Six Years Too Late

by Phillip Strang

‘Gareth spent time in jail courtesy of your people. He has no love for the police.’

  ‘How about you?’ Wendy said.

  ‘A drink, you must have a drink. I’ll have Armstrong prepare us a pot of tea. I’m afraid we only have Earl Grey.’

  ‘Earl Grey will be fine,’ Isaac said.

  The three moved into the house and sat in the expansive living room.

  ‘Beautiful house, you have here,’ Wendy said as Armstrong poured the tea.

  ‘Continuing from where we were,’ McIntyre said. ‘Gareth was one of the gang at the building society. You know all about that, so we don’t need to discuss it, and besides, it was a long time ago. Unfortunately, he didn’t leave it at that. He’s spent a few more years in prison since then, once for robbery, another time for selling drugs. He turned up here a couple of years ago, repentant for a life misspent. I took him in, gave him a job. I’d trust him with my life.’

  ‘And your silver?’ Wendy asked flippantly.

  ‘It takes a crook to know when another crook has decided enough is enough. Or in my case, an ex-crook. Gareth’s got what he wants here, a calm life, no need for any more. All the striving to better yourself, what’s it worth in the end? Peace of mind is what you treasure in your declining years. That’s what I’ve got.’

  ‘Mr McIntyre, if you don’t mind me saying, you have a fearsome reputation,’ Isaac said. ‘Yet you are as charming and hospitable as your daughter.’

  ‘I’m sure you know how I made my money. I wasn’t dealing with the Boy Scouts. You were either on top, intimidating others, not by violence but by the perceived strength of character, or they would walk over you. Believe me, I pushed the envelope, but I didn’t break the law.’

  ‘Some of the businesses were nefarious, socially unacceptable,’ Wendy said.

  ‘The strip clubs, that’s what you mean. They were good earners in their days, but they’ve gone now, at least they are for me. A more permissive age now, no need for the titillation and the harmless fun they provided.’

  ‘Were the girls selling themselves?’

  ‘Not in the club, they weren’t. If they were outside, then that was their business. As you say, nefarious, not illegal.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘The clubs have gone, although I own the buildings. My money comes from owning real estate now, a less traumatic way of earning money. But you want to know about Marcus. Maybe we should talk about him.’

  ‘Very well, tell us.’

  ‘Samantha was mad for him. I don’t know why. She could have married someone of substance: a doctor, a lawyer, even an up-and-coming politician. Still, there’s no accounting for taste, and she chose him. I’m in jail for the robbery, a blot on my past.

  ‘The next I know she’s pregnant, and Marcus is almost wetting himself in the prison when he comes to ask for her hand in marriage. I’ll give him his due, he did the right thing by her, and he always loved her. She could have chosen worse, but he was a petty criminal, not the person I would have chosen.’

  ‘It was her decision,’ Wendy said, remembering that her father had lined up a wealthy farmer’s son in the remote part of Yorkshire where she had grown up. They had been out on a couple of dates, and although the man had been pleasant enough, and he was never going to be short of money, his conversation consisted of the weather, what crops to grow, and where to buy the best livestock. In short, the man was a bore. The problem was solved when she went to Sheffield, a large city not far from where she lived, eventually meeting her husband there. Wealth had never been an issue with him; he had none. But he had never bored her and had given her two sons. He had since died, barely knowing who she was at the end. A blessing when his time had come, and now she and Bridget shared a house, pooled their resources and headed for the sun whenever the urge took them.

  ‘Samantha’s turned out alright, and her children are a credit to her. The eldest, Grant, is hoping to be a doctor, although James is an angry young man, the same as I was at that age. But then, I turned out alright.’

  ‘Annie?’

  ‘Very sensitive, a lovely young woman. The spitting image of her mother at that age.’

  ‘The day Marcus disappeared?’ Isaac said.

  ‘I met up with him, gave him some chores to do. He wasn’t the ideal employee, not bright enough, but he was married to my daughter, so I made allowances. I liked him, a thoroughly decent man, although if he hadn’t had Samantha and me, he would have ended up like Armstrong, in and out of prison.

  ‘Anyway, we meet at nine in the morning. There’s an issue at one of the clubs, a burst water pipe or something like that, plus one of the bartenders was helping himself to some of the money. Marcus had to check on him and take the appropriate action.’

  ‘What sort of action?’

  ‘The sort that gives you a sore head and a few days in bed. You can’t let them get away with it, or else they’ll all be trying it on. A few of the girls were into drugs, and they were always after extra money.’

  ‘He was beaten up?’ Wendy said.

  ‘It wasn’t a police matter, and if the man took his medicine, I’d let him back in the club, give him his old job again. No one ever cheated twice.’

  ‘And if they did?’

  ‘Hypothetical. They never did.’

  Isaac knew that wasn’t the truth, but it wasn’t the reason they were at the mansion drinking Earl Grey.

  ‘Marcus left you and went to the club?’

  ‘It wasn’t until that night when Samantha phoned to say he hadn’t come home that I thought any more about him. I went around to her house, and then I got some of my people to start making phone calls, to make visits to the clubs and premises I owned, to trace his steps. It wasn’t like Marcus to do anything silly, and Samantha thought it was another woman, but that wasn’t Marcus. He wasn’t the sort to fool around, not even with the girls in the clubs, and some of them were easy. The days went by, and then the months. Eventually, we all start to move on with our lives, even Samantha.’

  ‘You never suspected that he may have been killed?’

  ‘Suspected, I would have. But I never really believed that to be possible. Sure, I dealt with some rogues at the time, but murder wasn’t part of their modus operandi. Acting tough, being tough were part of it, but kill someone and the police would start sticking their noses in, and we didn’t want that. We looked out for ourselves; your people would have only got in the way.’

  ‘What did you think had happened to him?’

  ‘I assumed he had just vanished, the reason never to be known, but I had no reason to believe he was dead. At least I didn’t want to think that, not for Samantha, not for their children.’

  ‘The rift with your daughter?’

  ‘Occasionally, the subject of Marcus would come up. It eats at you, not knowing what has become of him. It was a couple of years back. I was at her house and Marcus came up in conversation. It had been four years. I might have said something unkind about him.’

  ‘Might?’ Wendy said.

  ‘Did. I told her that he wasn’t worth waiting for and that she should find herself another man.’

  ‘How did she take that?’

  ‘Not well. She started accusing me of never liking him, and she wouldn’t be surprised if I hadn’t done something to him.’

  ‘Had you?’

  ‘I couldn’t do that, not to Samantha. I think that’s where our conversation ends,’ McIntyre said. ‘It’s time to make peace with my daughter.’

  Chapter 7

  The days passed in Homicide. Isaac busied himself with reports and continued the daily routine of the early-morning meetings, the evening meeting to discuss what had resulted from that day.

  Detective Chief Superintendent Goddard, Isaac’s mentor and friend from the early days of Isaac’s policing career, when Isaac had been a sergeant and Richard Goddard an inspector, made his presence known in the office daily.

  Matthews rated low on the crimes that needed solving, so much so that ine
rtia was threatening to permeate the department.

  Bridget was to provide the renewed impetus. ‘I’ve been checking through a history of crimes that Hamish McIntyre is suspected of.’

  The consensus in the office was that Samantha Matthews had been open with the two police officers when she had been interviewed. However, Isaac, the more cynical of the two of them, wasn’t yet one hundred per cent convinced that she wasn’t involved in the death of her husband. A person without flaws, and considering what her father did, was always suspect; dig deep enough and the skeletons would fall from the cupboard. Yet none had fallen so far.

  The quick arrest which every police officer hankers after, good for the record, wasn’t going to happen this time. And murder by consent was a new crime for them to consider.

  A conviction for first-degree murder seemed unlikely, and even second-degree was a long shot. Conjecture on Isaac’s part as he had spent time going over the circumstances in that small room at the top of that house, trying to imagine the scene, as if he were a fly on the wall: two men enjoying a glass of wine together, reminiscing, and then one shooting the other dead.

  Marcus Matthews did seem to be unique, and maybe Samantha Matthews was right that he had a kind heart and was a decent man. Isaac knew from his association with villains and his seniors, even politicians in Westminster, that education did not always make a good man, and authority, especially a lot of it, did not always make for an honest person. And give a man an aristocratic title, especially if it was inherited, then villainy, carefully concealed, was always a possibility.

  It was not like Isaac to philosophise inordinately about such matters, but the death of Matthews was bizarre and unprecedented. It had even given Jenny cause to comment on a couple of occasions because of her husband’s apparent detachment from her. It was true, Isaac had to admit. He always could come home of a night, late usually, leaving the work both mentally and physically back in the office, but not this time.

  Isaac sat at the head of the table in the conference room that adjoined Homicide, Larry over to one side, Wendy to his right.

  Bridget was standing. She pressed the key on her laptop for her PowerPoint presentation to commence. ‘You can see that I’ve detailed all investigations into Hamish McIntyre over the years,’ she said.

  ‘His conviction for the robbery?’ Wendy asked. Her right leg ached, arthritis causing her trouble, not that she’d complain, although at home with Bridget she would; the reason she had drunk more than the usual two glasses of wine the night before.

  ‘I’ve continued from then. Hamish McIntyre was a minor player back then. Now, he’s an exceptionally wealthy man, almost a pillar of society, although as I intend to show you, he may not hold that elevated position for too long.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Isaac said. He had to admit to being impressed by Bridget’s ability to find new avenues to explore when he and the others were floundering. He believed himself to be competent with computers, but Bridget was in a league of her own. He had speculated about what she could have achieved if she had turned to crime. No need for her to rob a bank or break into a house; all she would have to do would be to open her laptop, make sure there was a cup of tea to one side, and hack into wherever she wanted, to access bank accounts and company records. Industrial espionage, blackmail, banking fraud, all from the comfort of a warm room.

  ‘We have to remember that Hamish McIntyre is a smart person, and he always adopted a hands-off approach when violence was being meted out. The second slide gives a list of suspected acts committed on his behalf, but nothing directly linking back to him.’

  ‘He ran night clubs, strip joints, there must be something,’ Larry said.

  ‘Disputes with the licensing authorities, local councils objecting to his activities, competitors; yes, there is. He was tough, and the councils felt the force of his anger and his legal team on more than one occasion. Not necessarily illegal, although a competitor’s night club burnt down mysteriously one night.’

  ‘Hamish McIntyre?’

  ‘There’s no direct evidence, but he was the main beneficiary in the upsurge of customers to his place. The local police suspected he was involved, but no proof, no cameras in the street or in the night club, none that worked, anyway. There’s no doubt in the police’s mind that it was all well organised, and the club burnt to the ground almost before the fire brigade could get there.’

  ‘The owner of the club?’

  ‘Overseas at the time. He never came back, no need to. The man had plenty of money, and the inconvenience of having to deal with McIntyre was probably deemed not worth the effort. And besides, there was an inference that the club had been a front for underage girls out of Ukraine and Russia.’

  ‘Sex trafficking?’

  ‘Prostitution, at least. Nothing was proven.’

  ‘Any suspicion that McIntyre was involved with running women?’

  ‘It’s been put forward on various police reports, but never proven.’

  ‘But you’ve found something.

  ‘I ran a check on vehicles owned by Marcus Matthews and Hamish McIntyre over the years. I then set up a search of their movements over twenty years. There are an estimated half-a-million surveillance cameras in London alone, although I couldn’t access all of those, and going back twenty years, a lot less. I ran an automatic number plate recognition on all the records I could access. A lot of them are no longer available, but some are, especially if there’s a criminal investigation in the area. There was the murder of a known drug dealer back in 1999. The owner of the night club that burnt down was implicated, and by default Hamish McIntyre. Nothing was proven against either of them, and the case remains open, although long buried in the files.’

  ‘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 crimi
nal 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.