‘Are you sure you completed those tasks successfully?’
‘I did what was asked,’ Armstrong said, although after the event, and still basking in what he’d done, he had driven back past the area, seen the police car at the end of the track.
‘I’m sorry about Wolfenden,’ McIntyre said. ‘The man never did me any wrong.’
Armstrong offered no comment.
Hamish McIntyre realised he was getting old, sentimentality had crept in. ‘Take me back to the house. Samantha will outsmart them, I’m sure of it.’
***
It was late in the evening, and Challis Street Police Station had adopted its night-time look, with most of the offices in the building closed, the lights dimmed. The only places where activity continued were in Richard Goddard’s office and in Homicide. Goddard was dealing with the onerous task of the monthly report, justifying the station’s expenditure, the results that hadn’t been achieved, and what he was doing to rectify matters.
A political animal, he knew how to finesse the wording, to make the positive take precedence, yet it had been a bad month. Crime in general was up in the area; there had been an upsurge in drug-related crime, a terrorist incident averted.
Homicide offered the best hope for the report to glow, rather than simmer. That was where he was headed.
In Homicide, Isaac sat in his office, his hands clasped together behind his head. He felt exhausted from the weeks of burning the candle at both ends: the early-morning meetings, late home every night, the necessary seven days a week schedule.
‘Tough going?’ Goddard said. Isaac opened his eyes to see his senior sitting opposite him.
‘Just thinking, going through the case.’
‘You were catching up on lost sleep, don’t deny it.’
‘We’re waiting.’
‘What for?’
‘Gordon Windsor’s got lights out at McIntyre’s farm. They’ll be working late. Down in Plymouth, DI Greenwood is staying with his people, waiting for Forensics to sign off that Diane Connolly’s Subaru was in Polperro.’
‘I need you to come up trumps within the next day.’
‘You say that every month.’
‘You never let me down. What about Windsor?’
‘Larry’s there. We’ll phone him for the latest.’
‘Is the man going to make it?’
‘So far, so good. He’s kept off the alcohol and the all-you-can-eat breakfasts. I hope so.’
‘They don’t often, you know that. We see too much sometimes, the need to forget can be overpowering.’
‘I’ll protect him as long as I can.’
‘I know. Call your inspector.’
A stifled yawn from Larry Hill as he answered. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said.
‘How about the others?’ Goddard asked.
‘No one’s giving up, sir.’
‘What have you found?’
‘Two items of significance. We can thank Bridget and Wendy for one of them.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Bridget took photos of McIntyre’s Mercedes when it was at Challis Street, including the tyres. Wendy took a photo of the tyre marks next to the barn. Bridget easily confirmed they were one and the same. But now the crime scene team have confirmed that the rear off-side tyre, scuffing on one side of it, is a match to Bridget’s photo. We’ll need the car, but it’s conclusive.’
‘Why hasn’t that been done yet?’ Isaac said.
‘It’s the second item that’s more important,’ Larry said. ‘A good job that Wendy’s not here, not with her sensitive stomach.’
Isaac understood what his inspector was referring to. He’d been out at crime scenes with her. A body decaying, or one that had been subjected to a violent and cruel death, and she’d be outside, vomiting.
Isaac knew that he had lost more than one girlfriend, that is before he had met Jenny, because of his apparent ambivalence over what he had seen, his unwillingness to discuss what had happened during his workday. At the scene, he could be tiptoeing around the blood and guts, feeling nothing, and that night he could be at home eating his meat and potatoes, drinking a glass of Chablis, the day’s horrors forgotten.
One girlfriend had been persistent, and he had opened up. Five minutes after he had started describing the scene, the horrors inflicted by the perpetrator on his victim, and she was in the bathroom in tears. The next day she had moved out, and now nothing would possess him to tell anyone else what he had seen, although Jenny never asked, and he was thankful for that.
‘What is it, Inspector?’ Goddard asked.
‘A 44-gallon drum outside. They lifted the lid, a revolting smell. There’s a body inside, or should I say, was.’
‘What’s the state of decomposition?’ Isaac said.
‘The CSIs reckon it’s sulphuric acid.’
‘Identification?’
‘Not by looking at what remains. Although I know who it is.’
‘How?’
‘Bridget compiled a report on Jacob Wolfenden after he disappeared: where he lived, phone number, height, weight, anything relevant. Wendy also did some searching around. The two of them know who it is.’
‘What did you find?’
‘The remains of a heart pacemaker.’
Wendy, who had been listening at the door, said. ‘That’s correct. The man had a medical condition.’
‘Bob Palmer?’
‘We’ll get Forensics to see if they can get a number off the pacemaker to trace it, but it’s Jacob Wolfenden,’ Larry said. ‘The man never caused trouble, and he ends up dead in a drum of acid. No justice in this world, is there?’
‘None at all,’ Isaac agreed. ‘McIntyre sleeps easily in his bed, most nights that is, although he may not sleep tonight.’
‘Proof that his daughter murdered Liz Spalding?’
‘We’re waiting for a phone call from Jim Greenwood.’
In the background, raised voices at the farm.
‘What is it?’ Isaac said.
‘I’m heading over there,’ Larry said. ‘It sounds important.’
‘We’ll hold on the line,’ Goddard said.
A retching sound came back down the phone. The sound of a man clearing his throat, his voice weak. ‘They’ve found Palmer. I thought it was only Wendy, but it’s me as well.’
‘Identity confirmed?’
‘The man’s been chopped up, a chainsaw by the looks of it. He’s been buried in a compost heap.’
‘We’ll take the identity as Bob Palmer unless confirmed otherwise. Any other evidence out there? Is this Hamish McIntyre’s handiwork?’
‘The chainsaw was found earlier, burnt, though. There’s another fire, but only ash and debris, the remains of a shoe.’
‘McIntyre?’ Isaac said.
‘It’s his farm, his car. That would be the logical deduction.’
‘Logic’s not what we want; it’s proof,’ Goddard said.
‘That’s why we’re staying here, sir. We need to put a name to this. If we can do that, the person can’t wriggle out of it. Liz Spalding’s death may be open to debate, but this is murder, clear and unequivocal.’
Chapter 33
Diane Connolly’s car had been in Polperro at the time of Liz Spalding’s death, Jim Greenwood had phoned to confirm. It was enough to convince Homicide that Samantha Matthews had been there and her denial was invalid. She would remain in the cells at Challis Street until she was remanded to await her trial.
Fergus Grantham had put forward arguments in the interview room when the woman had been told of the latest developments. Her reaction had been to say no more. To Isaac, that was either supreme arrogance or a belief that the two men in her life would see her free soon enough.
Richard Goddard was delighted and did not delay in updating his superiors. Isaac, however, could not rest on his laurels. One murder had been wrapped up, although he couldn’t help but feel that the woman would wangle her way out of the more serious charge due to a technicali
ty, and would eventually accept the lesser charge of manslaughter, a tragic accident, when two women who had disliked each other intensely over the years had let their anger run free.
The trial, Isaac knew, would dwell on the events of the past, Samantha’s affair with Stephen Palmer, his death, and then the recent discovery of the body of her husband.
Isaac had seen Grantham’s waning interest, as though he was trying to distance himself. It was either, Isaac thought, the natural affectation of a man who preferred to be on the winning side, or a convicted woman who would not long hold his affection, even if it had ever been that.
Isaac had met other ‘Granthams’ in his time; always wanting to be on the side of good over evil, the innocent over the guilty, the righteous over the malevolent.
And even if the woman could squirm her way out of a murder conviction, she was tainted goods, and an ambitious man would not allow it to be seen that he was still with her.
He’d dump her soon enough, Isaac knew, as a lover and as a client, if he could.
***
At eight in the morning, two marked police cars pulled up in front of Hamish McIntyre’s mansion. They were followed by Isaac and Larry in Isaac’s car. Another vehicle brought four crime scene investigators.
Armstrong answered the door on the second knock, although he would have seen and heard the vehicles outside. Imperiously he looked at the two police officers. ‘Yes, what is it?’
‘We have a warrant to search these premises,’ Isaac said gleefully, another charge of murder in the forefront of his mind.
‘I’ll let Mr McIntyre know that you’re here.’ The door closed.
‘Let them have their moment,’ Larry said.
The crime scene investigators were kitting up at the back of their vehicle. Gordon Windsor had entrusted the search to Grant Meston, his second-in-charge.
The door reopened after five minutes. Hamish McIntyre stood there in a dressing gown. ‘I’ve spoken to Fergus Grantham,’ he said. ‘He’ll be here in forty minutes. If you’d care to wait, I’m sure we can deal with this misunderstanding.’
‘Unfortunately, Mr McIntyre, we can’t. We believe that proof will be found on these premises relating to the murderer of Bob Palmer and Jacob Wolfenden.’
‘There’s nothing to be found here.’
‘Then you’ll not object.’
‘Why, Chief Inspector, should I?’ An ingratiating tone in the man’s voice. It sounded false.
‘We’ll start with Armstrong’s room,’ Isaac said.
‘What’s this all about?’
‘You’ve been told of the two bodies at your farm?’
‘I own more than one farm.’
‘This farm is neglected.’
‘A long-term investment strategy.’
‘The same as Charles Stanford?’
‘If you mean Judge Stanford, then it may well be. I can’t say I’m familiar with the man’s investments, not having seen him for many years.’
‘Not since he found a colleague of yours not guilty, is that it?’
‘Baiting will do you no good, Inspector. You’ve put together a weak case against my daughter, but rest assured, it will not stick.’
‘Gareth Armstrong’s room?’ Larry said.
‘Up above the garage.’
‘You never answered the question about the farm,’ Isaac said.
‘If bodies are found on a farm that I never visit, then how can I be responsible?’
‘The Charles Stanford defence. Are you certain you’ve not had any contact with the man?’
‘Believe me, Inspector Cook, I’m not a man without influence. My memory is long, and I never forget.’
‘Then you can tell us what happened to Stephen Palmer,’ Isaac said. Larry could see Isaac testing the man; it was a technique he’d used before, often successfully, but McIntyre was the most dangerous person they had dealt with. ‘Samantha has told you about her affair with Palmer.’
‘It was a long-time ago.’
Isaac and Larry left the front door and walked around to the garage. At the side of it, a set of stairs. The crime scene investigators were upstairs already.
‘You know what you’re looking for?’ Meston said.
‘Size 44 shoe, a Blake-stitched sole, “Made in Italy” stamped on them,’ one of them said.
‘He keeps the place tidy,’ Meston said. ‘It shouldn’t be too difficult to find them.’
Larry had kitted up and entered Armstrong’s residence. ‘Anything?’ he said to Meston.
‘Anywhere else?’
‘I’d try the boot of the car. The man’s hardly the master criminal judging by the number of times he’s been to prison.’
Downstairs, the car was unlocked. One of the CSI’s opened the boot, pushed a blanket to one side, a couple of bags. He picked up a pair of shoes and put them into a large evidence bag.
‘Underneath?’ Larry said.
‘A pair of shoes. They’ll match the shoe prints we found at the barn.’
Samantha Matthews might be able to put forward a robust defence, but now her father’s farm was the scene of two murders, and the CSIs were still looking for more bodies.
The handcuffs had been applied, Armstrong protesting his innocence. He was soon on his way to Challis Street. There he would be subjected to a lengthy interview, the chance to plead his case, to admit to his guilt.
Isaac wondered if McIntyre would be as generous to the man as he had been to his daughter, and that Armstrong would have Grantham as his lawyer.
***
The optimism that the Homicide team had had earlier, and which Isaac had cautioned against, was starting to affect him. Three murders out of five had been solved. There were two to go, but each of them had question marks against them.
Only two men could lay claim to the murder of Stephen Palmer, and one of them was dead, and the other one was under pressure, but he wasn’t a man to give in without a fight.
The team revisited the CCTV evidence from the time of Stephen Palmer’s death. It proved to be no more useful the second time.
Isaac had to admit that the probability of a conviction for that crime was low.
Down in Brighton, Wally Vincent was keeping in contact with Charles Stanford. Not that anything new was coming from that quarter, and the man, though not yet back to his old miserable self, was heading in that general direction.
‘We had a complaint,’ Vincent said. ‘The yapping dog again. The owner said that Stanford had sworn at the dog and at her. Not that I can blame him. I was there a few days back, and the dog’s going on at me.’
‘What did you do?’ Larry said.
‘The owner wasn’t looking so I gave it a swift kick. Did better than Stanford’s rock-throwing, stopped it making a noise. When I came out of his house later, the dog made off, looked at me sideways from behind a gate. The damn animal’s a nuisance, but the law’s on the dog’s side, not his.’
‘You’re up to date with the other murders?’
‘So’s my superintendent. He’s on to me to shape up and start solving murders. Not sure how I can from down here, not unless Stanford’s involved. Are you sure he’s innocent?’
‘Of murdering Marcus Matthews, yes. Give me time to get down there, and we can go and see him again,’ Larry said. ‘Lay everything at his feet, tell him about the two arrests we’ve made, the three murders solved, the fact that we’re looking to solve the fourth.’
‘What do you hope to achieve?’
‘Stanford’s played us for fools. He’s been a barrister, a judge, a QC. He’s seen every trick in the book, met with every devious character, even McIntyre. If he’s lying about something, although why makes no sense, he would be convincing.’
‘It’s a long shot.’
‘It’s the only shot we’ve got. If McIntyre’s behind it, he’ll not talk, and at this time, he’s preoccupied protecting his daughter, distancing himself from the murders at his farm.’
The two men met outside Stan
ford’s house two hours later, Larry no longer feeling intimidated by Vincent’s appearance.
Across the road, a small dog looked across suspiciously. Wally looked over at it, bared his teeth and growled; the dog took off.
‘Life would be easier if we could sort out all the criminals like that,’ Larry said.
‘It’s not the dog, it’s the owner who hasn’t trained it.’
The door of the house opened. ‘Are you coming in, or aren’t you?’ Stanford said.
‘Into the devil’s lair,’ Vincent said under his breath to Larry. Larry knew what he meant.
‘That dog’s not so keen on barking,’ Stanford said.
‘I’ve dealt with it for you’
‘What is it you want?’
‘We want to update you on our murder investigations.’
‘Why? Should I be interested?’
‘We’d appreciate your perspective,’ Larry said. However, he thought that the truth would be more advantageous.
‘Up to you. I can give you an hour.’
‘We’ve arrested Hamish McIntyre’s daughter for the murder of Liz Spalding. It’s first-degree murder, but she’ll probably not be sentenced for that, more likely second-degree, possibly manslaughter.’
‘McIntyre won’t allow her to go to prison.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Who are your witnesses?’
‘We can prove she was close to the scene of the crime. CCTV cameras, DNA evidence, and a damaged car. They’re one hundred per cent.’
‘No such thing in a trial. Expert testimony, doubt thrown in, a dispute over the DNA testing. A myriad of possibilities. What else do you have on the woman?’
‘We found a sample of the woman’s hair on the dead woman’s clothing.’
‘That’s better. If you can place McIntyre’s daughter at the scene of the crime, then fine. But her defence could argue that it was coincidental, they’d met somewhere, had a cup of tea together, were great friends. How do you contradict that? Has the charged woman said that she hated her?’
‘Not in so many words.’
‘You see, one hundred per cent becomes ninety, becomes eighty. There’ll be a jury of her peers, good and honest burghers.’
Six Years Too Late Page 22
