‘Forget it. I’m pleading guilty.’
‘Why did you kill the two men?’ Isaac said.
‘I did it for Samantha. I fancied her, who wouldn’t.’
‘Do you believe she’s guilty of murder?’
‘Palmer did, that was enough for me.’
‘How did you know he was looking for her?’
‘Hamish told me, not that he said for me to do anything. He wasn’t worried about it, regarded the man as an irritant, no more than an ant. He said to me, out in his conservatory, “Keep an eye out. If the man gives us any more aggravation, I’ll get someone to beat sense into him”.’
‘He said that the man would be beaten up?’
‘Yes.’
‘By whom?’
‘He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. He’d do anything for his daughter.’
‘Do you believe she killed the woman?’
‘I don’t know either way nor do I care.’
‘That’s hardly charitable,’ Wendy said. ‘A woman died, aren’t you concerned?’
‘I’ve learnt to mind my own business. I never knew her.’
‘Why murder the two men?’ Isaac asked.
Grantham sat back, only glancing at his client occasionally.
‘Hamish was wrong. A beating wasn’t going to stop Palmer. I made the decision to deal with the man; Wolfenden knew more than he should. I couldn’t trust him.’
‘Are you saying that Hamish McIntyre is not involved?’
‘I’ll sign a confession, first-degree murder for Palmer, second-degree for the other man.’
‘It’ll make no difference. You’ll be going to jail for a long time.’
‘I’ll never know freedom again, but, as I said, three meals a day, no worries about making a living. I might even get a job on the prison farm.’
‘Nowhere near the compost heap, I hope,’ Isaac said.
Armstrong laughed out loud at Isaac’s quip; Grantham did not.
***
Forensics had been given Devon Toxteth’s letter. They had scanned it, given a copy to Larry, offered a preliminary comment that it looked as though the paper had been torn out of a notebook. They didn’t expect to gain much from it. The envelope had been given to them as well, a stamp in the right-hand corner, duly franked, so the age of the letter had been clearly established.
Down in the West Country, Jim Greenwood was still basking in the pride of his first homicide arrest, even though Larry Hill had reneged on his deal to allow him to make the arrest, the possibility of having Chief in front of Inspector strong in his mind.
Mike Doherty, a minor player in the investigation, was enjoying his success in St Austell, and both he and Diane Connolly had become minor celebrities in the small town. Diane didn’t enjoy it, not on their first night out together, but she knew that he did. Or maybe it was because he was with her… Regardless, she knew she’d be seeing him again.
The death of Devon Toxteth, a long time in the past, was still a low priority at Challis Street. They weren’t there to deal with cold cases, or only if they related to recent events. Stephen Palmer’s did, although the letter by Toxteth held little value, legally that was. However, it gave the team a reason to visit McIntyre.
Isaac and Larry made the trip out to McIntyre’s mansion, only to find that the gate at the front of the property had been locked, and each side of it stood a heavily-built man. No longer the haven of a retired businessman, now it was the gangster’s compound.
Isaac could see the irony. ‘The man’s showing his true colours,’ he said.
A television crew were stationed twenty yards down the road, not surprising given the coverage that McIntyre’s family was being subjected to. Larry walked down to meet them, while Isaac dealt with the heavies.
‘We were warned off,’ Tony Cable, an athletic-looking man in his mid-thirties, said. Larry recognised him from the television, not that he was an avid watcher, although his wife was. She’d be excited that he’d met the man.
‘Not like you to be out of the studio,’ Larry said. There was a biting wind, and he had dressed accordingly, although Cable hadn’t.
‘The man’s big news now. Something’s going to break, and besides, it’s good to get out occasionally. The studio’s fine, but here’s where the action is.’
‘Not yet.’
‘Inspector Hill, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’
‘A comment?’
‘You’ll need to talk to my DCI. I’m just a beat inspector, doing my job.’
‘You underrate yourself. You were up at the farm, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, but yet again, no comment. And don’t go recording our little chat, will you?’
‘Not if you give us any breaking news first.’
‘I can’t make promises like that, and besides, why are you the only TV crew here?’
‘There are another two down the pub. We were just about to join them, that is until you and DCI Cook turned up. We’ll hang around here for now.’
‘You’ll not get much from standing here. Have you tried talking to Mr McIntyre?’
Cable looked up the road at Isaac in discussion with the heavies. ‘They made it clear that if we hung around for too long, they’d come and smack us.’
‘You’re still here, though.’
‘As I said, we’re off down the pub. What about you two? An arrest imminent?’
‘No comment.’
Larry left Cable and his two offsiders and walked back to the mansion gate.
‘It’s not much fun standing here, Inspector,’ the stockier of the two heavies said.
‘Ed Davidson, how are you?’ Larry said. ‘An old friend,’ he said, looking over at Isaac. ‘We go back a long way.’
‘Who’s inside?’
‘Mr McIntyre and his lawyer – said his name was Grantham.’
‘It’s been cleared, you can let us in,’ Isaac said. ‘I’ve just spoken to Fergus Grantham.’
‘That’s as may be, but until I receive a call, I can’t open the gate.’ The man’s phone played a tune. He looked down at the message. ‘Let them in,’ he said to the other heavy, a sullen man with tattoos covering his hands as well as his neck, and whatever else that wasn’t visible under the heavy coat that he wore. Isaac had seen the bulge, though. The man was carrying a weapon, no doubt illegally. Another day, another time, he would have passed the information on to Challis Street to deal with it.
But not today. Today was for wrapping up the outstanding murder investigation.
‘Davidson?’ Isaac asked as he and Larry got in of the car.
‘He’s a part-time boxer. Fancied his chance at a crack at the title eight years ago.’
‘He never got it?’
‘Knocked out in the first round, light heavyweight. The man’s a bodyguard these days. You’ll often see him close to one or another celebrity.’
‘Criminal record?’
‘A few pub brawls. No idea why he’s protecting McIntyre.’
‘Trustworthy, that’s why. The other man?’
‘Never seen him before.’
Isaac and Larry drove up to the mansion, walked the short distance from the car to the front door, where Fergus Graham waited for them.
‘Sorry for the inconvenience at the gate. As you can appreciate, it’s a little tense here, and the media are intrusive. They’ve even started buzzing the place with helicopters,’ Grantham said.
Inside the house, McIntyre sat quietly. If it had been anyone else, it would have been possible to feel sadness for the man, but he did not deserve that, Isaac thought.
‘What now?’ McIntyre said. He glanced up at the two police officers, but no handshake this time.
‘Your lawyer’s here, so I’ll speak frankly. Devon Toxteth?’
‘Who or what is that?’
‘Mr McIntyre, it may be that so many have been killed on your instructions that you don’t remember him.’
‘I advise you to be careful,’ Grantham said.
‘Where’s this heading?’ McIntyre said. He continued to drink his whisky. Judging by the half-empty bottle, he’d drunk a lot already.
‘Stephen Palmer.’
‘Not him again.’
‘Toxteth had a factory unit down where you and Matthews took Palmer. He’s a witness.’
‘Where’s this liar now?’
‘Long dead, almost as long as Palmer.’
‘He’s hardly a witness then, is he?’
Isaac took a seat opposite McIntyre. ‘Toxteth left a note before he visited you at one of your clubs.’
‘Get to the point,’ Grantham said. The man was nervous, Isaac could see, fiddling with his tie, adjusting the collar of his shirt.
‘We have that note.’
‘How old is it?’
‘Nine days before he died, over twenty years.’
‘You’re joking, Cook,’ Grantham said. The man laughed, but it wasn’t a bellyaching laugh, more of a nervous tic.
‘He was fished out of the Thames, out past Greenwich.’
‘I still don’t know the man,’ McIntyre said.
‘He would have been offering his silence in exchange for money.’
‘If I can’t remember the man, how can I be held responsible?’
‘We can place your car and Marcus Matthews at the murder scene. And now, we have a witness’s letter. It’s admissible. The net closes, as I said.’
‘Enough of this charade,’ Grantham said. ‘My client has suffered great distress recently. I suggest that you leave.’
‘It’s either here or at Challis Street. Mr McIntyre, your daughter is arrested for murder, so is Armstrong. And then two bodies are found at your farm. Now, either Armstrong was a damn fool, or you told him where to dispose of them. Bob Palmer was a nuisance, Wolfenden was not. Palmer was looking for a woman with a butterfly tattoo. We believe that he intended to harm her.’
‘Nothing new, just rehashing what’s been said before,’ McIntyre said. ‘My daughter will be acquitted; Fergus will ensure that. And as for Armstrong, he was a loyal employee, a friend. He may have thought that he was doing Samantha and me a favour, but he wasn’t. Fergus will defend him; I can assure you of that.’
‘We still have Devon Toxteth, Stephen Palmer and Marcus Matthews.’
‘I didn’t know one of them, the other was fooling around with my daughter, and Marcus was married to Samantha. Which one am I supposed to have killed?’
‘Toxteth, we can’t prove either way. You killed Stephen Palmer with Matthews as your willing accomplice. Marcus Matthews still puzzles us. We know that you had an arrangement with Charles Stanford to use the house in Bedford Gardens.’
‘This is heading into the land of fantasy,’ Grantham said.
‘It’s not,’ Larry said. ‘We know about your client and Yanna White. The place he set her up in, the visits to meet with her.’
‘This is slanderous,’ McIntyre said.
‘Is it? We have proof that Yanna White, a victim of sex trafficking out of Romania, had lived in a place you owned. We have the address, photographic proof of you and her entering and leaving the place. Do you deny this?’
‘My client denies it,’ Grantham said.
‘Not so fast, Fergus. I knew Yanna, and yes, she was my mistress for a few months,’ McIntyre said. ‘It may offend your petty-minded moralities, DCI Cook and DI Hill, but it was a mutual arrangement.’
‘She was tainted, the victim of human trafficking. Where did you meet her?’ Larry asked.
‘She came into one of my clubs looking for work.’
‘Not according to her. She had seen you with the Romanians who were holding her captive. Do you deny that?’
‘Proof?’ Grantham said.
‘Mr Grantham,’ Isaac said, ‘the McIntyre family and their associates are at an end. Are you going to sink with them?’
McIntyre looked at Grantham; it was not the look of someone he trusted.
‘I’ll grant that Armstrong’s confessed, but Samantha is innocent, so is her father. There is no more to say,’ Grantham said.
‘Not for now,’ Isaac said. ‘But we’ll be back. The vultures are hovering. Who will be next to talk to us?’
Chapter 35
Fergus Grantham considered his options at the wine bar he frequented once or twice a week. It was late at night, and the place, never busy even at the weekend, was unusually quiet. It was an ambience that he enjoyed, the chance to reflect, to consider his life and its possibilities.
He had to admit that men such as Hamish McIntyre had done him well over the years, and the man’s daughter was an added bonus. He was in his forties, still in his prime, a BMW in the driveway, an upmarket flat. He sipped at his Cabernet Sauvignon, an Australian red from the Barossa Valley.
A time to reflect, but that night he was not at ease as much as he should be. It hadn’t been only DCI Cook at McIntyre’s house who had told him to think about his options. He’d been considering the situation for some time. Ever since the change in Samantha, where her lovemaking had gone from mutual pleasure to a combative sport.
He could argue against her guilt, disputing the evidence, questioning the experts, bringing doubt into the prosecution, confusing the jury. As much as he would maintain that she was innocent, there was one unassailable fact: the woman was guilty.
‘If you’re thinking of bailing out, Fergus,’ McIntyre had said after the police had left, ‘you’d better think again.’
‘I’m not, but let’s look at the facts.’
‘Let’s not. You’ll defend my daughter, make sure it’s an unfortunate accident.’
‘Samantha’s not admitted to being in Polperro.’
‘Can you prove she wasn’t?’
‘The evidence is irrefutable. Her case is weakened if she continues to deny it.’
‘Then go and see her, tell her to follow your advice.’
The barman disrupted his chain of thought. ‘You’re not looking yourself tonight,’ he said.
Grantham downed what remained in the glass, ordered another. ‘Not tonight,’ he said.
‘Woman trouble?’
‘What else?’ Grantham said. And her father, he thought. In one gulp, he drank his wine and walked out of the bar.
The next day, he was led into a room at the prison, the metal bars on the windows, the solid metal door, the feeling of despair. A CCTV camera in one corner; a prison officer not far away, Samantha sitting in front of him.
‘It’s good to see you,’ she said.
‘Prison suits you,’ Grantham said.
‘I’ve lost weight. The food is barely edible.’
‘I’ve been with your father. We need to adopt a different strategy.’
‘I’ve missed you,’ she said.
Grantham wasn’t sure if he could reciprocate but said it anyway. ‘I’ve missed you, too.’
A brief touching of hands.
‘How’s my father?’
‘He’s Hamish McIntyre. He doesn’t let anyone or anything get him down.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Let me say my piece first before you answer.’
‘I trust you.’
‘If you deny being in Polperro, you’ll lose credibility. The evidence places you there, and you did scrape another car; it can’t be dismissed. And given time, someone will remember you, or a tourist might have taken a happy snap, you in the background.’
‘I wasn’t there.’
‘Samantha, listen to me. Admit that you were.’
‘I stole the car.’
‘You were unhinged after Marcus’s body was found. You weren’t sure what you were doing, and yes, maybe you felt that the woman had blighted your life, destroyed your happiness.’
‘I’m admitting to murder?’
‘While mentally distraught. Don’t worry, I’ll get a couple of eminent experts to testify, quote similar cases.’
‘Do you want me to admit to murder?’
‘It was an ac
cident, that’s what you’ll agree to. You had left London intent on harming the woman, but by the time you got to Polperro, you’d calmed down. You found the woman sitting near the cliff, you became emotional, the same as she did. There was a tussle, and the woman slipped.’
‘Will they believe that?’
‘They’ll not believe anything you say if you continue to deny taking that car and driving to the village. This is the only way.’
‘What do you believe happened?’
‘What I believe is not important.’
‘I’d like to know.’
‘I’m your lawyer. I’ll defend you to the best of my ability. What I think is not relevant.’
‘I’ll make it up to you after I get out of here.’
‘I know that,’ Grantham said. He realised he no longer felt for the woman the way he had before. She was as hard as her father, as ruthless. She acted in the prison as though it didn’t exist, as if her reputation no longer mattered. He’d get her off the charge, first-degree at least.
***
McIntyre could not remember Devon Toxteth; there had been more than a few who had tried to ingratiate themselves with him, others who had tried to extort money, others who had cheated.
Toxteth, according to the police, was interested in extortion. The man’s death did not concern him; after all, it was twenty years ago, the same time as Samantha’s fancy man had met his end. He could remember that vividly, the man pleading for his life, Marcus cowering to one side.
‘Don’t do it,’ Marcus had pleaded.
McIntyre had known it was the time to make a man out of his wimpish son-in-law. How his daughter could have fallen for such a man, he never understood.
He thought of Yanna, the first time he had seen her, a rose amongst thorns. There was something about her that attracted him. He knew he had to take her away, to protect her, and she had treated him well, as he had her. And then he had let her go, only for her to die in prison years later.
There was only one man who could have known of her life: Charles Stanford. And if he knew about Yanna and Toxteth, then what else did he know?
He had handed over the keys to Bedford Gardens quickly enough, not once asking why. But then the man had had no option.
Six Years Too Late Page 24
