Samantha turned over. ‘Still awake?’ she said.
‘Yes, just thinking about things. Nothing important.’
Samantha studied him, uncertain where their relationship was heading. She had told Brian Jameson that it was white-collar crime that interested her. But she knew, as Jameson must have, violence is never far away. She had seen the man eye her up and down before, even on the day when she’d made the offer to him. He was older than Fergus by a few years. He wouldn’t have the stamina to keep up, but sex is a potent drug. It makes men pliable in the hands of a skilful woman.
‘Fergus, stop worrying. I’m not about to do anything stupid. I know that things are moving fast.’
‘You need to be careful. The police are keeping a watch on you, attempting to tie you in with Cornwall.’
Samantha didn’t reply to his advice, only said, ‘I’m going to work with my father.’
‘Are you sure? That’s a dangerous road to travel.’
‘I am, but I’m smarter than my father. I have the benefit of a good education, social skills.’
‘We could be together on a more permanent basis.’ Grantham wasn’t sure why he had brought up the subject.
Samantha sensed the man wanted out. Not that she could blame him, but she still wanted him on her terms.
Fergus, she knew, could walk away from her and her father, his reputation as a defence lawyer intact.
She got out of bed, took a shower, dressed and left the house. She needed time to think. She needed to consider how to handle him, and if he were a risk, then she would need to consider the options.
***
Charles Stanford, now back in his house, reflected on the events at the police station. He had not handled it as well as he thought he should have. In the past, he would not have allowed the police to break through what he preferred to keep hidden; the problem was that the anonymous voice had sounded familiar.
But now, back in his house, he wondered what he should do. Should he confront the person whom he suspected?
But then, the voice had wanted the body to be found. The reason why eluded him.
He had considered going up to the top of the house at Bedford Gardens, but after the first floor, with the pain in his right leg, the soreness he felt in one shoulder as he held the bannister for support, he never ventured further.
Outside in the street, the yapping dog again.
His mind turned away from the police station and back to his house, the yapping dog, the nosy neighbours, and the general malaise in the area. He knew that Vincent, who may well be a good police inspector, had a soft heart. He could never believe that the man would enforce his removal from the house and into a care home.
He walked to the kitchen at the back of the house and put on the kettle, made himself a cup of tea and sat down. He opened the refrigerator, found little in there except for spoiled milk, a couple of eggs, a pizza which had remained unopened for some months and looked inedible. After the one he had consumed at the police station he felt a hankering for another.
Still dressed in his suit he opened the front door and left the house. It was the first time, apart from the visit to the police station, that he had looked and acted normal. He was confused by his anguish over the Yanna White case. What he should have done, not that he could have, but he had seen the woman standing there in the court, her head down, continually fiddling with her hands, the scratches on her arm, her frustration and her inability to talk of matters that remained deep and hidden.
A competent defence lawyer would have dealt with the case better, he would have done better, but the lawyer that had been provided – she had refused to accept her family’s offer to give her a highly competent lawyer – proved to be young, ineffective, and quite silly.
He knew that if it had been him, he would have put forward a more robust defence; he would have provided background information on where she came from, regardless of what she wanted.
The day he was told of her death was a sad day, and yet, years later, he reflected on it on an almost daily basis. He walked down the street; his head held up high. He knew of a pizza shop not far away, not that he’d ever been in, but today he would. As he rounded the corner, he stopped mid-stride. He turned around and walked back to his house. Once inside, he closed the door, changed his clothes, hung his suit up on a hanger in the wardrobe, and sat down.
‘It’s no use,’ he murmured to himself.
Outside the yapping dog. He opened the door, picked up a rock and hurled it, catching the dog mid-body, the dog yelping and running away, the owner nearby.
Stanford closed his door. He knew there’d be trouble, but he didn’t care.
He stood up, went to the wardrobe and put on his suit again, this time taking money from a safe hidden under the floorboards. He then walked out of the house. If his life was forfeit, then so be it. Stale milk and two eggs in his refrigerator were not worth living for.
And as for the yapping dog, he’d had enough of it, enough of the nosy neighbours, the life he led. If he could, he would turn back the clock and declare Yanna White innocent of all crimes, subject to psychiatric evaluation. She had been the victim of sex trafficking he knew, so had the defence and so had the prosecution, but everyone had let her down.
***
Liz Spalding’s body was eventually released for burial. While Stephen Palmer’s funeral had been attended by very few, this time there was a full turnout. Of the three husbands, two were present.
Jim Greenwood had come, not to take an active part, but to observe who attended: if anybody was unknown; if anyone was there out of guilt or to see the result of their handiwork.
Bob Palmer was dressed in a dark suit and wore a hat, although he removed it in the church. It was not as concealing as the mysterious woman’s hat at Stephen’s funeral, he knew that.
Greenwood knew the man well enough, and Palmer had clearly recognised him, the reason he kept attempting to move away from him. But the police inspector was not a man to be easily deterred. He needed to know his mood, what he’d been doing, what he planned to do. As Palmer attempted to move one way around the outside of the church, Greenwood walked the other. They met midway.
‘How are you?’ Greenwood said. He didn’t like funerals, having buried his parents a couple of years previously, and although he would have preferred to stay in his car and observe it, this was his first murder investigation and he was determined on securing a conviction. And if he were successful, it would mean a promotion, possibly the chance to move to London to work with the Homicide department at Challis Street. That’s what he really wanted, and Palmer, who could not be the murderer, was definitely on the hunt for that person.
The police officer knew that Palmer would not be confined to one area. He would have the freedom to move around the country, to spy on people, to check what they were doing, where they were from, who they were.
‘I’m fine,’ Palmer said.
Greenwood looked at him, looked under the hat, saw a man with sullen eyes, his mouth turned down. ‘You were upset when we met in the village. Have you had time to reflect, to compartmentalise her death, to move on with your life?’
‘I believe so.’
Jim Greenwood did not believe a word the man said.
‘We’ve not found the woman who murdered her.’
‘I know.’
‘How about you?’ Greenwood said sternly.
‘How do you expect me to be? It’s a funeral; people are sad at funerals.’
‘Let’s be honest, Mr Palmer, you’ve not got over Liz Spalding. You’re the type of man who doesn’t forget easily. You’re obsessive, nothing wrong in that, but when it leads to criminal actions, then I can’t ignore it.’
‘I will mourn Liz in my own way. I don’t intend to do anything criminal.’
‘I don’t believe a word of what you’re saying. You’re not going to let this lie, and why are you here? Why are you staying at the back, instead of meeting and mingling with the other people
, talking about the woman, the normal sort of stuff?’
‘I have no interest in talking to any of them.’
‘You don’t want to hear from her ex-husbands, do you?’
‘No.’
‘Then, Mr Palmer, stop beating around the bush. You’re here to see if there’s someone unknown. Isn’t that the truth?’
‘I’m waiting for you to do your job, but that doesn’t look like happening soon, does it?’
‘Someone, somewhere, will slip up. It may even be you; you may show us where to look.’
‘I don’t see how. I spend my time at home. I do have a business still, even if it’s the quiet time of the year.’
‘Is this the end of it?’ Greenwood asked.
‘It is for me. I will go back to my little place, probably drink a bottle of whisky and aim to forget.’
Greenwood, with no more to say, moved away. He took his phone from his pocket and made a call. It was Larry that answered. He was in the office at Challis Street, two notches down on his belt, a healthier glow in his face, a nicotine patch on his arm. He had even got over fumbling in his pocket for the cigarette packet. He felt better, more so than he had in a long time, but it had not come easy.
‘I just met our friend Bob Palmer,’ Greenwood said. ‘He’s at Liz Spalding’s funeral, keeping to the back. I don’t trust him. He may do something stupid.’
‘Or he could find the guilty woman,’ Larry said.’ If he does, he’s dead.’
‘If you arrest her, you can get a DNA sample.’
‘She’s broken no laws, none that we can prove.’
‘It just goes to show,’ Greenwood said. ‘If you’ve got money, then you can get away with anything.’
‘Palmer’s just a bit player in this.’
‘I don’t trust the man, likely to do something stupid. I suggest you keep very close tabs on him. If he’s seen out and about, then check on him, give me a call,’ Greenwood said.
‘Any more you want from us?’ Larry asked.
‘My name on the charge sheet.’
‘If we have proof, you can come up to London and make the arrest.’
‘Palmer might attempt to kill her.’
‘If he succeeds, then I will arrest him.’
‘If he doesn’t?’
‘What I said before, the man is dead if he fails. Hamish McIntyre is protective of his daughter.’
‘I’ll talk to you later. I’ve got to check out Palmer, find out where he’s gone and what he’s up to.’ Greenwood put his phone back in his pocket.
He went over to where Liz Spalding had been buried. At the side of the grave, only one person stood: Bob Palmer. Tears were streaming down his face, he was shaking, speaking to the body. Jim Greenwood stood back, but he couldn’t hear what the man was saying, as though he was mouthing the words silently.
Greenwood walked over and stood next to him.
Palmer looked at him. ‘She was so beautiful. Why did she have to die?’ he said.
It’s not the dead that suffer, it’s the living,’ Greenwood said as he walked away to leave the man to mourn on his own.
Chapter 23
Gareth Armstrong neither approved of Samantha Matthews becoming involved in her father’s business nor did he like her. Not that he would have dared make either of those views known to her father.
He had come to understand how the man thought and acted, and not a stupid man – after all, he had read a lot of books in the prison library – he thought that Hamish would be better handing over to him. After all, he knew the criminal mind, whereas his daughter didn’t.
It was Gareth’s day off. He met with Dean Atherton.
‘What is it, Gareth?’ Dean asked. He could see the worried look on his friend’s face.
‘You know Samantha Matthews.’
‘Not personally. I keep you updated, but apart from that I keep my distance from her and her family.’
The father and daughter had been spending increasing amounts of time together, going over the legitimate real estate, the offshore bank accounts, the procedure where Hamish received a percentage from what he had farmed out to others to run. Gareth had to admit that he had never seen Hamish as content as when he was with Samantha.
But Hamish was not totally comfortable with exposing her to the villains he had dealt with; he confided that to Gareth on a couple of occasions.
‘Maybe it’s best this way,’ Hamish had said more than once, taking a philosophical approach to the matter. ‘Samantha is a smart woman, better educated than I am.’
‘What about the times when people act against her interests?’ Gareth said. ‘Will she be capable of doing what you did in the past?’
‘I did those out of necessity.’
Gareth knew that wasn’t altogether true. Hamish had a vindictive streak, the need to inflict pain occasionally. He had never been there when Hamish had dealt out violence and death, but he could imagine the scene: the gore, the blood-curdling screams, the anguish, and Hamish, detached from emotion, enjoying the experience.
And now Hamish preferred to be at his mansion, meeting with the locals and discussing community affairs, the church fête. Gareth knew that none of them knew who he really was. Most would have said he was an aggressive businessman who had succeeded in the city, and they were right, of course. But none knew the real truth, and almost certainly wouldn’t be perturbed by it, or not enough to isolate the man. People weren’t interested unless it impacted them personally and Hamish had been generous and accommodating, even inviting the vicar around on several occasions, the two of them sitting in the conservatory discussing what was needed for the area.
Hamish had put his hand in his pocket on one occasion, given over thirty thousand pounds, his name on a plaque in the church, proudly displayed, naming him as the benefactor whose generous donation had allowed the roof to be repaired.
‘What did you mean when you said you wouldn’t be interested in what Hamish got up to?’ Gareth asked, returning to his conversation with Atherton.
‘Be careful, Gareth, if you’re thinking of becoming involved in his business. You know what he’s capable of. He’s a great friend, a fearsome enemy.’
Gareth changed tack. He called over to the barman for two more pints of beer.
Dean put his knife and fork down and rubbed his stomach, wiped the gravy off his chin. ‘That was great.’
‘Any time.’
‘Gareth, why are you asking these questions? You’ve got a great deal going where you are, no need for crime, no reason to live in a small and damp flat the same as I do.’
‘Idle conversation, that’s all,’ Gareth said, but he wasn’t sure if it was.
***
Bridget had gone through Charles Stanford’s phone records. On the day that he mentioned, he had received two telephone calls, one of no importance, the other from the anonymous caller.
‘It’s a pay-as-you-go phone,’ Bridget said. She was in Isaac’s office, updating him on the information that Stanford had, for whatever reason, given them. ‘It’s no help to us, I’m afraid.’
Isaac sat back on his chair, uncertain of how to proceed. They had two murderers in their hands, but they were powerless.
Hamish McIntyre had no need to provide an alibi. After all, twenty years in the past, and anybody who could have confirmed guilt or innocence would have probably forgotten or could even be dead. And with Samantha Matthews, the fact that she had been at her house on the day when Liz Spalding had died meant little. It was, after all, a five-hour journey each way. She could have driven at night, thrown the woman off the cliff, and been back in London before two in the afternoon the next day. Checks on her car registration number had proven unsuccessful up until now. Bridget was coordinating that activity but once out of London, the chance of using automatic number plate recognition was reduced. But Isaac knew she would not give in.
‘Do you have Samantha Matthews’ mobile number?’ Isaac asked.
‘I’ve already checked. She
could have a pay-as-you-go as well. A lot of people do.’
‘Let’s come back to this anonymous call,’ Isaac said. ‘Are we able to get any clue from it as to whether it was a man or a woman? Stanford said it was a man, but that doesn’t mean it was.’
‘I can’t help you. Nothing more to go on.’
Bridget left the office and returned to her desk. She had plenty of work to keep her occupied for the rest of the day. Larry was out of the office, meeting with one of his informers. Wendy was also out, but she was back in Bedford Gardens.
It was not only Isaac who had been perturbed by Wally Vincent’s visit there. Larry and Wendy had as well, their professional pride damaged. He had found out something they hadn’t.
Wendy met with Billy Dempsey and Andrew Conlon. Neither had been able to add anything more although Billy had been cheeky, tried to get smart with Wendy. Not that it did him any good because Wendy, used to dealing with tearaway children when she was a junior officer in Sheffield, more years in the past than she cared to remember, had put him in his place quick smart.
Leaving the two young boys, she knocked on a couple of doors in the street. At the first house, an elderly woman invited her in, said she had something, but over a cup of tea Wendy realised the woman was just lonely and glad of a chat. She excused herself, knocked on another door. A young man in his twenties answered. He was high on recreational drugs.
‘What do you want?’ he said.
It was a beautiful house, no doubt plenty of money, but that never guaranteed that the children would grow up sensible, Wendy thought. Her sons had grown up a credit to her and her husband. No free cars for them, and if they wanted money to go out of a night, they had had to earn it. Both were married now with good wives and children, and they came to see her regularly.
But the man at the door knew nothing of the murder house, not much of anything. Wendy thanked him and left him to whatever he was doing. She walked past 11 Bedford Gardens, looked up at the house. Something didn’t seem right. She walked around to the back, found an open door. She knew enough not to walk in. If there were people inside, it could be dangerous.
Six Years Too Late Page 14
