DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Mr Stanford,’ Vincent said, ‘further investigation confirms that you visited 11 Bedford Gardens on or about the third day of June of last year.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘People have been interviewed. A man fitting your description was seen entering the property.’

  ‘I’ve not been there for a long time. I suggest you re-examine your evidence.’

  The evidence of a young boy known as a habitual liar, a mischief-maker, was not solid, but if it was proven that Stanford had been at the house, then why was he concealing that fact? After all, visiting a three-storey home did not mean that Stanford had climbed up to the top floor. Even when he had climbed it, Larry had felt the strain, and the last flight was particularly narrow and steep.

  ‘We can provide proof,’ Vincent said.

  ‘If someone has been in there in the last nine or ten months, it wasn’t me.’

  ‘It’s eleven,’ Larry said.

  ‘Eleven, have it your way,’ Stanford said, a disinterested look on his face. ‘If you care to check you’ll find no record of my travelling to London. No train ticket or taxi and I don’t own a car.’

  ‘Very well, let us for the purposes of this interview agree that you were not in that house. We still believe there must be a reason for Marcus Matthews to have been on the top floor. It is not a coincidence. There is a connection between you and Matthews and without doubt Hamish McIntyre.’

  ‘Did he kill Matthews?’

  ‘We have proof he did not. It could have been you.’

  ‘I’m an old man. It’s a long way up those stairs. Have you tried it?’

  ‘I have, it’s a tough climb’ Larry said, or it had been, he thought. He was certainly more active than in the past; out in the park with his wife at the weekend he had managed to run for some of the distance, even putting on his shorts and his trainers too.

  ‘Mr Stanford, we’re getting nowhere,’ Vincent said. He was concerned that nothing would be said or gained to justify his actions. If that were the case, the superintendent with an almost certain letter of complaint would haul him over the coals. He did not relish that possibility.

  ‘Mr Stanford, let us go back to the reason for your retirement. You were a barrister, Queen’s Counsel and a judge, you must know the importance of us being able to do our job unhindered by people who do not reveal the truth. What would happen if someone had appeared before you, reluctant to say all that they knew, especially in a murder investigation?’

  ‘I’m not a judge here. I’m a private citizen, and I have my rights. I regard this as a severe intrusion, and now you want to ask why I retired. I believe that I spoke of that the other day in my house. I revealed my disappointment over the death of Yanna White. It affected me greatly. I’ve told you this. Why am I telling you this again?’

  ‘If any other illegal activities have occurred in that house, in addition to the murder, of course, then you may well bear responsibility.’

  ‘Verbiage, utter rubbish,’ Stanford said in frustration. ‘You’ve got nothing, yet you persevere with this nonsense. I suggest we wrap this up. You can give me a lift back to my house, or else I’ll catch a taxi and send the bill to you.’

  ‘I suggest we break for ten minutes,’ Vincent said. ‘Mr Stanford, you’re welcome to sit outside and make yourself more comfortable.’

  ‘I’d be more comfortable at home. What do you want ten minutes for?’

  ‘We need to make a phone call to London.’

  ***

  Isaac regretted agreeing to Wendy going to Brighton. Larry could have gone on his own. After all, Wally Vincent was down there. Wendy could have helped him out on the street and checking around the murder scene.

  It had been decided during the previous night, at one in the morning, when Isaac had phoned Larry, who had been fast asleep, that he would follow up on Vincent’s good work, seeing if anything else could be found.

  The three police officers sat around Vincent’s desk, his phone on speaker, Isaac up in London.

  ‘What do you have? Larry asked.

  ‘I’ll let you three go first.’

  ‘We’ve interviewed Stanford. He’s saying little, and unless we give him something that he can’t deny, he’s going to walk out of the station soon enough.’

  ‘Inspector Vincent, Wally, regardless that he didn’t inform us that he was in Bedford Gardens, has done a sterling job. I’ve met with Billy Dempsey and his parents, the young boy’s sure of what he saw. I’m with Gordon Windsor and two of his team. They were thorough in their investigation before, but I’ve asked them to focus on the front of the house, especially around the door, and to see if they can find anything under the dirt and grime. It seems certain that Stanford has been in the house at some stage.’

  ‘How long ago?’ Vincent asked.

  ‘The condition of the prints is bad, but they're more recent than twenty years. Windsor believes they could have been placed there within the last three years. He can’t be any more precise, but we can prove that Charles Stanford has been into 11 Bedford Gardens.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Wendy said.

  ‘Windsor’s got two of his people checking, and the area at the top of the house, including the last flight of stairs, was vigorously checked the first time. One thing is clear. Stanford has not been up in that room, not in the previous few years and definitely not in the last eleven months.’

  ‘Could he have killed Matthews?’ Vincent asked.

  ‘There were fingerprints on the bottle of wine that was found, two men, and none belong to Stanford.’

  Stanford had asked for a pizza. He looked up at Wally and Larry on their return.

  ‘I’ve always heard that the condemned man has a pizza,’ he said.

  Larry and Wally sat down, then Wally restarted the interview, reiterating the conversation so far.

  Stanford said nothing as he ate his last slice of pizza. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘It’ll save me cooking later.’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook is at Bedford Gardens, at your house, with a crime scene investigation team,’ Vincent said. ‘They’ve found your fingerprints on the door handle of the front door of your house.’

  ‘Twenty years ago, maybe.’

  ‘The condition of the prints is not good, but they are proof that you have been in the house recently. What were you doing at 11 Bedford Gardens in the last year?’

  ‘Nothing can be proved.’

  ‘We’re trying to solve a murder,’ Larry said. ‘You must understand that our actions are not personal. It’s the truth we want.’

  ‘I’m a private man,’ Stanford said.

  ‘Yes, we understand all this,’ Vincent said, with a sigh of frustration.

  ‘One year ago, give or take a few days, I received a phone call. It was anonymous.’

  ‘What was it about?’

  ‘I was told that my house was being used for criminal activity.’

  ‘What sort of activity?’

  ‘The voice told me drugs were being stored in the basement.’

  ‘What did you find?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Then why do you think you received that phone call?’

  ‘Someone wanted me to find the body, but they couldn’t have known that I wouldn’t climb those stairs, not at my age and in my condition.’

  ‘Do you have any idea why they wanted you to find the body?’ Larry asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea, and as to why they chose my house, I don’t know.’

  ‘You could have told us this before and saved yourself a lot of trouble,’ Vincent said.

  ‘All I want is to be left alone.’

  ‘We need to trace that phone call,’ Larry said. ‘Any idea of the date, other than a few days either way?’

  ‘I keep a diary. I can give you the day and the time, as well as the date that I visited Bedford Gardens, and yes, eleven months is probably correct. Now if there is no more, I will leave you at this police station while I go back
to my house and my life.’

  ‘Is there any more you can tell us? Larry asked.

  ‘I will send a message to your phone with the date and the time of the phone call. If you can trace that, then so be it. But quite frankly, I’m not concerned either way.’

  Wally Vincent concluded the interview.

  Stanford left, this time shaking the hands of the two men, and Wendy’s.

  Chapter 21

  It wasn’t as though he hadn’t wanted Tricia, Brian Jameson thought. It was just that he was comfortable on his own in the house, with the occasional lady friend if he wanted one, but most times he didn’t.

  It had been Tricia who had instigated the romance. Harry had trusted his partner implicitly, and if Tricia and Brian had wanted to meet occasionally, that was fine by him.

  Then one evening, over a bottle of wine, she had lent over and placed her hand on top of his and told him that Harry was neglecting his duty. She had said that he, as his partner and friend, should help out.

  But now Tricia was in the hospital, recovering. If her husband wanted to take his anger out on him, he would not resist.

  ‘Harry,’ Jameson said as he opened the door after someone had rung the bell.

  ‘That wasn’t very neighbourly of you, was it?’ Samantha Matthews said.

  ‘Come in, come in. I’ll fetch us both a drink.’

  ‘You told the police about Fergus, don’t deny it.’

  ‘I only said that I had a photo of his car. I never knew his name, and I’ve always minded my own business.’

  ‘It didn’t stop you seducing your business partner’s wife.’

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘I make it my business to know. Now, what should I do with you after you’ve put me front and centre into the murder investigation of my husband?’

  ‘You never killed him.’

  ‘Who said I did?’

  ‘I liked Marcus, a good man. I’m sorry he died.’

  ‘So am I, but it was a long time ago. What else do you know about me that the police don’t?’

  ‘I know who and what your father is. I care little on either matter.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we’re going to work together. You’re a hotshot man with a computer, and you’re good at hacking them.’

  ‘I test the security of computers and databases, put programs in place to make them safe from attack, strictly legal. There are contracts in place to allow me to do this.’

  ‘And if it wasn’t strictly legal?’

  ‘I’ve never been asked before.’

  ‘What if I asked you?’

  ‘I’d say no.’

  ‘Is that because you’re frightened of being caught or because you regard it as unethical?’

  ‘The first concerns me more. I’ve seen what these companies get up to, the taxation fiddles.’

  ‘Then, Brian, you and I can work together.’

  ‘If I say no?’

  ‘You won’t. The thought of it excites you, more so than the money.’

  ‘If I’m pressured by the police to reveal more about you?’

  ‘You know my father’s reputation. You don’t need to ask that question.’

  ‘What about Fergus?’

  ‘He doesn’t need to know about what we’re discussing. He will manage my legal affairs, and I might still marry him.’

  ‘You’re not sure?’

  ‘He might not want to be involved, but you’re a greedy man who wants to live well.’

  ‘White-collar crime, no violence,’ Jameson said.

  ‘No more than necessary,’ Samantha said. ‘Don’t underestimate me.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘And don’t hack me. If I find out…’

  ‘The same as happened to Marcus?’

  Samantha did not reply. She only smiled as she closed the door behind her.

  ***

  Hamish McIntyre reflected on the conversation with his daughter. Most men would have wanted a son to take over the family business, but there had only been a daughter.

  He had given her the best of educations, the best of opportunities, and she wanted for nothing. Yet, since the admission that she had killed Liz Spalding, Samantha had changed. The thought of her killing the other woman sickened him. Not because of the act – after all, he had committed such acts himself – but because his daughter was no longer an innocent. He had seen the look on her face when she had visited him. It was hard and dangerous.

  And she had known that he had killed Stephen Palmer. But she seemed to have forgiven him, and back then, twenty years in the past, she had been just a child, even though she was married to Marcus, with one child already, another soon to be on the way.

  Gareth Armstrong could see the look of consternation on his boss’s face. ‘What is it?’ he said.

  ‘Samantha wants to take control of my business empire, or at least, what’s left of it.’

  ‘Do you want that?’ Armstrong asked.

  ‘I would have preferred to have left it the way it was.’

  McIntyre reflected on his own mortality, the aches and pains that he felt of a morning, or when he’d been leaning over his plants in the conservatory. Another five to ten years and he’d not be able to control those who still reported to him, those he still frightened.

  ‘Does she realise what she’s getting into?’ Armstrong said.

  ‘I don’t think she’s thought it through, but she’ll not be stopped.’

  ‘Then what option do you have?’

  ‘None.’

  You need to decide. Do you say no to her?’

  ‘I’ve no choice.’ He had no intention of telling Armstrong the details of the conversation he had had with his daughter. That she had murdered and she frightened him. There was a savagery about her he did not recognise. And if he was frightened, then what of others? Maybe a son hadn’t been necessary. Samantha could have his business and his blessing. He took the phone out of his pocket and called her.

  ***

  Brian Jameson felt elated after Samantha had left. The woman was right, he was interested in her offer. He had always known how easy it was to hack a company’s database, to find out what secrets they had hidden, to check the payroll. With care and attention to detail, he could set up a bogus employee or a petty cash fund, and then siphon off small amounts of money regularly. In time, those small amounts would amount to a fortune.

  In Samantha Matthews, he could see a strong and resilient woman, a woman more to his style. Tricia had always been a whimperer, wracked with guilt, worried that Harry would find out.

  He fantasised that it had been Samantha in his bed and not Tricia the night Harry had returned home. After all, he was fit for his age and even though she was fifteen or sixteen years younger than him, she was a more attractive proposition than the wife of another man.

  ‘I’ve not seen Harry,’ Tricia said when Jameson phoned. ‘He’s probably at our place in the country. There’s a suitcase missing in the house, and some of his clothes are gone.’

  ‘Will you testify against him?’

  ‘No. He was my husband for a long time, and besides, we can’t blame him, can we?’

  ‘I half-expected him to turn up here at my door.’

  ‘That’s Harry, not the bravest of men. He wouldn’t have known what to say, probably felt that he was to blame.’

  ‘Will you stay with him?’

  ‘I don’t know. It depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On us.’

  ‘We should consider Harry. You would be better off with him.’

  ‘It’s not what I want.’

  ‘We should do the right thing, don’t you think?’

  ‘It was only a fling, after all,’ Tricia said.

  ‘It was good while it lasted.’

  ‘I’ll make my peace with Harry.’ The phone conversation ended. Tricia sat down and cried. She knew that Brian was right. She would go and see Har
ry, ask his forgiveness. The only fly in the ointment was that she loved Brian, not her husband.

  ***

  Bob Palmer sat in the small kitchen of his drab house. It had been six days since he had stood at the graveside of his long-dead brother, six days since he had visited where Liz had died. He was confused, not sure what to do. His mind fluctuated between the bedroom of his house and that one night with Liz, and where she had died. He remembered what the vicar had said: a small tattoo shaped like a butterfly.

  No matter how much he tried to remember the funeral, he couldn’t; his mind fixated on Liz. The realisation that she would no longer be his, nor anybody else’s, not any of the men she had married, none of the other men she had slept with.

  The one definite factor in the whole saga was that someone had killed her, the same as someone had murdered his brother. And now the police were following up on his brother’s death, interviewing people, checking facts, re-evaluating forensic evidence. If they knew something, or they had suspicions, he would need to know. It was clear the answers were not in his house. He needed to be in London.

  ‘I’ve been a damn fool,’ he said out loud. Not that anyone heard, as in that house there was no other life, just gloom. Taking stock of himself, he stood up, shook his shoulders, jumped on the spot, smacked himself around the face a couple of times. ‘Snap out of it,’ he shouted. ‘Be a man, get on with your life. Find out who killed Liz. Do what is necessary.’

  He had a shower and shaved, brushed his teeth and put on clean clothes. He then left the house, slamming the door. He was more determined than he had been for many years. With a look over his shoulder as he drove down the street, one last look at his house, he headed to the motorway and London. He talked to himself, he remonstrated, he switched the radio on and off.

  On arriving in London, he found a cheap hotel close to where Stephen’s car yard had been, although it was long gone. Not sure what to do next he walked into a pub on the corner. He wasn’t a drinker, but drink makes people talk. And that was what he wanted, people to talk.