‘Maybe there were, but I wouldn’t have taken any notice.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Hyposmia, virtually no ability to smell. I’ve had it since I was young. It’s no use talking to me about the smell of a flower. Once, I nearly gassed myself. The oven hadn’t lit, and I was trying to find out why. I almost passed out until Mrs Lawrence came and pulled me free.’
‘Your friendship with Mr Lawrence?’ Larry said.
‘Ralph was trying to make something out of it, but he was young and adolescent. His hormones and his imagination were getting the better of him. And besides, I had no need of a man or a woman. Never have, never wanted to. I just want my routine, the chance to sit down at the end of the day and turn on the television.’
‘How could the man have kept away from you? You must have seen him occasionally.’
‘Maybe I did, but he wanted to be alone. Once he left the door unbolted, so I snuck in for a quick look.’
‘How long after he had gone into seclusion?’
‘One, two years. I don’t remember exactly, but it was a long time ago.’
‘And what did you see?’
‘Nothing. It was dark with the shutters closed and very dusty. I might not be able to smell very well, but my hearing was fine. I could hear a sound from upstairs, so I returned to my part of the house. After that, I never tried to look again.’
‘Did he know you’d been in there?’
‘It was never mentioned, although, as I said, he always wrote his instructions down for me. The door was never open again while I was in the house.’
Both Isaac and Larry could not fault the woman, although no physical contact, no conversation, made no sense.
‘Let’s go back to when he needed a dentist. What did he sound like, look like?’
‘He was quiet, as though he hadn’t spoken in a long time, which I suppose he hadn’t. I made the appointment, and he left when I wasn’t in the house. All I know is that three hours later, he was back in the house. After that, I never spoke to him again.’
‘The dentist?’
‘Brian Garrett. I’ve got his phone number. I suppose he must have seen more of Mr Lawrence than me.’
***
Gary Frost, unscrupulous and on the periphery of crime, knew what he had with Ralph Lawrence. A man who had come to him five months earlier needing money. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen men such as Lawrence, men who lived on the edge, scoundrels more than criminals.
Frost understood that Ralph Lawrence was weak, not like his father, Gilbert. He did not tell the son that he already knew of the father. Frost had done further research, not difficult considering the amount of interest in the man’s murder. It made for great headlines – England’s own Howard Hughes, dead with a knife in the back. The reclusive billionaire with his wife dead in her bed, the battle for his fortune.
The estimates of the dead man’s wealth varied from one billion up to somewhere close to infinity. No one, certainly not Ralph and his sister, knew precisely how much. The only person who seemed to have any idea was the father’s former solicitor and his only confidante.
Frost was reclining on a chair, taking in the sun through the window in his penthouse flat. The flat was big enough to double as his accommodation and his place of work. It was on two levels, the lower one for his office and his support staff. With Frost, an agreement to lend money came with a handshake and an email setting out the terms and conditions: the money to be transferred to any nominated location, either a deposit into a bank account or cash. The payment schedule, principal plus interest of ten per cent per week, payable on demand. Default penalties, not included in the email but given in person or by phone, were simple. Non-payments or delays in adhering to the agreement would be settled by extreme violence.
‘It’s sure-fire, can’t lose,’ Ralph had said when told of the conditions of the loan.
Frost remembered his words only too well. If it was sure-fire, it could only mean that it was not strictly legal, and it would either make a fortune or it wouldn’t. But then men such as Lawrence were all too ready to play into the hands of men such as him. And now he had the son of Gilbert Lawrence. What could be achieved? He needed his man in the prime seat, but there were problems. Even without the media, Frost could see delays, also the possibility of Ralph being sidelined and receiving none of the fortune, or so little as to render him irrelevant. Frost could not allow that to happen. If Lawrence was entitled to half of his father’s wealth, then that was what he would get.
Ted Samson, small, barely five feet four inches, his name not indicative of the man, stood before his boss. He was dressed casually, yet expensively. The ideal man for going here and there without raising suspicion.
‘I’ve got a job for you,’ Frost said.
‘Whatever you want,’ Samson said.
‘Ralph Lawrence. He’s not seen you, has he?’
‘Nobody sees me unless I want them to.’
‘Good. I want you to keep a watch on him, never let him out of your sight.’
‘Twenty-four hours, seven days a week?’
‘Exactly. Your brother can take over when you need a break.’
‘And what do you want, boss?’
‘Don’t let him out of your sight, report back all that he does. And if he attempts to do a runner, well, you know.’
‘Call you, and then grab him.’
‘Exactly, but don’t let him know that you’re
