‘Would she mind?’
‘Probably not. She’s got a place, a one-bedroom flat courtesy of the council, but they’d get funny if I moved in there.’
‘Would they find out?’
‘Who knows? There are always nosey neighbours.’
‘And you keep using it as an excuse.’
‘I’ve still got some money, and I thought Gwen might have been responsive. After all, we did have something, and we’re both getting on a bit. If she had had me back, then I would have played it fair and square.’
‘You’d have still been after Christine.’
‘Not this time.’
‘I can’t believe you. That’s not the point, though, is it? You’re with Gwen in her house; she’s not enamoured of your drunken attempts at seduction. She’s telling you to leave, you’re getting angry.’
‘She’s an educated woman, spends too much time defending someone or other. I’m trying to reason with her, but she’s not biting. She starts using words I can barely understand, making out that I’m stupid.’
‘Did she? Or are you making this up to justify what you said about Christine and the dead man?’
‘What did I say?’
‘Your final words were, and I’m quoting from what Gwen said, and DCI Cook recorded, “He said that he had been in London and he had seen the dead man jogging alongside the Serpentine, and that…”.’
‘What then?’
‘You left the house.’
‘I deny it.’
‘Deny all you want. I’ll take Gwen’s account of what was said over yours any day.’
‘I’ll admit that I knew Christine was working in that hotel, and that Gwen was a hotshot lawyer.’
‘How?’
‘I’ve got a laptop and the internet. You can find anyone if you look hard enough. Gwen was easy enough to find, and there were court transcripts, a photo of her, and Christine’s into Facebook, photos of her with the children, her husband, a dog.’
Larry felt that the man’s answer was plausible. He had reconnected with some friends from school using Facebook, met with a couple of them: one had become an actor, the other, a schoolteacher. After an hour of talking to each of them, it was evident that time had moved on and the child was not the man, and he had little in common with either of them.
But Terry Hislop still believed in the possibility of a connection with his former wife.
‘I’ll buy into how you knew about Gwen and Christine. It still doesn’t explain why you said you saw the dead man jogging.’
‘It does. The internet, updates on the news. You interviewed two joggers, they told you they had seen someone, and then after he had been identified, his name, his story.’
‘Not on the front page of the newspapers.’
‘What does that matter? I set an alert for any information relating to the murder, no matter how obscure. You can find anything on the internet, you know that?’
Larry had to concede that Bridget could. It was possible that, given time, Terry Hislop could as well.
‘What are your plans?’
‘I’m going back to Liverpool.’
‘Cynthia?’
‘Any port in a storm.’
‘Then I suggest you go. If you go near Gwen or Christine, they’ll be trouble for you. Do you understand?’
‘Christine could have still killed him, you know that?’
‘Amateur detective, are you?’
‘Statistically, the murderer is often the nearest and dearest, a family member. Isn’t that correct?’
‘The internet?’
‘That’s what I read.’
‘You may be right, but Christine Mason is not high on our list of potential suspects. However, you are. Hislop, I suggest you leave London tonight. In fact, I’ll put you on the train myself.’
‘Up to you.’
Larry finished his drink and took hold of Hislop’s arm. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘Next door, a budget hotel. It’s not much to look at, but it’s clean.’
‘With a shower?’
‘And a bath. Luxury after what I’ve had to put up with for the last few months.’
Sixty-five minutes later, Terry Hislop boarded his train. Larry hoped it was the last that he saw of him. He had not killed Colin Young/Barry Montgomery, that much was known, as his movements could be accounted for in Liverpool at the time and date when the man had met his fate in that cold lake early in the morning.
***
Nobody in Homicide had intended going back to Pembridge Mews so soon. Its significance in the investigation was that it was where Matilda Montgomery had lived and committed suicide and where Amelia Bentham, who lived in another mews house, had bedded Matilda’s brother.
And now, as the team drove up to Matilda’s house, a sign outside, placed there by an estate agent, announced that it was for sale.
Typically, just one or two from Homicide would have attended the scene, but the old man with the walking stick and the limp had been adamant.
‘Come quick,’ he had said to Wendy when he had phoned. ‘Bring your DCI.’
The man ended the phone call soon after. Another time Wendy would have regarded the request as that of an old man looking for attention, feeling the loneliness of age, but this was different.
‘I don’t know,’ she said to the others in the office. ‘It seems serious to me. We’d better go.’
Larry had phoned for a patrol car to be at the scene, to wait out on the main road and not in the cul-de-sac.
‘It’s inside,’ the old man said as Isaac, Larry and Wendy, got out of their car.
‘What’s inside?’ Larry asked. He had figured from his previous encounters with the man that he was the person in the street – every street seemed to have one – that kept an eye on the comings and goings, who was sleeping with who, who had just bought some new furniture, who had argued with their spouse. Not the sort of person you always wanted living near to you, but
