‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Wendy said. ‘We’re from Homicide, Sergeant Gladstone and Inspector Hill.’
‘It’s not a good time,’ the reply.
‘Unfortunately, we must insist.’
The door closed, to reopen after three minutes. This time the man was clothed, as was his wife. They were an attractive couple. By this time, Larry had been wised up by Wendy as to the situation. He smiled at the newly-weds: a sign of friendliness, remembering his own honeymoon.
‘We’ve a few questions,’ Larry said.
‘About us?’
‘No. About this house. What can you tell us about it?’
‘Nothing. We rented it through Airbnb, nothing more. It had good reviews, mostly from people looking for a romantic weekend, so we booked it online.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Four to five weeks. What’s this about?’ the young woman said. Her husband had identified himself as James Corcoran, adding that they were both lawyers, the same firm, and that they had indeed been married that day in a church ten miles down the road.
‘This place was rented out to a person of interest.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Four weeks. We have a date and time and this location.’
‘We can’t help you. We booked online, and then we received a receipt and instructions. The key to the cottage was in a box at the rear, a tumbler lock on it. That’s all we know of the place.’
Larry phoned Bridget to ask her to conduct a search on Airbnb and to find out who the owner was. The only factor in their favour was that the rental accommodation company required payment with a credit card.
Wendy phoned for a couple of uniforms from the local police station to conduct a door knock in the area, although she didn’t hold out much hope for it. Standard procedure, that was all, and the cottage had probably only been rented for the one day and night. And if Barry Montgomery/Colin Young – having two names was confusing – had been in the cottage, it would have been night-time when he had arrived, and still dark when he had left. Whoever he had met might have come in the day, but even so, if the man was influential, or well-known, then he would have been smart enough not to have been seen.
The second location was a hotel near Windsor, not far from the castle. The cheerful person at the reception, a woman in her forties, had scanned the records, checked who had been in and out that day, even checked the possibility that the room may have been rented for more than the allotted time.
‘We do get those who rent the rooms for more than a good night’s sleep,’ the receptionist said.
‘Prostitution?’ Larry said. Not that he thought that was what the woman had meant, but her comment had been ambiguous.
‘Young lovers, adulterers, not that we’d know.’
‘This would have been two men, one young, the other we are assuming is older.’ Wendy produced a photo of the murdered man and pushed it across the counter. ‘Any recollection? Think carefully before you answer.’
‘That’s Colin, Colin Young,’ the woman said.
Wendy let out a sigh, and mumbled under her breath, not again.
Yet the woman was not like Christine Mason. She was on the heavy side, with bright red lipstick and too much perfume.
‘What can you tell us about him?’ Wendy asked, taking one step back to take a more detailed look at the woman. Christine Mason had exuded wealth, the receptionist did not. She was dressed smartly, but the look was dowdy. Colin Young’s conquests, even if he was willing to take women young or old, money or no money, were always attractive. Christine Mason certainly was, so was Amelia Bentham, and according to Larry, so was Nancy Bartlett.
But the receptionist, her name badge showing that her name was Ingrid Conlon, was not of the calibre of the dead man’s conquests.
‘He stayed here a few times.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. He was very agreeable, a lovely man.’
‘Beautiful?’
‘Oh, yes. He had a way with words, made you positively go weak at the knees.’
‘We’ll need the dates,’ Larry said.
‘I’ll get them for you later. You mentioned prostitution,’ Ingrid Conlon said.
‘Colin Young is dead,’ Wendy said. ‘Are you surprised by that?’
A look of shock on the woman’s face. ‘I’m not sure what to say. He was a guest, but he was the sort of person you felt you knew.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing in itself. I only ever spoke to him here. He was on one side of the counter, I was on the other.’
‘The man has a history of seduction. Were you one?’
‘No, I was not,’ the indignant reply.
‘We’ll accept that for now,’ Larry said.
‘You’ll accept it, full stop. I can be enamoured of the man, enjoy talking to him, share a joke, some harmless humour, but I’ll have you know that I’m a happily married woman.’
The two police officers had heard the pious defence before from murderers, fraudsters, violent criminals. It wasn’t a defence in itself, but Wendy thought that it was probably true.
The three of them moved away from the reception, another woman taking Ingrid’s place.
Wendy ordered a tea; the other two, coffee. They were sitting on comfortable chairs in the hotel foyer. There was no hovering manager.
‘Mrs Conlon,’ Larry said. ‘Colin Young, whose real name was Barry Montgomery, was a man who used his charms to seduce vulnerable and lonely women.’
‘Then he must have made plenty. I’m not a prude, and I’m not shocked by what you’re saying. All I ever noticed was that he made people cheerful in his presence. Old Mrs Winterly always sought him out when he was here.’
‘Old Mrs Winterly?’ Wendy asked.
‘She’s not that old, only seventy-five, but she always calls herself that.’
‘Tell us about her?’
‘She obviously has a
