Six Years Too Late

by Phillip Strang

  ‘We’ve no proof against McIntyre. Stephen Palmer did not die quickly, and whoever did it either enjoyed the experience or had a reason to hate the man.’

  ‘What’s the connection between McIntyre and Palmer?’

  ‘From what we know, the two men never met each other.’

  ‘What do you want from me? You’re experienced enough not to need my advice,’ Goddard said as he leant back in his black leather chair.

  ‘I’m updating you. Palmer’s murder is twenty years old, that of Marcus Matthews is more recent. And we don’t know if there is a connection. If Hamish McIntyre killed Palmer, that’s one thing, but he didn’t kill Matthews, not because he wouldn’t have been capable, but because it wasn’t possible, the man had a broken leg. He would never have negotiated the stairs.’

  ‘So trying to pin a twenty-year-old murder on McIntyre, for which you have only circumstantial evidence, doesn’t help in solving the murder of Marcus Matthews.’

  ‘That’s about it. We’d never prove Palmer’s murder was the handiwork of McIntyre.’

  ‘Then find the proof, make the connection between the two men. Until then, keep away from Hamish McIntyre. The moment you go in heavy with him, you’re in for trouble, we all are. You’ve met him, what’s he like in person?’

  ‘Exceedingly polite and charming, well-spoken, no more the rough accent and the bad language; in other words, the archetypal upper-class Englishman.’

  ‘And the upper-class Englishman has surrounded himself with the establishment. The man has some impressive contacts. If, as you believe, he is guilty of murder, then make sure you can make it stick. I don’t want our noses ground in the dirt over this one. Palmer died for a reason, find that reason. It may still be a red herring, nothing to do with McIntyre and the death of Marcus Matthews, and you may just be wasting everyone’s time.’

  ‘That’s the problem. I know that we could be, but there are no leads on who killed Matthews.’

  ‘No one in the area remembers anything suspicious from six years back?’

  ‘None that we’ve found. We thought we had a lead, an old man down the street recollected someone entering the building, but he was just keen to be involved in the investigation. He couldn’t tell us who he had seen, which year it was. Quite frankly, I don’t think we can solve Matthews’ murder with what we’ve got.’

  Isaac had not needed to speak to his senior about the course of action he was contemplating. As an experienced police officer and the senior investigating officer in Homicide, the decision on how to proceed was his. But Richard Goddard was a friend, a mentor, a sounding board.

  ***

  Two floors down, on Isaac’s return the team were busy going over the evidence. Wendy was, as usual, struggling with the paperwork. Isaac knew that Bridget would help her out when she had a free moment, which didn’t look to be anytime soon. Larry was propped up in a chair, the weak sun coming in through the window gently warming him as his eyes closed.

  ‘Larry, my office, now,’ Isaac said, brusquely. Wendy looked up from her laptop, looked over at Larry, looked up at Isaac; her expression showed that she knew what was afoot. Bridget continued tapping away at the keyboard on her laptop, the monitor to her right-hand side.

  ‘Larry, you’re letting the side down,’ Isaac said inside his office.

  The detective inspector rubbed his eyes, fiddled with his tie, skewed at the neck as usual. ‘I’ve got a few things on my mind. I’ll do better, believe me.’

  Isaac didn’t.

  ‘Larry, you’ve got a good family, a supportive wife, and a good record in this department, but you’re an alcoholic.’

  ‘Admittedly, I like a few pints once or twice a week, but I can give it up anytime I want.’

  ‘You can’t, and you know it, even if you won’t admit to it. I can either reprimand you, file an official report, or you can sort yourself out.’

  ‘It’s the pressure at home, to bring in more money, to study, to become a chief inspector.’

  ‘Most people thrive on pressure. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing for others, but it’s not for me.’

  ‘You’re of little use to me at the present time. It’s moderation that is needed, not abstinence. You’ve got to break the cycle.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘You won’t. I’m sending you for a full medical and fitness evaluation. I want to know that you’re fit enough, mentally astute, and able to either stop the alcohol or to temper your need for it.’

  ‘I need to drink. It’s the one way the villains open up to me. If they see me as one of them, then they talk. I can’t be there in the pub with them drinking orange juice, can I?’

  ‘I’d agree. Getting drunk every time is not vital, though.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Larry said.

  In spite of his reply, Isaac could see a man in denial.

  ‘Tomorrow at 8 a.m. you’re to report for your medical. Bridget will give you the details of where to go.’

  ‘Does the department know?’

  ‘Not from me. It’s up to you, and this is the last time we’ll have this conversation. In the past, you’ve pulled yourself together. This time I’m not sure that you can. I suggest that you get a good night’s sleep, and present yourself for your medical tomorrow.’

  A sheepish man left the office. Although optimistic by nature, Isaac could not help but hold the view that Detective Inspector Larry Hill was a lost cause.

  ***

  Gareth Armstrong drove the Mercedes from Hamish McIntyre’s country mansion to Hammersmith. McIntyre was in the back seat enjoying the luxury of the vehicle, the smell of the leather, the air of respectability that it afforded him.

  As McIntyre prepared to knock on the door of the house, it opened.

  ‘I know you didn’t kill Marcus,’ Samantha Matthews said.

  ‘I would never have harmed him, why would you never believe me?’ McIntyre said as he moved forward to embrace his daughter, the one constant in his life, the person he loved more than any other.

  ‘You’ve harmed others, why not him?’

  ‘Because he was your husband, the father of your children, my grandchildren.’

  ‘You’d better come in; loitering on the doorstep will only have the neighbours gossiping.’

  McIntyre breathed a sigh of relief; his daughter’s sarcasm meant that the rift between the two had healed.

  Inside the house, an air of tranquillity ensued. It was as if nothing had occurred between the two, so fond of each other that they were. The gangster, honest enough with his daughter to allow that appellation to be applied to him, was confident in knowing that she would never condemn or criticise him for what he had been in the past, the actions he had committed, the violence he had meted out.

  ‘Annie?’ McIntyre asked.

  ‘Better than I expected. There were tears, but she was always closer to her father than the others.’

  ‘I misjudged him when you married him.’

  ‘He cared for us.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Who killed him?’ Samantha changed the subject.

  ‘I’ve got my people looking for clues, checking old acquaintances, visiting places they’d rather not.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing so far. It seems he waited in that room. Why would someone wait to die?’

  ‘Marcus had strange ideas of right and wrong.’

  ‘Still, it’s bizarre. Why give your life on a principle, an agreement made in the past?’

  ‘There was always a side to him that I didn’t understand.’

  ‘I’ll not relax until we find out who killed him.’

  ‘The police?’

  ‘They can conduct their investigation; I’ll conduct mine.’

  ‘And if you find out who it is?’

  ‘He answers to me, not to a judge and jury.’

  Hamish McIntyre left the house later that night. Before leaving, he spent time with Annie, sat with her as she did her
school work, spoke to her about her father, her hopes for the future. Samantha watched the two of them with affection, seeing herself there with her father instead of Annie. She knew that she loved her father intensely, the man who had brought her up single-handed after the death of his wife, her mother. She knew she’d never lock him out of her life again.

  ***

  Larry presented himself for his medical, only to be told that it was not a cursory examination: blood pressure, cholesterol, a check on his breathing. Instead, as the doctor informed him, he was to have the full medical examination, as well as a fitness and substance misuse test. He knew that he could never pass, especially the fitness test. He was an overweight man of forty-three, not a junior recruit.

  Isaac would later admit that the comprehensive medical and fitness examination and tests were for his inspector’s benefit. He wanted Larry back on the team in excellent condition: stamina restored, the enthusiasm of the man unbound, the good sense to look after his own well-being.

  The examination and tests were a disaster, as both the doctor and Larry had expected. Isaac received a report within the hour of Larry leaving the doctor’s office: blood pressure – 140/90 mmHg, cholesterol level – 230 mg/dl, body mass index – 29. The one high point in the report was that Larry’s eyesight was excellent for a man of his age.

  The fitness test, known as the multi-stage shuttle run test, was the worst. It consists of running between two lines fifteen metres apart, the electronic bleep progressively speeding up with each run stage until the participant reaches the required speed. Larry failed to complete the test, having to sit down and catch his breath, almost lying on the floor.

  In the second stage of the fitness test, Larry fared better, in part because he still retained strength in his upper body. He managed to complete four of the five pushes of a 34 kilo (push) and 35 kilo (pull)

  Isaac knew that if he presented the doctor’s report to Richard Goddard, he would agree and move Larry out of the department. It was an avenue that Isaac didn’t want to pursue, not just yet.

  Chapter 9

  Larry entered Homicide twelve hours after his reality check at the medical centre. Eight of the interceding twelve hours had been consumed by sleep, the other four with talking to his wife, who knew when her husband had something on his mind. She had wheedled the truth out of him, about how his job was on the line and that his physical condition was not good; not that she needed to be told that. The romantic interludes in the bedroom in the last year, before the children woke, had become infrequent. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him, but his snoring and belching had destroyed any chance of romance. Even so, he tried to reawaken affection in her, but she invariably started talking about this and that, or else got up and fussed around the house, or, if she really wanted to put him off, discussed furniture and wallpaper.

  Wendy made a comment about Larry’s freshened-up look, and Bridget smiled. Isaac said no more on the matter; he had lambasted the man enough.

  The early-morning meeting continued, Isaac emphasising a change in tactic, an attempt to find the reason for Marcus Matthews’ death, not the culprit, as they had no further leads. Charles Stanford, the retired judge and now semi-reclusive eccentric, had not been willing to say more about the house in Bedford Gardens, other than it was only still standing due to luck and not because he wanted it to.

  Further discussions with Wally Vincent, down in Brighton, had not added much. Stanford, to him, was a pain to deal with, but he hadn’t had reason to visit and remonstrate with him for some time, and he hoped it would stay that way. He had enough to deal with, as murders and crime were not exclusive to London; they had their own villains, drug addicts, and reprobates.

  With Larry focused, or as focused as a man could be when he was carrying fifty pounds of excess weight, he left the office with Wendy; their destination, the home of Stephen Palmer’s brother. He had been interviewed briefly before, but little had come of the conversation. That had been before the added focus on the case, the hope that there was a tie-in to the death of Marcus, though it was conceded by the department that that hope was slight. Marcus had almost certainly been present when Palmer died, and he had been killed since then. And the belief that if you keep digging long enough, something will turn up was current in the minds of all those in Homicide.

  It was a useful gardening adage, but in a police investigation it often proved correct that the flower may bloom up above, but down in the soil, with the worms and the grubs, was where the truth lay. Not that Bob Palmer was a creature of the soil; he was an accountant.

  ‘I know what you’re feeling. I’ve been through this myself,’ Wendy said as the two police officers headed towards Palmer’s house in Oxford. It was motorway most of the way, and even though the traffic was light, there was steady rain and a light mist. The trip should have taken about ninety minutes, but as they were not in a hurry – the scheduled meeting with Palmer wasn’t until 11 a.m. – the two of them stopped at a motorway café for breakfast, Larry opting for cereal and a cup of tea, Wendy enjoying her bacon and eggs, looking over at the jealous eyes of her inspector.

  ‘It’s my health,’ Larry confided.

  ‘It’s your weight, Inspector, and if you don’t mind me saying it, your drinking.’

  Larry did mind; it was the truth, but the truth sometimes hurts.

  ‘Why is it that what we love often gives us pain?’

  ‘The human condition,’ Wendy said, having heard the phrase on a television documentary.

  ‘It’s not so easy. I can’t stop drinking, and once I start, I enjoy the camaraderie, the atmosphere of the pub. I’ll miss it if I stop; if I don’t, it’s my career and my job.’

  ‘My husband, when he was alive, had a bout of drinking too much, spending too much time with his drinking pals. There was me in his ear at home, and then there were his colleagues, all in need of a good seeing to, egging each other on. It was either them and the drink or me.’

  ‘He made the right decision.’

  ‘Eventually. He stayed at home more often, joined Alcoholics Anonymous. No idea why it was anonymous, everyone knew each other, but it worked in time. Not that he was ever free of the need and there were the occasional relapses, but we dealt with it.’

  ‘I should join if that’s what’s needed. My wife is supportive, but for how much longer, I don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t give me that sob story. Your wife’s a stayer. She’ll even attend the meetings with you if you’re ashamed to stand up and admit you’re an alcoholic.’

  ‘I think I can do that, Sergeant. Thanks anyway. It’s good to talk to someone who understands.’

  ‘We all understand.’

  The conversation lapsed, Wendy finished her cooked breakfast, and the two of them left the uninspiring café with its smell of cleaning detergents and greasy food.

  At Oxford, the door was opened by a man in his fifties. In the top pocket of his shirt, a couple of pencils and a pen. It was clear to Larry that the man was either a total nerd or, as an accountant, he hadn’t embraced the modern age of computers, spreadsheets, and online submission of tax returns. To Wendy, the man had the appearance of someone out of his time, spectacles precariously perched on the end of his nose. He looked at the two police officers, his head tilted down, his eyes raised to look them in the face.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ Bob Palmer said, speaking in a rapid-fire staccato manner.

  Inside the house, he cleared two chairs covered in papers.

  ‘A lot to do, not enough time, but that’s how it is. You’re here about Stephen?’ he said, barely catching his breath.

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ Larry said. ‘We’ve reopened the case, not sure how far we’ll get with it. We thought you could help.’

  ‘I didn’t see my brother often. We went our separate ways after we had grown up and we didn’t have much in common, other than our parents.’

  ‘We were told that he was a sociable man, plenty of friends.’

  ‘
If he fell over in the mud, he’d come up smelling of roses, always a girlfriend on his arm, one in reserve. Not like me.’

  ‘Not much success with the ladies?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘I would sometimes joke with him to let me have one of his leftovers, but he never did. He just told me to find my own, but I couldn’t, too shy, weird.’

  ‘You belittle yourself, Mr Palmer,’ Wendy said, although she could see the truth in what the man said.

  ‘It was a traumatic period when Stephen disappeared. Our parents were alive back then, not that they are now,’ Bob Palmer continued.

  ‘They died young?’ Wendy said. She could feel some compassion for a man who found life difficult. The house, his parents’ before they passed away, needed paint and new carpets, and it had been some time since fresh air had flowed through the building, the musty smell evident.

  ‘Our father suffered from a weak heart and bad lungs, a period in the coal mines up north when he first left school; health and safety weren’t so good back then. Not that he ever complained, not much, although our mother, a vibrant woman who could argue with the neighbours over any trifling matter, used to tell him to snap out of it, do some exercise, and that what ailed him was all in the mind.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘Our mother was a half-full sort of person; our father was half-empty. The day they identified Stephen as the body in the warehouse, he suffered a heart attack and died.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Wendy said, choking up with emotion. She was still a sensitive soul, even after so many years in the police. It was rare, she would have admitted, as most of those who saw dead bodies, some mutilated, some minus limbs, even heads, became inured to tragedy. She remembered attending the death scene of a murdered man with her DCI. She had been out at the back of the building, sick as a dog, and there was Isaac in the middle of the crime scene, blood to one side, bone to the other, casually discussing the victim, or what was left of him, with Gordon Windsor, the senior crime scene investigator.

  ‘Thankfully, our mother wasn’t there that day when our father died.’