Ralph’s son Michael, Wendy knew, was dossing down somewhere with his addicted friends, sharing needles, and whatever food they could scrounge or steal. And he was not likely to be close to his grandfather’s house, the area too upmarket for derelict properties, or squatters.
Of more immediate importance was that Ralph Lawrence had arrived in London on a flight from Barcelona, and he had failed to meet up with the constable sent from Challis Street to pick him up at Heathrow. He, Wendy thought, would be easier to find.
From what they knew, Ralph Lawrence was a man who appreciated the finer things in life, regardless of whether he could afford them, or whether they belonged to someone else. He would either be at a friend’s house if he had not outstayed his welcome on previous occasions, or he would have checked in under a false name at a quality hotel, enjoying the minibar and the restaurant, using an invalid credit card if needed. He was a slippery character, everyone in the department knew, although his criminal record had amounted to no more than passing false cheques in his teens. Since then, some investigations into the fraudulent use of credit cards overseas, unpaid hotel bills, and a litany of other misdemeanours, although none had been substantiated.
The upside was that Ralph had no record, except for a miserable credit rating. The downside was that he could not be escorted off the plane at Heathrow. He had left Spain as an undesirable, but in England, he was English, and he was free.
Bridget was assigned the task of checking with the other police stations in London, contacting the homeless agencies and other charities, in the hope of locating Michael Lawrence. As with Ralph, he was a person of interest only. No one in Homicide felt that he was responsible for the death of Gilbert Lawrence. Whoever had killed the old man had been careful to leave no incriminating evidence. Apart from a smudged fingerprint on the knife, the only other evidence at the scene was a crushed plant in the garden where the murderer had placed his boot, and a trace of blood on the gate handle as he exited the property. The blood had been found to be that of Gilbert Lawrence. Another trace of blood had been discovered ten yards south down the street. The traffic camera mounted on the corner of the road had failed to identify the individual, as the area was busy at the approximate time of the man’s death, and besides, what were they looking for? Was it a man or a woman, tall, short, fat, thin? Did they have on a coat or not, and what about their age? The reality was that Isaac and his team had very little.
And the woman upstairs had apparently died of natural causes, although that did not obviate her being poisoned, a skeleton unable to reveal that possibility.
‘It’s the inheritance,’ Isaac said. In the office, Larry Hill and Chief Superintendent Goddard, his uniform proudly worn.
‘It’s for the presentation of a gallantry medal to the constable who was shot when he was protecting a woman from an irate husband,’ the chief superintendent said.
Anything to promote himself, Isaac thought. Goddard was looking to take over Counter Terrorism Command when the time was right, although that wasn’t likely to happen as long as Alwyn Davies was the commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police, and the man wasn’t in a hurry to vacate his post.
Davies, the man who was going to reform the Met, bring it into the twenty-first century, but instead had proven himself to be an adroit political animal, had done little in the way of reformation, more in demoralising. At least that was the opinion of Isaac and Goddard, although there were others who had prospered.
‘No chance of an early arrest?’ Goddard said.
‘Not yet. We’ve not got a motive for the murder. Sure, the man had money, but not in the house, and no one’s gained anything yet. Once the man’s last will and testament is read, we’ll have a better idea.’
‘And when’s that?’
‘Tomorrow. The family will be gathering at Leonard Dundas’s office at ten in the morning. I’ll be in Dundas’s office, although I’ll probably not be at the reading. However, I will be given a copy afterwards.’
‘Not all the family will be there,’ Goddard said.
‘Ralph probably won’t be. The father may not have liked him, but he’s probably included in the will somewhere.’
‘No guarantees. It would help if you were in when the will is read.’
‘Outside will be fine. I’ll see the people as they come out from Dundas’s office.’
***
Ralph Lawrence prowled up and down in his hotel room in Kensington. It had cost plenty, more than he could afford, but what did it matter. He would either pay for it with one of the cards he possessed or he wouldn’t. He knew that his return to England, not that he had any option, was a necessary risk, and there were some people not far away who wanted money in cash, and he could not pay. And he knew how they dealt with those who crossed them.
‘One month from now you will be in here, or we will find you,’ they had said. And now he was back in their part of the world, and he still remembered the man with his shattered kneecaps groaning in agony, their idea of a warning.
‘Just so you don’t forget, take a close look at him,’ one of the three had said. Criminal nobility, that was what Ralph Lawrence knew their lead man to be.
If only I hadn’t tried to cheat those men in Spain. How was I to know that the British tourists, a sweet and gullible husband and wife team, were part of a sting to
