‘Are you saying she lives here?’
‘She told us she enjoyed it in the hotel, good friends, room service, the bed made every day. “Why leave?”, her words, not mine.’
‘An active woman?’
‘Every day she goes out for a walk. She feeds the pigeons in the park, bread from the hotel, not that we mind. There’s a sign that says they shouldn’t be fed, but Old Mrs Winterly, she doesn’t pay heed to rules and regulations. She used to be a businesswoman, very successful, according to her. Not that I nor anyone else was prying, but she did like to talk, and she did like Colin.’
‘A relationship?’
‘I wouldn’t know, and that’s the truth, but she’s got a mischievous eye, and if you’re saying that Colin was selling himself, then who knows?’
‘We’ll need to talk to her,’ Larry said. ‘Any other women he was friendly with?’
‘Only Old Mrs Winterly.’
‘On one occasion, Colin Young came to this hotel to meet with someone else.’
‘I wouldn’t know if he had.’
‘This time, it was to meet a man. We assume him to be older, probably prominent or influential.’
‘Yet again, I don’t know how I can help you. We see the occasional celebrity in here, but I can’t remember Colin meeting anyone. And besides, if the man in question had booked a room, then they needn’t have met in the foyer.’
‘We’ll need a copy of the guests for the date or dates we specify.’
‘I’m sure we can arrange that.’
‘Where is Mrs Winterly now?’
‘She’ll be back soon. I’ll let her know you’re waiting for her.’
Ingrid Conlon left and went back to the reception counter.
‘What do you reckon?’ Wendy asked Larry.
‘I need a beer,’ his reply. ‘We thought we were on the home run, and now another development, another rich woman.’
‘Ingrid Conlon?’
‘Innocent, unless there is evidence to the contrary.’
‘That’s what I thought, but this Mrs Winterly is an unknown.’
Chapter 25
Isaac, after the visit with his chief superintendent, had intended meeting up with Larry Hill, taking the opportunity to get out of the office and to do some real policing. That plan was waylaid; a phone call, another development.
The first person that Isaac saw as he entered Pathology was Siobhan O’Riley, cheerful as always.
Isaac and Graham Picket, the pathologist, had a complicated relationship, and each and every encounter of the two was strictly professional, none of the usual banter.
‘You’ll find a change today,’ Siobhan said.
‘It’ll be a first,’ Isaac’s reply. He always enjoyed talking to Picket’s assistant, never to the man himself.
Picket sat at his desk. For once it was clear of the usual papers, the laptop and monitor pushed to one side. The office was no bigger, no better than Isaac’s in Challis Street, although he had the benefit of a plant in one corner, his qualifications framed and up on the wall. Picket had nothing except for a calendar on one wall and a copy of a memo he had circulated to the Pathology Department reminding the staff about documenting, ensuring due diligence, and not to circumvent the process, not to make any assumptions in an autopsy, and to check and double check. And now Isaac could see that the man had an expression that he had not seen before. It was almost friendly, but still no smile.
‘Chief Inspector,’ Picket said, clearing his throat. A sign of nerves, Isaac thought. ‘We’ve re-evaluated our findings into the death of Matilda Montgomery.’
‘You said it was suicide,’ Isaac responded.
‘We hold to that. We conducted a toxicology test at the time and came back with nothing.’
‘Are you saying that the woman was taking drugs?’
‘Detection is not always that easy. Blood will show it for up to a day, saliva, up to ten, and then there’s urine and hair follicles.
‘What are you saying, precisely?’
‘Toxicology takes time, not how they want to portray it on a television crime show with their instant results, almost warp speed.’
‘Picket, get to the point. If there’s additional information about the woman’s death, then spit it out,’ Isaac said. It felt good to be belligerent with the man.
‘Very well. It had been over a month since she had used cocaine, maybe up to three. She wouldn’t have been under the effects when she killed herself.’
‘Her brother, Barry?’
‘We’ve not concluded our tests. A lot of people do, and most would argue that it’s no more harmful than alcohol.’
‘We’re not here to discuss the rights and wrongs of the drug. What more can you tell me?’
‘That’s about it. If she had taken it recently, then she could have killed herself as it was wearing off, depression, mood swings, tension, anxiety.’
‘But that’s not the case, is it?’
‘No.’
‘I’m not sure if it has any bearing on our investigation.’
‘We found no signs of long-term cocaine usage, no damage to the nasal lining or the septum, cerebral atrophy, no sign of injection.’
Isaac did not mention that as a student before he had joined the police force, he had snorted cocaine once, and apart from the initial rush, the feelings of euphoria, it had done little for him, but then, he had never understood why people smoked dead leaves wrapped in paper.
After that one time with cocaine, he had never tried it again, and he had never smoked. Wendy, his sergeant, had been a heavy smoker in her time, and he had had to speak to her about it on a couple of occasions, but now she smoked less than before, and the air in the Homicide Department was pleasant and fresh.
‘It’s still illegal. The question is where she obtained it.’
‘And if it’s relevant to
