Six Years Too Late

by Phillip Strang

  Larry left the man to his sorrows. Outside, he had a chat with the arresting officer and put in a word for Harry Anders, explained the situation.

  ‘My wife took off, found someone else,’ the officer said.

  ‘What did you do?’ Larry asked.

  ‘What any hot-blooded male would do.’

  ‘You struck him.’

  ‘Not that it helped. She moved in with him the next week, took the dog as well. All I got for it were bruised knuckles and a trashed kitchen. Still, it could be worse. I found myself another woman, causes me no trouble.’

  ***

  It was two in the afternoon before Bob Palmer left his hotel. Jim Greenwood had seen him drive away, concerned that the man was about to do something foolish, and he’d given him a lecture about taking care, not taking the law into his own hands. The fact that he was grievously upset would be of no consideration if he caused trouble. Greenwood was sure he had wasted his breath.

  Bob Palmer had been irrational, barely able to restrain the tears. ‘Maybe it’s for the better,’ he had said. ‘Liz has troubled me for many years. I can’t wish ill of the dead, but who knows, maybe I’ll get on with my life now.’

  Greenwood phoned Larry and Wendy to update them on the situation. He had done as much as he could. The missing male friend had finally appeared; he had been at a seminar in the north of England, and although he was sorry that Liz had died, he seemed to take it in his stride.

  ‘I’ll send you a printout of who she phoned, who phoned her, messages received and sent,’ Greenwood’s final words before ending the phone call.

  Pathology had submitted their final report. The cause of death consistent with falling from the top of the cliff onto the rocks below. Forensics had no more, other than a strand of hair from another person on the dead woman’s clothes.

  ‘Any idea where the hair came from?’ Larry asked.

  ‘I’ll send you the report,’ the forensic scientist said. ‘She could have picked it up anywhere. It could belong to the murderer, but then again, it might not.’

  ‘What else can you tell us about it?’

  ‘Blonde, but it’s been dyed. We’ve analysed the dye that had been used and an approximate time when it had been applied. DNA could prove crucial.’

  ***

  Bob Palmer drove away from the village and from Liz. She had been his life for so many years. He knew that people did not understand him, but what did he care. His life had slipped by, his chance at happiness gone forever. He remembered that night so long ago, the love that she had shown him, the kindness, the warmth of her, and then before he had woken up, she was gone. He had not left the house for four days after that, not washed, not shaved, barely ate.

  Without knowing where he was going after leaving Polperro, he found himself at his brother’s graveside. It was clear that no one had tended it for a long time. No flowers, weeds growing around the headstone, even birds sitting on it and defecating. He set to work to clean around the area. Liz had loved his brother, he knew that. And whereas Stephen had loved her in his own way, there was another woman, and she had been at the funeral. He was convinced it had been her in the village. He didn’t know why, intuition he supposed, but whoever she was, he would confront her.

  He had had brotherly love for Stephen, but he had not been a friend. It had been subtle, Stephen’s putting him down, but its effects were long-reaching, even today. The thought of Stephen standing there, laughing at him filled him with rage.

  The church vicar came over to where Bob was tidying the grave. It had been nine years since he had visited it, yet the vicar, a short man with a healthy mop of hair and a squeaky voice, still remembered him.

  ‘Mr Palmer, you’ve come to see your brother,’ he said.

  ‘I thought it was about time.’

  ‘It’s always good to see when one of my flock returns.’

  Palmer remembered the man’s enthusiasm from before. He wasn’t religious, no strong convictions either way, but in the quiet moments in the house when it had all seemed too much, he had knelt by the side of the bed and prayed. He had prayed for Liz, he had prayed for him to forget her, but his prayers had never been answered.

  ‘Do you remember the funeral?’

  ‘There weren’t many mourners.’

  ‘It was what Stephen would have wanted.’ Bob Palmer knew that wasn’t true; it had been what he had decided. No speeches at the local pub afterwards, one after the other holding up a glass and telling the others what a good person Stephen had been, no hoorahs for him. The man had caused him enough aggravation in life; he had had no intention of allowing him the luxury of continuing the degradation.

  ‘What about those at the funeral?’ the vicar said.

  ‘Bec Johnson, you know of. She still lives in the area. I see her from time to time. The other women. One was Liz Spalding, a girlfriend of his. She’s dead now.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. A long time ago?’

  ‘Three days, according to the police. She was murdered, thrown off a cliff.’

  ‘How tragic. Were you close to her?’

  ‘I hadn’t seen her since the funeral. She was Stephen’s girlfriend. She was a friend of mine, even though we had lost contact.’

  ‘I’ll pray for her,’ the vicar said. ‘Have they found the person responsible?’

  ‘Not yet. Tell me, Vicar. Do you remember another woman, dressed in black, wide-brimmed hat flopping down over her eyes?’

  ‘Vaguely. I’m not certain that I spoke to her. Or maybe I did out of courtesy.’

  ‘What can you remember of her?’

  ‘Ah, yes, now I remember. I did speak to her. She didn’t have much to say, and she was clearly upset. I could see that her eyes were red, so she had obviously been crying.’

  ‘What else? How did she speak? Educated, an accent, anything that could identify her?’

  ‘Let me see,’ the vicar said, resting his chin on one hand. ‘I see so many people, and it was so long ago. She spoke well, polite, educated, certainly not working class, probably came from money. Why do you need to know?’

  ‘It seems important to tell those who were at the funeral that Liz is dead. I can phone Bec, but the other woman was, I believe, a rival girlfriend. I’m afraid my brother played the field.’

  ‘He’d not be the first in this graveyard. We’re not here to judge, only to give comfort to those who remain, to bury those who have passed on.’

  ‘Anything else about this woman? No matter how minor you might think it is.’

  ‘I shook her hand. I remember that her sleeve moved up her arm a little and on her inside arm, just above the wrist, there was a small tattoo. I didn’t have long to look, but I think it was a small butterfly, the sort of thing people after a few drinks are inclined to do. Not that she looked like a person who drank and she wore a wedding ring.’

  ‘Stephen was one of your sinners.’

  ‘He’s forgiven now.’

  Palmer knew he did not have the generous nature of the vicar. He would not forgive. Not until he had dealt with the person who had killed Liz.

  ***

  Ten o’clock in the evening, the meeting had just concluded, and the team in Homicide were preparing to leave for the night. Jenny had said she would wait up, and Isaac and she would have a meal together and share a bottle of wine. Larry’s wife was equally agreeable, and she would be waiting for him as well. Bridget and Wendy were back off to the house they shared; both would have more drinks than they should. It had been a long murder investigation, and still nobody had been arrested.

  It was Isaac who took the phone call. ‘Wally Vincent here, I’ve got an update for you.’

  Isaac could tell that the man was pleased with himself. Also, that he had left work earlier than they had, and he was clearly on the way to being drunk.

  ‘What is it? Isaac said.

  ‘I suggest you get your team on a conference line. It could well have a bearing on the case.’

  Isaac phoned J
enny; told her he was delayed. She took it well, didn’t offer any comment, only to say that she’d see him when she saw him. Larry didn’t phone his wife; he was hopeful that he would only be delayed for a few minutes. Bridget didn’t care either way. Wendy was tired, but she had eaten a cream bun twenty minutes earlier. Whatever time she got home was fine by her; the wine could wait, although the cat would be starving by the time they arrived.

  Isaac’s desk phone was on speaker. ‘It’s all yours, Wally,’ he said.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been following up on Charles Stanford. I’ve been to the house in Bedford Gardens. Spoke to a few people, met up with the two kids who found Matthews’s body.’

  ‘No problems from us, glad of the assistance,’ Larry said.

  ‘We appreciate the help,’ Isaac said. He was perturbed that Vincent hadn’t had the courtesy to phone him, but it was a minor issue.

  ‘It was one of the children, Billy Dempsey,’ Vincent said. ‘According to his mother, he can spin a tale, been in trouble a few times for telling lies. But this time I reckon he was telling the truth. He’s a smart kid, remembers a lot. The other boy didn’t help at all. But let me get back to Billy. He said he was out on the street. It was eleven months ago. He said he was skateboarding, not sure if they do that anymore. More likely he was up to mischief.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said he saw an old man enter the house where Matthews was found.’

  ‘Are you certain he was telling the truth?’

  ‘I do. I could tell whoppers when I was younger. I knew what to look for.’

  ‘Did you show him any photos?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘I showed him one. I don’t think he was looking at the old man that carefully in Bedford Gardens, but he was certain the man in the photo was the person he’d seen.’

  ‘Stanford?’ Isaac said.

  ‘Spot on, Charles Stanford. There are no cameras in the street, so we can’t prove it one way or the other, but I reckon it’s him.’

  ‘If that’s the case, I suggest that Larry and Wendy get down to Brighton at the earliest opportunity,’ Isaac said. ‘The three of you can bring Stanford in and give him the third-degree.’

  ‘What time in the morning,’ Larry said.

  ‘I’ve got someone keeping a watch on Stanford’s house. He’s going nowhere, and I don’t want to conduct an interview at this time of night, harassment if it goes pear-shaped. Be down here by seven in the morning, and we’ll compare notes in my office. You can update me on the case, and we can discuss how we intend to conduct the interview. Not sure if he’ll bring a lawyer with him,’

  ‘Thanks. Larry and Wendy will be down there tomorrow,’ Isaac said. ‘I’ll leave it up to you three. If what we have is proven, it brings the focus back on Marcus Matthews.’

  Vincent ended the phone conversation. Isaac knew that the man had some drinking to catch up on.

  Isaac phoned Jenny, the meal and a bottle of wine were still on. Larry, even though he would be late, knew his wife would be there for him. Wendy realised that she could only have one drink that night. She needed a clear head for the next day.

  Chapter 20

  Charles Stanford did not react well to the three police officers on his doorstep at eight twenty in the morning. Wally Vincent had taken responsibility for informing him that his presence was required at the police station; a marked police car with two uniforms was parked on the road.

  ‘We’ve received disturbing information about you and your house in Bedford Gardens. We can’t conduct an interview here.’

  ‘You’re making an error of judgement,’ Stanford said. He was dressed, as usual, in old clothes.

  Only fit for a bin, Wendy thought.

  ‘Give me ten minutes,’ he said as he closed the door.

  ‘If he’s not out by then, we’re going in,’ Vincent said.

  Stanford reappeared within eight. He had changed into a suit, and it was clear that he had washed his face and combed his hair.

  ‘You’ll rue the day,’ he said.

  Vincent knew that he probably would. He’d be in the superintendent’s office later in the day, explaining what he was doing hassling an old man. This time he would have a satisfactory answer. He had enjoyed investigating Stanford, travelling up to Bedford Gardens, interviewing key people and finding out facts that had been missed by DCI Cook’s crack team.

  Stanford did not need the marked police car. He sat in the back of Vincent’s car, alongside Wendy. He said little, looking out of the window during the journey. Vincent opened his passenger door on arrival. He even said thank you.

  In a suit and at the police station, Stanford seemed to change. No longer the downtrodden antisocial eccentric, but a man of importance. Several of the other officers made his acquaintance.

  Wendy gave Stanford a cup of tea, offered him a sandwich or something else to eat, which he declined.

  ‘Get on with this,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Stanford, you’re allowed to have legal representation,’ Larry said.

  ‘I know the law better than you do. Time is precious, and it's ticking away. Let’s get this fiasco over and done with.’

  Wendy left the interview room. It would be Wally and Larry on the police side of the desk, Stanford on the other. Vincent went through the mandatory procedures, informed Stanford of what was to occur, his rights. The man opposite him sat back, his arms folded, taking no notice of what was being said. When asked his name, he answered clearly, concisely, and without hesitation.

  ‘Mr Stanford,’ Vincent said, ‘further investigation confirms that you visited 11 Bedford Gardens on or about the third day of June of last year.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘People have been interviewed. A man fitting your description was seen entering the property.’

  ‘I’ve not been there for a long time. I suggest you re-examine your evidence.’

  The evidence of a young boy known as a habitual liar, a mischief-maker, was not solid, but if it was proven that Stanford had been at the house, then why was he concealing that fact? After all, visiting a three-storey home did not mean that Stanford had climbed up to the top floor. Even when he had climbed it, Larry had felt the strain, and the last flight was particularly narrow and steep.

  ‘We can provide proof,’ Vincent said.

  ‘If someone has been in there in the last nine or ten months, it wasn’t me.’

  ‘It’s eleven,’ Larry said.

  ‘Eleven, have it your way,’ Stanford said, a disinterested look on his face. ‘If you care to check you’ll find no record of my travelling to London. No train ticket or taxi and I don’t own a car.’

  ‘Very well, let us for the purposes of this interview agree that you were not in that house. We still believe there must be a reason for Marcus Matthews to have been on the top floor. It is not a coincidence. There is a connection between you and Matthews and without doubt Hamish McIntyre.’

  ‘Did he kill Matthews?’

  ‘We have proof he did not. It could have been you.’

  ‘I’m an old man. It’s a long way up those stairs. Have you tried it?’

  ‘I have, it’s a tough climb’ Larry said, or it had been, he thought. He was certainly more active than in the past; out in the park with his wife at the weekend he had managed to run for some of the distance, even putting on his shorts and his trainers too.

  ‘Mr Stanford, we’re getting nowhere,’ Vincent said. He was concerned that nothing would be said or gained to justify his actions. If that were the case, the superintendent with an almost certain letter of complaint would haul him over the coals. He did not relish that possibility.

  ‘Mr Stanford, let us go back to the reason for your retirement. You were a barrister, Queen’s Counsel and a judge, you must know the importance of us being able to do our job unhindered by people who do not reveal the truth. What would happen if someone had appeared before you, reluctant to say all that they knew, especially in a mur
der investigation?’

  ‘I’m not a judge here. I’m a private citizen, and I have my rights. I regard this as a severe intrusion, and now you want to ask why I retired. I believe that I spoke of that the other day in my house. I revealed my disappointment over the death of Yanna White. It affected me greatly. I’ve told you this. Why am I telling you this again?’

  ‘If any other illegal activities have occurred in that house, in addition to the murder, of course, then you may well bear responsibility.’

  ‘Verbiage, utter rubbish,’ Stanford said in frustration. ‘You’ve got nothing, yet you persevere with this nonsense. I suggest we wrap this up. You can give me a lift back to my house, or else I’ll catch a taxi and send the bill to you.’

  ‘I suggest we break for ten minutes,’ Vincent said. ‘Mr Stanford, you’re welcome to sit outside and make yourself more comfortable.’

  ‘I’d be more comfortable at home. What do you want ten minutes for?’

  ‘We need to make a phone call to London.’

  ***

  Isaac regretted agreeing to Wendy going to Brighton. Larry could have gone on his own. After all, Wally Vincent was down there. Wendy could have helped him out on the street and checking around the murder scene.

  It had been decided during the previous night, at one in the morning, when Isaac had phoned Larry, who had been fast asleep, that he would follow up on Vincent’s good work, seeing if anything else could be found.

  The three police officers sat around Vincent’s desk, his phone on speaker, Isaac up in London.

  ‘What do you have? Larry asked.

  ‘I’ll let you three go first.’

  ‘We’ve interviewed Stanford. He’s saying little, and unless we give him something that he can’t deny, he’s going to walk out of the station soon enough.’

  ‘Inspector Vincent, Wally, regardless that he didn’t inform us that he was in Bedford Gardens, has done a sterling job. I’ve met with Billy Dempsey and his parents, the young boy’s sure of what he saw. I’m with Gordon Windsor and two of his team. They were thorough in their investigation before, but I’ve asked them to focus on the front of the house, especially around the door, and to see if they can find anything under the dirt and grime. It seems certain that Stanford has been in the house at some stage.’