‘Where’s this leading, Bridget?’ Larry asked, impatient to be out of the room. He needed a cigarette, and the police station was strictly no smoking.
Bridget moved forward one slide.
‘It was missed at the time, and besides the dates don’t correlate. Twelve days before the drug dealer, a low-life by the name of Devon Toxteth, was dragged out of the river, Marcus Matthews’ car was in the street where the man stashed his merchandise. No connection to Toxteth but where we’re going is more interesting. Two days after Matthews’ car had been in the street, a car owned by Hamish McIntyre was there.’
‘The occupants?’
‘On the second occasion, Hamish McIntyre and Marcus Matthews. The resolution back then was not as good as now, and it’s grainy, probably not good enough to hold up as evidence, but I’m convinced as to the car and the occupants.’
‘They’re in the area, what does that mean?’ Wendy said. She had to admit admiration for her friend.
‘On the 15th January 2002, this is three years later, a warehouse close by to where Toxteth had kept his merchandise, even sleeping there most nights, was opened by the owner. He’d been in a battle to get the land rezoned as residential. One day earlier he’d secured the permission, and he was there with another man who was going to demolish the warehouse and then build luxury apartments on the site. Inside, something that was going to delay the work: a body.’
‘Murdered?’
‘It took some time, but eventually the man was identified as Stephen Palmer, a used car dealer. He was thirty-one years of age, and his death had been violent.’
‘Hamish McIntyre and Marcus Matthews?’
‘Nobody made the connection at the time. The condition of the body and the date of his disappearance – need I tell you the date?’
‘The period that the two men had been in the area of the warehouse?’ Isaac said.
‘Exactly. They were involved. I’ve emailed you all a copy of the investigation into Palmer’s death, including photos of the dead body. Not even his mother would have recognised him.’
‘Any known associations with either McIntyre or Matthews?’ Larry asked, the need for a smoke abated temporarily.
‘The report will show that Stephen Palmer was a man with no criminal record and that the vehicles he sold were in good condition. There appears to be no connection to either of the two men. He was a man about town, plenty of girlfriends, but no issues there either. Some of them were interviewed, as well as some of his male friends; the man was regarded as a decent person who caused no trouble.’
Isaac could see another flawless character, but the man, he knew, would have skeletons in the cupboard, the same as Samantha Matthews had.
Chapter 8
Bridget’s work had established a high degree of probability that Hamish McIntyre was a murderer and that Marcus Matthews had been his accomplice, willing or not. Although police records had shown that Matthews was a shady character, the label of violent had never been pinned against his name, not surprising considering that the man had been neither particularly tall nor muscular. In fact, the general consensus from those who had known him was that he was an insignificant little man, decent to talk to, to buy you a pint in the pub, and that he couldn’t hold his drink. ‘One pint was his limit,’ said one of the men in the pub where Larry had conducted enquiries. The man, a burly labourer with tattooed arms, was red-faced and angry; he was also drunk and looking for trouble.
‘A direct approach to Hamish McIntyre will have all the wolves out,’ Isaac said as he sat in Chief Superintendent Goddard’s office on the top floor of the police station. ‘They would be wanting us to present our evidence, threatening legal action, and claiming that the police vendetta over many years is just that.’
‘You’re referring to his lawyers?’ Richard Goddard said. An ambitious man, frustrated that he had not risen higher in rank in the London Metropolitan Police; down to political manoeuvrings by others he would have said. He’d not mention that he was an adroit political animal, always attending one conference or another, making sure that he was present when there were politicians in Westminster to woo, his mentor now wearing the robes in the House of Lords. The problem for Goddard was that the dislike between him and the current head of the London Metropolitan Police was instinctive, mutual at their first meeting.
‘We’ve no proof against McIntyre. Stephen Palmer did not die quickly, and whoever did it either enjoyed the experience or had a reason to hate the man.’
‘What’s the connection between McIntyre and Palmer?’
‘From what we know, the two men never met each other.’
‘What do you want from me? You’re experienced enough not to need my advice,’ Goddard said as he leant back in his black leather chair.
‘I’m updating you. Palmer’s murder is twenty years old, that of Marcus Matthews is more recent. And we don’t know if there is a connection. If Hamish McIntyre killed Palmer, that’s one thing, but he didn’t kill Matthews, not because he wouldn’t have been capable, but because it wasn’t possible, the man had a broken leg. He would never have negotiated the stairs.’
‘So trying to pin a twenty-year-old murder on McIntyre, for which you have only circumstantial evidence, doesn’t help in solving the murder of Marcus Matthews.’
‘That’s about it. We’d never prove Palmer’s murder was the handiwork of McIntyre.’
‘Then find the proof, make the connection between the two men. Until then, keep away from Hamish McIntyre. The moment you go in heavy with him, you’re in for trouble, we all are. You’ve met him, what’s he like in person?’
‘Exceedingly polite and charming, well-spoken, no more the rough accent and the bad language; in other words, the archetypal upper-class Englishman.’
‘And the upper-class Englishman has surrounded himself with the establishment. The man has some impressive contacts. If, as you believe, he is guilty of murder, then make sure you can make it stick. I don’t want our noses ground in the dirt over this one. Palmer died for a reason, find that reason. It may still be a red herring, nothing to do with McIntyre and the death of Marcus Matthews, and you may just be wasting everyone’s time.’
‘That’s the problem. I know that we could be, but there are no leads on who killed Matthews.’
‘No one in the area remembers anything suspicious from six years back?’
‘None that we’ve found. We thought we had a lead, an old man down the street recollected someone entering the building, but he was just keen to be involved in the investigation. He couldn’t tell us who he had seen, which year it was. Quite frankly, I don’t think we can solve Matthews’ murder with what we’ve got.’
Isaac had not needed to speak to his senior about the course of action he was contemplating. As an experienced police officer and the senior investigating officer in Homicide, the decision on how to proceed was his. But Richard Goddard was a friend, a mentor, a sounding board.
***
Two floors down, on Isaac’s return the team were busy going over the evidence. Wendy was, as usual, struggling with the paperwork. Isaac knew that Bridget would help her out when she had a free moment, which didn’t look to be anytime soon. Larry was propped up in a chair, the weak sun coming in through the window gently warming him as his eyes closed.
‘Larry, my office, now,’ Isaac said, brusquely. Wendy looked up from her laptop, looked over at Larry, looked up at Isaac; her expression showed that she knew what was afoot. Bridget continued tapping away at the keyboard on her laptop, the monitor to her right-hand side.
‘Larry, you’re letting the side down,’ Isaac said inside his office.
The detective inspector rubbed his eyes, fiddled with his tie, skewed at the neck as usual. ‘I’ve got a few things on my mind. I’ll do better, believe me.’
Isaac didn’t.
‘Larry, you’ve got a good family, a supportive wife, and a good record in this department, but you’re an alcoholic.’
‘
Admittedly, I like a few pints once or twice a week, but I can give it up anytime I want.’
‘You can’t, and you know it, even if you won’t admit to it. I can either reprimand you, file an official report, or you can sort yourself out.’
‘It’s the pressure at home, to bring in more money, to study, to become a chief inspector.’
‘Most people thrive on pressure. What’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing for others, but it’s not for me.’
‘You’re of little use to me at the present time. It’s moderation that is needed, not abstinence. You’ve got to break the cycle.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘You won’t. I’m sending you for a full medical and fitness evaluation. I want to know that you’re fit enough, mentally astute, and able to either stop the alcohol or to temper your need for it.’
‘I need to drink. It’s the one way the villains open up to me. If they see me as one of them, then they talk. I can’t be there in the pub with them drinking orange juice, can I?’
‘I’d agree. Getting drunk every time is not vital, though.’
‘You’re right,’ Larry said.
In spite of his reply, Isaac could see a man in denial.
‘Tomorrow at 8 a.m. you’re to report for your medical. Bridget will give you the details of where to go.’
‘Does the department know?’
‘Not from me. It’s up to you, and this is the last time we’ll have this conversation. In the past, you’ve pulled yourself together. This time I’m not sure that you can. I suggest that you get a good night’s sleep, and present yourself for your medical tomorrow.’
A sheepish man left the office. Although optimistic by nature, Isaac could not help but hold the view that Detective Inspector Larry Hill was a lost cause.
***
Gareth Armstrong drove the Mercedes from Hamish McIntyre’s country mansion to Hammersmith. McIntyre was in the back seat enjoying the luxury of the vehicle, the smell of the leather, the air of respectability that it afforded him.
As McIntyre prepared to knock on the door of the house, it opened.
‘I know you didn’t kill Marcus,’ Samantha Matthews said.
‘I would never have harmed him, why would you never believe me?’ McIntyre said as he moved forward to embrace his daughter, the one constant in his life, the person he loved more than any other.
‘You’ve harmed others, why not him?’
‘Because he was your husband, the father of your children, my grandchildren.’
‘You’d better come in; loitering on the doorstep will only have the neighbours gossiping.’
McIntyre breathed a sigh of relief; his daughter’s sarcasm meant that the rift between the two had healed.
Inside the house, an air of tranquillity ensued. It was as if nothing had occurred between the two, so fond of each other that they were. The gangster, honest enough with his daughter to allow that appellation to be applied to him, was confident in knowing that she would never condemn or criticise him for what he had been in the past, the actions he had committed, the violence he had meted out.
‘Annie?’ McIntyre asked.
‘Better than I expected. There were tears, but she was always closer to her father than the others.’
‘I misjudged him when you married him.’
‘He cared for us.’
‘I know.’
‘Who killed him?’ Samantha changed the subject.
‘I’ve got my people looking for clues, checking old acquaintances, visiting places they’d rather not.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing so far. It seems he waited in that room. Why would someone wait to die?’
‘Marcus had strange ideas of right and wrong.’
‘Still, it’s bizarre. Why give your life on a principle, an agreement made in the past?’
‘There was always a side to him that I didn’t understand.’
‘I’ll not relax until we find out who killed him.’
‘The police?’
‘They can conduct their investigation; I’ll conduct mine.’
‘And if you find out who it is?’
‘He answers to me, not to a judge and jury.’
Hamish McIntyre left the house later that night. Before leaving, he spent time with Annie, sat with her as she did her school work, spoke to her about her father, her hopes for the future. Samantha watched the two of them with affection, seeing herself there with her father instead of Annie. She knew that she loved her father intensely, the man who had brought her up single-handed after the death of his wife, her mother. She knew she’d never lock him out of her life again.
***
Larry presented himself for his medical, only to be told that it was not a cursory examination: blood pressure, cholesterol, a check on his breathing. Instead, as the doctor informed him, he was to have the full medical examination, as well as a fitness and substance misuse test. He knew that he could never pass, especially the fitness test. He was an overweight man of forty-three, not a junior recruit.
Isaac would later admit that the comprehensive medical and fitness examination and tests were for his inspector’s benefit. He wanted Larry back on the team in excellent condition: stamina restored, the enthusiasm of the man unbound, the good sense to look after his own well-being.
The examination and tests were a disaster, as both the doctor and Larry had expected. Isaac received a report within the hour of Larry leaving the doctor’s office: blood pressure – 140/90 mmHg, cholesterol level – 230 mg/dl, body mass index – 29. The one high point in the report was that Larry’s eyesight was excellent for a man of his age.
The fitness test, known as the multi-stage shuttle run test, was the worst. It consists of running between two lines fifteen metres apart, the electronic bleep progressively speeding up with each run stage until the participant reaches the required speed. Larry failed to complete the test, having to sit down and catch his breath, almost lying on the floor.
In the second stage of the fitness test, Larry fared better, in part because he still retained strength in his upper body. He managed to complete four of the five pushes of a 34 kilo (push) and 35 kilo (pull)
Isaac knew that if he presented the doctor’s report to Richard Goddard, he would agree and move Larry out of the department. It was an avenue that Isaac didn’t want to pursue, not just yet.
Chapter 9
Larry entered Homicide twelve hours after his reality check at the medical centre. Eight of the interceding twelve hours had been consumed by sleep, the other four with talking to his wife, who knew when her husband had something on his mind. She had wheedled the truth out of him, about how his job was on the line and that his physical condition was not good; not that she needed to be told that. The romantic interludes in the bedroom in the last year, before the children woke, had become infrequent. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him, but his snoring and belching had destroyed any chance of romance. Even so, he tried to reawaken affection in her, but she invariably started talking about this and that, or else got up and fussed around the house, or, if she really wanted to put him off, discussed furniture and wallpaper.
Wendy made a comment about Larry’s freshened-up look, and Bridget smiled. Isaac said no more on the matter; he had lambasted the man enough.
The early-morning meeting continued, Isaac emphasising a change in tactic, an attempt to find the reason for Marcus Matthews’ death, not the culprit, as they had no further leads. Charles Stanford, the retired judge and now semi-reclusive eccentric, had not been willing to say more about the house in Bedford Gardens, other than it was only still standing due to luck and not because he wanted it to.
Further discussions with Wally Vincent, down in Brighton, had not added much. Stanford, to him, was a pain to deal with, but he hadn’t had reason to visit and remonstrate with him for some time, and he hoped it would stay that way. He had enough to deal with, as murders and crime were not exclusive to London; they had their o
wn villains, drug addicts, and reprobates.
With Larry focused, or as focused as a man could be when he was carrying fifty pounds of excess weight, he left the office with Wendy; their destination, the home of Stephen Palmer’s brother. He had been interviewed briefly before, but little had come of the conversation. That had been before the added focus on the case, the hope that there was a tie-in to the death of Marcus, though it was conceded by the department that that hope was slight. Marcus had almost certainly been present when Palmer died, and he had been killed since then. And the belief that if you keep digging long enough, something will turn up was current in the minds of all those in Homicide.
It was a useful gardening adage, but in a police investigation it often proved correct that the flower may bloom up above, but down in the soil, with the worms and the grubs, was where the truth lay. Not that Bob Palmer was a creature of the soil; he was an accountant.
‘I know what you’re feeling. I’ve been through this myself,’ Wendy said as the two police officers headed towards Palmer’s house in Oxford. It was motorway most of the way, and even though the traffic was light, there was steady rain and a light mist. The trip should have taken about ninety minutes, but as they were not in a hurry – the scheduled meeting with Palmer wasn’t until 11 a.m. – the two of them stopped at a motorway café for breakfast, Larry opting for cereal and a cup of tea, Wendy enjoying her bacon and eggs, looking over at the jealous eyes of her inspector.
‘It’s my health,’ Larry confided.
‘It’s your weight, Inspector, and if you don’t mind me saying it, your drinking.’
Larry did mind; it was the truth, but the truth sometimes hurts.
‘Why is it that what we love often gives us pain?’
‘The human condition,’ Wendy said, having heard the phrase on a television documentary.
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