‘Did you follow Palmer after he left the village?’ Larry asked.
‘As best I could. He revisited his brother’s grave, spoke to the vicar.’
‘Did you speak to him?’
‘Not directly. I spoke to the man’s wife. He was at a seminary for a couple of days.’
‘Then it may be a good idea to go back,’ Isaac said. ‘Have a chat with the man, see what Palmer told him.’
‘I wouldn’t write him off,’ Greenwood said. ‘He’s not going to leave this alone.’
‘We’ve got another one down in Brighton. Wally Vincent is looking after him.’
‘Since his return, the man’s been a model citizen,’ Vincent said. ‘Almost affable.’
‘What do you reckon, Wally?’ Wendy said. ‘Is he holding something in reserve?’
‘You’d never know with Stanford, a smart man, deep, thinks things through.’
‘If Hamish McIntyre hears of these two, their lives won’t be worth living,’ Larry said.
‘We still need to go visit the man,’ Isaac said. ‘How do you confront a man and accuse him of making a phone call to Stanford when we have no proof?’
‘A dangerous customer,’ Greenwood said, ‘from what Larry was telling me.’
‘He is. We’re Palmer’s best protection. If he knows something that we don’t, he’d better tell us, leave it to us.’
‘Coming back to Stanford,’ Larry said. ‘He told us that he believed that McIntyre was the person who phoned him. Wally, any reason to think he knows more?’
‘I don’t think so. The man’s talkative enough at the present moment. I don’t want him to clam up, just keeping it friendly for now.’
‘No complaints to your superintendent about harassing him? Wendy asked.
‘None at all, and the superintendent even patted me on the back the other day, told me what a good job I was doing and to keep him updated.’
‘Promotion in the offing?’ Larry said.
‘Who knows?’
‘Let’s get back to a plan of action,’ Isaac said. ‘We need to find Palmer and fast. Jim, stay with Stanford, maintain a cordial relationship with him. Although he did manage to get up to the third floor in Bedford Gardens on his last visit.’
‘You don’t suspect him, do you?’
‘Not at this time. Jim, get back to the vicar, find out what Palmer may have told him.’
‘I’ll make a trip up to Oxford, meet with Palmer again,’ Larry said.
‘Normally I would agree with you,’ Isaac said. ‘But this time you’d better focus on Palmer, see if he’s in the area.’
‘I’ll check out Palmer’s house,’ Wendy said.
‘I could do with a few hours out of the office,’ Isaac said. ‘I’ll go with you.’
***
Jim Greenwood was the first to act. Even though it was midday and it was a long drive, he was in the car and out to where Stephen Palmer was buried. He found the vicar tending to his vegetables in the small garden at the back of the vicarage. The vicar’s wife was in the kitchen.
‘How can I help you, Inspector?’ the vicar said.
Greenwood had not met the man before. ‘I spoke to your wife the last time. She said that Bob Palmer had been up here.’
‘I found him by the grave, trying to tidy up around it. It’s dreadful how people neglect their loved ones after a few years. I try to do my best, pick up the occasional weed here and there, but I can’t do it all, not any more.’
‘I’m sure those in your care understand,’ Greenwood said. He wasn’t much of a churchgoer, and when his time came, it would be a cremation, his ashes thrown into the river and those mourning him down to the pub, a few drinks on him.
‘I like to think they do,’ the vicar said. ‘But how can I help you? What more can I tell you that my wife hasn’t?’
‘The minor details can be crucial. The man may have said something, asked you something seemingly obscure; but to us, it may be significant.’
The two men sat down on garden chairs.
The vicar’s wife, a comely woman, round and short with rosy cheeks and a pleasant smile, put a couple of cups of tea on the table, a plate of home-made scones with jam and cream. ‘They're freshly baked,’ she said. ‘As good as you get anywhere in the West Country.’
Greenwood, partial to a scone, applied the jam and cream generously; so did the vicar. The two men sat quietly for a couple of minutes. A robin flew by, a thrush gave its melodious song.
‘We get deer at the bottom of the garden in winter,’ the vicar said. ‘They’ve got used to us now, and we always try to give them something to eat. Never get too close to them, though, no chance of hand feeding.’
Greenwood felt at ease. The vicarage, a two-storey building, more than three hundred years old, had a certain charm about it. He looked at the vicar and his wife, comfortable in each other’s company. He realised that was what he would have liked with his first wife, but she was gone and the second was giving trouble. It wouldn’t be long before he’d be on his own again.
‘How long did you speak to Palmer?’ Greenwood said.
‘Ten minutes, no more. I had to get back to the house, prepare for Sunday’s sermon, not that many turn up these days. Are you a religious man?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Not many are, but I think they’re missing something good in their lives. It’s not only about money and power, is it?’
‘I try to live a good life,’ Greenwood said. ‘Sometimes a few too many drinks, and maybe my language is a bit colourful. But I’m a police officer, and sometimes we see things we’d rather not. Shakes your faith, the inhumanity.’
‘Sin, the work of the devil.’
‘That’s not why I’m here, is it?’
‘No, I suppose it isn’t. You want to talk about Mr Palmer. You want to find out who killed that poor woman and to punish the person for their crime.’
‘My job is to find and arrest the person.’
‘What goes through the minds of people who do such things?’ the vicar said.
Jim Greenwood thought the man should get out and about a bit more. Naivety, a belief in the meek inheriting the earth, the good ensured of a place in heaven, was alright in the church, an admirable sentiment. But he knew that evil abounded in the most unlikely of places. It had even come to a small village by the sea.
‘That’s not my concern. And as to the woman’s punishment, that’s up to a judge and a jury to decide, not me.’
‘Mr Palmer told me about the dead woman. He spoke about his brother, but not as much as he did about her.’
‘I spoke to him the next day after the murder. Told him to leave well alone, but I don’t trust him. I’m convinced he’s going to do something.’
‘You spoke to him out of a feeling of goodness in your heart?’
‘I think you’re putting too fine a point to it, Vicar,’ Greenwood said. ‘I don’t want another dead body, and I don’t want to have to arrest the man. Quite frankly, he’s plain stupid.’
‘He spoke about the other two women at the funeral. He said he knew one, Bec Johnson.’
‘I’ve heard that name mentioned before.’
‘It was the other one he was more concerned about, the woman with the hat.’
‘We know who the woman is, but we can’t prove she committed the murder. Palmer, who hasn’t found out who she is yet, believed she was Liz Spalding’s rival for Stephen’s affections.’
‘A married woman, he believed.’
‘He was unable to give us much in the way of information, only that she wore a wedding ring.’
‘He questioned me about her. He didn’t know about the tattoo.’
‘What tattoo? It’s not been mentioned before.’
‘I shook the woman’s hand, offered a few words of consolation. She thanked me, made a few remarks about what a sad occasion it was, the usual stuff.’
‘The tattoo?’ Greenwood asked again.
‘On her right hand,
just above the wrist on the inside, a small butterfly was tattooed there. Is it important?’
‘I’d say so, Vicar.’
Jim Greenwood knew what he had was dynamite. ‘Thank your wife for the tea and scones, they were delicious. I have to make a phone call.’
‘I can’t think of anything else. If I do, I’ll give you a call,’ the vicar said.
Greenwood walked around the house, opened the garden gate and moved over to near his car. He took out a cigarette and lit up. His phone, last year’s model, was in his inside jacket pocket. He took it out and made a call.
***
Armstrong considered his options. If he were intent on seizing Hamish’s criminal empire, it would mean the man’s daughter had to be out of the way.
So far, he had been honest with his boss, telling him what Wolfenden had said. He had even looked around the area, visiting the pub in question, checking out the alley where Palmer had accosted Wolfenden.
Armstrong knew that he did not have the innate street cunning of Hamish, nor the intellect of his daughter. But what he had was a lot of time in prison, contacts, people who owed him a favour, or would do anything if the money was right.
In the mansion, Samantha was nowhere to be seen. Hamish, freed from discussing business-related matters with his daughter, was back in the conservatory tending to his orchids.
‘I’ve got feelers out,’ Armstrong said. ‘I need to take off for a few days, check out a couple of addresses. The man doesn’t appear to be in London at this time.’
‘Four days, no more. I want to know where this man is. See if Wolfenden has been discreet. I don’t want my daughter open to ridicule and innuendo.’
‘Wolfenden?’
‘What does he know?’
‘He knows the reason Palmer’s asking questions. He knows your daughter.’
‘I gave my word that he was safe,’ Hamish said. ‘If the police talk to him?’
‘Who knows with people like him? Decent, honest, credit to his neighbourhood.’
‘Naive and stupid, you’re right, Gareth. If his freedom is on the line, he’ll talk. And once the police make the connection…’
‘There’s still no proof.’
‘It may be best to nip it in the bud. Are you up to it?’
Armstrong knew what McIntyre was intimating. He’d held up a few places in his time, threatened people with guns, but the man was suggesting murder. He wasn’t sure how to reply. He took a couple of minutes to think it over.
‘I’ll do it,’ Armstrong said. If he did this for Hamish, he knew that his position would be more secure. He would be the natural successor if Samantha were either killed or incarcerated.
Samantha returned as he was leaving.
Although he wanted to be rid of her, Armstrong had to admit that she was a attractive woman; the sort of woman, if he were a few years younger, who would have suited him just fine.
Chapter 27
Bob Palmer left the area soon after dragging Wolfenden into the alley. He was confused, unsure where to go. In the end, he found himself back at his house. He peered through the curtains in the front room, saw his neighbours washing the car or taking the dog for a walk or playing with the children. None of it interested him.
The best he could do was to go back to London, possibly revisit the Stag Hotel, not that he had enjoyed the ambience of the place, nor the recalcitrant attitude of the barman. And if Jacob – he never knew his surname – had made an official complaint, there was the possibility that the police would be interested.
He spent the night in the house, not sleeping, increasingly agitated, before leaving in the early hours of the morning before the sun had risen.
In London, he checked into a hotel ten miles away from where Stephen had conducted his business. He had thought in his confused mind to start enquiring at the local tattoo shops, but he decided against that. He made a few phone calls, old acquaintances of Stephen’s that he had known, but most of them had moved on; a few answered the phone, none expressed any interest in meeting the dead man’s dull brother.
Palmer turned on the television in the room, an old black and white movie, Sherlock Holmes he thought it was, but he wasn’t focusing. Inside him, the constant welling up of emotion, thinking back to that night with Liz.
Nobody cared about her, only him. He had seen the other mourners at the funeral, sad faces for sure, but a few weeks and they would get on with their lives.
He walked out of the hotel and took a bus back to where he had met Jacob. He walked into the bar, even though he had said he would not.
‘A pint of beer, he said to the barman.
‘If you’re looking for Jacob, he’s not here.’
‘Jacob, not this time. I’ve no questions, not any more. And if I did, you wouldn’t tell me, would you?’
‘If you’re aiming to drag me into an alleyway, the same as you did Jacob, don’t expect to come out of there in one piece. People like you sicken me. Nerdy, clinging, unable to deal with life.’
‘You’re right, I suppose. They’re both dead, Stephen and Liz; get on with life, that’s what I say.’
The barman, experienced as he was with dealing with people down on their luck, people with a sad story to tell, knew that the man did not intend to get on with his life.
He hadn’t liked the look of him the first time, and as to why he had ventured into the pub again… God only knows, he thought. And if they ever find out that he’s looking for her, then it’s his funeral, not mine.
‘I’ll give you a word of advice,’ the barman said. ‘Get out of here before someone sees you.’
‘Who?’
‘I’m giving advice, not details. It’s up to you to make your own decision. I can supply you with beer for as long as you keep paying, but I don’t want blood in here; not yours, not mine.’
‘Then give me a name,’ Palmer said.
‘Not a chance.’
In the bar, Bob Palmer could see very few people. It wasn’t an attractive place to be, not trendy, out of tune with the modern customer.
To one side of the bar, an elderly couple sat holding hands, probably reflecting on their lives, he thought. Near to the open fire at the rear of the bar, an old woman sat, a small glass in front of her. She was knitting. He remembered his mother used to knit, but that was a long time ago. Nowadays, nobody had the time. Three young people sat along the far wall. He was sure they were underage, but the barman obviously didn’t care, and neither did he.
‘Give me a hint, and I’ll go,’ Palmer said.
‘I’ve given you my advice. That’s all you’re going to get from me.’
‘Jacob, what time do you expect him in?’
‘He’s a free agent, comes and goes as he likes. Wish I could. I’m stuck here with two children at home, a wife who needs more money. Are you single?’
‘I’m single, always have been,’ Palmer replied.
Nothing like it. I can remember when I was on my own, plenty of good nights down the pub, not this dive, mind you. No shortage of women, ready and able.’
‘Why did you get married?’
‘She told me she was on the pill, but you can’t trust them, never can. She wanted a kid, but she wanted the ring on the finger as well. I was done for.’
‘Jacob? Where can I find him?’
‘Look here, Palmer, I’ve been civil to you, but get out of here, please. It’s good advice I’m giving you. If you don’t go, I’ll have to make a phone call, not that I want to. I don’t want to tell these people where you are. You’re probably a decent enough guy, mind your own business as a rule. You’re educated, I can see that. This place is for losers.’
Not sure what to do, Palmer downed his drink and left. Outside, on the other side of the road, keeping out of sight, Jacob Wolfenden. He made a phone call.
***
The team in Challis Street realised the importance of what Jim Greenwood had found out from the vicar. Isaac and Wendy were in the car heading to Palmer’
s house in Oxford.
Isaac was on hands-free, Larry and Greenwood on the conference call. ‘Palmer hasn’t made the connection yet?’ Isaac said.
‘Not according to my contacts,’ Larry said.
‘He soon will. Is the tattoo correct?’
‘I’ve seen it,’ Wendy said. ‘Not that I thought much of it. There’s more than one woman in London with tattoos on her arm.’
‘Palmer is not looking for those women,’ Greenwood said. ‘If he talks to the right people, he’ll find out the name.’
‘And when he does? What do you reckon?’ Isaac said.
‘Barely able to blow the skin off a rice pudding, but if the man’s aggrieved, sees himself as the dead woman’s avenger, then who knows.’
‘He’s capable,’ Wendy said. ‘Men like him keep to themselves all their lives, but once riled, they’re unstoppable. If he finds Samantha Matthews, he’ll do something stupid, regardless. Probably thinks there’s a place for him in heaven, Liz at his side.’
‘I don’t think he’s religious,’ Greenwood said.
‘He doesn’t have to be,’ Isaac said.
‘What do we do?’ Larry asked.
‘We’re not going to give Samantha Matthews protection, that’s for sure. And if we let her know about Palmer, then we know what will happen.’
‘Her father will act.’
‘Catch-22,’ Isaac said. ‘Palmer’s heading into areas that he doesn’t understand or know.’
‘Or cares about,’ Wendy said.
‘What’s Wally Vincent got to say for himself?’ Greenwood said. ‘He’s got the judge down there. He may know more, possibly find another clue from Stanford.’
‘Not sure he can,’ Isaac said. ‘We can get him on the line. Give me two minutes to bring him in.’
‘We’re not far from Palmer’s place,’ Wendy said.
‘Stay back, keep an eye on the house from a distance; see if anyone’s there.’
The phone rang in Brighton, Wally Vincent answered.
‘We’ve got Jim Greenwood on the line down in Cornwall,’ Isaac said. ‘Palmer has a important clue to this mysterious woman that we didn’t know about previously.’
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2 Page 111
