Murder of a Silent Man Read online

  ‘Did you feed that errant nonsense to the comrades?’

  ‘Don’t worry. The comrades are beyond caring about what we have to say,’ Larry said.

  Wendy and Larry walked to their vehicle.

  ‘You were pushing it,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Michael Lawrence could have killed his grandfather, but it would have needed Helmsley to make him.’

  ‘A blow for the cause?’

  ‘Helmsley’s cause. He could have hatched a plan to kill the old man, assuming that the grandson would get some money. And then he’d convince Michael to hand it over.

  ‘It’s a possibility, but far-fetched.’

  ‘It’s no worse than any other scenario.’

  ‘No better, though.’

  ***

  Two weeks after the death of Gilbert Lawrence, five letters were sent. Two days later, four of them were signed for. The first recipient, Molly Dempster, opened hers and almost collapsed to the ground. The second, Caroline Dickson, phoned her husband. The third was delivered to Emma Lawrence. She was disturbed to receive it, not altogether surprised. The fourth was received by Leonard Dundas. He was shocked by the thoroughness of what he read. The fifth, to Ralph Lawrence, was not delivered due to the man not being at the hotel where he was staying.

  The first that Homicide heard of the letters was when Molly Dempster appeared at Challis Street Police Station. It was Wendy who escorted the nervous and shaking woman up to Homicide.

  Isaac and Larry, who had been out following up on the few leads they had, returned to the station as fast as they could.

  Once back, the team sat with Gilbert Lawrence’s former housekeeper.

  ‘When did you receive it?’ Larry said.

  ‘This morning. It’s from Mr Lawrence, from his grave.’

  The team studied the envelope. It was from another solicitor in London. It was dated two days previously. On the outside the details of the person it was addressed to, and in the far-right corner in capital letters, ‘TO BE OPENED AFTER MY DEATH’. Inside, three sheets of paper. The letter was dated 28th April 2017. Only one year old.

  ‘I couldn’t read it,’ Molly said. ‘It’s as if he’s writing to me from beyond.’

  ‘Bridget, phone up the solicitor that sent this after this meeting,’ Isaac said. ‘Either they come in here, or we’ll go out there.’

  No doubt you are all wondering what to make of me, and whether I was sane or not. My death, whether it was in my sleep or after an illness, or whether my end was violent, I cannot know, as I cannot predict the future. Those who have received this letter will know by now what they have been bequeathed. Some will be pleased, others will be neutral, and some will be angry. The question about my beloved wife, Dorothy, is also a question that must be answered.

  But first, my reasons for the division of my assets. I was a careful man in life, generous to those I loved, difficult and belligerent to those I did not. While I have tried to be scrupulous in my business dealings, I have at times been forced to deal with unsavoury characters. These are not people of my choosing, and I have always kept them away from my family. Some of them have been villains, no doubt some of them would be capable of murder. That explains the reference to my death and the possibility that it could be violent. I have never sought the company of dishonest people or criminals, but with some of my more significant acquisitions, it was sometimes inevitable. I should say that this letter has been updated annually since I first put pen to paper over twenty-five years ago. Nobody, not even Leonard Dundas, knows of this letter and its contents. It has changed to some extent as the years have moved forward, as has my will.

  If you are reading this now, then I am dead. Molly is no doubt confused, but the remainder of her life will be as agreeable as I can make it. Caroline, my daughter, is also provided for. Ralph, my son, has become a disappointment. I had hoped to give him and Caroline the control of my empire, but, alas, it was not to be. I know that I could have given it to Caroline instead, but I wanted the family to control it. Desmond Dickson is a good man, I’ve no doubt of that, but he is not of my blood. I could not give all that I have strived for to others. Caroline’s children will be eventually brought in, when and if they show the necessary acumen. I have engaged another firm to monitor their progress. By necessity, I am forced to rely on others, but I have put checks and counter-checks in place to ensure compliance and accountability of those charged with the responsibility. An additional letter will have been sent to Leonard Dundas and his daughter with full details of the auditing process, as well as the auditing of Dundas and his company.

  Leonard Dundas has served me well over the years, and whereas I could trust him when I was alive, I cannot give him my unqualified trust when I am dead. His daughter, Jill, will take over the reins soon, and those checks will apply to her too. Caroline will have the most significant role in the years to come, and that is why there is to be a strict liquidation of assets policy in place. No doubt my directives will dissipate in time, yet I hope in death, as I did in life, my legacy will continue.

  My beloved wife, Dorothy. I grant that some may see my isolation from the world and my reclusive behaviour as symptoms of madness. They are not. Dorothy had suffered all her adult life with a debilitating mental condition. It had become worse in the last six months before she vanished from the world. She was a proud woman who did not want people to know. If she had died, there would have been an autopsy. Such is the burden of men as successful as I have been. There was also a substantial life insurance policy in her name. Suspicion would naturally have arisen. On the day my wife died of natural causes, I closed all the shutters in the house and placed my wife in the cellar. The possibility of her vanishing from the house and dying as a result of misadventure was plausible and ultimately accepted.

  It is strange to reflect that the preparation of my wife to allow her to be placed in her bed was a calming experience. She was there with me, and I wanted nothing more. Some people will see it as macabre, others as a sure sign of madness, but believe me, it was neither. It was a sign of love.

  I had never been a sociable man and the attention that I received as I became all the more successful did not sit easily with me. Being reclusive in the house with Dorothy suited me admirably. Molly continued to look after me and was never involved in any way with Dorothy’s disappearance.

  In time, as I aged, I have become more careless in my appearance and my health. I contacted three companies of psychoanalysts. Their names are with Caroline and Dundas. I did not meet them, although I would speak to them once a year, and go through their questionnaires, their attempts to understand the state of a person’s mind. They will attest to my sanity. Of the three companies, one is in the UK, one is in the USA, and the final one is in Australia. If an attempt is made to dispute my sanity, a well-honed team of lawyers is in place to deal with it, and a fund in place to pay for their services. Yet again, a process of checks and counter-checks between the companies has been set up. Collusion by anybody or any group will not be possible.

  I cannot allow my legacy and the love of my wife to be destroyed by unfettered greed. That is all. Gilbert Lawrence.

  Chapter 9

  Ralph Lawrence rarely regretted any decisions that he had made in his life. He was a man with an unrelenting belief that life was what you made it, and luck had nothing to do with it.

  As he sat on the chair in the back room of a disused warehouse in the east end of London, he was beginning to regret his philosophy. He had returned to England primarily because the Spanish authorities wanted him out of their country, but secondly because his father had died.

  Not that he had felt any sadness. On the contrary, the man’s death, tinged with intrigue about how he died, gave him the best hope for the future. Yet now he was in trouble, and he knew it was not going to be so easy. The man sitting opposite him in the seedy back room that smelt of damp and decay was not likely to be swayed by smooth words.

  ‘Lawrence, I staked you money for your ventu
re in the sun. Where is it?’ Gary Frost said.

  ‘I need time. There’s been a problem,’ Ralph said. On either side of him were two men who looked as though they were used to beating people for a living.

  ‘Gilbert Lawrence, a relative of yours?’ Frost said. He was a small man, quietly spoken. He was dressed in a navy-blue suit, a red tie, and a white shirt. He looked like a banker, and that was what he was: the banker of last resort.

  Ralph had done the sums. The cost to set up the scam in Spain was more than four hundred thousand pounds. No use skimping on a cheap website, and then there were the advertisements, and transferring the money overseas, and the bribes, a lot of money in themselves. His Spanish partner, another charmer, still languished in a cell in Spain. He had also borrowed money, and it had been going well. They had managed to sucker over one and a half million out of the tourists, another two million to be followed up on. And the money was not there. Lawrence was not sure why, although he suspected the bribes they had been paying hadn’t been enough. No doubt his Spanish partner would be making a deal to get himself out of jail.

  One of the men standing over Ralph grabbed hold of his shoulder, almost lifted him out of the chair. ‘You never answered the boss’s question.’

  ‘He was my father.’

  ‘Then why are we here having this unpleasantness,’ Frost said. ‘Let go of Mr Lawrence. He is our honoured guest. And what is four hundred thousand? How much was your father worth?’

  ‘Somewhere close to seven hundred million pounds, probably more.’

  ‘And your share?’

  ‘It’ll take time to realise on his money, but it should be three hundred million pounds.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us before? I was prepared to let my boys go to work on you. You know what that would have meant?’

  Ralph flexed his legs, imagining the pain of a low-velocity bullet penetrating his kneecaps. ‘It may take time to get the money.’

  ‘What does it matter. We can wait. Six weeks, is that long enough for you?’

  ‘It is,’ Ralph said, hoping that it was long enough to get out of the country.

  ‘Give our guest a whisky,’ Frost said.

  One of the heavies poured the drink and gave it to Ralph. The man now receiving the VIP treatment was shaking so much he was barely able to hold it.

  ‘I’m a reasonable man. It’s only business, you know that.’

  Lawrence knew it wasn’t. It was sheer desperation on his part that had led him into the clutches of the loan shark. He was shaking now because he had just been saved from a savage beating, and his kneecaps possibly being shattered. He knew that once he was free of Frost and his men, he would be shaking until he had distanced himself from them. But what to do for money: he had none.

  ***

  Caroline Dickson realised that her father had made a strategic error. A possible indication that the man had been slipping in his later years. It would have been understandable, given his advancing years and his morbid account as to what he had done to her mother, and how he had kept her in her room. She could imagine him up there with her, discussing business, updating her on the economy and what was outside, and how she was better off where she was.

  Ralph may be a fool, and his outburst when the will had been read had not endeared him to anyone, but Caroline knew that the brother she had not seen for eight years had been right. Their father had been mad, but the medical and psychoanalytical reports showed clearly that the checks had been conducted correctly, and her father’s responses had been above average. How could that be? Caroline thought. Do I want to rock the boat?

  She knew she had voting rights, and as a direct descendant of the dead man she had precedence over Dundas, but the man and his daughter had control. She had had to look up where the Marshall Islands were, as there were five million two hundred and fifty-nine thousand dollars in an investment fund there. The Cayman Islands she knew, as well as Cyprus and Mauritius. She needed the accounts in her name, and that had not occurred yet. She could see the hands of the Dundases pulling strings. They had access to all the bank accounts, the title deeds of all the properties, and yet they were all in the name of Gilbert Lawrence and the companies that he had set up. Caroline knew that it would be a battle royal.

  Desmond, her husband, was an honest man, and he would help, but he was used to dealing with trustworthy people, not with Leonard and Jill Dundas. But Ralph knew crooks, and he knew how to deal with them. She needed him as her special adviser.

  ***

  Isaac Cook and his team in Homicide studied Gilbert Lawrence’s letter from beyond the grave. The distribution of the wealth was not the primary concern, although it was important. What concerned them more was what the dead man had revealed about the death of his wife, Dorothy. Wendy Gladstone and Bridget Halloran abhorred the cavalier manner with which he had described his wife in the cellar. Larry Hill was more intrigued by the process. All, including Isaac, could not believe it was the behaviour of a rational man, a man capable of satisfying three respectable psychoanalysts on three continents that he was sane.

  The experts’ results were of no concern if they were legitimate, but what if the tests had been falsified? If they had been, as seemed possible, then it would invalidate Lawrence’s will, which in turn would throw the motives behind the man’s death into confusion.

  ‘How do we prove this?’ Bridget said.

  ‘Research these companies, see what they have to say.’

  ‘I’ve done some research, not of the companies, but what constitutes insanity.’

  ‘And?’ Isaac said, knowing full well that Bridget would have been thorough.

  ‘If the will is to be contested…’

  ‘Assume it is,’ Isaac said. ‘Ralph Lawrence has been left out of any immediate money, and Caroline Lawrence is only to receive a minor amount.’

  ‘Five million pounds, minor?’ Larry said. He was struggling with finding fifty thousand for his wife’s house-hunting plans. To him, Caroline Lawrence had received a fortune.

  ‘The dead man had a property portfolio in the billions. And it’s still with Leonard Dundas. If that man has concealed some of his client’s money and property holdings, there’s no way that anyone could find out the full extent of what the man owned.’

  ‘He’s either the greatest crook or naively honest,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Have you met any honest men lately?’ Larry said.

  ‘My husband was, but he could only lay claim to a small pension and a bungalow. Apart from him, there aren’t too many, especially if they’re worth hundreds of millions.’

  ‘We can debate this ad infinitum,’ Isaac said, ‘but what is important is whether Gilbert Lawrence was sane.’

  ‘As I was saying,’ Bridget said.

  ‘Apologies, we digressed.’

  ‘This is what I’ve found out. The person must be of “sound mind, memory, and understanding” when making a will. That person must understand the nature of the act and its effects, the extent of the property of which he/she is disposing and must be able to comprehend and appreciate the claims to which he/she ought to give effect.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Larry said. He had had an aunt who had died and had given her money to the church instead of her family. He remembered his mother, his aunt’s sister, saying over the dining room table that the woman was mad, but the money remained with the church.

  ‘There’s one more clause. It’s in legalese. “And must not be affected by any disorder of the mind that shall poison his affections, pervert his sense of right, or prevent the exercise of his natural faculties and that no insane delusion shall influence his will in disposing of this property and bring about a disposal of it which, if the mind had been sound, would not be made.”’

  ‘The précised version,’ Larry said.

  ‘If he had been declared sane and he had the necessary proofs at the signing of his will, then it’s valid. Remember, most people don’t get their sanity verified while they’re alive. It’s up t
o the beneficiaries, or those who believe they should receive something from the person’s estate, to contest it afterwards.’

  ‘Are the three certificates valid?’

  ‘They are.’

  ‘Did they have all the facts?’

  ‘How could they? Nobody knew about Dorothy Lawrence upstairs in the house.’

  ‘The will is contestable?’

  ‘Without a doubt. And if Gilbert Lawrence was so smart, he wouldn’t have left loopholes in the will.’

  ‘There was a clause at the end for those present to sign their agreement,’ Isaac said.

  ‘That may have been legally binding, but Ralph Lawrence didn’t sign.’

  ***

  Ralph Lawrence made contact with his sister one day after his encounter with Gary Frost, a man who had an unenviable reputation as to how he called in his debts. Ralph had not wanted to use the man, regretted it now, but he had been down on his luck, and he needed out from the predicament he had found himself in. The first day he had made contact with Frost was the first time for a very long time that he felt trepidation about what he was doing.

  Ralph Lawrence knew himself to be a supreme optimist, fully aware that not many ventures had turned out bad. Some, his sister and their father included, would have said that a failed business venture was indeed that, a failure. To Ralph, his definition was that if you lost money, it was. But he had not lost money; others had. On every venture he had been creaming off the top and squirrelling the money where no one else could get hold of it, including his ex-wives, bloodsuckers all of them. But he had chosen them for their youth and beauty, or for their money. The last woman had been smarter than most and had seen through him early on. She had found some of his bank accounts, the cryptic passwords, and had helped herself to over two hundred thousand pounds before sending him a letter from an unknown destination: ‘The weather’s fine, so is the hotel and the man I picked up in the bar last night. And don’t expect me to wish you were here.’