Outside the pub, Fergus Grantham stood at the passenger door of his BMW. ‘Good to see an old friend?’ he said.
‘A friend, yes, I’d have to agree with that,’ McIntyre said as he sat in the car and drew the seat belt across himself.
Chapter 36
The Stag Hotel, usually empty apart from a few regulars, was full, standing room only.
Isaac stood to one side and looked around the room. In his hand, a pint of beer; the occasion, a get-together of friends and acquaintances of the late Jacob Wolfenden.
‘Good turn out,’ the barman said. ‘Where’s Inspector Hill,’ he asked.
‘His night off,’ Isaac said.
‘There are a few I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The drinks will start flowing; someone will stand up, offer to buy drinks for everyone. There are a few freeloaders, not that they’ll stay long.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Look around, what do you see?’
‘Most of them are getting on in years.’
‘The freeloaders want young women, and there are none in here, just geriatrics.’
‘Was Wolfenden a geriatric?’
‘The man was getting on, not in the best of health, but you know what I mean?’
Isaac did indeed, although the term ‘geriatric’ was used unwisely. Apart from the pacemaker, Wolfenden had been in reasonable health for his age. The acid hadn’t had time to damage his internal organs, although his skin had been peeled, the consistency of gel. He had been there when the pathologist opened the body up, the smell of sulphur still noticeable. He’d seen the Y-shaped incision, the removal of the organs, the grinder removing the top of the man’s skull, the brain coming out.
After he had finished, the pathologist’s assistants had stitched the body together, attempted to make it look presentable. But no funeral home, no matter how skilled, could ever make the man’s face recognisable. It was good that Wolfenden had lived alone, his wife having died nine years before, and there had been no children.
No one had come forward as a relative, no one had claimed the body. A sad ending, Isaac thought.
‘Here’s to good old Jacob,’ a man said. He was standing on a chair.
‘It won’t be long,’ the barman said.
‘Before what?’
‘A round of drinks on me.’
‘Who’s he?’ Isaac said to the barman over the general hubbub.
‘Alex Bridge. He’s never paid his round, always outside when it’s his turn.’
‘A friend of Wolfenden?’
‘Not that I know. He’ll make a rousing speech, sing the man’s praises and wait for someone else to pay.’
For the next twenty minutes, a succession of people stood up, offered a comment or two about the dead man. The bar was busy, drinks were selling quickly, and the barman was struggling to keep up.
‘I knew Jacob well,’ a man, better-dressed than the others, stood up and spoke. He did not stand on a chair as he was taller than most.
‘That’s Fred Wilkinson,’ the barman said. ‘He was in here when Palmer was a nuisance.
‘We went to the same school, although we were two years apart. He made his mark there, as he did in the area,’ Wilkinson continued.
‘Nonsense,’ the barman said.
‘What do you mean?’ Isaac said. He was on his second pint; the mood of the pub was having an effect on him.
‘Jacob was a decent man, I’ll grant Fred that, but make his mark? The man came in here, had a few drinks and then went home. Nobody knew much about him, and he never came in here with anyone else.’
Wilkinson shouted over to the bar. ‘The drinks are on me.’
‘There we go,’ the barman said. A surge from the freeloaders. Isaac moved away and went over to where Fred was downing the last dregs of his beer.
‘DCI Isaac Cook,’ he said as he shook Wilkinson’s hand.
‘Inspector Hill?’
‘He’s busy trying to wrap up the investigation.’
‘All because of Palmer, that’s what this is.’
Two pints appeared: one for Isaac, another for Wilkinson.
‘Stephen or Bob?’
‘Both. The first one couldn’t keep away from McIntyre’s daughter; the other one stuck his nose in where it wasn’t wanted. Jacob’s dead because of them.’
‘You’re related to Hamish McIntyre.’
‘It’s important to him, family, that is.’
‘To you?’
‘I would appreciate it if you don’t mention my cousin, not here, not tonight.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Ten, eleven years.’
‘Where?’
‘Not far from here. I was walking down the street, a car pulls up alongside me, and he’s inside.’
‘You got in?’
‘Just sociable, nothing else. He took me to a restaurant, prices out of my reach, although the food was good. He spoke about our parents, growing up together, how well Samantha was doing.’
‘That’s all?’
‘With Hamish, the family’s all-important. It’s about his only redeeming feature. In fact, I can’t think of any other. As I said, I’ve not seen him for a long time; I hope I don’t see him again.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t like what the man became.’
‘He sees himself as a businessman.’
‘I know his idea of business; either you’re with him or you’re dead.’
‘Samantha?’
‘You arrested her for the murder of Liz, so I read.’
‘What do you reckon to that?’
‘I preferred Samantha to Liz, not that I knew either of them that well.’
‘Why Samantha?’
‘Liz was flighty, too liberal with her favours. Samantha, however, was studious, always thinking of others. Hamish brought her up well, never wanted her involved in what he did, the best schools, quality friends.’
‘Capable of murder?’
‘Not the woman I knew. But then, blood is thicker than water. She was more like her father than her mother; genetically disposed, maybe that’s what it was.’
‘She’ll claim it was an accident, two women arguing, a cliff, and one went over.’
‘Will it hold, her defence?’
‘It might.’
‘I’m pleased about that, but if you’ll excuse me, we’re here for Jacob.’
The far side of the bar, another person on their feet. ‘A round of drinks on me.’
The barman looked over at Isaac as he left, moved his eyes towards the group of heavy drinkers, the men who had never known Wolfenden.
Isaac knew what he meant.
***
Nobody expected Charles Stanford to walk into the police station in Brighton, least of all Wally Vincent. But there he was, and he was asking for him.
‘I suggest you get Inspector Hill down here,’ he said as he sat in the small cafeteria at the station.
‘He’ll take ninety minutes, give or take five to ten minutes either way,’ Vincent replied. ‘This is important, isn’t it?’
‘It’s information which you’ve never had. It’s the information you need.’
Vincent felt like saying not again, but he didn’t. He phoned Larry, who was at home watching the television with his wife.
‘It’s after ten in the evening,’ Larry said. ‘You’re still at the station?’
‘There’s not much at home for me. The quiet hours give me a chance to catch up on the paperwork,’ he said, not that he believed it. His wife had walked out two weeks previously, and the house felt empty without her, even though they had barely spoken for months, and they had been in separate beds for longer.
‘What is it?’
‘Mr Stanford’s here. He wants you down here as well.’
Larry looked over at his wife.
‘You should go,’ she said.
Outside, it was raining and the night was dark; an o
minous sign, Larry thought.
Upon his arrival in Brighton, Larry went up to the second floor at the station. Both men were waiting for him.
‘The interview room, gentlemen,’ Stanford said. ‘I want this recorded.’
Larry couldn’t remember seeing the man so calm. The drive down, the police station, a man about to reveal hitherto unknown facts. It was surreal; he knew that.
‘You can dispense with the formalities,’ Stanford said. ‘I know them well enough, and I’m not about to make a confession.’
‘Very well, Mr Stanford,’ Vincent said. ‘The ball’s in your court.’
‘I met with Hamish McIntyre.’
‘When and where?’
‘Twenty-four hours ago. The where is not important, but it wasn’t at his house.’
‘Why did you meet him?’
‘He asked me.’
‘Personally?’
‘It was Fergus Grantham who set it up. There’s something you don’t know about Hamish and me.’
‘What is it?’ Larry asked. He wanted to yawn but stifled it.
‘I have made my peace with the man. I’m ambivalent as to his fate; you must understand that.’
‘We do, but Mr Stanford, with all due respect, you're being obtuse.’
Stanford looked up and around the room before focusing his gaze back on the two police officers. ‘As a child, I lived three doors down the road from McIntyre,’ he said.
‘We never knew that.’
‘Nobody knows.’
‘We would have checked your background,’ Vincent said.
‘My parents divorced when I was young. My father, who I can’t remember, other than a vague recollection, was not at home often. He was in the Merchant Navy, extended periods at sea. Up until the age of nine, my surname was not Stanford.’
‘Why haven’t you told us this before?’ Larry said.
‘I took the name of Stanford, my mother’s second husband’s surname. My father died when I was eleven, a drunken brawl somewhere in the Far East.’
‘There should still be a record.’
‘No doubt there is, but it’s never been mentioned by my mother or me, not until she died, that is. It wasn’t an aim to conceal the fact, not originally, but then Hamish started to make his mark. He remembered me from our childhood the first time that I defended one of his men, as I did him.’
‘Who else knows this?’
‘Nobody that I know of.’
‘Fred Wilkinson, Jacob Wolfenden?’
‘Wilkinson’s mother and mine used to talk over the garden fence. Supposedly he had an older sister who used to babysit me, but I can’t remember her.’
‘Does he know you as Charles Stanford?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Wolfenden?’
‘I can’t remember the name, but I was only young when I left.’
‘What are you here for, Mr Stanford? It’s not to talk about old times.’
‘Hamish didn’t kill Matthews; I know that now.’
‘How?’
‘The man opened up to me. He’s dying.’
‘Should you be telling us this?’
‘He has left it at my discretion. He wants to be left in peace, his daughter to be free.’
‘Neither is likely,’ Larry said. ‘If he’s looking for us to leave him alone, you know that won’t happen.’
‘He knows that. He told me he had received a phone call around the same time as I had. Only the person told him that Marcus was in the room at the top of the stairs.’
‘What else is there?’
‘He suspected for some time before Matthews died that the man was planning something, incapable of doing it. Hamish had forced him to do something in the past which he hadn’t wanted. To make a man of him, Hamish said.’
‘What did he do?’
‘I asked him a direct question. He wouldn’t answer.’
‘The question?’
‘Did he kill Stephen Palmer?’
‘Are you saying Marcus killed him?’
‘I’m not saying anything. I’m only repeating the question, interpreting the man’s reply. Make what you want of it.’
‘We can’t charge a dead man, not even McIntyre,’ Larry said.
‘No point, not now. The man hasn’t got long to live, three to six months; he only wants to protect his daughter.’
‘Then who killed Matthews?’
‘The person who phoned him.’
‘Did he recognise the voice?’
‘He said he didn’t.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘I can’t be sure, but there’s a clue, isn’t there?’
Larry looked at Wally Vincent, a bemused look on their faces.
‘Not that we can see,’ Vincent said.
‘Marcus Matthews must have harboured an intense hatred of his father-in-law for years, but he was incapable of doing anything about it. Hamish was scathing about the man’s lack of a backbone.’
‘We need someone with an as intense hatred; willing to enter into a pact with Matthews.’
‘An agreement either to kill McIntyre or to be killed,’ Larry said. ‘Matthews did have unusual ideas about wrong and right. Could he have believed in a Samurai code?’
‘If he had, then we need someone equally determined to remove the parasite McIntyre,’ Vincent said. ‘Bob Palmer would have killed the daughter.’
‘Palmer had no backbone, the same as Matthews. He wouldn’t have killed her,’ Larry said.
‘Is there any more?’ Vincent said.
‘I believe that’s all,’ Stanford said. ‘I’ve made my peace with Hamish; forgiven him for his past misdemeanours, forgiven myself for not protecting that dear woman.’
‘We’ll be in touch.’
Stanford walked out of the station. He had done what had been necessary. Now there remained only one more thing to do.
***
Finding people who had hated Hamish McIntyre was not difficult, the man had made plenty of enemies, but Homicide was looking for someone unique.
The team spent two days in the office going through the evidence, checking and double-checking, looking for suspects. A visit out to McIntyre was thought to be of little value, as, for once, Stanford had been believed.
Bridget had checked the street where McIntyre had lived, confirmed that three doors down there had been a woman with a young boy, a husband in the Merchant Navy. Charles Stanford was found to have been Charles Bailey at birth, although it had never been registered, nor had he been baptised. Bradley Stanford, a solicitor with a practice in Hampstead, had been the first person to recognise the young Stanford, legally that is.
‘The Wilkinsons lived next door, that’s confirmed,’ Bridget said. ‘Fred Wilkinson lives there to this day.’
On the third day, Larry, finally tiring of the regimen of the office, left. ‘I’ll scout around,’ he said. ‘See if anyone has strong opinions about McIntyre. Maybe there’s someone obsessive, the sort of person who could make an agreement with Matthews.’
Isaac wasn’t sure where his inspector was going or what he hoped to achieve. The person they wanted would be concealed in plain sight.
Isaac and Wendy, taking Larry’s lead, left the office soon after. Their first call, Fred Wilkinson. The man opened the door to his house. It was a Sunday morning and from the rear of the house came the smell of bacon.
‘An unexpected visit,’ Wilkinson said. A large dog stood to one side of him, its teeth bared. ‘Just pat it, it’s harmless,’ he said.
Isaac, never a dog lover, followed the man’s advice. Wendy didn’t, having no intention of being bitten.
‘We need to talk to you about your childhood; in this house, according to our research.’
‘I was born here, and yes, all my life here, apart from my time in the Army.’
Wilkinson’s wife – she looked older than him, although probably wasn’t – was standing in the kitchen, a frying pan in her hand. ‘There’s more,
’ she said.
‘A cup of tea will do,’ Isaac said. Jenny had fed him well that morning, and he wasn’t hungry. He looked over at Wendy, knew she wouldn’t refuse usually.
‘Thanks, but I’m fine. Next time, maybe,’ Wendy said, which was what Isaac had wanted. The visit, outwardly sociable, was anything but that.
‘Tell us about the Army,’ Isaac said as the four sat at the table in the cramped kitchen, the utensils hanging from hooks to one side of the oven, the cutlery standing up in a pot.
‘It’s a few years back now. I signed up out of school, a fervour of patriotism, although in truth, the economy wasn’t so good, not around here it wasn’t. I’ve never wanted to leave, and most of us out of school ended up at Downings.’
‘Downings?’ Wendy asked.
‘They made car parts for all the major car manufacturers in England. But it was the time of the Japanese invasion of the country with their Toyotas and Datsuns. Downings was an old-fashioned company, been around for over one hundred years, and then the place is boarded up. Not many of the old-timers still around.’
‘You came back here, though,’ Isaac said.
‘I did. For a few years, I scraped a living, the odd job here and there. I had the house, so I didn’t have to worry about somewhere to live. I met Gwen soon after I got back from the Army.’
‘I was in admin for a car dealer, dealt with the finance, the payroll. That’s where I met Fred,’ Gwen Wilkinson said.
‘You were buying a car?’ Isaac said, directing his conversation to her husband.
‘A Toyota, even after all I’d said about them. It wasn’t new, but it did the job.’
‘Did you find a job eventually?’
‘A small company making furniture, good quality too, not like the rubbish you see for sale now. It’s still there, getting by.’
‘You’ve retired?’
‘I stayed as long as I could, and as I said, the house never cost me anything. Gwen and I, we’re not rich, never wanted to be, but we’re comfortable.’
‘You’ve known Hamish McIntyre since you were a child.’
‘He lived four doors down, our mothers were sisters.’
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2 Page 120
