DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

by Phillip Strang

  ‘I don’t often speak to Samantha, but I do know her. I’ve always found her to be a pleasant woman, and her children have always been polite and courteous.’

  ‘Are you aware of her history?’

  ‘If you’re referring to her father, then yes.’

  ‘Marcus Matthews?’

  ‘I knew Marcus, and sometimes we had a drink at the pub together. He wasn’t a big drinker, neither am I, but I found his company pleasant.’

  ‘Did you know that he had a criminal record and that Samantha’s father is regarded by the police as a dangerous man?’

  ‘I knew the history of both men. Now let’s get to the crux of the matter. What is it you want from me?’

  ‘How do you know so much about Samantha’s husband and her father?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘You spoke to Harry; didn’t you ask him what his business was?’

  ‘Not specifically. We know he’s involved with IT.’

  ‘We’re involved with data security. Harry gets the business, and I deal with the technical side. I researched Samantha and her family after Marcus gave me some insights.’

  ‘Why would you want to know about your neighbours?’ Larry asked.

  ‘No persuasive reason, but when Marcus disappeared that time I checked further into the family. I already knew Marcus had a criminal record. He had told me that once down at the pub, and he’d let on that his father-in-law could cause trouble.’

  ‘Did you ever meet Hamish McIntyre?’

  ‘Once or twice, and on both occasions he was friendly. I can’t say that I spent time with the man or indulged in any lengthy conversations.’

  ‘Are you aware that Samantha Matthews has a boyfriend?’

  ‘I’ve seen a man there on several occasions, but what’s his importance? He’s only been coming around for the last nine months or thereabouts.’

  Wendy could see that Brian Jameson was a more astute man than Harry Anders, and if the man knew more than he was saying, it would not be easy to prise it from him.

  ‘Do you know who he is?’

  ‘I know his car. Why don’t you ask Samantha? After all, Marcus disappeared six years ago. What’s wrong with her having a man?’

  Neither Larry nor Wendy wanted to state that the reason they had not questioned Samantha directly was that she could still be involved in the death of Marcus.

  ‘Can you give us a detailed description of the man’s car?’ Wendy said.

  ‘It’s a late-model BMW. I take it you want the registration number.’

  ‘If you could.’

  ‘I was on the street taking a photo of my car. I was trying to sell it, and the boyfriend’s car was parked in front. I’ll send you the picture.’

  ***

  True to his word, Jameson emailed the photo of his car, Samantha’s boyfriend’s car visible in front of it. Wendy forwarded the picture to Bridget, using her smartphone.

  In the office, Isaac was waiting for Larry and Wendy on their return. ‘I hope you’ve both packed an overnight bag,’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘Liz Spalding. She’s been found dead.’

  ‘Murdered?’

  ‘The crime scene investigators are checking, so are the local police, but yes, it’s murder.’

  ‘Any clues?’

  ‘Not yet, but the crime was committed in an open space. There’s a strong possibility that somebody might have seen something. I’ll stay here in the office, deal with whatever comes in, with whatever you find. You’ll be meeting with a Detective Inspector Greenwood. I’ve told him that you’ll be there today. And if it’s late, don’t worry about waking him up, he’s expecting you to call. He’ll be taking the lead so update him on our investigation.’

  Larry phoned home, met with a gruff response from his wife, told her that he was going to be away for a few days. He knew she wasn’t a person to stay angry for long and by the time he came back, all would be well in the Hill household again. Wendy had no such issues to worry about, only an old cat that needed feeding; Bridget would care for it.

  Twenty-five minutes later, as Larry and Wendy were preparing to leave, Bridget shouted out, ‘I’ve found out who the car belongs to. Have a good trip.’

  The trip down to Cornwall took just over five hours, Larry and Wendy taking turns at driving. It was late in the evening, close to midnight, before they drove into the village. Inspector Greenwood had arranged accommodation for the two of them at a local hotel, a bar downstairs. Larry was determined to avoid it.

  Jim Greenwood met them as agreed, even though it was late. He was a lanky man, a long thin face with a pronounced nose, not an attractive combination, Wendy thought.

  ‘A forager down at the bottom of the cliffs found her. Sometimes items of interest wash up on the shore, and we’ve a couple of people in the village who like to look for these items, not sure why, as most times they only find an old can or a flotation device of one sort or another, rarely anything worth keeping,’ Greenwood said.

  ‘How long had she been there?’ Larry asked.

  ‘We leave that up to the crime scene investigators, but I knew her. I saw her three days ago up near her cottage. It’s a small community, you soon get to know everyone.’

  ‘Any witnesses?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘We’re not sure yet. We’re still conducting our enquiries, but it wasn’t a secluded area where she was pushed off the cliff. Any reason why someone would have wanted her dead?’

  ‘She’s been part of our investigation for some time. She was involved twenty years ago with a man who was murdered under unusual and violent circumstances. We believe we have a connection to another person of interest as to why he died.’

  ‘We questioned Mrs Venter, local busybody, harmless, friendly with everyone. She appears to be the last person that spoke with Liz Spalding. According to Mrs Venter, she and Liz exchanged pleasantries before each going their separate ways. They met no more than fifty yards from where the woman was thrown off the cliff. That was two days ago.’

  ‘Thrown or pushed? You’ve not been clear on that,’ Larry said.

  ‘There are clear signs of a scuffle, one woman dragging the other. Either the murderer was stronger than Liz or caught her by surprise. According to the investigators, Liz Spalding was lifted at the edge of the cliff and thrown off. It’s a forty yard drop onto jagged rocks, and then there was high tide, the body wedged in the rocks. Even after only a couple of days, it’s not a pretty sight. An attractive woman, as you both know.’

  ‘We’ve both met her before, and yes, she was attractive. Was she alone at the cottage?’

  ‘It’s been checked, and there was no sign of another person. There was a message on her phone. She had left it at the cottage. A man had phoned to say he had been delayed for a couple of days. We’ve got a phone number and a name. He’s been informed. He’s not been here yet, although we expect him to appear at some time.’

  ‘Do you have a name?’

  ‘You’ll have it in the morning, as well as an update from the chief crime scene investigator. We’ll also meet up with Forensics, have a chat to the pathologist as to when he’ll be conducting an autopsy. Crime is a rare occurrence here, or at least murder is. Sure, we have one or two drunken youths who think graffitiing the church wall is a great pastime, but apart from that not much happens here.’

  ‘Where is the crime scene investigation team based?’ Larry said.

  ‘They came down from Plymouth. I’m stationed there, but I live in the village. It’s my patch, unofficially that is, that’s why I’ve been given the lead in this investigation,’ Greenwood said.

  Chapter 16

  Jenny, Isaac’s wife, was not surprised when he phoned from the office, late as usual, to say that he would be another couple of hours. It was only one of the things that he loved about her, the fact that she was always sympathetic when work took precedence over the home. She switched off the oven where his meal had been heating, turned down the light, and went into
the other room, to bed.

  It was Bridget who identified the man from the car registration. Isaac had to admit that the man lived well, but then, that was to be expected as he was not only Hamish McIntyre’s lawyer, or one of them, he was Samantha’s lover. Inside the mews house, Isaac sat on a comfortable chair, the lawyer sitting opposite. The man was dressed casually; it was late at night, almost eleven.

  ‘What do you want, DCI?’ Fergus Grantham said.

  It wasn’t the first time the two men had met, and Isaac knew that the lawyer specialised in defending the criminal echelon in London. They had sparred in the courtroom on a couple of occasions, Isaac giving his evidence, Grantham using all his skills and wiles to devalue it, succeeding on some occasions, failing on others. Even so, Isaac could not feel any animosity towards him; even the most despicable was entitled to a fair trial. He was forty-seven years of age, and with a suntan courtesy of holidays in the Caribbean, he looked younger. He was as tall as Isaac, over six feet, and fit.

  Isaac had had to give up running in his youth. He had been a promising athlete until a knee injury, but Grantham suffered from no such ailments, and he ran every day for four to five miles.

  ‘Samantha Matthews is your lover. Is this true?’ Isaac said.

  ‘What interest is that to you? Her husband disappeared six years ago. One more year and he can be declared legally dead. I’ve been dealing with the paperwork for her.’

  ‘We are concerned that Samantha is, by default, implicated in her husband’s death.’

  ‘Inspector, be careful what you say. As a lawyer, I’m recording our conversation. It could go against you. I have a deep affection for the woman, and she is also my client. Samantha has never been involved in any criminal activity, regardless of what you or your police department wish to think.’

  ‘Samantha was having an affair with Stephen Palmer. Marcus was alive at the time and living in the family home. Palmer disappeared without a trace, only to be discovered some years later hanging from a beam in a warehouse. His death had not been pleasant. No doubt you know this.’

  ‘It’s before I became a lawyer, but yes, I know, only because you have badgered Hamish McIntyre and Samantha. Neither of them has any knowledge of how Palmer died.’

  Grantham continued after a pause of several seconds while he took a drink from the glass at his side. He did not offer one to Isaac. ‘Samantha is blameless of any crime, and yes, I do know that you have been at next door’s house.’

  ‘How do you know this?

  ‘It’s my job to know; how is not the issue here, is it? What are you going to make of the fact that I was upstairs in Samantha’s house when your people were downstairs interviewing her? Unless you have proof of involvement, then I suggest you desist from pestering her.’

  Isaac had to agree with the man on one point. They had nothing against the woman, except the fact that she was the daughter of a vicious man, a man who through skilful management and expert legal advice had remained out of jail, and who now preferred to stay at his mansion in the country.

  ‘If there is no more, Inspector, then I suggest you leave,’ Grantham said. ‘We will regard our conversation as just that, would you agree? I have no wish to destroy your career, and to save the police embarrassment we will not talk of this matter again. After Marcus is buried, Samantha and I intend to spend a lot more time together.’

  ‘Does her father know of your and Samantha’s plan? Your current relationship?’ Isaac asked, needling for more information before being shown the door.

  ‘He would have no issues with Samantha and me, and I would advise you not to mention it to him. I suggest that you leave my house now and don’t come back unless you have a warrant or proof of malpractice or criminal intent. Let me make it clear, you will not find either of those to apply against me.’

  Outside on the street, Isaac took a deep breath. Grantham had been right, but it had been necessary for him to meet the man. He was one more cog in the wheel, another piece of information which on the face of it seemed irrelevant. But down in Cornwall, a former rival for Stephen Palmer’s affections lay dead, a victim of foul play. Someone had murdered her for reasons unknown, reasons that would be discovered. Isaac returned to the station even though it was close to one in the morning. Jenny would be fast asleep at home. Another forty minutes and he would be there with her.

  ***

  Larry and Wendy met up with the senior crime scene investigator in Polperro. It was 9 a.m. before he arrived and, as he told them, he was just wrapping up. The man had little time for the London police to be angling in on what to him was a local issue. That was what Larry interpreted from the man’s attitude, and the fact that he did not introduce himself, did not shake his or Wendy’s hand. Compared to Gordon Windsor, the senior crime scene investigator that Homicide worked with in London, he was churlish.

  ‘You can see where she was dragged,’ the CSI said. ‘Over here, closer to the edge, you can clearly see where she was lifted up and thrown over the cliff.’

  Even to Larry and Wendy that much was obvious.

  ‘It was a woman,’ the CSI said, explaining what he had to and no more.

  ‘Any idea as to her height? Would she have had to be strong?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Not necessarily. The murderer would have had the advantage of surprise, and the time from where the woman had been grabbed to where she had gone over the cliff would have been measured in seconds, probably no more than ten to fifteen. The evidence here doesn’t allow us to give the precise height of the woman, only that judging by the prints in the soil, she was most likely of a similar height to the dead woman. My report will put forward the premise, not the certainty. We have scuff marks of footwear on the ground, some belonging to the dead woman, others belonging to the murderer. The murderer was wearing boots, leather, black in colour.’

  ‘High heels?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘Not from what we can see. We’re confident that the boots were of good quality, and we have an imprint. I suggest you talk to the pathologist if you want to know about the condition of the body, but he’ll tell you no more than I can. It’s a forty-yard drop; she bounced off some jagged rocks on the way down before landing on the rocks at the shoreline. Death would have been instantaneous.’

  Palmer had died at the hand of a man or men, so had Marcus Matthews, but now a woman was involved in the latest death. They were looking for two, possibly three murderers. The investigation was becoming complicated.

  Liz Spalding’s body had been removed the night before. Larry and Wendy walked down the lane to the beach and then along to the rocks where she had ended up; there was little to see. Nobody, not even the police or the crime scene investigators, could stop the action of the sea washing further evidence away.

  ‘I suggest we go into Plymouth,’ Greenwood said. ‘I’ve set up an appointment with Forensics, and we’ll be meeting the pathologist this afternoon. He’ll be conducting the autopsy once we arrive. I intend to be present.’

  At the station, there was a warm welcome from the others in the station, a few jokes about officers coming down from London to be shown how to conduct an investigation.

  Larry was not in a mood to enjoy it, though; his wife had been on the phone, and yes, he was forgiven, but there was another demand when he came home. The smoking ban had been reiterated; the eldest child had a dry cough, the result of the stale cigarette fumes that were in the house every morning. He knew she was right. He took three quick puffs of the cigarette in his hand and then threw it away, the packet in his pocket and the disposable lighter soon after.

  In Forensics, the chief scientist, a man of Indian extraction, although he spoke with a broad West Country accent, explained what they had found, the tests they had conducted.

  ‘The boots we believe are Gucci, judging by the pattern on the sole. We can’t be more than ninety per cent certain, but if they are, that would mean they were expensive. Not too many shops, at least down here, would sell boots like that. In London,
I presume there are plenty of places.’

  ‘Are you able to give a type number or any more details? Wendy asked.

  ‘We’re checking. If we have any further information, we’ll let you know.’

  Gucci boots in London, even if expensive, were within the financial reach of most women, especially the fashion-conscious and those gainfully employed in the City of London. Finding who could have purchased those worn at the murder scene would not be easy, Wendy knew that.

  ‘Any more you can tell us about the woman who committed the crime?’

  ‘We found a trace of lipstick on the dead woman’s clothing. It wasn’t hers.’

  ‘Cars rarely travel up the lane as it is narrow. The only vehicles are local tradesmen and residents who live up there,’ Jim Greenwood said. ‘We don’t have the luxury of CCTV cameras on every street corner as you do in London.’

  In Pathology, five minutes’ drive away, the pathologist’s assistant introduced herself and took the three police officers into the pathologist’s office. His table littered with papers, a laptop in the centre, a monitor to one side. He looked up, put down the mouse he had been holding and put out his hand to shake the hand of all three officers in turn.

  ‘My name’s Felix Taylor,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you. We’ll be starting in ten minutes. I suggest you get yourself prepared.’

  Neither Larry nor Wendy felt the need to attend the autopsy, as they had seen enough in their time, but Jim Greenwood was excited at the prospect.

  ‘I’ve had a cursory look at the body,’ Taylor said.

  ‘Is there anything you can tell us?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘I’m reluctant to comment before I have conducted a full examination. As the woman’s injuries will probably show, she died as a result of impacting the rocks at the bottom of the cliff. Injuries consistent with suicide, an accident, or, as it has been determined in this case, murder.’