DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

by Phillip Strang

  ‘What is it, Officers?’ he said.

  ‘Are you Mrs Matthews’ lawyer? Isaac said. He realised they had intruded on an intimate moment; Grantham’s shirt, the top two buttons undone, a flushed look on Samantha Matthews’ face.

  ‘I am if it’s required,’ Grantham said. ‘Your knocking on the door of this house is becoming a bit of a habit, isn’t it?’

  ‘Then, Mr Grantham, I suggest that you advise your client.’ Isaac walked over to Samantha Matthews. ‘I’d like you to accompany us to Challis Street Police Station.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Mrs Matthews, I’m arresting you for the murder of Liz Spalding,’ Isaac said.

  Grantham attempted to intercede, Isaac taking no notice of him.

  ‘This must be a joke, Chief Inspector,’ Samantha said.

  ‘It’s no joke. We can place you at the scene of the murder. You stole a car in St Austell, drove to Polperro, committed the crime. After that, you returned to St Austell.’

  ‘You can’t arrest my client,’ Grantham said.

  ‘We have a warrant for her arrest.’

  ‘My client, Mrs Matthews, has an unblemished record. She’s raised three children, all upstanding citizens. She’s active with the local church. How can she be guilty of a heinous crime?’

  ‘Mr Grantham, I suggest you accompany your client to the station. Once there, we’ll conduct an interview. She will have a chance to put forward her defence. You will be able to advise her. Outside the house is a police car. She will go to the station in that vehicle. Is that clear?’

  Samantha Matthews looked at Fergus Grantham. ‘What can you do?’

  ‘Nothing at this time,’ he said. ‘We’ll have you out before the end of the day.’

  Isaac knew he was taking a calculated risk. The truth was that they didn’t have proof that Samantha Matthews had thrown the other woman over the cliff.

  What they had was a suspect that Palmer and the police believed was the murderer, the small tattoo clearly visible. They had matched DNA in Diane Connolly’s car and on Liz Spalding’s clothes. What they didn’t have was a match to Samantha Matthews’ hair.

  ***

  Hamish McIntyre’s reaction was not unexpected when Samantha phoned him from the house.

  ‘Fergus?’ McIntyre’s response after the initial shock.

  ‘He’s here with me. Don’t worry, nothing will happen.’

  ‘What’s the charge?’

  ‘The police say I murdered a woman. It’s pure conjecture.’

  McIntyre did not comment. She could lie to the police as much as she liked, but not to him. He would have preferred that she hadn’t committed the act, but guilty or not guilty, he would ensure that no jury would ever convict her.

  ‘Give Fergus the phone,’ McIntyre said.

  Samantha handed over the phone, Fergus put it to his ear. ‘I’ll deal with it, don’t you worry,’ he said.

  But Hamish McIntyre did. If you commit a crime, trivial or not, you make sure there is never any evidence. But his daughter wasn’t a criminal. Did she have the inherited knowledge to ensure that no evidence would be found?

  ‘I’ll be at the police station,’ McIntyre said.

  ‘I’ll have your daughter out soon enough,’ Grantham said. He hoped he was not going to be drawn into the crime due to his relationship with Samantha. And if he was, how far would he go to protect her, especially if the police had done their homework? He was treading a narrow line, he knew that.

  One wrong action on his part, one missed opportunity to devalue the police case against Samantha, and her father, a man who would not accept failure, would react.

  Grantham got into the back of the police car and held Samantha’s hand; it was clammy, she was worried, and he knew she had every reason to be.

  At the police station, the interview, the formal charging, explaining what was going to happen.

  ‘My client wishes to state her innocence,’ Grantham said.

  ‘Duly noted,’ Isaac said, Larry at his side. He looked at Isaac, knew full well that his DCI was pushing the envelope. The evidence was substantial, not cast iron, not yet.

  ‘Mrs Matthews,’ Isaac said, ‘we have proof that you were in St Austell on the day that Liz Spalding was murdered. Do you deny that?’

  Samantha looked at Grantham.

  ‘My client withholds any answers until she knows what evidence you have against her,’ he said.

  ‘We have video proof that Mrs Matthews’ car was parked at the railway station in St Austell, Cornwall, on the day that Liz Spalding, an acquaintance of hers and Stephen Palmer’s, was murdered. True or not?’

  ‘The video evidence?’ Grantham said.

  Isaac opened a folder and showed the accused woman and her lawyer a photo taken from the video.

  ‘I need time to consult with my client.’

  Isaac halted the interview. Both he and Larry left the room.

  Outside in the corridor, DCS Goddard was waiting. ‘Are you sure about this?’

  ‘It’s the only way,’ Isaac said. ‘We can place her in St Austell.’

  ‘After that?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  At the entrance to the police station, a commotion. ‘Samantha Matthews’ father has arrived,’ Larry said.

  ‘He can wait,’ Isaac said.

  Ten minutes after the temporary halt, the two officers re-entered the interview room.

  ‘My client doesn’t deny that she has been to St Austell in the last few weeks,’ Grantham said. ‘What she will not agree to is the date that you mentioned.’

  ‘The video is time-stamped,’ Isaac said.

  ‘That may be the case, but has it been checked and calibrated recently? It could be faulty, or maybe the railway staff didn’t maintain it.’

  Grantham had a point. It wasn’t a CCTV camera mounted on a traffic light looking for cars running a red light. It was a camera installed inside the railway station’s small car park. It wasn’t there to apprehend murderers. Its purpose had just been to monitor movement and to deter the budding Leonardo da Vincis who felt that spray painting graffiti onto the station walls was artistic licence.

  ‘If your client parked at the railway station, the question is why?’

  ‘I was tired,’ Samantha said. ‘I had driven down from London, hoping to get to Penzance.’

  Any reason?’

  ‘I like to get out into the country sometimes. I’m a free agent, the children have left home, except for the youngest but she’s at boarding school most of the time.’

  ‘You must have checked how far it was.’

  ‘Not really. We used to go down to Penzance for our holidays when I was younger.’

  ‘Okay, you park at the railway station, then what do you do? Look around Penzance?’

  ‘Not that much. It wasn’t as I remembered it. I took the train back to St Austell, picked up my car and drove home.’

  ‘There was an old blue Subaru parked next to you.’

  ‘I can see it on the photo,’ Samantha said.

  ‘Where is this heading?’ Grantham said.

  ‘The woman in the Subaru was in a hurry to get up to London on a day return. She left the car open, the keys in the ignition. We’ve interviewed her. She’s a reliable witness. She has told us that she spoke to the lady in the car next to her, Mrs Matthews’ car, that is. Told her briefly her plans for the day.’

  ‘It’s flimsy evidence,’ Grantham said.

  ‘Inside the Subaru, Forensics has found strands of blonde hair. On Liz Spalding’s clothing also. A DNA match has been confirmed.’

  ‘I’m not sure where this is heading,’ Samantha said.

  ‘You were at the funeral of Stephen Palmer. Is that correct?’

  ‘A long time ago, but yes, I was.’

  ‘Liz Spalding was a rival of yours for his affections.’

  I believe that I’ve already admitted that I was having an affair with him.’

  ‘Don’t you find it strange that you we
re close to where your rival was murdered?’

  ‘A coincidence, what else?’

  ‘I think we’re wasting our time here, don’t you, Chief Inspector?’ Grantham said.

  ‘Your client has been charged with murder. We will require a DNA sample from her.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘It is within our legal rights,’ Isaac said. ‘Mrs Matthews, you have been charged with the murder of Liz Spalding. You will be held in our cells for now. Is that understood?’

  Samantha Matthews looked at Fergus Grantham. He said nothing, just gave a slight sideways shake of his head.

  Chapter 32

  Jim Greenwood, aware of what had happened in London, focused on proof of Diane Connolly’s car having been in Polperro. He had spoken to Mrs Venter again, but she had to be deemed unreliable.

  ‘I saw a car down by the harbour,’ she said. ‘I’m certain it was blue.’

  ‘Do you remember the woman?’

  ‘I think I saw her up the lane, not far from where the poor woman died. But I can’t be certain, the mind wanders sometimes.’

  As Larry had explained to him on the phone, ‘Even if we tie the woman into St Austell and to the Subaru, there is still an element of doubt. A smart defence lawyer, the witness unreliable and easily discredited, the jury disregarding the testimony. And even if we make the connection, Samantha Matthews could claim that she had gone down there just to chat with the woman and that it was an unfortunate accident.’

  ‘I’ll keep checking,’ Greenwood said.

  Samantha Matthews sat in the cell at Challis Street; Fergus Grantham was with her. He was not concerned about a successful outcome, but he worried that he was too intimately involved with Hamish McIntyre. His record of success in defending the indefensible was excellent. There was no shortage of clients willing to pay him handsomely. He had never interfered with a witness or tampered with the evidence or swayed the jury other than by his eloquence, but he wasn’t naive, he knew that a word in the right quarter would often get the desired result.

  ‘Your father’s here,’ Fergus said. ‘He’s doing what he can.’

  ‘He can’t do any more than you, not yet,’ Samantha said. She knew she’d had to go to Cornwall.

  She still couldn’t understand why the discovery of Marcus’s body had brought the need for resolution of the past. It had been Marcus and her marriage to him that had kept her from Stephen. She knew her father had removed Stephen from her. But he had given his word at the time that he hadn’t been involved, and then soon after there was another child on the way and a husband she couldn’t get rid of. However, her hatred for her father then could never be enough to break the bond between them.

  But, like her, Liz Spalding had been sleeping with Stephen; the two women sharing the one man, him enjoying every moment of it.

  She knew he would never have been a reliable husband, always casting an eye here and there, but she could have dealt with it.

  Isaac spoke to McIntyre, told him what was going on, received an oblique threat in return.

  ‘I remember my friends,’ McIntyre said. Standing alongside him, the blue-suited Gareth Armstrong.

  Intimidation was not going to work with Isaac.

  Larry was upstairs in Homicide with Bridget. ‘McIntyre’s downstairs, his car’s parked around the back of the building. It might help to have a look at it.’

  Bridget had known that the car was a 2018 Mercedes S63. She had looked on the internet, found the exact model, but to see the actual vehicle could help.

  She went down with Wendy, the two women looking around the car, peering in the window.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Armstrong, who had just gone outside for some fresh air, as police stations didn’t suit him, shouted out.

  ‘Just looking,’ Wendy said. ‘It must be great to drive.’ She hoped the man would be satisfied with her explanation, but wasn’t too concerned either way.

  Back in Homicide, Bridget scrolled over the screen on her laptop. Automatic number plate recognition had done its job.

  Isaac came over after having extricated himself from his conversation with Samantha Matthews’ father. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Not sure where the car’s headed. It looks to be a late night for me.’

  ‘I’ll stay with her,’ Wendy said as she walked in the door. ‘I’ll make sure she’s fed.’

  Jim Greenwood was in a restaurant in Polperro, just off the main street. Popular with the locals, it also drew in the tourists like bears to a honeypot.

  ‘It was my car that was scratched, bloody tourists,’ the restaurant owner said as he sat down at Greenwood’s table. The police inspector liked the food, not the owner. He was a swarthy man, continually complaining, driving his staff to despair. It was the reason that the food was excellent, but the prices on the menu were high, and staff turnover was above the industry average. ‘It’s all right you sitting there eating your meal, but what about my car?’

  ‘What about your car?’ Greenwood said.

  ‘A car side-swiped it, left a blue streak down one side. I can tell you the exact time. It’ll be an insurance job; there goes my no-claims bonus.’

  Greenwood, his interest piqued, finished his meal and went outside. The man’s BMW was parked close to the wall.

  ‘It’s on the other side,’ he said.

  Greenwood walked around; the scratch mark was clearly visible on the silver-coloured car.

  ‘Where was it parked when this happened?’

  ‘I can show you where.’

  ‘Don’t move the car. I need to get Forensics down here.’

  ***

  Bridget confirmed that the Mercedes had been picked up by a CCTV camera on the motorway heading north-east out of London, one hour after Palmer had disappeared from the hotel. It had taken her less time than she had thought, but it was still close to midnight, and both she and Wendy were exhausted.

  ‘What do you reckon? Isaac said when he was woken. He didn’t mind the late hour. To him, policing was 24/7.

  ‘I did a check on Hamish McIntyre before,’ Bridget said. ‘The man owns a lot of property. He’s got somewhere not far from Epping in Essex, near the village of Thornwood, a farm.’

  ‘Wendy, you and Larry get out there tomorrow early, take some uniforms, check around. I’ll phone Larry, let him know what’s going on.’

  ‘We’re leaving the office now,’ Bridget said.

  Larry picked up Wendy at 6.10 a.m. She’d not had enough sleep, but she could doze on the way up.

  It was early morning; the traffic hadn’t yet built up. It took Larry just over seventy minutes to pass through Epping and then Thornwood, turning left into Upland Road. A mile on the right, the entrance to the farm. A patrol car was parked across from the entrance of the farm, checking who was going in, who was coming out.

  ‘It doesn’t look to be much,’ Wendy said.

  They drove eighty yards up the track, rutted in places, muddy puddles in others; it was making the car dirty.

  The farmhouse, tired and unloved, a window open, a door hanging off its hinges, was neglected. Outside an old tractor that looked as though it hadn’t moved for a few years.

  To the right of the farmhouse, an old barn. Larry and Wendy walked over to it, the uniforms remaining behind to check around the house.

  It was Wendy who saw it first. ‘A car’s been up here, look at the tyre marks.’

  ‘There must be two ways into the farm,’ Larry phoned the patrol car officers to come up to the barn. Intuition told him it was where they should be looking.

  It was a potential crime scene. All four donned coveralls, gloves and shoe protectors.

  ‘Better safe than sorry,’ Wendy said. She took a photo of the tyre tracks clearly imprinted in the drying mud and sent it to Bridget who forwarded it to Gordon Windsor.

  ‘It’s the same tread as the Mercedes in the car park,’ Bridget said. ‘I took a few photos when we were out there looking at it.’


  Larry opened the barn door; it creaked. He smelt the hay. At the back of the barn, the ropes that had been used to restrain someone, the drag marks on the ground. He retreated from the barn, careful not to disturb possible evidence.

  ‘Anything?’ Wendy said.

  ‘Phone Gordon Windsor, tell him to get his team here.’

  ***

  Isaac saw one flaw in the investigation. He was standing, unusual for him as he preferred to sit when conversing, but everyone except Bridget was out of the office, so he was on the speakerphone in the conference room.

  ‘We’ve lost focus,’ he said. ‘If Jim Greenwood and Forensics make the connection, provide unassailable proof that Samantha Matthews is guilty of the murder of Liz Spalding, if Gordon Windsor finds evidence of foul play at McIntyre’s farm, there still remains the initial murder, the death of Marcus Matthews.’

  ‘Have we?’ Larry said. ‘I don’t want to dispute you, but aren’t these all pieces in the puzzle, the final piece yet to be found and placed?’

  ‘I’d agree, but it doesn’t alter the fact that we’ve got nothing. A room at the top of a house, a dead man, an owner who keeps feeding us dribs and drabs, hoping we’ll go away…’

  ‘Which we do,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Jim, you’re online. What’s the latest from your end?’

  ‘Forensics have been down, impounded the restaurant owner’s car, not that it stopped him complaining.’

  ‘A problem?’

  ‘Not for me. He can keep on bellyaching for all I care. We’re close on this one.’

  ‘Proof?’

  ‘Diane Connolly’s car has had a rough life. The woman, even though Mike Doherty’s got a thing for her, set himself up a date, is a lousy driver. The vehicle is a harlequin quilt, more than one or two scratches down the sides, a dent on the front wing.’

  ‘Where’s this leading?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Sorry, a little excited. My first Homicide and it looks as though we’ve got a win.’

  ‘Understood, but it’s premature for me to offer you congratulations.’

  ‘Miss Connolly, who didn’t look after her car, barely roadworthy, had an accident ten months ago. That time it wasn’t her fault, a truck caught her on the right-hand side of the car, damaged it enough for it to spend time at a panel beater’s in St Austell.’