Six Years Too Late

by Phillip Strang

  ‘How long ago?’ Vincent asked.

  ‘The condition of the prints is bad, but they're more recent than twenty years. Windsor believes they could have been placed there within the last three years. He can’t be any more precise, but we can prove that Charles Stanford has been into 11 Bedford Gardens.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Wendy said.

  ‘Windsor’s got two of his people checking, and the area at the top of the house, including the last flight of stairs, was vigorously checked the first time. One thing is clear. Stanford has not been up in that room, not in the previous few years and definitely not in the last eleven months.’

  ‘Could he have killed Matthews?’ Vincent asked.

  ‘There were fingerprints on the bottle of wine that was found, two men, and none belong to Stanford.’

  Stanford had asked for a pizza. He looked up at Wally and Larry on their return.

  ‘I’ve always heard that the condemned man has a pizza,’ he said.

  Larry and Wally sat down, then Wally restarted the interview, reiterating the conversation so far.

  Stanford said nothing as he ate his last slice of pizza. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘It’ll save me cooking later.’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook is at Bedford Gardens, at your house, with a crime scene investigation team,’ Vincent said. ‘They’ve found your fingerprints on the door handle of the front door of your house.’

  ‘Twenty years ago, maybe.’

  ‘The condition of the prints is not good, but they are proof that you have been in the house recently. What were you doing at 11 Bedford Gardens in the last year?’

  ‘Nothing can be proved.’

  ‘We’re trying to solve a murder,’ Larry said. ‘You must understand that our actions are not personal. It’s the truth we want.’

  ‘I’m a private man,’ Stanford said.

  ‘Yes, we understand all this,’ Vincent said, with a sigh of frustration.

  ‘One year ago, give or take a few days, I received a phone call. It was anonymous.’

  ‘What was it about?’

  ‘I was told that my house was being used for criminal activity.’

  ‘What sort of activity?’

  ‘The voice told me drugs were being stored in the basement.’

  ‘What did you find?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Then why do you think you received that phone call?’

  ‘Someone wanted me to find the body, but they couldn’t have known that I wouldn’t climb those stairs, not at my age and in my condition.’

  ‘Do you have any idea why they wanted you to find the body?’ Larry asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea, and as to why they chose my house, I don’t know.’

  ‘You could have told us this before and saved yourself a lot of trouble,’ Vincent said.

  ‘All I want is to be left alone.’

  ‘We need to trace that phone call,’ Larry said. ‘Any idea of the date, other than a few days either way?’

  ‘I keep a diary. I can give you the day and the time, as well as the date that I visited Bedford Gardens, and yes, eleven months is probably correct. Now if there is no more, I will leave you at this police station while I go back to my house and my life.’

  ‘Is there any more you can tell us? Larry asked.

  ‘I will send a message to your phone with the date and the time of the phone call. If you can trace that, then so be it. But quite frankly, I’m not concerned either way.’

  Wally Vincent concluded the interview.

  Stanford left, this time shaking the hands of the two men, and Wendy’s.

  Chapter 21

  It wasn’t as though he hadn’t wanted Tricia, Brian Jameson thought. It was just that he was comfortable on his own in the house, with the occasional lady friend if he wanted one, but most times he didn’t.

  It had been Tricia who had instigated the romance. Harry had trusted his partner implicitly, and if Tricia and Brian had wanted to meet occasionally, that was fine by him.

  Then one evening, over a bottle of wine, she had lent over and placed her hand on top of his and told him that Harry was neglecting his duty. She had said that he, as his partner and friend, should help out.

  But now Tricia was in the hospital, recovering. If her husband wanted to take his anger out on him, he would not resist.

  ‘Harry,’ Jameson said as he opened the door after someone had rung the bell.

  ‘That wasn’t very neighbourly of you, was it?’ Samantha Matthews said.

  ‘Come in, come in. I’ll fetch us both a drink.’

  ‘You told the police about Fergus, don’t deny it.’

  ‘I only said that I had a photo of his car. I never knew his name, and I’ve always minded my own business.’

  ‘It didn’t stop you seducing your business partner’s wife.’

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘I make it my business to know. Now, what should I do with you after you’ve put me front and centre into the murder investigation of my husband?’

  ‘You never killed him.’

  ‘Who said I did?’

  ‘I liked Marcus, a good man. I’m sorry he died.’

  ‘So am I, but it was a long time ago. What else do you know about me that the police don’t?’

  ‘I know who and what your father is. I care little on either matter.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we’re going to work together. You’re a hotshot man with a computer, and you’re good at hacking them.’

  ‘I test the security of computers and databases, put programs in place to make them safe from attack, strictly legal. There are contracts in place to allow me to do this.’

  ‘And if it wasn’t strictly legal?’

  ‘I’ve never been asked before.’

  ‘What if I asked you?’

  ‘I’d say no.’

  ‘Is that because you’re frightened of being caught or because you regard it as unethical?’

  ‘The first concerns me more. I’ve seen what these companies get up to, the taxation fiddles.’

  ‘Then, Brian, you and I can work together.’

  ‘If I say no?’

  ‘You won’t. The thought of it excites you, more so than the money.’

  ‘If I’m pressured by the police to reveal more about you?’

  ‘You know my father’s reputation. You don’t need to ask that question.’

  ‘What about Fergus?’

  ‘He doesn’t need to know about what we’re discussing. He will manage my legal affairs, and I might still marry him.’

  ‘You’re not sure?’

  ‘He might not want to be involved, but you’re a greedy man who wants to live well.’

  ‘White-collar crime, no violence,’ Jameson said.

  ‘No more than necessary,’ Samantha said. ‘Don’t underestimate me.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘And don’t hack me. If I find out…’

  ‘The same as happened to Marcus?’

  Samantha did not reply. She only smiled as she closed the door behind her.

  ***

  Hamish McIntyre reflected on the conversation with his daughter. Most men would have wanted a son to take over the family business, but there had only been a daughter.

  He had given her the best of educations, the best of opportunities, and she wanted for nothing. Yet, since the admission that she had killed Liz Spalding, Samantha had changed. The thought of her killing the other woman sickened him. Not because of the act – after all, he had committed such acts himself – but because his daughter was no longer an innocent. He had seen the look on her face when she had visited him. It was hard and dangerous.

  And she had known that he had killed Stephen Palmer. But she seemed to have forgiven him, and back then, twenty years in the past, she had been just a child, even though she was married to Marcus, with one child already, another soon to be on the way.

  G
areth Armstrong could see the look of consternation on his boss’s face. ‘What is it?’ he said.

  ‘Samantha wants to take control of my business empire, or at least, what’s left of it.’

  ‘Do you want that?’ Armstrong asked.

  ‘I would have preferred to have left it the way it was.’

  McIntyre reflected on his own mortality, the aches and pains that he felt of a morning, or when he’d been leaning over his plants in the conservatory. Another five to ten years and he’d not be able to control those who still reported to him, those he still frightened.

  ‘Does she realise what she’s getting into?’ Armstrong said.

  ‘I don’t think she’s thought it through, but she’ll not be stopped.’

  ‘Then what option do you have?’

  ‘None.’

  You need to decide. Do you say no to her?’

  ‘I’ve no choice.’ He had no intention of telling Armstrong the details of the conversation he had had with his daughter. That she had murdered and she frightened him. There was a savagery about her he did not recognise. And if he was frightened, then what of others? Maybe a son hadn’t been necessary. Samantha could have his business and his blessing. He took the phone out of his pocket and called her.

  ***

  Brian Jameson felt elated after Samantha had left. The woman was right, he was interested in her offer. He had always known how easy it was to hack a company’s database, to find out what secrets they had hidden, to check the payroll. With care and attention to detail, he could set up a bogus employee or a petty cash fund, and then siphon off small amounts of money regularly. In time, those small amounts would amount to a fortune.

  In Samantha Matthews, he could see a strong and resilient woman, a woman more to his style. Tricia had always been a whimperer, wracked with guilt, worried that Harry would find out.

  He fantasised that it had been Samantha in his bed and not Tricia the night Harry had returned home. After all, he was fit for his age and even though she was fifteen or sixteen years younger than him, she was a more attractive proposition than the wife of another man.

  ‘I’ve not seen Harry,’ Tricia said when Jameson phoned. ‘He’s probably at our place in the country. There’s a suitcase missing in the house, and some of his clothes are gone.’

  ‘Will you testify against him?’

  ‘No. He was my husband for a long time, and besides, we can’t blame him, can we?’

  ‘I half-expected him to turn up here at my door.’

  ‘That’s Harry, not the bravest of men. He wouldn’t have known what to say, probably felt that he was to blame.’

  ‘Will you stay with him?’

  ‘I don’t know. It depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On us.’

  ‘We should consider Harry. You would be better off with him.’

  ‘It’s not what I want.’

  ‘We should do the right thing, don’t you think?’

  ‘It was only a fling, after all,’ Tricia said.

  ‘It was good while it lasted.’

  ‘I’ll make my peace with Harry.’ The phone conversation ended. Tricia sat down and cried. She knew that Brian was right. She would go and see Harry, ask his forgiveness. The only fly in the ointment was that she loved Brian, not her husband.

  ***

  Bob Palmer sat in the small kitchen of his drab house. It had been six days since he had stood at the graveside of his long-dead brother, six days since he had visited where Liz had died. He was confused, not sure what to do. His mind fluctuated between the bedroom of his house and that one night with Liz, and where she had died. He remembered what the vicar had said: a small tattoo shaped like a butterfly.

  No matter how much he tried to remember the funeral, he couldn’t; his mind fixated on Liz. The realisation that she would no longer be his, nor anybody else’s, not any of the men she had married, none of the other men she had slept with.

  The one definite factor in the whole saga was that someone had killed her, the same as someone had murdered his brother. And now the police were following up on his brother’s death, interviewing people, checking facts, re-evaluating forensic evidence. If they knew something, or they had suspicions, he would need to know. It was clear the answers were not in his house. He needed to be in London.

  ‘I’ve been a damn fool,’ he said out loud. Not that anyone heard, as in that house there was no other life, just gloom. Taking stock of himself, he stood up, shook his shoulders, jumped on the spot, smacked himself around the face a couple of times. ‘Snap out of it,’ he shouted. ‘Be a man, get on with your life. Find out who killed Liz. Do what is necessary.’

  He had a shower and shaved, brushed his teeth and put on clean clothes. He then left the house, slamming the door. He was more determined than he had been for many years. With a look over his shoulder as he drove down the street, one last look at his house, he headed to the motorway and London. He talked to himself, he remonstrated, he switched the radio on and off.

  On arriving in London, he found a cheap hotel close to where Stephen’s car yard had been, although it was long gone. Not sure what to do next he walked into a pub on the corner. He wasn’t a drinker, but drink makes people talk. And that was what he wanted, people to talk.

  He propped himself up at the bar, ordered a pint of beer, indulged in idle conversation with the barman, and looked around.

  ‘Does anybody in here remember Stephen Palmer?’ he asked the barman.

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘He had a used car yard just down the road. There’s a supermarket there now.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Twenty years.’

  ‘I moved into the area four years back. No doubt a few of the regulars would remember back to then. Why the interest?’

  ‘He was my brother, and I got to thinking about him after his old girlfriend died recently.’

  ‘It’s always sad when that happens.’

  ‘Memories, that’s all. I feel I need closure on her death. I fancied her back then, but she only wanted my brother.’

  ‘Hey, Jacob,’ the barman shouted out across the bar. ‘Do you remember a Stephen Palmer? More your time than mine.’

  ‘He’s one of the regulars, been coming in here forever,’ the barman said, turning back to Bob.

  Who’s asking?’

  ‘Gentleman at the bar. Says he’s his brother.’

  ‘Good man, your brother,’ Jacob said after he had come over to where Bob Palmer was standing. ‘I remember him well, always good for a laugh, never shirked on his round of beer.’ The man stuck out his empty glass, a clear hint to Palmer that if he wanted to talk, he needed to supply the drinks.

  Taking the hint, Palmer looked over at the barman. ‘A pint for my friend, one for me. Pour one for yourself.’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do. Anything to eat?’

  ‘I’d love one of your steak and kidney pies,’ Jacob said.

  ‘I’ll have one for myself, as well,’ Bob said. The man was worth a few drinks and a bite to eat.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ Jacob asked. Prematurely balding, his hair combed over, he looked mildly comical. ‘He was a lad, your brother, used to put it about something shocking.’

  ‘A mutual friend of Stephen and mine died recently. You might have known her, Liz Spalding.’

  ‘Good sort, keen on Stephen. A lot of the lads fancied her, kept trying it on, but no success, not while Stephen was around. He could attract women to him like no one else.’

  ‘He had other women, one of them was married.’

  ‘Why the interest?’

  ‘It just seems important to talk to people who knew him and Liz. She died suddenly, not so long ago. Her death brought back to me the time when Stephen was alive, our childhood together.’

  ‘Married women bring trouble. I can understand you being upset, but I suggest you don’t go asking too many questions.’

  ‘Why? What’s the problem?’

>   ‘Stephen, he upset some of the other men, took some of their girlfriends, especially the good-looking ones.’

  ‘I still need to talk to people who knew him and Liz.’ Palmer was aware that he was telling a good story, putting on a great act, almost enjoying himself, but never forgetting.

  ‘I remember one girlfriend, she had a small tattoo close to her wrist,’ Palmer said. ‘He was keen on her, I know that, but he never introduced me to her. I’d like to talk to her about Stephen.’

  ‘I suggest you leave it there.’ Jacob said, picking up his steak and kidney pie and his beer and moving to the other side of the small room.

  ‘What’s up with him?’ the barman said.

  ‘I must’ve hit a raw nerve. I was asking him about one of Stephen’s women. She had a small butterfly tattooed on her inside arm, near to her wrist.’

  ‘Jacob knows his way around these parts. If he tells you to leave well alone, I’d suggest you do that. If you value your life, that is.’

  But that was the issue: Bob Palmer didn’t, not any more. He was on a mission of vengeance, and he would not be swayed. He needed to know what Jacob and the barman knew.

  Chapter 22

  Fergus Grantham sensed the change. The last time they had made love, the day when he had questioned Samantha about the events in Cornwall, their lovemaking had been mutual, a bonding of two souls. But now, three days later, as he lay back on her bed, he looked at her sleeping. Exhaustion, he thought. It had been a blood sport, a gladiatorial contest with Samantha initiating congress, demanding more of him. No mention of love, no sweetness, just animal passion.

  And if Samantha had taken another person’s life, she would be capable of doing it again.

  He had been on his own ever since his wife had died suddenly. And now with Samantha’s husband confirmed dead and soon to be buried, there was no impediment to the two of them getting married. But he wasn’t sure if he wanted that any more.