Murder of a Silent Man

A murdered recluse. A property empire. A disinherited family. All the ingredients for murder.

No one gave much credence to the man when he was alive. In fact, most
people never knew who he was, although those who had lived in the area
for many years recognised the tired-looking and shabbily-dressed man as
he shuffled along, regular as clockwork on Thursday's at seven in the
evening to the local off-licence.

It was always the same: a
bottle of whisky, premium brand, and a packet of cigarettes. He paid his
money over the counter, took hold of his plastic bag containing his
purchases, and then walked back down the road with the same rhythmic
shuffle. He said not one word to anyone on the street or in the shop.

Apart from the three-storey mansion where he lived, one of the best
residences on one of the best streets in London, with its windows
permanently shuttered, no one would have regarded him as any other than
homeless and destitute. Just a harmless eccentric, until the morning
when he was found dead in his front garden.