It had been around two years since Cynthia had last made a trip to London. In theory it should all be simple enough—a taxi to the local underground station from which the train would take them straight into Central London. They would then change as necessary to reach the station closest to Shamira Iqbal’s office. Moreover, they would be together, so could correct each other’s mistakes if they made any. Nonetheless Cynthia tossed and turned all night as she thought of all the things which could potentially go wrong. Forgetting her camera equipment—that was the first one—or still worse leaving it on the train, missing the train in the first place, lengthy signal delays making them late, losing her ticket, getting lost either in the station or out on the street, being deluged with rain—the list was endless. Finally, when the clock by her bedside registered just past six and a grey light was starting to flicker around the edges of her curtains she decided to give up and make tea, followed by an early breakfast.
After Gladys had given her the office address, she’d checked it out on her computer and they’d agreed they would need only one change of train. There would be a short walk afterwards but the weather forecast looked benign so the umbrella—so easy to lose—could be left at home. Cynthia well remembered her one visit to the left luggage office where she had seen row after row of umbrellas all waiting to be re-united with their owners. After dinner George had weighed in with some advice as to exactly how to get to their destination.
“I know that area of old,” he said, giving the impression that crimes in those streets must have been more prevalent than almost anywhere else and that villains were lurking on every corner. “She must be doing well. Legal offices are everywhere there. It’s probably just about equidistant between the law courts and Simpsons restaurant in the Strand. It depends on which you think is more important really.” He gave a hefty chuckle at his own joke but still did little to dispel Cynthia’s concerns that it might all go wrong.
After she had cleared away the breakfast things Cynthia moved on to consider what she should wear. The previous evening she’d put out a black suit which had always served her well in the past but in the fresh light of morning with a hint of sun coming through she dismissed this choice as too funereal. She’d thinned out her wardrobe on moving to the Village mainly on grounds of available storage space. Cupboards and wardrobes were on the skinny side with an overall view of making the rooms look bigger. However, Cynthia still possessed a good array of what she termed ‘the basics’ and eventually after surveying a number of choices laid out on the bed she plumped for a simple light grey dress with a similarly coloured scarf round her neck. She would wear her cream trench coat over the top to allow for all eventualities, even though the forecast showed a zero chance of rain. Her favourite grey cloche hat also came out to complete the ensemble.
The next decision was what to take with her. Here a handy “bag for life” which had been a gift from Marks and Spencer came into its own. Into this she stowed her camera equipment and a smaller handbag. Only one thing to worry about, she thought. She put on her black shoes with flat heels in which she knew she could walk comfortably all day and then gave a satisfied nod as she surveyed herself in the hall mirror. It was only fifteen minutes before the taxi was due so she decided to make her way to Gladys’s bungalow to be in good time. Her friend thrust open the door wearing a dusky pink suit sufficiently clingy to show off her body shape and with a toothbrush protruding halfway out of her mouth. “You’re early, dear,” she said, somehow managing to get the words round the brush and ignoring the fact that Cynthia was always early. “Come in—I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
Cynthia stood in the hall as she heard the sound of running water and doors being opened and closed before Gladys reappeared, this time with a hairbrush in hand with which she vigorously attacked her new hairdo. “I see you’ve got sensible shoes on, dear, so I’ve done the same. And a coat as well—probably a good idea.” She produced a wool coat with a fur collar from her hall closet and thrust it round herself. She checked her handbag as a hoot from the taxi sounded outside. “Right—let’s see, keys, address, directions, we’re all set. Have you brought your camera, dear?”
By way of reply Cynthia shook the M&S bag.
“Good, then let’s go.”
They marched down the path together to the waiting taxi. Both the passenger doors at the rear had been opened. The driver was back behind the wheel and he didn’t get out as they clambered in and closed the doors behind them. He was noticeably overweight, mainly bald, wearing a brightly coloured loose sweater. The taxi had a faint aroma of tobacco smoke even despite a large sachet of air freshener hanging from the stem of the rear-view mirror. “You ladies going anywhere exciting today?” he asked as he manoeuvred up to the gates to the Village and waited for them to open.
“Oh, going to London to do a bit of shopping,” Gladys responded. “We haven’t been there for a while.”
“Looking for anything special?” He peered expertly in both directions before pulling out on to the main road with just enough space in front of an onrushing truck.
“Not really.” She decided to try to avert further questions. “That’s a nice sweater you’re wearing.”
“Oh, that came from Fair Isle. They make them up there, you know. We went on holiday last year, the wife and I. It’s a lonely place and a pig to get to…” His gruff voice trailed on all the way to the station. The two women glanced at each other more than once. Both in their various ways were thinking about the day ahead.
**
By the time they reached the station and Gladys pulled out her purse to pay the driver, while at the same time telling Cynthia she could pay for the return journey, George was in the process of making his second cup of coffee of the day. Generally, he didn’t bother with breakfast, preferring to have a cigarette or two with his first coffee. After that it was a rule, especially after the last warning from his doctor, to put the pack away in the drawer.
As the two women were out for the day, he’d resolved to avoid the main hall until lunch time. Instead he made himself a piece of toast to accompany the second coffee, gathered his dressing gown around him and settled down in the comfort of the settee in his living room. The papers which Croft had provided were already sitting on the table in front of him. He began reading, pausing occasionally to take a noisy slurp of the coffee and a bite out of the toast. There was a lot of information which he ran through with an eye born of long experience picking out the significant from the remainder. The overall impression created was that during Pennington’s tenure as CEO the fortunes of Gonzalez and Co. had moved in a steadily rising curve both in terms of number of customers and financial results, yielding hefty dividends for the directors, of which Pennington took the lion’s share. The bumps in the road, so to speak, had derived from Pennington’s displays of sexual over-exuberance.
George read the individual accounts with close attention. There was the young member of staff whom Pennington had allegedly pinned up against a filing cabinet with his hand round her backside during an office party. When she fended him off, he then returned with two full glasses of wine, “One for you,” as he put it, “and the other,” with an overlong glance at the upper part of her body, “for your two friends.” How the hell did he get away with that? George muttered to himself. His attention transferred to the forays (more than one) which Pennington had with his PA across his office desk, which both agreed were consensual, to the real meat of this part of the transcript, the event which could well have landed Pennington in court. Much of the account was already familiar ground, how Pennington had met the lady concerned at a reception, diverted her into an empty room and made sexual advances to her. However, the graphic detail was new, including the violence with which she claimed Pennington had dragged off her clothes, the practised efficiency with which he’d produced a condom and the hunger with which he’d gone for her, leaving her breathless, shaken and in pain afterwards. His reaction to the accusation had simply been to deny it. It was a case of mistaken identity, pure and simple. There was no DNA or other evidence. The lady concerned dropped the charges before they could proceed beyond the initial allegation.
George brushed off some errant crumbs from his beard and sat back as he considered what he’d read. The man had form— of that there was no doubt. But in the climate of the 1980s the exploits he admitted to might not have been so unusual. George remembered a few office parties he’d attended himself where there had been some embarrassment the next day. When it came to the assumed rape case, however, that stood out. It would have been natural for the woman to have hated Pennington, but enough to kill? She was asked about her movements at the critical time and her response had been simple. She’d been at work and she wanted to forget Pennington and ever seeing him. A check had been made which tallied with many witnesses in the office and that had been that. George wondered about any DNA evidence. With the advances made since the 1980s there might be more chances of a fresh investigation finding traces. He highlighted that passage.
He reached for his coffee cup to find it was empty and he took it into the kitchen to brew a refresher. The drawer containing the pack of cigarettes wasn’t completely closed and he went to reach for it before he closed the drawer completely. He made another piece of toast instead and carried his new supplies back to the paper stack. Something was jarring in his mind. How could Gonzalez and Co. be showing such good financial results when individual customers were shouting the odds about losing shedloads of money? The two could still fit together on the basis that the bank would go on charging for its services irrespective of the outcome for its clients, except that the client pool would be likely to quickly drop off and on the face of it that hadn’t happened. A quick reference to the up-to-date situation on his laptop showed that the bank was still riding high. He turned back to the financial section in the stack and found the customer issues, which were laid out in considerable detail.
As Croft had asserted, one disappointed client had threatened in the hearing of others to kill Richard Pennington and at least two others had expressed extreme disappointment at losses they’d sustained. However, the complaints seemed to be sorted relatively quickly and all the clients had subsequently been seen at lunch dates with Pennington where their views had done a volte-face with them now describing themselves as satisfied with the firm’s performance. The turnaround had been achieved within the time frame of Pennington’s encounter with the Iqbals on Christmas Day and his death three months later. Names in the police reports had been redacted but George wondered if somehow he could secure a meeting with all or any of the clients involved. He made another highlighting mark before he pushed away the papers and yawned mightily. It had been a hardworking morning and yet he’d enjoyed it.
After he moved with Miriam to the Village among the first residents there it was all with the idea that they would have a place they could easily shut for weeks at a time if necessary and go off on the holidays and cruises they had always promised themselves. It was to be payback time for all the unsocial hours he’d worked and all the self-sacrifices he’d had to make to keep grappling his way up the pole close to the very top. With that in mind he’d turned down most of the job offers that came his way and settled for a few advisory posts which wouldn’t be too time-consuming. Miriam’s death had changed all the calculations. For days afterwards he’d stared round the shiny white walls of the rooms in his bungalow and saw it only as a cage trapping him like an animal. His son, a solicitor, and his daughter, a police officer following in his footsteps, had been the instrumental forces in keeping him there, safe and free from worry as they were wont to put it. Despite their support and frequent visits it had been seriously tough—until now.
The formation of the taskforce and investigation of Pennington’s demise had put George back into a world where he felt comfortable. There was a chance, just a chance, that they could make a meaningful contribution to tracking down Pennington’s killer, a secret that had remained intact for thirty years. He whistled a tune to himself as he went off to his bedroom to change for lunch. It was there quite suddenly that an idea came to him for penetrating the shroud of secrecy surrounding Gonzalez and Co., an idea so simple that he wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him much sooner. He sat down as he tested the idea from a variety of angles. Yes, he thought to himself finally, that should work. Why not?
He returned to the living room and scribbled down the number. He looked at it and nodded. After lunch he would make the call.
**
Maria Willis sat by the bed holding on to her brother’s hand. He’d been asleep for a long time but the short, ragged breaths and the occasional twitch of some part of his body told her he was still with her—just. The latest medical opinion had been that his death was probably imminent. A move to a hospice had been offered, accompanied by the promise to make Charlie “more comfortable”. Maria took that as a euphemism for some stranger, however well-intentioned, to speed up his end. Charlie had wanted to die at home and Maria intended that wish to be fulfilled. Occasionally she stroked his forehead with a damp cloth and kissed his cheek. Her reward for these displays of affection was a faint moan. He knew she was there—that was all that counted. As she sat she thought about how they had crapped up their lives, he with his cycle of petty crime and prison which he’d never managed to break, and she with her once-promising career as a district nurse, which was shattered when she was deemed to have mishandled a patient. At least the money she’d saved had enabled her to buy the cottage and her two failed marriages had produced a daughter, Laura, whom she rarely saw but who had promised to help organise and attend the funeral.
On the side table by the bed was the statement which Charlie had signed with a very shaky hand. In a gasping voice which had lacked any resonance he’d instructed her that the paper should be placed in the hands of ‘the two old biddies’ and definitely not the police. After all, what had they ever done to help him? He’d transferred the body as a job, to free himself from a debt and from another beating. He wasn’t a killer, he never had been, but now, close to death, he felt badly about what he’d done. He wanted the murderer of Pennington to be found. Would the police bother? He doubted it—much easier to concentrate on lower hanging plums such as himself to keep the conviction numbers up. But the ‘two old biddies’, they had time on their hands, didn’t they? They wouldn’t give up.
Maria stroked his head again. The moans of acknowledgement became ever fainter, the breaths shallower—it wouldn’t be long.