And that was how it was: at one thirty in the morning, when the hospital was at its quietest, Janice Montgomery passed away, the only person at her side, her husband. The man had protected her all her life, or so he believed, but in the end, time and illness and heartbreak had sealed her fate.
Isaac learnt later in the day that Stanley Montgomery had wept uncontrollably at his wife’s passing. Isaac felt sorrow for the man, empathy, even though neither liked nor respected the other.
Due to the woman’s integral position in the murder investigation, she would be subjected to an autopsy.
Janice Montgomery’s death raised ethical questions about how Homicide would continue to investigate a man who had lost two children and a wife in a short space of time, yet could still be a murderer.
Isaac met up with his senior, Chief Superintendent Goddard, a man of wisdom and experience. Goddard’s office up on the top floor of the building commanded a view out over the city, whereas Homicide’s two levels below looked out on a wall across the road.
‘Could he have killed his son?’ Goddard asked, from his side of the desk.
‘Stanley Montgomery is an anachronism. He has an old-fashioned view on morality, a need to control his family, yet he protected them, and clearly loved his wife and daughter.’
‘The son?’
‘He had disappointed him.’
‘No contact?’
‘None that we know of, although our only source on that is Stanley himself. And he’s not likely to tell us, not if he’s guilty, or even if he’s innocent.’
‘We can’t let a murder enquiry be prolonged out of sentimentality. If you think the man’s a strong possibility, then you’ve got to maintain the pressure, force him to falter. And remember, he’s emotionally vulnerable now. It’s an easier job for you.’
Isaac left Richard Goddard’s office more unsure than when he had gone in. Stanley Montgomery deserved to be left alone to grieve. It was the right thing to do, the humane thing to do, but the man did have a motive, albeit obscure and hard to fathom. But then that was the man, out of step with the modern day, holding onto a belief system that belonged to another century.
Wendy went to meet Christine Mason. The woman was contrite. She sat behind her laptop in her office at the Fitzroy. She averted her gaze, not wanting to look Wendy in the eye.
Archibald Marshall was nowhere to be seen.
‘Where is he?’ Wendy asked.
‘He’s at head office,’ Christine replied. It was clear that she did not want to speak and was attempting to give Wendy the brush off. It wasn’t going to work.
‘Saving your skin?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Christine, let’s get this straight. We know that Marshall has abused his position, committed a crime, even forced you to sleep with him.’
‘I misjudged him. He’s a good man.’
‘Rubbish,’ Wendy said. ‘Let’s be honest with each other. He’s going to protect you from criminal prosecution. Now that’s fine, and no doubt he thinks he’s a regular Boy Scout doing his good deed for the day, but it doesn’t stop the fact that he and you are guilty of a crime.’
‘You’ve got it all wrong.’
‘Have you considered the fact that he could have killed Colin Young?’
‘Why?’
‘Marshall’s besotted with you.’
‘He professes love when we…’
‘When he’s screwing you, is that it?’
‘He wants me to say it to him as well.’
‘Have you?’
‘Once, but I didn’t want to.’
‘Christine, hold to your story if you must, but be warned. Archibald Marshall could be a murderer, and you’ve got the dirt on him. If he thinks his hold over you is weakening, or we’re closing in, he could remove the one person who could threaten him. He’s not a stupid man. If killing you will help him, he could come up behind you in this office, on the way home, when you’re in bed with him. A swift blow to the head, a cord around your neck, and you’re gone.’
‘He wouldn’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he does love me. I’ve known that for months.’
‘How?’
‘The way he used to look at me, the attempts to be near me.’
‘An intensely jealous man, he would have been upset with you and your lover.’
‘He never said anything, not once, but I knew.’
‘And now he’s using blackmail to get what he wants. His love could be an obsession, don’t you realise that, and now he’s plucked the golden goose, found out that you’re mortal, the same as other women.’
‘I am safe with him. He will protect me. I can’t say any more to you.’
Wendy stood. There was no more to say. Christine Mason was taking the only avenue open to her, but it was a dangerous route she was travelling.
As Wendy pulled the door closed on the way out, she looked back at Christine. ‘If he’s a murderer, you’re in mortal danger. Remember that, and please phone me if you’re frightened. The wrath of your husband, a possible prison sentence, are better alternatives than being dead.’
‘I can’t agree, but I will remember your kindness and understanding,’ Christine said.
With the door closed, Christine buried her head in her hands. She knew that Sergeant Wendy Gladstone had been right in what she had said. With Archibald Marshall, her situation was perilous. She would not sleep with him again.
***
Isaac had not expected to hear from Gwen Hislop, but she had phoned him up, asked him to come out to where she lived.
Isaac arrived at the small house in Kingston upon Thames, ten miles to the south west of Challis Street Police Station. It was a tidy house, Isaac
