Another taskforce meeting was set for ten the next morning. Gladys and Cynthia had been too exhausted after their day in London to contemplate it when they returned to the Village and Gladys anyway wanted to sleep on the interview before she listened to it again. As it wasn’t a brandy night George decided on an early one. So ten in the morning it was to allow for coffee in the main hall later for those who wanted to partake, but also private time for George to hear what had gone on and to satisfy the increasing need they all felt to escape from inquisitive eyes.
They sat round Cynthia’s kitchen table in what had become their established positions, George at the head in the carver chair with arms, with the two women on either side of him. Both of them had a side view of the garden through the generously sized picture window but Cynthia took the side where the sink was in full view, just in case there was any clutter there to be seen. She was wearing jeans as she normally did in the Village, teamed with a tight-fitting blouse. Gladys by contrast preferred a loosely draping sweater and trousers. She’d placed the recorder equidistant from each of them turned up high so that they could all readily hear it. They were all concentrating as the question and answer session unfolded and George, who’d brought a pad with him, was making notes. When the recording finished, he asked to hear the last part again from when the police were questioning the family.
“What did you make of her—as a person, I mean?” he asked as Gladys was switching off the machine.
She signalled to Cynthia to reply. “You were watching her all the time.”
“Very driven, definitely,” Cynthia said. “Probably very industrious too with attention to detail.”
“And with a chip on her shoulder.”
“You can understand that considering the attention the police gave her family and the fact they could never live down the suspicion. When you couple that with the death of her sister and the lingering burning sense of injustice she knew that her parents felt, that’s a combination which could get to anyone.”
George stroked his head which, was shining in the sunlight slanting in through the window. “Hm, even taking all that into account, her chip sounds like it’s the size of a mallet. I wonder why she agreed to see you and so quickly as well.”
“She told us,” responded Gladys, who’d now pulled the recorder back towards her. “She wanted the chance to express her feelings and see those put in print.”
“And presumably to have a go at the police—we’re always good targets—and to deflect any suspicion away from her.”
“Come on, George, she was only eleven at the time.”
“I meant from her family.” He turned over his pad and tore off an under sheet, which he placed in front of them. “I spent yesterday going through all the material we have and I’ve done a timeline covering when all the events we’re interested in happened.”
They all pored over the sheet. It was headed ‘THE PENNINGTON CASE’ and underneath was a series of dates as follows:
Dec 25—Pennington rides into the Iqbal family.
Dec 27—He reports to police his version of the incident. They investigate and charges of careless cycling are brought against him.
Jan 20—Case comes to court and magistrate awards token damages.
Jan 23—Iqbal daughter dies from brain haemorrhage. Police investigate again and bring manslaughter charge.
Mar 10—Proceedings begin.
Mar 12—After hearing opening arguments and conflicting medical evidence judge dismisses the case.
Mar 29—Pennington’s body is found.
“This confirms it all happened approximately within a three-month time span,” Cynthia commented as she looked up.
“Exactly.” George turned over another sheet. “And there’s another important fact to which we haven’t given any consideration so far, which is the manner of Pennington’s death.” He cleared his throat. “His body was found in a bag, as we know, and our interest has been focussed on where that was found. However, the way he was killed is also significant. He was stabbed on multiple occasions—it was called ‘a frenzied attack’ at the time.”
“I remember that from the newspaper coverage, you know, the cold case article,” Gladys interrupted.
George didn’t look too pleased at the interruption. “Yes, well the assault continued even when it must have been clear that he’d already succumbed. Blood loss would have been significant. I’ve seen many crime scenes like this and I can tell you that, not only would the assailant have been covered in their victim’s blood but the place where the killing happened would have been steeped in it as well. It’s remarkable how much the human body disgorges on occasions like this.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully as both the women gave an involuntary shudder. “So it all points to a crime of passion. It’s easy to see why the police followed the trail they did.”
“Do you agree with their approach?” Cynthia asked.
George rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. “To start with, yes. The question is whether, after exhausting all efforts to implicate the family, they followed up other leads as effectively as they might have done. Ms Iqbal clearly doesn’t think so and I suppose we have to agree as to date the killer hasn’t been found.” He dabbed his forehead. “It’s getting a little warm in here with the sun coming in. Do you think we could draw the blind?”
“Of course.” Cynthia, jumped immediately from her seat and rushed over to the window. George watched closely as she did so. “Is that better?” she asked as she angled the blind so that the shade of it fell on George’s face.
“Much—thank you.” George folded up his pad. “Well, with all that in mind, I decided to follow up on Pennington’s bank, Gonzalez and Co. You’ll recall the threatening clients. I checked the dates and that all happened within the same three-month time span in which we’re interested. The clients recorded large losses in the January and by March the bank had apparently put it right to the extent that the three in particular who were unhappy, including the one who said he wanted to kill Pennington, were content again. It seems like a remarkable turnaround and worth investigating.” He cleared his throat again. “So I’ve taken some action. I’m going to pay the bank a visit.”
“How have you arranged that?” Cynthia asked with more than a hint of admiration in her voice.
“Fairly simple really. My money pot such as it is makes virtually nothing sitting in the bank so I thought Gonzalez and Co. might be the right kind of place to invest it. I’m going to discuss all this with a Mr Claude Flynn tomorrow. He told me on the phone he’s been an investment officer with more than thirty years’ experience so he should be the right vintage to remember Pennington. Would you ladies care to accompany me?”
“Not me,” responded Gladys promptly. “I have to write up my article. The publication deadline is this Friday for the next edition, so I’ll have to see my editor before then.” The words were uttered with such portentous reverence it sounded as though she had an audience with the Queen.
“What about you?” George turned to Cynthia. Their eyes met briefly. “You could pretend to be my… er… partner. It would help in case I wanted to do any nosing around.”
Cynthia’s mind went into high gear. Although it had been tiring, she’d enjoyed her day out in London with Gladys and it had given her considerable satisfaction to show that she could still hack it. If she went again so soon after the first time, she told herself, she wouldn’t go through all the ridiculous worries again, especially as she wouldn’t have to take her camera. Going with George would of course be, well, different from going with Gladys, but that added spice to the whole idea.
“Lunch is on me if that helps,” George offered.
“Thanks,” Cynthia heard herself saying. “I’ll come.”
**
Gladys and Cynthia made it to the main hall while coffee was still being served. George had made his excuses to get himself organised for the next day. Also, to stop tongues going into overdrive he thought it was wise if they didn’t appear as a threesome too often and, just as important, he didn’t want to compromise lunch and dinner times. No sooner had the two women sat down at the only free table than a member of staff called Romano approached them with an envelope, which he put down gently as though he were placing a drink on a silver salver. Both Cynthia and Gladys weren’t quite sure about him when he first arrived. He was Spanish and only spoke halting English with frequent pauses as he searched for words which were somewhere in his memory bank but wouldn’t quite escape, but they gradually warmed to him as he was always respectful and in Cynthia’s words “was always well-dressed and above all clean”.
“Mail for you, Mrs Gladys,” he said, with a smile which showed all his teeth. “It was one where we had to… had to firmar, how do you say in English?”
Gladys stared down at the envelope. “He wants you to sign,” Cynthia helped her.
“That’s it, sign.” The smile widened almost to the sides of his face. “Thank you, señora.” He bustled off, leaving the two women gazing at the envelope. Gladys waited to open it until interest around them had died down. There were three folded sheets of paper inside and when she caught sight of the shaky, almost illegible signature of Charles Willis at the foot of the third page she knew exactly what it was and the event which had led to it being sent. Below the signature was a small section of handwritten script.
My dear Charlie passed away yesterday and it was his dying wish that you and your friend should receive his statement. He called you the two old biddies and it gave him comfort to think you might continue to work to find the murderer of Richard Pennington. That thought eased the weight on his conscience about carrying the body and leaving it where it was. One other recollection he had was that one of the men who handed the body over was called Jack Metz. Charlie had worked with him before and recognised his voice.
With best wishes,
Maria Willis
Gladys stuffed the pages back into the envelope. There was a hint of a tear in her eye and when she looked at Cynthia she saw the same reaction. One of the ladies who made up their lunch table called Elaine passed by with her face in sympathetic mode. “Not bad news, I hope?”
“No,” Gladys answered. “Just news.”
When she was quite sure Elaine was out of earshot she moved closer to Cynthia. “Let’s get out of here,” she hissed. “We need to show this to George. He might know who this Jack Metz is.”