DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

by Phillip Strang

  He propped himself up at the bar, ordered a pint of beer, indulged in idle conversation with the barman, and looked around.

  ‘Does anybody in here remember Stephen Palmer?’ he asked the barman.

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘He had a used car yard just down the road. There’s a supermarket there now.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Twenty years.’

  ‘I moved into the area four years back. No doubt a few of the regulars would remember back to then. Why the interest?’

  ‘He was my brother, and I got to thinking about him after his old girlfriend died recently.’

  ‘It’s always sad when that happens.’

  ‘Memories, that’s all. I feel I need closure on her death. I fancied her back then, but she only wanted my brother.’

  ‘Hey, Jacob,’ the barman shouted out across the bar. ‘Do you remember a Stephen Palmer? More your time than mine.’

  ‘He’s one of the regulars, been coming in here forever,’ the barman said, turning back to Bob.

  Who’s asking?’

  ‘Gentleman at the bar. Says he’s his brother.’

  ‘Good man, your brother,’ Jacob said after he had come over to where Bob Palmer was standing. ‘I remember him well, always good for a laugh, never shirked on his round of beer.’ The man stuck out his empty glass, a clear hint to Palmer that if he wanted to talk, he needed to supply the drinks.

  Taking the hint, Palmer looked over at the barman. ‘A pint for my friend, one for me. Pour one for yourself.’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do. Anything to eat?’

  ‘I’d love one of your steak and kidney pies,’ Jacob said.

  ‘I’ll have one for myself, as well,’ Bob said. The man was worth a few drinks and a bite to eat.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ Jacob asked. Prematurely balding, his hair combed over, he looked mildly comical. ‘He was a lad, your brother, used to put it about something shocking.’

  ‘A mutual friend of Stephen and mine died recently. You might have known her, Liz Spalding.’

  ‘Good sort, keen on Stephen. A lot of the lads fancied her, kept trying it on, but no success, not while Stephen was around. He could attract women to him like no one else.’

  ‘He had other women, one of them was married.’

  ‘Why the interest?’

  ‘It just seems important to talk to people who knew him and Liz. She died suddenly, not so long ago. Her death brought back to me the time when Stephen was alive, our childhood together.’

  ‘Married women bring trouble. I can understand you being upset, but I suggest you don’t go asking too many questions.’

  ‘Why? What’s the problem?’

  ‘Stephen, he upset some of the other men, took some of their girlfriends, especially the good-looking ones.’

  ‘I still need to talk to people who knew him and Liz.’ Palmer was aware that he was telling a good story, putting on a great act, almost enjoying himself, but never forgetting.

  ‘I remember one girlfriend, she had a small tattoo close to her wrist,’ Palmer said. ‘He was keen on her, I know that, but he never introduced me to her. I’d like to talk to her about Stephen.’

  ‘I suggest you leave it there.’ Jacob said, picking up his steak and kidney pie and his beer and moving to the other side of the small room.

  ‘What’s up with him?’ the barman said.

  ‘I must’ve hit a raw nerve. I was asking him about one of Stephen’s women. She had a small butterfly tattooed on her inside arm, near to her wrist.’

  ‘Jacob knows his way around these parts. If he tells you to leave well alone, I’d suggest you do that. If you value your life, that is.’

  But that was the issue: Bob Palmer didn’t, not any more. He was on a mission of vengeance, and he would not be swayed. He needed to know what Jacob and the barman knew.

  Chapter 22

  Fergus Grantham sensed the change. The last time they had made love, the day when he had questioned Samantha about the events in Cornwall, their lovemaking had been mutual, a bonding of two souls. But now, three days later, as he lay back on her bed, he looked at her sleeping. Exhaustion, he thought. It had been a blood sport, a gladiatorial contest with Samantha initiating congress, demanding more of him. No mention of love, no sweetness, just animal passion.

  And if Samantha had taken another person’s life, she would be capable of doing it again.

  He had been on his own ever since his wife had died suddenly. And now with Samantha’s husband confirmed dead and soon to be buried, there was no impediment to the two of them getting married. But he wasn’t sure if he wanted that any more.

  Samantha turned over. ‘Still awake?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, just thinking about things. Nothing important.’

  Samantha studied him, uncertain where their relationship was heading. She had told Brian Jameson that it was white-collar crime that interested her. But she knew, as Jameson must have, violence is never far away. She had seen the man eye her up and down before, even on the day when she’d made the offer to him. He was older than Fergus by a few years. He wouldn’t have the stamina to keep up, but sex is a potent drug. It makes men pliable in the hands of a skilful woman.

  ‘Fergus, stop worrying. I’m not about to do anything stupid. I know that things are moving fast.’

  ‘You need to be careful. The police are keeping a watch on you, attempting to tie you in with Cornwall.’

  Samantha didn’t reply to his advice, only said, ‘I’m going to work with my father.’

  ‘Are you sure? That’s a dangerous road to travel.’

  ‘I am, but I’m smarter than my father. I have the benefit of a good education, social skills.’

  ‘We could be together on a more permanent basis.’ Grantham wasn’t sure why he had brought up the subject.

  Samantha sensed the man wanted out. Not that she could blame him, but she still wanted him on her terms.

  Fergus, she knew, could walk away from her and her father, his reputation as a defence lawyer intact.

  She got out of bed, took a shower, dressed and left the house. She needed time to think. She needed to consider how to handle him, and if he were a risk, then she would need to consider the options.

  ***

  Charles Stanford, now back in his house, reflected on the events at the police station. He had not handled it as well as he thought he should have. In the past, he would not have allowed the police to break through what he preferred to keep hidden; the problem was that the anonymous voice had sounded familiar.

  But now, back in his house, he wondered what he should do. Should he confront the person whom he suspected?

  But then, the voice had wanted the body to be found. The reason why eluded him.

  He had considered going up to the top of the house at Bedford Gardens, but after the first floor, with the pain in his right leg, the soreness he felt in one shoulder as he held the bannister for support, he never ventured further.

  Outside in the street, the yapping dog again.

  His mind turned away from the police station and back to his house, the yapping dog, the nosy neighbours, and the general malaise in the area. He knew that Vincent, who may well be a good police inspector, had a soft heart. He could never believe that the man would enforce his removal from the house and into a care home.

  He walked to the kitchen at the back of the house and put on the kettle, made himself a cup of tea and sat down. He opened the refrigerator, found little in there except for spoiled milk, a couple of eggs, a pizza which had remained unopened for some months and looked inedible. After the one he had consumed at the police station he felt a hankering for another.

  Still dressed in his suit he opened the front door and left the house. It was the first time, apart from the visit to the police station, that he had looked and acted normal. He was confused by his anguish over the Yanna White case. What he should have done, not that he could have, but he had seen the woman standing
there in the court, her head down, continually fiddling with her hands, the scratches on her arm, her frustration and her inability to talk of matters that remained deep and hidden.

  A competent defence lawyer would have dealt with the case better, he would have done better, but the lawyer that had been provided – she had refused to accept her family’s offer to give her a highly competent lawyer – proved to be young, ineffective, and quite silly.

  He knew that if it had been him, he would have put forward a more robust defence; he would have provided background information on where she came from, regardless of what she wanted.

  The day he was told of her death was a sad day, and yet, years later, he reflected on it on an almost daily basis. He walked down the street; his head held up high. He knew of a pizza shop not far away, not that he’d ever been in, but today he would. As he rounded the corner, he stopped mid-stride. He turned around and walked back to his house. Once inside, he closed the door, changed his clothes, hung his suit up on a hanger in the wardrobe, and sat down.

  ‘It’s no use,’ he murmured to himself.

  Outside the yapping dog. He opened the door, picked up a rock and hurled it, catching the dog mid-body, the dog yelping and running away, the owner nearby.

  Stanford closed his door. He knew there’d be trouble, but he didn’t care.

  He stood up, went to the wardrobe and put on his suit again, this time taking money from a safe hidden under the floorboards. He then walked out of the house. If his life was forfeit, then so be it. Stale milk and two eggs in his refrigerator were not worth living for.

  And as for the yapping dog, he’d had enough of it, enough of the nosy neighbours, the life he led. If he could, he would turn back the clock and declare Yanna White innocent of all crimes, subject to psychiatric evaluation. She had been the victim of sex trafficking he knew, so had the defence and so had the prosecution, but everyone had let her down.

  ***

  Liz Spalding’s body was eventually released for burial. While Stephen Palmer’s funeral had been attended by very few, this time there was a full turnout. Of the three husbands, two were present.

  Jim Greenwood had come, not to take an active part, but to observe who attended: if anybody was unknown; if anyone was there out of guilt or to see the result of their handiwork.

  Bob Palmer was dressed in a dark suit and wore a hat, although he removed it in the church. It was not as concealing as the mysterious woman’s hat at Stephen’s funeral, he knew that.

  Greenwood knew the man well enough, and Palmer had clearly recognised him, the reason he kept attempting to move away from him. But the police inspector was not a man to be easily deterred. He needed to know his mood, what he’d been doing, what he planned to do. As Palmer attempted to move one way around the outside of the church, Greenwood walked the other. They met midway.

  ‘How are you?’ Greenwood said. He didn’t like funerals, having buried his parents a couple of years previously, and although he would have preferred to stay in his car and observe it, this was his first murder investigation and he was determined on securing a conviction. And if he were successful, it would mean a promotion, possibly the chance to move to London to work with the Homicide department at Challis Street. That’s what he really wanted, and Palmer, who could not be the murderer, was definitely on the hunt for that person.

  The police officer knew that Palmer would not be confined to one area. He would have the freedom to move around the country, to spy on people, to check what they were doing, where they were from, who they were.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Palmer said.

  Greenwood looked at him, looked under the hat, saw a man with sullen eyes, his mouth turned down. ‘You were upset when we met in the village. Have you had time to reflect, to compartmentalise her death, to move on with your life?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  Jim Greenwood did not believe a word the man said.

  ‘We’ve not found the woman who murdered her.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How about you?’ Greenwood said sternly.

  ‘How do you expect me to be? It’s a funeral; people are sad at funerals.’

  ‘Let’s be honest, Mr Palmer, you’ve not got over Liz Spalding. You’re the type of man who doesn’t forget easily. You’re obsessive, nothing wrong in that, but when it leads to criminal actions, then I can’t ignore it.’

  ‘I will mourn Liz in my own way. I don’t intend to do anything criminal.’

  ‘I don’t believe a word of what you’re saying. You’re not going to let this lie, and why are you here? Why are you staying at the back, instead of meeting and mingling with the other people, talking about the woman, the normal sort of stuff?’

  ‘I have no interest in talking to any of them.’

  ‘You don’t want to hear from her ex-husbands, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then, Mr Palmer, stop beating around the bush. You’re here to see if there’s someone unknown. Isn’t that the truth?’

  ‘I’m waiting for you to do your job, but that doesn’t look like happening soon, does it?’

  ‘Someone, somewhere, will slip up. It may even be you; you may show us where to look.’

  ‘I don’t see how. I spend my time at home. I do have a business still, even if it’s the quiet time of the year.’

  ‘Is this the end of it?’ Greenwood asked.

  ‘It is for me. I will go back to my little place, probably drink a bottle of whisky and aim to forget.’

  Greenwood, with no more to say, moved away. He took his phone from his pocket and made a call. It was Larry that answered. He was in the office at Challis Street, two notches down on his belt, a healthier glow in his face, a nicotine patch on his arm. He had even got over fumbling in his pocket for the cigarette packet. He felt better, more so than he had in a long time, but it had not come easy.

  ‘I just met our friend Bob Palmer,’ Greenwood said. ‘He’s at Liz Spalding’s funeral, keeping to the back. I don’t trust him. He may do something stupid.’

  ‘Or he could find the guilty woman,’ Larry said.’ If he does, he’s dead.’

  ‘If you arrest her, you can get a DNA sample.’

  ‘She’s broken no laws, none that we can prove.’

  ‘It just goes to show,’ Greenwood said. ‘If you’ve got money, then you can get away with anything.’

  ‘Palmer’s just a bit player in this.’

  ‘I don’t trust the man, likely to do something stupid. I suggest you keep very close tabs on him. If he’s seen out and about, then check on him, give me a call,’ Greenwood said.

  ‘Any more you want from us?’ Larry asked.

  ‘My name on the charge sheet.’

  ‘If we have proof, you can come up to London and make the arrest.’

  ‘Palmer might attempt to kill her.’

  ‘If he succeeds, then I will arrest him.’

  ‘If he doesn’t?’

  ‘What I said before, the man is dead if he fails. Hamish McIntyre is protective of his daughter.’

  ‘I’ll talk to you later. I’ve got to check out Palmer, find out where he’s gone and what he’s up to.’ Greenwood put his phone back in his pocket.

  He went over to where Liz Spalding had been buried. At the side of the grave, only one person stood: Bob Palmer. Tears were streaming down his face, he was shaking, speaking to the body. Jim Greenwood stood back, but he couldn’t hear what the man was saying, as though he was mouthing the words silently.

  Greenwood walked over and stood next to him.

  Palmer looked at him. ‘She was so beautiful. Why did she have to die?’ he said.

  It’s not the dead that suffer, it’s the living,’ Greenwood said as he walked away to leave the man to mourn on his own.

  Chapter 23

  Gareth Armstrong neither approved of Samantha Matthews becoming involved in her father’s business nor did he like her. Not that he would have dared make either of those views known to her father.
<
br />   He had come to understand how the man thought and acted, and not a stupid man – after all, he had read a lot of books in the prison library – he thought that Hamish would be better handing over to him. After all, he knew the criminal mind, whereas his daughter didn’t.

  It was Gareth’s day off. He met with Dean Atherton.

  ‘What is it, Gareth?’ Dean asked. He could see the worried look on his friend’s face.

  ‘You know Samantha Matthews.’

  ‘Not personally. I keep you updated, but apart from that I keep my distance from her and her family.’

  The father and daughter had been spending increasing amounts of time together, going over the legitimate real estate, the offshore bank accounts, the procedure where Hamish received a percentage from what he had farmed out to others to run. Gareth had to admit that he had never seen Hamish as content as when he was with Samantha.

  But Hamish was not totally comfortable with exposing her to the villains he had dealt with; he confided that to Gareth on a couple of occasions.

  ‘Maybe it’s best this way,’ Hamish had said more than once, taking a philosophical approach to the matter. ‘Samantha is a smart woman, better educated than I am.’

  ‘What about the times when people act against her interests?’ Gareth said. ‘Will she be capable of doing what you did in the past?’

  ‘I did those out of necessity.’

  Gareth knew that wasn’t altogether true. Hamish had a vindictive streak, the need to inflict pain occasionally. He had never been there when Hamish had dealt out violence and death, but he could imagine the scene: the gore, the blood-curdling screams, the anguish, and Hamish, detached from emotion, enjoying the experience.

  And now Hamish preferred to be at his mansion, meeting with the locals and discussing community affairs, the church fête. Gareth knew that none of them knew who he really was. Most would have said he was an aggressive businessman who had succeeded in the city, and they were right, of course. But none knew the real truth, and almost certainly wouldn’t be perturbed by it, or not enough to isolate the man. People weren’t interested unless it impacted them personally and Hamish had been generous and accommodating, even inviting the vicar around on several occasions, the two of them sitting in the conservatory discussing what was needed for the area.