Six Years Too Late

by Phillip Strang

  ‘People who don’t understand they’re being manipulated, is that it?’

  ‘The defence chooses a jury based on who they think will be to their advantage. They don’t want people who are going to reason it through; they want malleable minds. Who’s her lawyer?’

  ‘Fergus Grantham.’

  ‘Never met the man, but I’ve heard about him. He’s sharp, knows all the tricks.’

  ‘We’ve arrested McIntyre’s butler. He murdered two men at a farm owned by his boss. Stewed one in acid, the other he chopped up and put in a compost heap.’

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘Not if you were there.’

  ‘One hundred per cent?’

  ‘We can prove that McIntyre’s car had been there no more than two days before the discovery of the bodies. We’ve also got the imprint of a shoe, matches with the shoe we found in the boot of the vehicle.’

  ‘Assume that’s provable, and the CSIs and Forensics will probably find more evidence, it’s a stronger case than the other one, McIntyre’s still not guilty of any crime. I am right, aren’t I? It’s him you want.’

  ‘We have the murderers of three people, both of them closely linked back to him. But no, not directly. We’re not concerned about who and why he had murdered in the past. We’re only interested in finding out why Marcus Matthews was in your house, and, if we can, solve the murder of Stephen Palmer.’

  Larry was looking for a change in Stanford’s countenance, an inkling that the man realised the net was closing in on him. All that Stanford had done so far had been to state the obvious.

  ‘Palmer’s murder goes back twenty years, according to Inspector Vincent,’ Stanford said. ‘Witnesses long dead, memories distorted due to the transit of time. You’d need a confession for that unless you’ve got DNA evidence. Clearly, you haven’t, and back then forensics wasn’t as good as it is now. You can’t prove that, and even if you could, it’s unlikely that a jury would convict. Who was the murderer?’

  ‘Marcus Matthews and Hamish McIntyre.’

  ‘One dead, the other getting on in years: poor health, a tired old man.’

  ‘A defence ploy to protect him?’

  ‘The truth. It’ll be used to maximum effect.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘There was an attempt to pin the murder of a drug dealer onto McIntyre. This would have been in 1999.’

  ‘Devon Toxteth.’

  ‘The investigation didn’t go far, and no one’s been found guilty of the crime.’

  ‘You mentioned that McIntyre was in poor health?’

  ‘The man was a heavy smoker, lung cancer.’

  ‘He seems fit enough,’ Larry said.

  ‘He might be, but you’ve not seen him move fast, have you?’

  ‘He spends most of his time with his orchids.’

  ‘A complex man. No wonder the daughter is as mixed up as he is.’

  ‘Do you want to see him convicted?’

  ‘If I had a gun, I’d shoot him myself,’ Stanford said. The intensity of the man’s admission shocked Wally Vincent, shocked Larry.

  ‘Are you capable of murder?’

  ‘I suppose not, but the man brings out strong emotions in me.’

  Larry was more than ever convinced that Stanford’s house in Bedford Gardens was not chosen idly by Marcus Matthews and his murderer; there was a reason.

  ‘Mr Stanford, we’ve solved three murders. That must convince you that we’re not easily dissuaded. Something ties your house in London to Marcus Matthews. We’ll continue until we understand what it is. You do realise this?’

  ‘I realise it. You’re like that damn dog across the road that Vincent dealt with. Do you suspect me of holding out on you?’

  ‘We always have.’

  ‘I visited Yanna White in prison. It was two weeks before her death.’

  ‘That’s never been mentioned.’

  ‘Yanna was a very secretive woman; I’ve always respected her wishes. In death as in life, she didn’t want anyone to ever know her true story.’

  ‘Are you about to tell us now?’

  ‘For some reason that day, she spoke to me as a friend. She told me things that were never mentioned in court; what had happened to her in Romania and in England. And how she had got away from them and found her way, eventually meeting her husband, forging a career for herself, loving her children. She never wanted them to know.’

  ‘What are you going to tell us?’

  ‘Hamish McIntyre was up to his neck in the trafficking of women, not that it could ever be proved.’

  ‘How did she know?’

  ‘She saw him with her captors once.’

  ‘How did she get away?’

  ‘Whatever his deal with them, she never knew. But McIntyre had seen her, and she became part of the agreement. He set her up in a place, not far from Tower Bridge. For a while, he’d come over once or twice a week, but he soon tired of her. And then one day, he gave her some money and let her go.’

  ‘He acted honourably towards her.’

  ‘To her, but what about the others? Yanna was special, the others weren’t. Can you understand the untold misery that she and others were subjected to?’

  ‘Was your visit the catalyst for her killing herself?’

  ‘I can’t say. Maybe she saw it as an unburdening of her soul, I don’t know. I only know how I felt after that visit, how I felt after her death. I couldn’t continue as a judge.’

  Both Larry and Wally Vincent felt lumps in their throats at the thought of the torment the woman had suffered, the sadness of what they had just heard.

  ‘And all these years you’ve dwelt on that,’ Larry said.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘There’s a flaw in what you just said.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s the house in Bedford Gardens. What’s the truth of it?’

  ‘It’s a time for confession, I suppose,’ Stanford said. ‘There’s more to this sorry saga, not that it matters anymore.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I confronted McIntyre after Yanna’s death. I had nothing to lose, and believe me, he could have had me killed if he had wanted.’

  Stanford stood up and moved over to the window. He said nothing, just stood looking out.

  It was Wally Vincent who broke the silence. Even though the man had caused him trouble over the years, he felt sad for him, even a begrudging friendship. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was in London, a place he owned in Mayfair.’

  ‘Security?’

  ‘I knew he’d be alone. I told him what I knew and that I would go to the police.’

  ‘His reaction?’

  ‘He laughed in my face, told me to stop being silly.’

  ‘Were you?’ Larry said.

  ‘I had no proof, that was the problem. If the police had been interested enough, they could have found proof of the place he had set her up in, but what else? He’d not be the first man who had installed a mistress to be there at his beck and call.’

  ‘His connection to the trafficking?’

  ‘It was another angle for the police to investigate, but they had tried before to find him guilty of one crime or another, but never a conviction.’

  ‘So, let’s get this straight. You visit him, threaten to go to the police.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘What could you hope to achieve? You know the law better than I; better than Vincent. What hold did you have over him?’

  ‘I had none, but I did soon after.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Devon Toxteth.’

  ‘What’s the relevance?’

  ‘Toxteth may have been a low-life, scum, but the man had good eyesight. He operated out of a factory unit close to where Stephen Palmer had died. Lived there as well, I’m told.’

  ‘Are you saying he was killed to keep quiet?’

  ‘Toxteth was a stupid man. He thought he could extort money from McIntyre in exchange for keeping his
mouth shut.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I’m coming to that.’

  ‘Why are you telling us?’ Vincent asked.

  ‘It’s gone on for too long. The death count continues to increase.’

  ‘Stephen Palmer’s brother and another person who kept quiet, not for money, are the latest,’ Larry said.

  ‘You’ve not charged McIntyre?’

  ‘Guilt by association is not proof, not even with his own farm as the murder location. You must know that.’

  ‘Only too well. Toxteth had the proof but not the intellect of what to do with it.’

  ‘Where did he confront the man?’

  ‘In one of his clubs. At least that must have been where. After that, I had no idea what happened to Toxteth, not until they fished out what remained of him down past Greenwich.’

  ‘Yet, you know all this.’

  ‘Toxteth had been up on a charge of distributing drugs five years earlier. I took on his case, legal aid paying for it. I got to know the man, and as disreputable as he was, he was charismatic. I didn’t like what he did, although he justified it by saying that he had a wife in London, three kids, and another family back in Jamaica. He was proud of his extended family and genuine in helping them. His heart was in the right place if nothing else was.’

  ‘You’ve not explained why you know so much about his death.’

  ‘The man approached me eight days before he died. I’d moved on from when we had first met. I was no longer a lawyer dealing with petty criminals. I was a QC about to become a judge. I didn’t want to become involved.’

  ‘What did he tell you? What did you tell him?’

  ‘He told me he had dirt on McIntyre, his words not mine. He was frightened, even naive about what he was intending. McIntyre’s reputation was known far and wide.’

  ‘You advised him to be careful?’

  ‘To my chagrin, I said very little. I was more concerned about my position than that of Toxteth’s. On reflection, I acted badly.’

  ‘Did you tell him to go to the police?’

  ‘He told me he had witnessed something. I didn’t ask for details, only telling him to document it and to present himself to the police with the evidence.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘He wouldn’t have followed my advice. The man was always scurrying around for the next deal, the chance to make some extra money. Apart from the two wives and their children, he was also partial to the ladies of the night, a few too many drinks.’

  ‘How do you know so much?’

  ‘He left me, letting me know that he’d not be deterred, and what he had would protect him. It was nineteen days later when they found him.’

  ‘You said he visited the club eight days after he met with you.’

  ‘Devon Toxteth, barely literate, sent me a letter in the post the day he intended to confront McIntyre. Even he, although he had ignored my advice, limited as it had been, had thought it through. He asked me if it didn’t work out to let his families know that he had always cared for them.’

  ‘Did you tell them?’

  ‘After his body had been found. I phoned both of the wives, although the one in London had been told by the police. The other one in Jamaica had not, and there was a lot of wailing when I told her.’

  ‘This letter?’ Larry asked. ‘Do you still have it?’

  ‘It’s barely legible, childish in how it’s constructed. It’s further proof against McIntyre, but it wouldn’t be admissible, and even if it were, it wouldn’t hold up.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell the police?’

  ‘I was more interested in protecting myself.’

  ‘Why are you telling us now?’ Vincent said. ‘You’ve had plenty of time before.’

  ‘You’ll be asking me about Bedford Gardens next.’

  ‘We will,’ Larry said.

  ‘The deaths will not stop, not until I tell you all I know,’ Stanford said. ‘It was a long time ago. I defended a colleague of McIntyre’s. I got to know them both well. The colleague died a few years later, shot in the back, a gang war, a dispute over territory. He wasn’t missed by anyone, least of all by me.’

  ‘McIntyre?’

  ‘I confronted McIntyre after Toxteth’s death, accused him directly. It was the same as it had been with Yanna White. He laughed in my face, although he was no longer a local hoodlum and I wasn’t a lawyer starting out on his career. Now, he was a major crime figure, and I was about to become a judge. Both of us had plenty to lose, although I had more.’

  ‘He had a hold on you?’

  ‘It was the man’s colleague from years before. I had advised McIntyre, naively, that a certain witness would cause trouble, and it would help if he changed his testimony.’

  ‘You told McIntyre to deal with the man?’

  ‘It was early in my career; I’d lost three cases in a row, and I was desperate. I wasn’t advocating anything, just saying that it would help. Probably a little too passionately.’

  ‘The witness?’

  ‘He didn’t turn up the next day, or any day after that.’

  ‘Murdered?’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Bedford Gardens?’

  ‘McIntyre told me he wanted the place for private discussions, to store certain items.’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘I should have gone to the police, but my reputation was at stake. I knew what had happened to Stephen Palmer, to Devon Toxteth. I didn’t want it to happen to me.’

  ‘But now you are telling us.’

  ‘I never committed a crime, only made a comment in error, early in my career. It’s haunted me ever since.’

  ‘Marcus Matthews?’

  ‘I can’t help you there.’

  Larry and Wally left the house a lot wiser than when they had entered it. Yet Larry was still concerned about whether it had been the whole truth. Each time Charles Stanford was confronted, a little more was revealed, although the last visit had given more than the previous ones, and in Larry’s hand, Devon Toxteth’s hand-written note. Faded as it was, the large letters, the poorly written content, still represented proof of McIntyre’s murder of a man in a warehouse twenty years previously.

  Chapter 34

  Gareth Armstrong sat in a cell at Challis Street. He looked around at the walls, expecting to see graffiti, a drunk’s attempt at humour, but there was none. To him, it was sterile, but it was no better, no worse, than others he’d been in.

  It was, he knew, the start of a lengthy prison sentence; not much chance of release before he was old and decrepit. He should have felt sorry for himself, but he was beyond that. The thought processes that had served him in prison were resurrecting themselves; take one day at a time, keep on the side of those who were in charge, keep his nose clean. Little victories each day had been his creed; he would adopt it again.

  In the interview room, two hours and fifty-five minutes after arriving at the station, two hours and six minutes after the door had slammed on the cell door, Armstrong sat on the chair indicated.

  On the other side of the table, Isaac Cook and Wendy Gladstone. On Armstrong’s side, Fergus Grantham. The man did not seem pleased to be there.

  ‘Mr Armstrong,’ Isaac said after the formalities had been dealt with, ‘you’ve been charged with murder. How do you plead?’

  ‘My client exercises his right not to answer,’ Grantham said.

  ‘It’s first-degree murder, and we have proof. If Mr Armstrong doesn’t want to help his case, then that’s up to him.’

  ‘My client understands why he’s here.’

  Wendy looked over at Armstrong. ‘We’re confused here. We can prove Mr McIntyre’s vehicle was at the murder scene.’

  Armstrong said nothing, looked at Grantham.

  ‘You’ll not get an acquittal on this,’ Isaac said.

  Grantham looked at Isaac and then cast a glance at Wendy. ‘My client is innocent until proven guilty. A vigorous defence will be conducted.�
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  ‘Vigorous it may be, but we’ve got your client cold. We can prove the vehicle was there, and we have witnesses that will testify he was in the company of the two men on the day in question.’

  Wendy preferred that Isaac hadn’t mentioned the witnesses.

  The woman at the hotel reception, upon learning that one of the three men had been murdered, changed her tune. ‘Oh, yes, now you mention it, I can remember what they looked like, and the man in the middle, I did speak to him.’

  The woman, since identified as Joyce Langley, had numerous charges against her for prostitution, heroin addiction, a propensity for making complaints about clients who either hadn’t paid or had abused her. She wouldn’t be credible, not in a court. The Mercedes had been picked up by CCTV not far away, and the only person identified had been Jacob Wolfenden.

  ‘I’m awaiting further instructions,’ Grantham said.

  ‘From Mr Armstrong or Mr McIntyre? Who are you representing here?’

  ‘Mr Armstrong.’

  ‘Let me put it to your client, and I suggest that you, Mr Grantham, take note as well. A claim of coincidence can’t be used here. Mr Armstrong was seen in the Stag Hotel, and a frequent customer of that establishment is Jacob Wolfenden. He, we all know, had been a friend of Hamish McIntyre when they were younger. Bob Palmer is on record as having been in the hotel asking questions about a woman with a tattoo on her inside right arm.’

  ‘Where’s this leading?’

  ‘The woman is Samantha Matthews, McIntyre’s daughter. She’s been charged with the murder of Liz Spalding. Both had been involved with Stephen Palmer who died twenty years ago. Not only that, we have Mr Armstrong out in Thornwood, two dead bodies found at McIntyre’s farm. One of the two dead is Bob Palmer, the other is Jacob Wolfenden. It’s hardly a conspiracy to lay the blame at your client’s feet.’

  ‘Okay, I did it,’ Armstrong blurted out.

  ‘Leave this to me,’ Grantham said.

  ‘What’s the worst that’s going to happen? A maximum-security prison, three meals a day. Hamish treated me well, but now I can’t help him, not anymore, and my lawyer will dump me soon enough, you just watch.’

  ‘I need time to talk to my client,’ Grantham said, his hand on Armstrong’s arm, trying to make the man shut up.