Jim Greenwood met them as agreed, even though it was late. He was a lanky man, a long thin face with a pronounced nose, not an attractive combination, Wendy thought.
‘A forager down at the bottom of the cliffs found her. Sometimes items of interest wash up on the shore, and we’ve a couple of people in the village who like to look for these items, not sure why, as most times they only find an old can or a flotation device of one sort or another, rarely anything worth keeping,’ Greenwood said.
‘How long had she been there?’ Larry asked.
‘We leave that up to the crime scene investigators, but I knew her. I saw her three days ago up near her cottage. It’s a small community, you soon get to know everyone.’
‘Any witnesses?’ Wendy asked.
‘We’re not sure yet. We’re still conducting our enquiries, but it wasn’t a secluded area where she was pushed off the cliff. Any reason why someone would have wanted her dead?’
‘She’s been part of our investigation for some time. She was involved twenty years ago with a man who was murdered under unusual and violent circumstances. We believe we have a connection to another person of interest as to why he died.’
‘We questioned Mrs Venter, local busybody, harmless, friendly with everyone. She appears to be the last person that spoke with Liz Spalding. According to Mrs Venter, she and Liz exchanged pleasantries before each going their separate ways. They met no more than fifty yards from where the woman was thrown off the cliff. That was two days ago.’
‘Thrown or pushed? You’ve not been clear on that,’ Larry said.
‘There are clear signs of a scuffle, one woman dragging the other. Either the murderer was stronger than Liz or caught her by surprise. According to the investigators, Liz Spalding was lifted at the edge of the cliff and thrown off. It’s a forty yard drop onto jagged rocks, and then there was high tide, the body wedged in the rocks. Even after only a couple of days, it’s not a pretty sight. An attractive woman, as you both know.’
‘We’ve both met her before, and yes, she was attractive. Was she alone at the cottage?’
‘It’s been checked, and there was no sign of another person. There was a message on her phone. She had left it at the cottage. A man had phoned to say he had been delayed for a couple of days. We’ve got a phone number and a name. He’s been informed. He’s not been here yet, although we expect him to appear at some time.’
‘Do you have a name?’
‘You’ll have it in the morning, as well as an update from the chief crime scene investigator. We’ll also meet up with Forensics, have a chat to the pathologist as to when he’ll be conducting an autopsy. Crime is a rare occurrence here, or at least murder is. Sure, we have one or two drunken youths who think graffitiing the church wall is a great pastime, but apart from that not much happens here.’
‘Where is the crime scene investigation team based?’ Larry said.
‘They came down from Plymouth. I’m stationed there, but I live in the village. It’s my patch, unofficially that is, that’s why I’ve been given the lead in this investigation,’ Greenwood said.
Chapter 16
Jenny, Isaac’s wife, was not surprised when he phoned from the office, late as usual, to say that he would be another couple of hours. It was only one of the things that he loved about her, the fact that she was always sympathetic when work took precedence over the home. She switched off the oven where his meal had been heating, turned down the light, and went into the other room, to bed.
It was Bridget who identified the man from the car registration. Isaac had to admit that the man lived well, but then, that was to be expected as he was not only Hamish McIntyre’s lawyer, or one of them, he was Samantha’s lover. Inside the mews house, Isaac sat on a comfortable chair, the lawyer sitting opposite. The man was dressed casually; it was late at night, almost eleven.
‘What do you want, DCI?’ Fergus Grantham said.
It wasn’t the first time the two men had met, and Isaac knew that the lawyer specialised in defending the criminal echelon in London. They had sparred in the courtroom on a couple of occasions, Isaac giving his evidence, Grantham using all his skills and wiles to devalue it, succeeding on some occasions, failing on others. Even so, Isaac could not feel any animosity towards him; even the most despicable was entitled to a fair trial. He was forty-seven years of age, and with a suntan courtesy of holidays in the Caribbean, he looked younger. He was as tall as Isaac, over six feet, and fit.
Isaac had had to give up running in his youth. He had been a promising athlete until a knee injury, but Grantham suffered from no such ailments, and he ran every day for four to five miles.
‘Samantha Matthews is your lover. Is this true?’ Isaac said.
‘What interest is that to you? Her husband disappeared six years ago. One more year and he can be declared legally dead. I’ve been dealing with the paperwork for her.’
‘We are concerned that Samantha is, by default, implicated in her husband’s death.’
‘Inspector, be careful what you say. As a lawyer, I’m recording our conversation. It could go against you. I have a deep affection for the woman, and she is also my client. Samantha has never been involved in any criminal activity, regardless of what you or your police department wish to think.’
‘Samantha was having an affair with Stephen Palmer. Marcus was alive at the time and living in the family home. Palmer disappeared without a trace, only to be discovered some years later hanging from a beam in a warehouse. His death had not been pleasant. No doubt you know this.’
‘It’s before I became a lawyer, but yes, I know, only because you have badgered Hamish McIntyre and Samantha. Neither of them has any knowledge of how Palmer died.’
Grantham continued after a pause of several seconds while he took a drink from the glass at his side. He did not offer one to Isaac. ‘Samantha is blameless of any crime, and yes, I do know that you have been at next door’s house.’
‘How do you know this?
‘It’s my job to know; how is not the issue here, is it? What are you going to make of the fact that I was upstairs in Samantha’s house when your people were downstairs interviewing her? Unless you have proof of involvement, then I suggest you desist from pestering her.’
Isaac had to agree with the man on one point. They had nothing against the woman, except the fact that she was the daughter of a vicious man, a man who through skilful management and expert legal advice had remained out of jail, and who now preferred to stay at his mansion in the country.
‘If there is no more, Inspector, then I suggest you leave,’ Grantham said. ‘We will regard our conversation as just that, would you agree? I have no wish to destroy your career, and to save the police embarrassment we will not talk of this matter again. After Marcus is buried, Samantha and I intend to spend a lot more time together.’
‘Does her father know of your and Samantha’s plan? Your current relationship?’ Isaac asked, needling for more information before being shown the door.
‘He would have no issues with Samantha and me, and I would advise you not to mention it to him. I suggest that you leave my house now and don’t come back unless you have a warrant or proof of malpractice or criminal intent. Let me make it clear, you will not find either of those to apply against me.’
Outside on the street, Isaac took a deep breath. Grantham had been right, but it had been necessary for him to meet the man. He was one more cog in the wheel, another piece of information which on the face of it seemed irrelevant. But down in Cornwall, a former rival for Stephen Palmer’s affections lay dead, a victim of foul play. Someone had murdered her for reasons unknown, reasons that would be discovered. Isaac returned to the station even though it was close to one in the morning. Jenny would be fast asleep at home. Another forty minutes and he would be there with her.
***
Larry and Wendy met up with the senior crime scene investigator in Polperro. It was 9 a.m. before he arrived and, as he told them, he was just
wrapping up. The man had little time for the London police to be angling in on what to him was a local issue. That was what Larry interpreted from the man’s attitude, and the fact that he did not introduce himself, did not shake his or Wendy’s hand. Compared to Gordon Windsor, the senior crime scene investigator that Homicide worked with in London, he was churlish.
‘You can see where she was dragged,’ the CSI said. ‘Over here, closer to the edge, you can clearly see where she was lifted up and thrown over the cliff.’
Even to Larry and Wendy that much was obvious.
‘It was a woman,’ the CSI said, explaining what he had to and no more.
‘Any idea as to her height? Would she have had to be strong?’ Larry asked.
‘Not necessarily. The murderer would have had the advantage of surprise, and the time from where the woman had been grabbed to where she had gone over the cliff would have been measured in seconds, probably no more than ten to fifteen. The evidence here doesn’t allow us to give the precise height of the woman, only that judging by the prints in the soil, she was most likely of a similar height to the dead woman. My report will put forward the premise, not the certainty. We have scuff marks of footwear on the ground, some belonging to the dead woman, others belonging to the murderer. The murderer was wearing boots, leather, black in colour.’
‘High heels?’ Wendy asked.
‘Not from what we can see. We’re confident that the boots were of good quality, and we have an imprint. I suggest you talk to the pathologist if you want to know about the condition of the body, but he’ll tell you no more than I can. It’s a forty-yard drop; she bounced off some jagged rocks on the way down before landing on the rocks at the shoreline. Death would have been instantaneous.’
Palmer had died at the hand of a man or men, so had Marcus Matthews, but now a woman was involved in the latest death. They were looking for two, possibly three murderers. The investigation was becoming complicated.
Liz Spalding’s body had been removed the night before. Larry and Wendy walked down the lane to the beach and then along to the rocks where she had ended up; there was little to see. Nobody, not even the police or the crime scene investigators, could stop the action of the sea washing further evidence away.
‘I suggest we go into Plymouth,’ Greenwood said. ‘I’ve set up an appointment with Forensics, and we’ll be meeting the pathologist this afternoon. He’ll be conducting the autopsy once we arrive. I intend to be present.’
At the station, there was a warm welcome from the others in the station, a few jokes about officers coming down from London to be shown how to conduct an investigation.
Larry was not in a mood to enjoy it, though; his wife had been on the phone, and yes, he was forgiven, but there was another demand when he came home. The smoking ban had been reiterated; the eldest child had a dry cough, the result of the stale cigarette fumes that were in the house every morning. He knew she was right. He took three quick puffs of the cigarette in his hand and then threw it away, the packet in his pocket and the disposable lighter soon after.
In Forensics, the chief scientist, a man of Indian extraction, although he spoke with a broad West Country accent, explained what they had found, the tests they had conducted.
‘The boots we believe are Gucci, judging by the pattern on the sole. We can’t be more than ninety per cent certain, but if they are, that would mean they were expensive. Not too many shops, at least down here, would sell boots like that. In London, I presume there are plenty of places.’
‘Are you able to give a type number or any more details? Wendy asked.
‘We’re checking. If we have any further information, we’ll let you know.’
Gucci boots in London, even if expensive, were within the financial reach of most women, especially the fashion-conscious and those gainfully employed in the City of London. Finding who could have purchased those worn at the murder scene would not be easy, Wendy knew that.
‘Any more you can tell us about the woman who committed the crime?’
‘We found a trace of lipstick on the dead woman’s clothing. It wasn’t hers.’
‘Cars rarely travel up the lane as it is narrow. The only vehicles are local tradesmen and residents who live up there,’ Jim Greenwood said. ‘We don’t have the luxury of CCTV cameras on every street corner as you do in London.’
In Pathology, five minutes’ drive away, the pathologist’s assistant introduced herself and took the three police officers into the pathologist’s office. His table littered with papers, a laptop in the centre, a monitor to one side. He looked up, put down the mouse he had been holding and put out his hand to shake the hand of all three officers in turn.
‘My name’s Felix Taylor,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you. We’ll be starting in ten minutes. I suggest you get yourself prepared.’
Neither Larry nor Wendy felt the need to attend the autopsy, as they had seen enough in their time, but Jim Greenwood was excited at the prospect.
‘I’ve had a cursory look at the body,’ Taylor said.
‘Is there anything you can tell us?’ Wendy asked.
‘I’m reluctant to comment before I have conducted a full examination. As the woman’s injuries will probably show, she died as a result of impacting the rocks at the bottom of the cliff. Injuries consistent with suicide, an accident, or, as it has been determined in this case, murder.’
It was unusual, Larry thought. Back in London, the pathologist, not an affable man, would barely give you the time of day. And no comment before the autopsy.
Wendy thought there was a refreshing air of informality out of London. She remembered back to when she’d been a junior constable in Sheffield, many years in the past now, the ease of conversation in the station. Of course, there were a few idiots, one or two up themselves, and others who brown-nosed at the first opportunity. Even so, London was better, especially with Isaac Cook as her senior.
Leaving Jim Greenwood in Pathology, Larry and Wendy took the opportunity to find a small restaurant for lunch.
‘It’s my wife,’ Larry said as they sat down, each eating a salad. Larry had to admit that it had been some time since he had tasted food unimpaired by cigarettes and beer. ‘I’ve got to stop smoking now,’ he said.
‘Cold turkey is best,’ Wendy said. She knew he would suffer for a few weeks, the same as she had. He’d also find it hard to know what to do with his hands, the need to fumble with the cigarettes in his pocket, the need to take one out to stick in his mouth and light up.
Ninety minutes later, Greenwood joined them from Pathology. He ordered steak and chips. For once, Larry did not envy him.
‘Nothing to report,’ Greenwood said after he had emptied half a bottle of tomato sauce onto his plate. ‘He sliced the woman open from stem to stern.’
Both Larry and Wendy could tell that Jim Greenwood had not handled the sight of the blood and bone and the woman’s internal organs as well as he tried to portray. They knew that the pathologist would have executed a Y-shaped incision from her shoulder joints, meeting at mid-chest, the stem of the Y ending at the pubic region. He would have then removed the critical organs, including the brain afterwards, and then sent them to be checked and catalogued.
‘Apart from that,’ Greenwood continued, taking time out from his meal, ‘Taylor’s only other comments were that the woman appeared to be in good physical condition for her age, that she showed no signs of drug abuse, and that she could have probably lived to a ripe old age apart from her premature death.’
With no more to do in Plymouth and no reason to go back to Polperro, Larry and Wendy headed back to London. Jim Greenwood would continue with the investigation, and even if he was squeamish, he was a competent police officer. He’d not let them down.
Chapter 17
Hamish McIntyre was concerned; the continuing focus on his daughter, Samantha, troubled him. Gareth Armstrong had alerted him to DCI Cook’s visit to Fergus Grantham the night before. And now the death of Liz Spalding, Sama
ntha’s rival for Stephen Palmer’s affection.
‘An unexpected surprise,’ Grantham said as he opened his door to find McIntyre standing there.
‘It’s not much of a surprise,’ McIntyre replied. He was looking for answers, willing to take whatever actions were necessary to remove the focus from his daughter.
‘What was Cook doing around your house last night?’ McIntyre asked as he sat in the chair that Isaac had sat in the previous night.
‘He was just fishing. He’s got no evidence against anyone, and his investigation is floundering. No doubt he’s under pressure from his superiors for a result. I was the last possibility, a stone unturned, a chance for him to nibble away at me to gain some information.’
‘And what did you give him?’
‘Nothing, just a brief reminder that he’s a police officer, and I am an experienced lawyer, and we’re not on a level playing field.’
McIntyre knew he was being fed a pack of lies by Grantham. ‘You’d better level with me,’ he said.
Grantham could see that he was being placed in an unenviable position. He wasn’t sure what the man’s reactions would be if he learnt of the strength of the relationship with Samantha. He assumed it would be favourable, but McIntyre had an unequalled reputation for dealing with those who interfered in his affairs.
‘I told him nothing,’ Grantham said.
McIntyre stood up, came close to Grantham. Under normal circumstances, the lawyer would have held his ground, used his intellect to belittle whoever was attempting to win a point against him, but not this time.
He sat quietly assessing the situation, trying to figure out what to say. For once, he was without words.
‘Let me tell you, Fergus Grantham, my daughter is innocent of any crimes levelled against her. If you and she wish to maintain the subterfuge that both of you seem to be at great pains to do, then so be it. She’s old enough, single, and I approve of you as a consort for my daughter.’
Six Years Too Late Page 10
