Six Years Too Late

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She was a good person, tough as old boots, but when Stephen disappeared, and we always knew it was foul play…’

  ‘Knew?’ Larry interjected.

  ‘It had to be. Stephen had no enemies, never in trouble. What else could have happened to him? He wouldn’t have left the country, not with his business doing well. The office was open, and the cars were lined up outside for sale. He had plenty to live for.’

  ‘Your mother?’ Wendy reminded Bob Palmer, who was now sitting down, staring at the floor.

  ‘After Stephen disappeared, there were months of nothingness. You can’t believe how it affects a person, the not knowing. Our mother slowed down, no arguing with the neighbours, no complaining at our father. She’d sit for hours on end in the kitchen, a hard chair, not eating, only picking at her food. Five months after my brother disappeared, she was dead. We buried her at the local church, a spot reserved next to her for our father, another for Stephen, if or when he was found.’

  ‘After he was found?’

  ‘I saw what was left of him. Unrecognisable as Stephen, as anyone. It upset me greatly. In due course, the body was released, and he was buried next to my parents. I was there at the service, so were several of his old girlfriends, beautiful women, all of them.’

  ‘Mr Palmer,’ Larry said, ‘we have suspects for the murder of your brother, but the link is tenuous. We don’t understand why a criminal element would have been interested in your brother.’

  ‘I can’t help you there.’

  ‘We’re told that he was honest.’

  ‘He prided himself on that, and he was looking to go upmarket, to sell luxury vehicles, and the people who have the money for them don’t want a fly-by-night, smart-arsed, glib-tongued hustler to deal with.’

  ‘Let’s come back to the women at the funeral. Did you know them? Were you introduced, or did they make themselves known to you?’

  ‘There were three of them. One I knew, Liz Spalding.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I was in the same class at school with her. I fancied her back then, still do, but it was Stephen who was taking her out. Jealous as hell I was back then, and there she is at the funeral, lovely as ever. She was polite to me, upset over Stephen. She had wanted him to marry her, but it wasn’t likely.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Stephen was taking out more than one woman at the time, he told me that.’

  ‘The other woman?’

  ‘He’d not say.’

  ‘The second woman?’ Larry reminded Palmer.

  ‘Oh, yes. There were three women at the funeral. Liz Spalding, I’ve mentioned. The second woman was blonde, slim, beautiful face. She seemed a few years younger than Stephen’s usual girlfriends.’

  ‘Her name?’

  ‘Bec Johnson. She introduced herself, told me how important Stephen had been to her, how he had helped her to find herself.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea. You’ll have to ask her. As I said, she was younger than him by a few years. At the funeral, she would have been about twenty-two or twenty-three. A pleasant woman with a lovely voice. She wasn’t as upset as Liz Spalding who wept profusely through the service, and when they lowered the coffin into the ground, she was on her knees. I had to help her up, and she clung to me tight from then on, something she would never have done at school. Strange, isn’t it? All those years, I had wanted her close, and then it was my brother that brought us together.’

  ‘Together? Are you saying that you’re still with her?’

  ‘After the funeral, I hoped we would be, me on the rebound, but it wasn’t to be. I never saw her again, although I’m told she married a doctor or a lawyer, had a couple of kids, divorced, remarried.’

  ‘Bec Johnson?’

  ‘She’s still in the area, never married. I see her occasionally when I’m out at the shops. She always stops for a chat, and sometimes we have a coffee. I’ve no idea what it was with her and Stephen, and she never opened up about it. No doubt he was sleeping with her, but she never said as much, and I wouldn’t ask.’

  ‘Did you ask her out?’

  ‘In my clumsy way. I’m never sure what to say.’

  ‘The third woman?’ Larry said, tired of listening to the man. He wanted facts, names, addresses, somewhere to go, someone to question, someone to arrest. Sitting there, his stomach was in contortions – the bowl of cereal for breakfast had only agitated it and a motorway café latte, no matter how expensive it had been or what fancy name it had been given, wasn’t a pint of beer. He needed a pub lunch, a glass of beer, a big steak with chips and all the trimmings. He knew he wasn’t going to get it.

  If he had a drink before he went home to his wife that night, the first night after he had admitted that he had problems at work and he couldn’t keep off the drink, then she’d throw a fit, scream at him.

  To Larry, he was between the devil and the deep blue sea; he was in hell.

  ‘The third woman?’ Larry repeated the question. Palmer had a faraway look about him, no doubt dreaming of Liz Spalding and Bec Johnson, Larry thought, imagining it had been him with the two women instead of his brother.

  ‘She sat at the back of the church, a handkerchief to her face, although I can’t remember any tears. And then at the grave, she stood to the back, mouthing some words to herself.’

  ‘What sort of words?’

  ‘I couldn’t hear, but I don’t think it was a prayer. One minute she’s there, and then after I had taken hold of Liz Spalding, I looked around, and she was gone. I’ve no idea who she was.’

  ‘Describe her?’

  ‘Not so easy. She was dressed in black, and her hat had a wide floppy brim which covered part of her face. It also had some sort of veil. But as I said, I never spoke to her.’

  ‘Did anyone else?’

  ‘I wasn’t looking that keenly. I had organised the funeral, and that occupied my time. And if I had been looking at any woman, not that I was that day, it would have been Liz.’

  ‘It’s important, the third woman,’ Wendy said. ‘Think hard, anything else about her. A mysterious woman who keeps to herself at a funeral, not looking at anyone, leaving before the end. It could be important.’

  ‘It’s seventeen years since we buried him, 3rd April 2002. He would have been thirty-four on the day of his funeral if he had been alive. Murdered at thirty-one for no apparent reason. It doesn’t make for a great epitaph, does it?’

  ‘We intend to find the reason and to bring the perpetrators of this crime to justice. Sergeant Gladstone’s right, we need to find this woman,’ Larry said.

  ‘Very well. Attractive, as best I could tell. Slim, although starting to put on weight. Average height, well-dressed, not cheap clothes, black stiletto heels. An air of confidence about her.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Wendy said.

  ‘Some people slouch, I know that I do. But this woman didn’t. She kept her head down, but her body was upright.’

  ‘Did you see a car?’

  ‘I glimpsed her getting into a dark blue car when she left. It was parked not far from the grave, quick getaway if you’re suspicious of her.’

  ‘Any more?

  ‘She wore a wedding ring.’

  ‘Engagement ring, diamonds?’

  ‘I can’t say I noticed, but I wasn’t really looking. I just remembered that when we left the church to head to the grave, that she had placed her bag on a headstone and her hand was exposed. She’d had black gloves on before, but she had removed them, and I saw a ring. I didn’t study her, nor her hand. It’s just an observation that came back to me. Important?’

  ‘Could she be the other woman that your brother spoke about?’

  ‘Why would he have messed around with a married woman? He had his choice of women; married women bring complications.’

  ‘Married women bring anger and jealousy and murder, Mr Palmer,’ Larry said. ‘We need to find her and to talk to
Liz Spalding and Bec Johnson. We need your help in finding all three.’

  Chapter 10

  ‘It wasn’t that he didn’t try it on,’ Bec Johnson said when Larry and Wendy met her at a restaurant in the centre of Oxford, popular with the local university students, judging by the clientele that day.

  ‘You see his brother from time to time,’ Wendy said.

  ‘I can’t say I know him that well, not that anyone does, but yes, we meet occasionally. He likes to talk about this and that. He’s a sad man. His brother was the total opposite, and I’m not sure if Bob even liked his brother when he was alive. But in death comes the regret.’

  ‘Your relationship with Stephen?’ Larry asked. A salad washed down with orange juice had constituted his lunch for that day, and it was now three in the afternoon. Bec, now in her forties, was no longer the sweet young thing she had been at the funeral. The effects of the last twenty years had aged her, although her face was clear and free of makeup. Her hair was cropped short.

  ‘I met Stephen through my sister; we hit it off. You see, he was keen on her, taking her out, wining and dining her, taking her away for the weekend, especially if he had a decent car for sale. He liked to show off if he had a Mercedes or a BMW, and Janice, she was a sucker for men with big cars; equates to something or other, or is it the opposite, I can’t remember. Not that it ever concerned me. Janice lives in America now, has done for many years.’

  ‘He wasn’t going to succeed with you, was he?’ Wendy said, more perceptive than Larry.

  ‘I like men as friends, not as lovers. That’s the way it’s been since I was thirteen. Nothing wrong with it, and Stephen didn’t care either way. I was sixteen when we first met, before he went to London, although we kept in touch, spoke all the time on the phone. He liked to talk to women, sometimes just as friends, other times, well, you’ve been told about him. The man was incorrigible, although always charming and courteous, and generous with the woman. Some men treat the women as if they’re chattels, but not Stephen. Always opening the door for them, complimenting them. He was someone I could talk to when I had a broken heart, a shoulder to lean on. My parents abhorred what I had become, chastised themselves for my upbringing, wondering where they had gone wrong.’

  ‘Your relationship with your parents now?’

  ‘Terse. Nothing said, not any more, but they never want to meet my partner, and we’ve been together for sixteen years, joint ownership of this restaurant.’

  ‘We need your help, Bec,’ Larry said.

  ‘How? I’m not sure how I can help.’

  ‘At the funeral, Bob Palmer mentioned three women. You’re one, then there was Liz Spalding. We intend to have the same conversation with her soon enough. There was a third woman who kept to herself, didn’t speak to anyone, and left before the proceedings had ended. Do you remember her?’

  ‘It was a long time ago, and I wasn’t in a fit condition to look at anyone.’

  ‘According to Palmer, you held it together, although Liz Spalding didn’t.’

  ‘Liz, she was a friend of Janice’s at school. She was living up in London at the time, going around with Stephen. She’s the emotional type, tears at the drop of a hat. As for me, I keep it bottled up, but I was as upset as she was.’

  ‘The other woman?’

  ‘I vaguely remember someone, but that’s all. I’ll try to think back to then after you’ve gone, but I’m certain I won’t be able to help you. Sorry.’

  ***

  Even after the early-morning meeting, the drive to Oxford, the interviews with Bob Palmer and Bec Johnson, and then the journey back to London in the pelting rain, Isaac still expected the two officers to be in the office for a debriefing.

  It was nine thirty in the evening, and even though their DCI had apologised for bringing them into the office, he had been adamant about the need to meet regularly. Wendy had no issue with it, as she had managed to grab a hamburger at McDonald’s on the way down the motorway. Larry, determined to eat a salad at home with his wife, was feeling miserable; his body ached, his head throbbed, his throat felt as though he’d drunk disinfectant. If food had appeared in the office, especially one of Bridget’s home-made cakes, he knew his resistance would not hold out.

  Thankfully for Larry, Bridget had no cakes, not even a biscuit. The most Inspector Hill was going to get was a cup of coffee, no sugar, and a thirty-minute debrief, a run-through on the day’s events and what the plan was for the next day.

  Isaac’s success rate and that of Homicide in solving murders were due to his diligence in leaving no stone unturned, and if that meant further work had to be done by any member of his team before the early-morning meeting, then he expected whoever it was to pull their weight and to do the necessary. Bridget had done a few overnighters, so had Larry and Wendy; none would ever complain, as to be part of a winning team was all-important to them, Isaac knew that. In the time between murder cases, perilously short as it often was, a casual atmosphere pervaded the department: the level of humour elevated, idle conversation, the chance to surf the net, the literal put your feet up on the desk and lean back.

  ‘So, according to Palmer, this mysterious woman was married, probably having an affair with his brother, Stephen. Is that how we read it?’ Isaac said after Larry and Wendy had updated him on their visit to the university city.

  ‘It’s a good enough motive,’ Larry said, hoping that he could soon go home and eat something, anything.

  ‘Then we must assume that whoever she is, there might be a connection back to Hamish McIntyre.’

  ‘It depends if he was paid to kill the man,’ Wendy said. She felt tired, and she’d need to eat before going to bed, as well.

  ‘That’s not what my research would indicate,’ Bridget said.

  ‘You’d better explain,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Hamish McIntyre is a killer, although he only becomes involved if it’s personal,’ Bridget said, glancing down at the paperwork she held in her hand.

  ‘Are there examples?’

  ‘The file that you all have a copy of shows seventeen murders with Hamish McIntyre’s name pencilled in as involved. Fourteen of them classified as murder, the other three regarded as suspicious. One victim had fallen out of a building, the tenth floor, another had electrocuted himself, and the third had been hit by a car while cycling home.’

  ‘Which ones are attributed to him personally?’ Larry asked, his stomach cramping up again.

  ‘It’s in the file,’ Bridget said. It was clear that Inspector Larry Hill hadn’t read the file that she had given him the day before, not in detail anyway. ‘Archie Slocombe. The man owned a club two doors from McIntyre’s.’

  ‘The year?’ Isaac said.

  ‘1998. Archie Slocombe, a fifty-eight-year-old male, owned a dozen or more strip clubs and gentlemen-only clubs in London and Manchester, financial interests in a dozen more. He had the financial clout, and Hamish McIntyre was eating into his empire, slowly opening clubs near Slocombe’s, poaching the girls with more money.’

  ‘And better drugs?’

  ‘Probably, but that’s not in the report. One of McIntyre’s men had mysteriously died three months earlier, threw himself off a bridge with a couple of concrete blocks attached to his ankles. A suicide note was found at the scene; the dead man had recently left prison, five years for grievous bodily harm. Not one of life’s gentlemen, and not missed by anyone, certainly not a man he put in a wheelchair permanently, and another a vegetable after the man with the concrete adornments, Paddy O’Hare, had slammed his head into a brick wall, repeatedly.’

  ‘Charming,’ Larry said.

  ‘We’ve seen his type before,’ Isaac said.

  ‘The word on the street was that McIntyre and Slocombe were heading for a violent confrontation and that it was either one or the other. As I said, three months later, August 28th 1998, Archie Slocombe was fished out of the river, fifteen days after he’d gone missing. Either he’d been taken by a shark, or someone had gone at hi
m with industrial tools.’

  ‘Industrial tools?’ Wendy quizzed.

  ‘Chainsaws, angle grinders, electric drills. The police checked into it, but the mood on the street was sombre, and no one was talking, more afraid of McIntyre than the authorities. With no evidence against him, Hamish McIntyre soon acquired all of Slocombe’s assets, bargain prices by all accounts. No one was willing to argue with the man or debate the price. He cleaned up, secured his fortune, bought the fancy house that Inspector Hill and Wendy visited.’

  ‘Any more?’Isaac said.

  ‘I think we’ve had enough, DCI,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ Isaac said, ‘but please read the other cases against him.’

  ‘Not if I want to sleep tonight.’

  ‘Then tomorrow,’ Isaac said. ‘Let’s wrap this up, meet tomorrow morning, the usual time.’

  ‘Early,’ Larry’s final word that night.

  ‘Doing it tough?’

  A nod of the head from Larry.

  Chapter 11

  Liz Spalding, one of Stephen Palmer’s girlfriends, and the object of his brother’s unsatisfied lust, had proved not so easy to locate. In the end, Bridget found her in Polperro, in Cornwall, a small village close to the sea, picture-postcard beautiful, the sort of place that Wendy loved, the kind of place where Isaac would last for a week.

  Two days had passed since Larry had gone cold turkey on alcohol and pub lunches, and he had suffered that first day and night, although the second day it had been easier, and Larry, not that he’d tell anyone, had had his wife’s loving attention for the first time in a long time.

  ‘Three times, considering another one,’ Liz Spalding said as she sat in the garden of her cottage overlooking the sea. Larry looked at the view to his right, then at the woman opposite, but mostly at the woman. Even Wendy would have admitted that Liz Spalding, Stephen’s paramour, Bob’s fantasy, the wife of three men, the mother of two children, was a stunner. The tan on her face and arms, the perfect hair, the gleaming teeth, the firm bust – even though she was in her fifties, she looked ten years younger.