Diane Connolly handed over the keys to her car. ‘Please take it. I’ve got a few things in the boot, a jacket inside the car, not much else. Let me have them when you can, but otherwise, you keep the car.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ Doherty said. ‘The forensics people will be down within a couple of hours. They’ll truck it out from here. If you don’t want to see the car again, I’ll make sure you don’t.’
Jim Greenwood phoned the team in Challis Street, to tell them that he was returning to Polperro. Mike Doherty was staying in St Austell, waiting for Forensics to arrive.
Ten years younger than Jim Greenwood, Doherty had to admit that Diane Connolly was pleasantly attractive. If she was free, the same as him, he intended to ask her out.
***
Bob Palmer came to, uncertain where he was and what was happening. He tried to stand up, unsure why he couldn’t. He could see that it was dark, a shaft of light entering through a crack in the roof up above.
He shouted, but no one was listening.
Armstrong entered the barn, the old wooden door creaking as it opened. Palmer was sitting on a bale of hay, the same one that Jacob Wolfenden had sat on not so long before.
Outside the barn, Wolfenden waited. He had not wanted to drive to the place, but he had followed instructions.
Palmer looked up when he saw Armstrong. ‘Why?’ he said.
‘You keep asking questions. I’m not sure what to do about you.’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Not yet.’
‘I’m hungry, I need to relieve myself.’
‘I’ll make sure you’re fed, don’t worry. But for now, you can stay there while I consider the options.’
‘What options?’
‘It’s simple, really. Do I kill you now or do I let you kill someone else? It’s a dilemma. I don’t know which choice to make.’
‘Let me go. I won’t tell anybody about this. I won’t tell anyone about you.’
‘I’m afraid, Palmer, you will.’
‘I wanted to kill that woman, I’ll admit to that, but not now. Believe me, please let me go.’
‘You’d better get used to this place. You’ll be here for a few days.’
Outside, Wolfenden could hear the conversation. He was ready to run, but where. They were in the country, a muddy track leading up to the barn, trees on either side.
He took out his phone, no signal. He couldn’t even phone Hamish McIntyre to tell the man to leave him alone.
Armstrong came out of the barn. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘He’s trouble, that one.’
‘I’m not. Hamish said I’d be safe.’
‘You were before you found Palmer.’
‘And now?
‘What do you reckon? You could cause me serious trouble, get me locked up again. And believe me, I enjoy my freedom.’
‘What about him inside?’
‘I’ve not decided yet. It depends.’
‘On what?’
‘I’ll tell you, Jacob. Someone’s going to die. It’s either Bob Palmer or Hamish’s daughter. One of the other. Which one do you think I should choose?’
‘I don’t want to know.’
‘Do you ever watch old gangster movies, James Cagney?’
‘Sometimes.’
You know what happens when people like me tell the hapless victim the truth? A confession, except there’s no priest involved, no Hail Marys.’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘You couldn’t have been watching.’
As Wolfenden stood there, frozen to the spot, Armstrong pulled open the door of the Mercedes, took a gun out of the glove compartment and shot him in the head.
As he stood over the body, Armstrong said, ‘They never have a chance to tell anyone what they had been told. That’s the truth, isn’t it?’
With that, Armstrong stripped the man down, put his clothes and his shoes in a pile some distance from the barn, threw diesel fuel over them and set them alight. He then dragged the body, heavier than he had expected, over to a 44-gallon drum. He removed the lid and heaved the man inside. He then filled it with acid which he had purchased two days earlier. It was good to have contacts, no questions asked, he knew that.
He had killed his first man; the second wouldn’t be so difficult.
***
Mike Doherty had been impressed by Diane Connolly. He couldn’t say the same about her car. With Jim Greenwood on the way back to the scene of the crime, he stood alongside the old Subaru.
Even if she didn’t want the car again, it was, given that the tax was due to be renewed in one month, at the end of its useable life. The rust under the wheel arches, the bald tyres at the back, and the crumpled appearance would deem it fit only for the scrapheap.
He peered through the car window but didn’t touch the vehicle, even though he was wearing gloves. On the back seat, magazines, the old jacket that had been mentioned. On the passenger seat at the front, a used train ticket, a fine for illegal parking and a notebook.
He walked around the car, making sure that no one else came near. It was parked in the hospital car park, vehicles on either side. One of them, a late-model Range Rover, the other, a Toyota Camry. Neither of the cars was of any importance.
The team arrived from Plymouth. Doherty showed them the car. Photos were taken from every angle. The driver of the Range Rover returned, Doherty asking him to be careful as he backed out from his parking space. The driver of the Toyota was a visitor to the hospital; his child in for appendicitis. He moved it soon enough. With the area clear around the car, the forensics team commenced some checks.
‘We’ll be more thorough once we get back to Plymouth,’ the senior forensic scientist said. ‘We’ve been told how important this vehicle is. We’ll check for fingerprints here on the outside, anything else we can find.’
The activity around the vehicle soon attracted a few onlookers. Doherty found a couple of uniforms to come and keep people at a distance. Just over two hours later the vehicle was loaded up onto the flatbed of a truck. It was chained, and a plastic cover put over it.
Doherty knew it was going to be a long night. He wanted to be there in Plymouth when it was checked. Before leaving, he went back into the hospital to tell Diane Connolly what was going to happen.
‘I don’t want to see it’, she said. ‘If what you say is true, the thought of it upsets me.’
‘It’s had a rough life,’ he said.
‘It got me from here to there. Always started, even on a frosty night.’
‘Are you single?’ Doherty asked. He thought he was a little premature but what the heck. Life was too short.
‘I’m too busy for relationships.’
‘Next week, I’d like to ask you out as you’ve been helpful.’
‘Is that normal police practice, taking out everyone who helps?’
‘Is that a yes or no?’
‘It’s maybe. Depends on whether I’m busy or not.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
‘You’re sure of yourself.’
‘No time like the present.’
‘As you said,’ she agreed.
***
Armstrong found Hamish in the garden at the rear of the mansion. He was sitting down on a chair next to the pool.
‘You’ve dealt with it?’ Hamish said.
‘Easier than I thought.’
‘Take a seat, help yourself to a drink. Any problems?’
‘Nothing that I couldn’t handle.’
‘Good man. The other matter?’
‘Your friend at the Stag?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘He and his inquisitive friend won’t be causing any more distress.’
‘Samantha intends to move out here on a more regular basis,’ Hamish said. ‘I like the way she thinks. She wants to make everything legitimate, get out of crime altogether.’
‘The retainers you’re being paid by the others?’
She wants to come to an agreem
ent with them. A one-off payment.’
‘Isn’t that what the Mafia did in America, go legit?’
‘You can’t fight the law forever. They’re like the Inland Revenue; one day they’ll catch up with you for the tax you haven’t paid. And no matter how smart you are, one day you’ll slip up, and it’ll be the police at the door, handcuffs at the ready.’
Armstrong thought that maybe he had slipped up. Palmer was back in that barn. He’d need to go out there every so often to make sure the man was fed, to make sure his bindings were tight. Too tight or too loose, both had an inherent risk.
The man could squirm, tighten the bindings, stop the circulation to his legs or his arms, even kill himself. Or there was a risk that the ropes would loosen.
‘If Samantha’s here, what’s my position?’ Armstrong asked.
‘Nothing changes. She’ll be here three days a week and then go back to her house. She’s still got Fergus Grantham. It appears she’s lining up someone else to take on as a partner in one of her business ventures.’
‘New lover?’
‘Probably not. Samantha’s smart, she knows what she’s doing. More capable than I was, I’ll have to admit to that. I’m more brawn than brain.’
Armstrong left the man on his chair and went back up to his place above the garage. He sat down, considered the options, wished he had Samantha’s brain capacity.
He thought it through. On the one hand, if he freed Palmer, the man might be able to kill Samantha, but on the other, if the man were caught, he’d talk.
And if he succeeded in killing Samantha, he’d be free. Even Palmer wouldn’t have the sense to hang around for long; or would he? The man could end up back in his old house in Oxford and then what? The police would have him in the interview room.
Armstrong went downstairs, got into the Mercedes and backed out of the garage. Hamish wouldn’t miss him for a few hours.
Chapter 30
It was good that Diane Connolly didn’t want her old Subaru back, Mike Doherty thought. Due to the seriousness of the crime and the lack of evidence, the forensics team were putting in a special effort. The outside of the car had been checked in detail, nothing found other than Diane Connolly’s fingerprints on the driver’s side. That wasn’t unexpected, as it had been a chilly morning and Samantha Matthews was likely to have been wearing gloves. Inside was checked as well; yet again, no fingerprints. The seats were carefully removed, as were the carpets.
Jim Greenwood had asked the forensics team to look out for stray hairs.
‘We know what we’re doing,’ a gruff reply. Greenwood had come across this before: degree-educated, thought themselves better than a police officer with a couple of GCEs to his credit. ‘There are hairs in the car, we know that, but they appear to be the car owner’s.’
‘You got a sample from her?’
‘DNA and some hair before we left the hospital. She must have taken people in her car at one stage or another.’
‘I’ll find her and check,’ Doherty said. Jim Greenwood, he knew, would have shown more deference to the forensics, but it didn’t matter. And besides, now he had a reason to contact Diane again. He found a quiet spot and phoned.
‘Who else has been in your car?’ he said.
‘It’s not the sort of car that people like to get into, is it?’
‘Not now, it isn’t,’ Doherty said. ‘Who else has been in the car in the last month?’
‘I only use it for work and the shops of a weekend. And it definitely doesn’t get serviced.’
‘How many people?’
‘Two, it’s definitely only two people.’
‘Do you have names for them?’
‘Blossom James is one of them. She’s from the Caribbean.’
‘Black?’
‘I’m not sure we should mention a person’s colour any more, but yes. She’s definitely black, short curly hair.’
‘Easy to isolate. Anyone else?’
‘Yasmin Chand. Her heritage’s Indian, although she speaks with a West Country accent. She gets upset if you call her anything other than English.’
‘Even so, her DNA will be Asian. If that’s the only two, then we probably don’t need to trouble them, not yet.’ Then Doherty said, ‘I thought Tuesday.’
‘What for? Your next phone call?’
‘You and I, a restaurant in town.’
‘I’m working the night shift on Tuesday.’
‘Wednesday, then.’
‘Wednesday, 7 p.m.’
Doherty ended the call, a beaming smile on his face.
‘We found someone else’s hair in the driver’s seat,’ the forensic scientist said. ‘What about the car’s owner? What did she have to say?’
‘Next Wednesday,’ Doherty replied.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Sorry, miles away. The only two people who’ve been in the car in the last month were a black woman from the Caribbean and an English-born Indian, Asian DNA, I suppose.’
‘It’s neither of them. We found a few blonde hairs. We’ll check it out, but it looks Caucasian.’
‘You’ve got the results from the blonde hair found at the murder site?’
‘We do. We’ll compare, let you know. The results won’t be through today, though.’
***
Palmer couldn’t loosen the bindings that held him tight. He was parched, his throat was sore, his wrists were red raw. Time had lost all meaning, and his thoughts no longer dwelt on Liz, only on his dire situation.
He heard the sound of a car outside, the slamming of a door, the creaking of the barn door.
‘I see you’re still here.’ Armstrong said.
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘We spoke about this before.’ A grin spread across the man’s face. ‘I’ve solved my dilemma,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to know what it is, do you?’
‘Not now,’ Palmer said.
‘I thought I could use you, but you’d only cause me trouble later on.’
‘I’ll do what you want.’
‘Jacob hadn’t done anything, not really. My boss told him that he was safe. But then he changed his mind, the same as me.’
‘Untie my hands.’
‘I will in a minute, but you know what they say, your first kill is always the hardest. Jacob Wolfenden’s outside.’
‘I heard a gunshot before.’
‘It would be good if you understood,’ Armstrong said, realising that he was baiting the man, enjoying the power he exerted over a fellow human being. In prison, it had been him who had been subservient, always licking the boots of the prison officers, sucking up to the prisoners who ran the place.
Armstrong left the man and walked out of the barn. He lifted the lid of the drum. All he could see was a revolting mass of acid, flesh and fat. The smell was horrendous; he slammed the lid shut. A 44-gallon drum wouldn’t take two men, even though Wolfenden had been underweight.
‘I could leave you here,’ Armstrong said on his return. ‘You might be discovered one day, or I could set the barn on fire, but that would draw attention. There wouldn’t be much of you left, just a burnt cinder. My boss owns this place, and he’d not appreciate anyone knocking on his door. They’re bound to if they find a barbequed man. He’s getting old now, wants a quiet life.’
Armstrong looked at the man in front of him, sitting with his head down, not moving. ‘There’s a compost heap outside. I’ll make sure you’re well covered. Think of it: in death, you’ll be giving life back to the soil. An admirable end to a worthless life. How are you with a shovel?’
No answer.
Armstrong raised himself from the bale of hay, feeling the pain in his back; the reality that he wasn’t as young as he once was. He lifted Palmer’s head, looked the man in the face, saw his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open. ‘You’re still with me,’ he said.
A gasping sound from the other man.
‘It seems a waste of a bullet.’
He looked around
the barn, found some fencing wire. He wrapped it around Palmer’s neck and twisted.
Afterwards, he realised that it had been too easy; and not only that, he had enjoyed it.
Outside, the compost heap, a legacy from when the farm had been viable. He took the shovel and started digging a hole in it, big enough for a body. Returning to the barn, he dragged Palmer outside, stripped him as he had Jacob Wolfenden,
Changing out of his suit, he put on a pair of overalls and a face mask, and changed his shoes for workman’s boots.
In the boot of the car, a chainsaw. Decomposition is faster if the bones are reduced in mass, the body sectioned up into more digestible pieces, he knew.
Twenty minutes later, exhausted, he removed the blood-soaked clothing and the boots, and put them where he had burnt Wolfenden’s and Palmer’s clothes. A dosing of diesel fuel and all evidence was destroyed. The chainsaw was also doused in fuel and set on fire. The bellowing soot-laden smoke rose into the air. He enjoyed the sight of it, hoped that no one saw it above the trees. He knew that Hamish had enjoyed occasionally slaying a man. He hadn’t believed that he would have as well.
***
The barman at the Stag Hotel knew two things very clearly. One, he hadn’t seen Jacob Wolfenden for a couple of days, which was unusual. And, more importantly, you did not say more than you needed to, especially to police officers.
The last time he’d seen Jacob in the pub was before Palmer had reappeared, although he had seen him briefly on the other side of the road. Jacob hadn’t seen him and had moved away, following Palmer, or at least that’s what it seemed to be.
He wasn’t sure what to do. If he told Inspector Hill, a man who clearly liked a pint of beer, that he suspected that Jacob Wolfenden had come to some harm, he’d be forced to explain why. He’d have to say what Palmer had wanted and why Jacob wouldn’t tell him. How he had told the inquisitive man to leave well alone and to mind his own business. He was a barman, and he had heard the rumours about McIntyre; who hadn’t.
‘Sorry can’t help you there,’ he said, as Larry passed over a photo of Bob Palmer.
Larry looked around the bar, formed an opinion. It wasn’t his sort of place, although it sold one of his favourite beers. It had been some time since he had tasted alcohol, and the smell of it still raised an emotion in him. He wanted to grab hold of the barman, to down a pint.
Six Years Too Late Page 19
