep with whoever?’
‘He had that, and then when he wanted, the young and nubile.’
‘There was me. Go on, say it.’
‘We thought he might have been fixated on older women, but if he slept with you, that tends to destroy that argument.’
‘Not in itself. What man would get up before the crack of dawn when there’s a woman ready and willing? That never made sense to me.’
‘The man could have had commitment issues; not willing to allow himself to be emotionally or sexually controlled.’
‘If Matilda was screwed up, he could have been as well.’
***
Stanley Montgomery sat in the interview room. After what Larry had seen at the man’s house, he couldn’t care less that he did not have a cup of tea, a comfortable chair.
Larry Hill did not like the man, although that didn’t make him a murderer. Regardless of what other crimes he may have committed, whatever antisocial and sociopathic actions he may have done, it was still homicide that interested the team.
Larry remembered Constable Elaine Sand’s parting comment: ‘He’s either Saint Stanley of the Divine Benevolence or the devil incarnate.’ He had thought it an accurate observation of a man who appeared to care, but was it care? Or control? A need to maintain his assets in good condition, the car regularly serviced and washed, the house neat and tidy. Could it be that he approached his wife and children in the same way, treating them with reverence, showing them the way, mollycoddling them, not allowing them to cross the road?
And then, Barry, the son, moves on and out. Disinherited, forgotten, his name never to be mentioned. But then, Matilda had moved out, and Stanley Montgomery had stood by her, had given her a house, money probably. Yet he had never seen her again.
Larry felt that the man needed a psychiatric evaluation, but that could wait. For now, the truth; later the defence’s arguments that the man had had a difficult childhood, never knowing a moment’s peace, beaten by an uncaring father until his skin was raw. Even if the man had killed his son, the chance of a conviction, a custodial sentence in prison, was unlikely. More probable was that he would spend time in a high-security psychiatric hospital, drugged into complacency, never feeling guilt, never being cured.
Isaac was the first to enter the interview room. He proffered a hand as a courtesy. Montgomery glowered back, his hands folded.
‘Let’s get this over with,’ Montgomery said. ‘My wife?’
‘You’ve already been told. I’ve spoken with her,’ Larry said.
‘You’ve no right.’
‘Mr Montgomery, do you want a drink before we start?’ Isaac asked.
‘Not in this place.’
‘Very well.’ Isaac went through the procedure, informed Mr Montgomery that he was helping them in their enquiries into the murder of Barry Montgomery.
Montgomery sat still, said nothing. His head did not move. He did not see the light up above, the heater in the corner, the sun streaming in through a window set high up, the bars on it. All he saw were the eyes of the two police inspectors: Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook and Detective Inspector Larry Hill.
Isaac saw it as an attempt at intimidation, and it was not going to work. He had stared down a few villains in his time, and Montgomery was not up to their calibre.
‘We found your wife locked in her room,’ Larry said.
‘If you had bothered to check, you will find that my wife is absent-minded. It was for her own protection.’
‘A medical condition?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Has she been to a doctor’s?’
‘Is this relevant?’ Montgomery said. ‘She is a person with a nervous disposition. I have ensured her well-being after the death of our daughter. We are both grieving, and you still have the temerity to drag me down here, to embarrass me in front of our
