‘We need to know if her brother was using cocaine.’
‘Assume he is. A final confirmation will be available in a couple of days.’
‘Their mother, Janice Montgomery?’
‘The original report stands.’
***
With the new information from Pathology and Forensics, another element had come into the investigation. Although taking the drug was illegal, it wasn’t Homicide’s primary focus. But whoever had been dealing in the drug could well be a person of interest. Yet another twist and turn in a case that had had more than its fair share.
Larry and Wendy were sitting in the foyer of the hotel in Windsor when Old Mrs Winterly walked through the front door; a nod from Ingrid Conlon, the receptionist, to indicate who she was.
As Ingrid had said, ‘Old’ was how Mrs Winterly referred to herself, and the two police officers assumed she would be showing her age, attempting to push it back by the liberal application of makeup and wearing designer clothes.
That was not what they saw.
For one thing, the woman did not look seventy-five and would have passed for someone ten to fifteen years younger. Her complexion was clear, her figure still firm, her step sprightly.
It was Wendy who introduced herself and asked her to come and sit with her and Larry and to answer a few questions. The woman acceded to the request, not showing any concern that it was a police matter. In one hand, she held a designer bag, and it was expensive; Wendy knew such things, though never having the money to buy one for herself. In the other, a Harrods’ bag, green, with the store’s logo emblazoned in gold.
The store was so strongly identified with the English capital that the bag had in itself become a souvenir, and it was possible to buy one without buying anything else. But that wasn’t the case with Mrs Winterly; hers was full of purchases from the shop.
‘What’s this all about?’ Mrs Winterly asked; Larry and Wendy were unable to see her as ‘Old’ anymore.
‘Colin Young,’ Wendy said.
‘An old woman’s folly,’ came the reply, without hesitation.
‘Are you admitting to having a relationship with the man?’ Larry asked.
‘Why not?’
‘Please, Mrs Winterly, we’re not here to comment.’
‘It doesn’t matter to me either way. I’m just making the best of my life, the same as everyone else. I could afford him, and he made me happy. There’s nothing wrong in that.’
Wendy had to agree, although she could see that Larry, more straight-laced than he’d care to admit, was not so sure. To Wendy, his view smacked of hypocrisy. A man in his seventies could proudly display a twenty-something on his arm and in his bed, but when the position was reversed, out came the prejudices.
‘Unfortunately, we must tell you that Colin Young is dead,’ Wendy said.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. He was good fun, and he kept me entertained.’
‘No more than that?’
‘What do you want me to say? How did he die?’
‘He was murdered in Hyde Park.’
‘I saw something about that, but I didn’t take much notice.’
‘Weren’t you surprised that he hadn’t been here to see you?’
‘No, why should I be? He was a free agent, the same as I am. If he wanted to spend time with me, then great. But if he was occupied elsewhere, then that was fine as well.’
‘Do you mean with other women?’
‘Other women, other men, it wasn’t my concern.’
‘You have a healthy attitude,’ Wendy said. ‘But it doesn’t explain your ambivalence towards him.’
‘I think it does. What do you know about me?’
‘We’ve only recently become aware of you. We understand that you are seventy-five years of age and that you moved into the hotel about nine months ago.’
‘And that I had a young lover.’
‘That’s about it,’ Wendy said.
‘If you want me to talk, I need a glass of wine. And call me Dorothy.’ She raised her hand in the direction of the bar at the far end of the foyer. ‘He knows what I want. How about you two? Or are you on duty, not allowed to drink?’
‘I’ll have a beer,’ Larry said.
‘A glass of wine,’ Wendy added.
With all three holding a drink, Dorothy Winterly commenced the story of her life. The conversation was being recorded, with her permission.
‘I married at twenty-five, a good man, as ambitious as me. We were married for nearly fifty years until he died eighteen months ago.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Wendy said.
‘No need to be. We had a good life together, and he was suffering at the end. We were close, loving, faithful, and we raised two sons and a daughter. My daughter is married and living in America, my sons are still in England. All of them are well-balanced and successful in their own right, and before you ask, yes, they are older than Colin was.’
‘Did they express concern about you living here and about Colin Young.’
‘It wasn’t any of their business, and even if I told them, they would have wished me well. As I was saying, over time and with a lot of hard work, we started to improve our situation. We could see that betterment required self-discipline and sacrifice. For years, it was us and the children and the business. My husband never enjoyed the benefit at the end of the rainbow, the chance to put his feet up, to do what successful people are meant to do. Once a year, two weeks holiday with the children. When they first came along, a week at Brighton or Cornwall, a tent for all of us, and then later the holidays became better and more exotic.
‘My husband became ill, and we discussed our life together, the children and what was to become of me. If was he who said for me to break the chain
