DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

by Phillip Strang

  ‘I met Stephen at a rough period in my life, my marriage to Marcus was not going well. He was increasingly involved with my father and his business enterprises. I was lonely, and Stephen was a charming man. In a moment of weakness, I allowed myself to be seduced by him.

  Wendy, not as naive as the woman probably thought she was, knew that she had not been weak. Samantha Matthews was a woman of passion, and Stephen Palmer, by all accounts, was a tall, good-looking individual who women yearned for, and who knew how to treat them well. Marcus Matthews had only ever been described as a good man, a kind man, disregarding the fact he was a criminal. Wendy could understand Samantha’s weakness, as her husband had been more of a Marcus than a Stephen.

  ‘This is a serious matter,’ Isaac said. ‘You decided to keep this information secret. Why?’

  ‘It’s not something a woman is proud of,’ Samantha said.

  ‘And now you have another man upstairs in your bed,’ Wendy said. ‘You must have had concerns when Palmer vanished.’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, but I’ll not believe it of Marcus or of my father.’

  Wendy could see she was increasingly agitated to get her and Isaac out of the house. The previous good impression that the woman had given was rapidly being diminished.

  ‘Why did you attend the funeral?’ Isaac said. He had never been as enamoured of Samantha Matthews as Wendy was. She was the child of a vicious man, even if she was not vicious herself, and she must have known what the man was capable of, what he had done in the past.

  ‘He helped me out in a difficult period of my life. I had to pay my respects,’ Samantha said.

  ‘For three years, you believed that he had vanished, but at the funeral you were under no illusion as to what had happened. He had been murdered.’

  ‘Yes, I knew.’

  ‘But you didn’t suspect your father?’ Isaac asked. His patience was rapidly wearing thin.

  ‘Three years had passed, Stephen was dead, life was good.’

  ‘It’s hardly a reason not to believe that your father was responsible.’

  ‘It was to me,’ Samantha said flatly. She was a convincing liar, Isaac had to admit. She knew the truth, but why had she not confronted her father at the time of Palmer’s disappearance, and then, why not when the man was found dead in a warehouse.

  Isaac could only believe that Samantha Matthews, in spite of her education, her social standing, her affluence, and the fact that she had never been in trouble once in her life, was no different to her father. It was clear that the affection that Samantha and her father felt for each other was well-founded. Both of them sickened him down to his gut.

  It was not possible to get any more from the woman; she had admitted to her affair with Stephen Palmer, but nothing else.

  Isaac and Wendy left the house to Samantha Matthews and her fancy man.

  Outside, Wendy took a phone from her handbag and dialled Challis Street Police Station. Surveillance would be placed on the house; they needed to know the name of the man in Samantha’s bed.

  Chapter 14

  Dean Atherton, a small-time crook and part-time police informer, updated Armstrong on the police investigation. The two men met in a pub not far from McIntyre’s mansion.

  ‘How do you get all this information?’ Armstrong said. He was dressed casually, his day off. The suit and tie were gone; in their place a pair of beige trousers and a blue shirt, open at the neck.

  Atherton, an unusually thin man – he said it was something to do with his genes – drank his first pint in one gulp. Armstrong looked over at the barman and lifted his glass, an indication for two more pints.

  ‘I keep my ear to the ground, that’s all,’ Atherton said. Armstrong liked the man; they had both shared a cell in Maidstone prison five years previously, and while it was luck who you shared with, he had struck lucky that time.

  During the hours of darkness in the small cell, the two men had recounted the stories of their lives and how they turned to crime. Atherton had tried to avoid prison, but his family, including his mother and father, regarded crime as a vocation.

  He had been a bright student, Atherton said in that small cell, but his parents had not encouraged him to continue his studies beyond the age of fifteen. And then, as he was taking stolen goods across the city in his backpack, the police had caught him, a conviction as a juvenile offender against him. After that, the opportunities to study, the enthusiasm to continue, were gone.

  Three years later, one week before his nineteenth birthday, Atherton was convicted for the more severe crime of robbery, receiving a two-year sentence, out in one for good behaviour.

  He had never been a master criminal, always skirting on the edge of the next major crime that would ensure his fortune. But it never came, and all the good hopes that he had had as a child had come to nought. Life for him now consisted of a small and dreary one-bedroomed flat, three floors up, no lift. Still, the man was philosophical about his fate, and as long as he had food in his belly and enough for the occasional flutter on the horses and an occasional beer, he wished for no more.

  Armstrong identified with the man’s outlook on life. However, he had Hamish McIntyre, a decent place to live, a weekly salary, the chance to drive Hamish’s cars, and the best food to eat.

  ‘What’s the latest?’ Armstrong asked.

  ‘Chief Inspector Cook has a good reputation. He’s not a man who gives in easy, and if he believes that Hamish McIntyre is involved in the death of either Matthews or Palmer, he’ll not give up until he has the truth.’

  ‘Hamish is not involved; he’s given me his word.’

  ‘And you believe him?’ Atherton said, a look of disbelief on his face.

  ‘We need to protect him, you and I.’

  ‘I don’t see what it’s got to do with me.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right, but I don’t intend to allow the man to be convicted of crimes he hasn’t committed,’ Armstrong said.

  ‘If McIntyre is forced into a corner, he’ll come out fighting, so will you. I hope he’ll remember those who had helped him. Me, for instance.’

  Armstrong knew what Atherton was referring to. Hamish McIntyre was a man who looked after his friends, but not his enemies.

  ‘Did you know Samantha Matthews was screwing Stephen Palmer?’ Atherton said.

  ‘And if she was?’

  ‘It’s a motive for murder, don’t you think?’

  ***

  Wendy was angry that the two constables she had assigned to keep an eye on Samantha Matthews’ house had missed the man who had been upstairs.

  ‘He must have known we were there,’ the ginger-haired Constable Gerry Hammond said. Wendy had seen him around the station, yet the first time she had given him an easy job, he had fluffed it.

  Constable Nick Entwistle hadn’t fared much better, but then she had never been impressed by him. Six years in the station, he had not yet made it to sergeant, and it looked as though he never would. For one thing, even though he was only in his twenties, his weight was starting to increase. The once fit and active man who used to run competitively at the weekends changed after he was shot in the leg while apprehending an armed man. He had received an award for bravery, but now that was forgotten, and the enthusiasm that he had once displayed was long gone.

  ‘He must have gone out the back door,’ Entwistle said. ‘We were there all night. He must have left around two or three in the morning.’

  ‘Where were you two? Asleep?’ Wendy quizzed.

  ‘There was a Volvo parked around the back, and it was there most of the night, but in the early morning it was gone.’

  ‘We passed the registration number on to Bridget Halloran,’ Hammond said.

  ‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ Wendy said.

  The two constables’ failure wasn’t the only disappointment that day; Larry had failed to make the early-morning meeting, only walking in at 10 a.m.

  ‘In my office, Larry,’ Isaac shouted from his office.
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  ‘Sorry about the late arrival,’ Larry, looking bedraggled, said as he sat down.

  ‘Close the door. I don’t want the whole department hearing what I have to say to you.’

  ‘It was a rough night.’

  ‘Another drunken night, and how many more of these do you intend to have?’

  ‘I was trying to get leads, and you know how it is. I have to drink with them, my informers, the criminals, those who know something.’

  ‘We’ve spoken about this before on too many occasions. I’ve been tolerant, but I can’t continue to overlook what you keep doing, not even for the sake of the department. Your wife, what has she got to say?’

  Larry shifted uneasily in his seat.

  ‘Your wife? You never answered my question,’ Isaac said.

  ‘She wouldn’t let me in the house. I tried to explain that it was a murder enquiry, and I was only doing my job.’

  ‘I can’t blame her,’ Isaac said. ‘No woman would tolerate what you’re putting her through. Where did you sleep?’

  ‘In the car, the only place.’

  ‘Will she let you in the house now?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘So do I. I need you fit and ready for service. You’ve got two hours to go home, have a shower and brush your teeth, and whatever you do use plenty of deodorant. We need to raise the pressure on Samantha Matthews, and probably Hamish McIntyre.’

  ***

  Liz Spalding walked down the lane from her cottage to the village not far away. It was a pleasant day, and the sun was shining, although there was a cool breeze coming from the sea. The visit of the two police officers, the reopening of the investigation into the death of Stephen Palmer, had caused her to reflect on the past and query the present.

  She had not altogether been truthful with the police. She had told them that she had been fond of Stephen, had even loved him, not that she had been obsessed with the man, desperate for him to marry her, but he had another. How she hated that woman, and yet at Stephen’s funeral she could do nothing but stare at her, not able to say one word to her.

  The new man in her life was coming that night; she wondered if she should continue with him. After Stephen’s death, she had married soon after, a good and decent man, but it had not been the same, not as it had been with Stephen.

  ‘Good day for a stroll,’ an old and arthritis-riddled woman who was passing said.

  ‘It sure is, Mrs Venter,’ Liz said warmly. The old woman, Liz knew, was the local busybody, but she was regarded as harmless by the local community.

  Liz continued walking down the lane; it wasn’t that far from the village, but it was downhill. On the way back, it would not be so easy, and she would be carrying supplies from the local supermarket.

  She decided to sit down on a rock at the side of the lane, with a view out to sea; a sailing boat, its sails unfurled, could be seen in the distance. Closer inshore, two fishing boats were returning with their catches.

  As she sat there, reflecting on the beauty of the place, another woman came and sat down by her side.

  ‘It’s beautiful down here,’ the woman said. Liz could tell she was not a local; she assumed she was another person down from the city looking for a holiday home in the area.

  ‘I’m thinking of staying here myself on a more permanent basis,’ Liz said. There was a familiarity about the woman. It puzzled her.

  ‘I’ve only come for one reason – to see you.’

  It was then that Liz made the connection; it was the mysterious woman from the funeral, the woman who had kept her away from Stephen; it was her rival.

  ‘It’s been a long time; do we have anything to talk about?’

  Liz wasn’t sure what else to say or what to do.

  ‘I loved him, the same as you,’ Samantha Matthews said.

  ‘It’s been twenty years; the past is the past, and no amount of recriminations or sadness will bring him back.’

  ‘I had to see you one time to explain what happened and why he had died.’

  ‘Does it serve any purpose, our meeting like this?’

  ‘My father found out I was having an affair with Stephen, you know that?’

  ‘No, I didn’t, why are you telling me this? Of what use is it to me?’

  ‘My father killed him, and now the police want to know the truth, but I can’t tell.’

  ‘What do you intend to do?’

  ‘I only know of one certainty at this time. What happens today will decide my actions hereafter.’

  ‘I never knew your name,’ Liz said. She felt calm sitting next to the woman, as if time had somehow transmuted the woman into a friend.

  ‘Samantha. My father is Hamish McIntyre, have you heard of him?’

  ‘I can’t say that I have,’ Liz said. She wasn’t sure where the conversation was heading.

  ‘My father is a criminal. I have always known what he is, and he has always treated me well.’

  ‘But he killed Stephen. And now you have told me the truth. What do you expect me to do? Tell the police?’

  ‘My father taught me well. Those we love, we love with an intensity; those we hate, we do not allow to live.’

  Samantha stood up and snatched Liz roughly from where she was sitting. The woman wrapped her arms firmly around Liz’s body from behind. Taken by surprise, Liz struggled to comprehend what was happening, her feet dragging on the rough ground. In the distance, the sailing boat continued to bob in the sea; closer inshore, the two fishing boats had entered the small harbour. Sheep grazed in the field, taking no notice of the two women, one attempting to scream but unable to.

  ‘You’re the first,’ Samantha said. ‘You may not be the last.’

  With the last of her strength, Samantha lifted Liz off the ground and threw her off the cliff to the rocks below.

  Chapter 15

  Constables Hammond’s and Entwistle’s attempts at surveillance had proved to be a total disaster; they had also failed to identify the man’s car correctly.

  It was a soon-to-be irate man who had answered the door of the house in Hampstead, only to be told that his car had been parked in the road at the back of his business partner’s home on the night in question. Not only that, he’d been on a business trip overseas and his wife, who clearly had been cheating on him, had the keys to the car while he’d been away.

  Tricia Anders was the femme fatale who had spent the best part of the night in her lover’s bed, only arriving home in time to welcome her husband back after his long trip, no doubt full of platitudes of how she had missed him.

  Wendy had to chuckle to herself at the thought of the previous night’s assignation. Tricia Anders was no spring chicken; she was in her sixties, although she looked good for her age. It gave Wendy hope that somewhere there was still someone for her.

  ‘You’ve got this all wrong,’ Tricia said. Her husband sat on the other side of the room, staring at her. When he had first learnt the truth, he had wanted to grab hold of her, but Larry, freshly groomed after the dressing down by his DCI, had positioned himself between the two.

  ‘Whatever the reason for you being parked in that road last night is not our concern. What’s important is if you saw anybody else in the street. Do you know the woman in the house to the left of where you were?’ Wendy said.

  Tricia Anders replied weakly, ‘No.’

  ‘The woman’s husband was murdered. His body was discovered recently.’

  ‘Is this important?’ Harry Anders asked.

  ‘Mr Anders, you will have to bear with us,’ Wendy said.

  Wendy focused on Tricia Anders and went over and sat close to her. ‘You need to think back,’ she said. ‘Was there anything unusual that you can tell us?’

  ‘Apart from her making a fool of herself,’ her husband said.

  ‘Mr Anders, we have a murder investigation. If it’s not possible to undertake that in this house, then we will have no option but to reconvene at the police station.’

  Harry Anders sat bac
k on his chair. He averted his eyes from his wife and looked down at the floor.

  ‘After we’ve finished, we’ll talk to Brian Jameson,’ Larry said.

  ‘He’ll not be able to tell you any more than I can,’ Tricia said.

  ‘Too busy screwing you,’ Harry barked.

  ‘I’m afraid we have to focus on our murder enquiry, Mr Anders.’ Wendy said. ‘The situation here is domestic, not criminal. Mrs Anders, coming back to you, what time did you leave Brian Jameson’s house?’

  ‘Just after two in the morning. Harry was due back in the country at five, and then he’d take a taxi to the house. I thought he would be here just after six in the morning, although his flight was delayed and he came in just after eight.’

  ‘How often have you been in Brian Jameson’s house at night? How long have you been involved with the man?’

  ‘I was lonely, and Harry’s overseas a lot.’

  ‘That wasn’t the question. How long?

  ‘Five, maybe six months.’

  ‘Did you always meet at his house?’

  ‘Not always, but I’ve been there a few times.’

  ‘Have you at any time seen a man come out of the next house at unusual hours?’

  ‘I’ve not been looking, and most nights, Brian comes with me to the car to check that I’m fine.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The guilt, I suppose. I always feel afterwards that I’ve wronged Harry. He’s not done anything, only not been in the house when I’ve needed him.’

  ***

  Brian Jameson did not appreciate the presence of two police officers on his doorstep. However, he opened the door and let them in.

  Both Larry and Wendy had shown their warrant cards, although the man knew who they were, why they were there, and their names.

  ‘You’ve made life difficult for Tricia,’ Jameson said. He was an older man than Harry Anders, balding on top. He also carried more weight than he should, and he did not look healthy, his skin blotched.

  ‘This is a murder investigation, and you and Mr and Mrs Anders have been caught in the middle of it. How you and they resolve this situation is not our concern. What is important is what you might be able to tell us about the house next door,’ Larry said.