DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

by Phillip Strang

  Chapter 34

  Gareth Armstrong sat in a cell at Challis Street. He looked around at the walls, expecting to see graffiti, a drunk’s attempt at humour, but there was none. To him, it was sterile, but it was no better, no worse, than others he’d been in.

  It was, he knew, the start of a lengthy prison sentence; not much chance of release before he was old and decrepit. He should have felt sorry for himself, but he was beyond that. The thought processes that had served him in prison were resurrecting themselves; take one day at a time, keep on the side of those who were in charge, keep his nose clean. Little victories each day had been his creed; he would adopt it again.

  In the interview room, two hours and fifty-five minutes after arriving at the station, two hours and six minutes after the door had slammed on the cell door, Armstrong sat on the chair indicated.

  On the other side of the table, Isaac Cook and Wendy Gladstone. On Armstrong’s side, Fergus Grantham. The man did not seem pleased to be there.

  ‘Mr Armstrong,’ Isaac said after the formalities had been dealt with, ‘you’ve been charged with murder. How do you plead?’

  ‘My client exercises his right not to answer,’ Grantham said.

  ‘It’s first-degree murder, and we have proof. If Mr Armstrong doesn’t want to help his case, then that’s up to him.’

  ‘My client understands why he’s here.’

  Wendy looked over at Armstrong. ‘We’re confused here. We can prove Mr McIntyre’s vehicle was at the murder scene.’

  Armstrong said nothing, looked at Grantham.

  ‘You’ll not get an acquittal on this,’ Isaac said.

  Grantham looked at Isaac and then cast a glance at Wendy. ‘My client is innocent until proven guilty. A vigorous defence will be conducted.’

  ‘Vigorous it may be, but we’ve got your client cold. We can prove the vehicle was there, and we have witnesses that will testify he was in the company of the two men on the day in question.’

  Wendy preferred that Isaac hadn’t mentioned the witnesses.

  The woman at the hotel reception, upon learning that one of the three men had been murdered, changed her tune. ‘Oh, yes, now you mention it, I can remember what they looked like, and the man in the middle, I did speak to him.’

  The woman, since identified as Joyce Langley, had numerous charges against her for prostitution, heroin addiction, a propensity for making complaints about clients who either hadn’t paid or had abused her. She wouldn’t be credible, not in a court. The Mercedes had been picked up by CCTV not far away, and the only person identified had been Jacob Wolfenden.

  ‘I’m awaiting further instructions,’ Grantham said.

  ‘From Mr Armstrong or Mr McIntyre? Who are you representing here?’

  ‘Mr Armstrong.’

  ‘Let me put it to your client, and I suggest that you, Mr Grantham, take note as well. A claim of coincidence can’t be used here. Mr Armstrong was seen in the Stag Hotel, and a frequent customer of that establishment is Jacob Wolfenden. He, we all know, had been a friend of Hamish McIntyre when they were younger. Bob Palmer is on record as having been in the hotel asking questions about a woman with a tattoo on her inside right arm.’

  ‘Where’s this leading?’

  ‘The woman is Samantha Matthews, McIntyre’s daughter. She’s been charged with the murder of Liz Spalding. Both had been involved with Stephen Palmer who died twenty years ago. Not only that, we have Mr Armstrong out in Thornwood, two dead bodies found at McIntyre’s farm. One of the two dead is Bob Palmer, the other is Jacob Wolfenden. It’s hardly a conspiracy to lay the blame at your client’s feet.’

  ‘Okay, I did it,’ Armstrong blurted out.

  ‘Leave this to me,’ Grantham said.

  ‘What’s the worst that’s going to happen? A maximum-security prison, three meals a day. Hamish treated me well, but now I can’t help him, not anymore, and my lawyer will dump me soon enough, you just watch.’

  ‘I need time to talk to my client,’ Grantham said, his hand on Armstrong’s arm, trying to make the man shut up.

  ‘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 w
atcher, 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 lo
ok 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.’