DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

by Phillip Strang

  Hamish had put his hand in his pocket on one occasion, given over thirty thousand pounds, his name on a plaque in the church, proudly displayed, naming him as the benefactor whose generous donation had allowed the roof to be repaired.

  ‘What did you mean when you said you wouldn’t be interested in what Hamish got up to?’ Gareth asked, returning to his conversation with Atherton.

  ‘Be careful, Gareth, if you’re thinking of becoming involved in his business. You know what he’s capable of. He’s a great friend, a fearsome enemy.’

  Gareth changed tack. He called over to the barman for two more pints of beer.

  Dean put his knife and fork down and rubbed his stomach, wiped the gravy off his chin. ‘That was great.’

  ‘Any time.’

  ‘Gareth, why are you asking these questions? You’ve got a great deal going where you are, no need for crime, no reason to live in a small and damp flat the same as I do.’

  ‘Idle conversation, that’s all,’ Gareth said, but he wasn’t sure if it was.

  ***

  Bridget had gone through Charles Stanford’s phone records. On the day that he mentioned, he had received two telephone calls, one of no importance, the other from the anonymous caller.

  ‘It’s a pay-as-you-go phone,’ Bridget said. She was in Isaac’s office, updating him on the information that Stanford had, for whatever reason, given them. ‘It’s no help to us, I’m afraid.’

  Isaac sat back on his chair, uncertain of how to proceed. They had two murderers in their hands, but they were powerless.

  Hamish McIntyre had no need to provide an alibi. After all, twenty years in the past, and anybody who could have confirmed guilt or innocence would have probably forgotten or could even be dead. And with Samantha Matthews, the fact that she had been at her house on the day when Liz Spalding had died meant little. It was, after all, a five-hour journey each way. She could have driven at night, thrown the woman off the cliff, and been back in London before two in the afternoon the next day. Checks on her car registration number had proven unsuccessful up until now. Bridget was coordinating that activity but once out of London, the chance of using automatic number plate recognition was reduced. But Isaac knew she would not give in.

  ‘Do you have Samantha Matthews’ mobile number?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘I’ve already checked. She could have a pay-as-you-go as well. A lot of people do.’

  ‘Let’s come back to this anonymous call,’ Isaac said. ‘Are we able to get any clue from it as to whether it was a man or a woman? Stanford said it was a man, but that doesn’t mean it was.’

  ‘I can’t help you. Nothing more to go on.’

  Bridget left the office and returned to her desk. She had plenty of work to keep her occupied for the rest of the day. Larry was out of the office, meeting with one of his informers. Wendy was also out, but she was back in Bedford Gardens.

  It was not only Isaac who had been perturbed by Wally Vincent’s visit there. Larry and Wendy had as well, their professional pride damaged. He had found out something they hadn’t.

  Wendy met with Billy Dempsey and Andrew Conlon. Neither had been able to add anything more although Billy had been cheeky, tried to get smart with Wendy. Not that it did him any good because Wendy, used to dealing with tearaway children when she was a junior officer in Sheffield, more years in the past than she cared to remember, had put him in his place quick smart.

  Leaving the two young boys, she knocked on a couple of doors in the street. At the first house, an elderly woman invited her in, said she had something, but over a cup of tea Wendy realised the woman was just lonely and glad of a chat. She excused herself, knocked on another door. A young man in his twenties answered. He was high on recreational drugs.

  ‘What do you want?’ he said.

  It was a beautiful house, no doubt plenty of money, but that never guaranteed that the children would grow up sensible, Wendy thought. Her sons had grown up a credit to her and her husband. No free cars for them, and if they wanted money to go out of a night, they had had to earn it. Both were married now with good wives and children, and they came to see her regularly.

  But the man at the door knew nothing of the murder house, not much of anything. Wendy thanked him and left him to whatever he was doing. She walked past 11 Bedford Gardens, looked up at the house. Something didn’t seem right. She walked around to the back, found an open door. She knew enough not to walk in. If there were people inside, it could be dangerous.

  She took out her phone and called Larry, keeping her voice low. ‘Get out to 11 Bedford Gardens immediately, park down the end of the road. There’s someone inside the house.’

  ‘Where shall we meet?’

  ‘I’m around the back. I suggest you wait at the front. If someone comes out the front, you’ll see whoever it is. I don’t want to move from where I am, not now. How long will you be?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes, twenty maximum. Can you stay there for that long?’

  ‘I’ll have to.’

  ***

  Bob Palmer looked out of the hotel window. He could see very little; the only view he had was a brick wall no more than twenty feet away. If he looked up, a glimpse of the sky; down revealed only a narrow pathway cluttered with rubbish. Inside the room, a television mounted on the wall, a bed in one corner, a wardrobe that consisted of half-a-dozen metal hangers and a curtain instead of a door. He had chosen the place because it was depressing and dirty. He had no need for luxury, only penance for not protecting her as he should have.

  In the pub, the barman had known something, he knew that, but Jacob, a man who had known both Stephen and Liz, knew more. But the regular had clearly been too frightened to say anything. Even after he’d wandered over to him, sat at his table, attempted to engage him in further conversation, the man had said little.

  ‘Don’t get involved,’ he’d said. ‘Leave now, go back to where you belong.’

  After two minutes of Palmer’s increasingly agitated conversation, the man got up from his seat, downed his drink in one gulp, and walked out of the door. His parting comment: ‘You’ll get yourself killed.’

  When he returned to the counter, the barman ignored Palmer, gave him a drink when it was ordered, took the money and walked away. Eventually, tiring of the cold shoulder, he had walked back to the hotel, switched on the TV, a mind-numbing quiz programme followed by a reality show where couples paired off before being married, only then to find another, be unfaithful, fall in love again. He knew it was errant nonsense, carefully scripted, but in his confused state he could admit to having laughed a couple of times.

  He spent two days in that room, not leaving it except to buy a drink or eat a meal. In the end, he took the rattling lift to the ground floor, paid with a credit card and walked out. He got into his car and drove around the area. He drove past Stephen’s former car yard, one more time past the pub where the information he wanted was, and then past where Liz had lived. He turned the radio on loud in the car, remonstrated with himself for his stupidity, for not being willing to let go. He parked the car, locked the door and walked back to the pub, two streets away.

  Inside the barman was dispensing drinks.

  ‘I’ll have a pint,’ Palmer said.

  ‘I’ll be with you in two minutes.’

  ‘Jacob not coming in today?’

  ‘He usually comes in later for a meal and a couple of pints. If you intend asking more questions, I suggest you don’t. People are sensitive around here. A few rogues come in here, some you don’t want to get on the wrong side of.’

  ‘What if I did?’

  ‘Then you’re a bloody fool. Don’t get me involved.’

  Outside the pub, Bob took stock of the situation. It was clear that no one was going to speak voluntarily. He walked away, heading back to his car. Coming down the street, Jacob, a jaunty swagger about him. The man tried to avoid him, but Bob was not going to be deterred. He grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him into a narrow alley.


  ‘Now tell me, who are you frightened of?’ he said.

  ‘You’ll get yourself killed.’

  ‘The woman with the tattoo, who is she?’

  ‘She comes from a dangerous family.’

  ‘The woman killed someone that I was fond of. I need answers.’

  ‘You need your head seeing to. Thump me if you want to, kick me in the groin and smash my face, but I’ll not talk.’

  ‘Tell me, I want to know.’ Palmer knew his grip was weakening. He had never hit anyone before, not even at school when he was being bullied. Not because he had been the smallest or the weakest; only because he had been a coward.

  ‘You may have little value for your life, but I do for mine,’ Jacob said.

  Palmer released his hand from the man’s collar. ‘If you won’t tell me, someone else will.’

  ‘Not around here, they won’t.’

  Free of the crazed man, Jacob scuttled down the road and entered the pub; he needed a stiff drink. He made a phone call. He wasn’t going to forfeit his life due to a misunderstanding.

  Chapter 24

  It took Larry almost twenty-five minutes to get to Bedford Gardens, not that it mattered because twelve minutes after Wendy had spoken to him, a man came out of the back door of the house. He was dressed in a heavy coat, a scarf around his neck.

  Mr Stanford,’ Wendy said, ‘it’s good to see you. What are you doing here?’

  ‘A man has got a right to check his assets.’

  ‘Maybe he has, but this is a murder scene. Different rules apply.’

  Stanford appeared nervous. ‘I went up to the top floor,’ he said. ‘Not much to see and it’s a long time since I’ve been up there. Your people made a bit of a mess, damaged the paint. I’ll expect recompense.’

  ‘I don’t see why,’ Wendy said. ‘You were quite happy to let the place be pulled down before. What’s changed your mind? Not many people would want to buy a house that a murder had been committed in.’

  ‘It’s my decision if I do, not yours.’

  It was a brave act of defiance, Wendy knew. The man had crossed the crime scene tape. It was enough to take him into Challis Street and to question him further.

  After Stanford had closed the back door and locked it, the two of them went and sat in Wendy’s car. Stanford enjoyed the warmth of the vehicle.

  ‘Mr Stanford, this makes no sense,’ Wendy said, ‘First you deny any knowledge of the house and the murder, and then we find out that you were in the house some months ago, and on top of that there’s a phone call. Why don’t you tell us the truth so you can go home, mind your own business, and we’ll leave you alone?’

  ‘I have no more to add. I gave you all that I knew. I was intrigued, and I had to visit the house; it was essential to understand what was so special about it. Why not somewhere else?’

  ‘And why did someone phone you up, assuming that you would go and discover the body and tell the police.’

  ‘It’s a mystery to me.’

  ‘There has to be a connection between you and the dead body, possibly the murderer, and definitely the anonymous voice.’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Maybe you do, or perhaps you haven’t made the connection. Think back over the years to those you’ve met and those you sentenced to prison. Men inside dwell on the reason that they’re there. They don’t consider that they had committed a crime and had been caught. To some of them, it was the person who caught them, but mainly it’s the person who sat in front of them, a wig on his head, a gavel in his hand.’

  ‘Yes, I know all this. I’ve had one or two threaten me as they were led out of the court. One or two, after they had been released, thought they could hang around where I lived, sometimes making phone calls, spraying graffiti on the fence.’

  ‘In Brighton?’

  ‘Not Brighton. And not here either. I had a place in Bayswater, but I’ve sold it now. No need to live in London.’

  Wendy turned down the heater in the car; it was getting too hot.

  A tap on the car window. It was Larry.

  ‘Anything more to say?’ he said, looking at Stanford.

  ‘I’ve done nothing wrong, Inspector Hill.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but you were in the house again. No doubt you’re aware how bad this looks.’

  ‘Not at all. Two and two make four, not five, or don’t you know that.’

  ‘I know it well enough. You keep coming up with hidden snippets. You were looking for something, a clue, an idea, anything.’

  ‘Mr Stanford admitted that much to me,’ Wendy said. ‘He’s interested in putting his old skills to work again.’

  Wally Vincent had come up trumps. Stanford could as well, Larry knew that, especially if he was hiding something from the police.

  Larry, feeling the chill outside, got into the back of Wendy’s car.

  ‘I’ve been speaking to your sergeant, explaining my interest, trying to make some connection to this house and to the murder,’ Stanford said.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Mr Stanford about this,’ Wendy said. ‘He’s the key, even if he doesn’t realise it.’

  ‘Why don’t you cooperate with us, Mr Stanford?’ Larry said. ‘You’re not going to cover the ground, not as quickly as we can, and you’re not that agile, are you?’

  ‘The brain’s still active even if the body is failing.’

  ‘And that’s it, isn’t it? We’ve reawakened your analytical mind, your ability to see through people to evaluate situations. You had a distinguished record as a judge; there’s no doubt given the opportunity you could apply your expertise more successfully than we could. We’re just plodding policeman, but you’re an intellectual with the capacity to conduct deep thought and analysis.’

  ‘I might be able to, but I’m dumbfounded about this house.’

  ‘Do we need to go back to Challis Street, Mr Stanford?’ Larry said.

  ‘I don’t see what for.’

  ‘What will you do after here?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘I’ll go back to my house in Brighton.’

  It was strange, Stanford thought as he sat in the sergeant’s car. Each time, I reveal a little more. Why do I do that? Why don’t I keep my mouth shut or tell them everything I know?

  ‘Level with us, Mr Stanford,’ Larry said. ‘Give us all that you know and leave the investigation to us. We’re dealing with very violent people here, people who have no hesitation in killing and maiming. Do you understand that?’

  ‘I think I recognised the voice,’ Stanford said. ‘And believe me, I wasn’t trying to hide that from you. Not immediately at least. When I received a call, there was something familiar about it, but then I had met so many people over the years, some good, some bad, some psychopathic and evil.’

  ‘We’re listening,’ Wendy said.

  ‘When I received the call, I was frightened. It had a sense of malevolence about it.’

  ‘But you came to the house?

  ‘A compulsion. I had to.’

  ‘Yet you still chose not to tell us.’

  ‘I told you, I didn’t want to become involved. There’s nothing wrong with that. A body upstairs that I had nothing to do with. Questions would be asked, aspersions made, guilt by association. My reputation would have been compromised.’

  ‘We can accept that,’ Larry said. ‘Tell us about the voice. Who do you think it sounded like?’

  ‘I can’t prove it. I don’t want my name mentioned as the source.’

  ‘In a trial, we might have to, but for now, I’ll give you my word.’

  ‘I don’t know why this person spoke of crime in the house. It would have been easier to tell me to look on the third floor.’

  ‘Eventually, the reason will be known,’ Wendy said.

  ‘It was an old man, a firm voice. A man used to leadership.’

  ‘A criminal?’

  ‘It was Hamish McIntyre who phoned me. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Which means,’ Larry said, ‘that he
knew his son-in-law was dead at the top of your house.’

  ‘I can’t tell you any more. I intended to check this house out and then to confront the man. He’s older now, not as dynamic as he was, and besides, I would have left notification as to where I had gone and who I was seeing.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I would have detailed my thoughts and my actions, put them in an envelope and mailed them to Bedford Gardens.’

  ‘Assuming that if we couldn’t find you, we would have come looking?’

  ‘You would have checked this house, found the letter and followed up on what I had written.’

  ‘And if you survived an encounter with McIntyre, you would have come here, picked up the letter, gone back to Brighton and we’d never know.’

  ‘If he’d admitted to knowledge of Matthews’ body in this house, then I’m not sure what I would have done or said.’

  You would have done nothing,’ Larry said.

  ‘Marcus Matthews was of no value, nor is Hamish McIntyre. Either of them dead and buried is fine by me. As a judge, I maintained neutrality. As a private citizen, I do not. The scum of the earth, the two of them, all of their cohorts as well.’

  ‘Can we trust you to go home,’ Larry said. ‘Shout at the neighbour’s dog if you want to, throw rocks, but otherwise, stay put in that house. Neither Sergeant Gladstone nor myself want to be peeling your body off a wall somewhere, is that clear?’

  ‘It’s clear. Please keep me informed as to what goes on.’

  ‘Is there any connection between Yanna White and Hamish McIntyre?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘I can’t prove it. Hamish McIntyre is an amoral man. To him, Yanna White and the other women would be nothing.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’

  ‘She was trafficked by men such as McIntyre. If it weren’t McIntyre, it would have been someone else; the man had his fingers in many pies.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Stanford.’ Larry said. ‘People have died, and the chains are being rattled. Other people could well die, and we don’t want it to be you.’