Four hours later, Larry and Isaac were in Brighton. Vincent felt like making a comment about Larry’s improved appearance but declined; he had sensed the tension between the two of them on their previous meeting.
‘Stanford’s become a damn nuisance,’ Vincent said as he ate his lunch, steak and chips, at a restaurant close to the seafront, a blustery gale blowing off the sea, a few seagulls milling around, but no tourists to feed them. To add insult to injury, Larry could see that Vincent could eat a full plate of food and still keep off the weight. No doubt the man was a drinker, Larry thought, but felt no need to comment. For him, chicken with rice and salad, small portions. It satisfied the hunger, gave him the energy to do his job, but it wasn’t a meal, never would be. And now the latest ultimatum from his wife: stop smoking.
Still, he had to admit it wasn’t all bad. With his reduced intake of food, his abstinence from alcohol, and a walk around the block every morning, he was fitter and had more stamina. His wife had responded in kind, so instead of his badgering her for affection, it was her who had initiated it on the last couple of occasions.
‘What makes a man such as him act this way?’ Isaac asked. He had ordered the same food as Larry, but to him, the meal was more than sufficient, even if the chicken was dry and the salad wasn’t as fresh as it could have been. Still, it was Vincent’s choice of restaurant, although Isaac would be paying.
‘I’ve not given it much thought. All I know is that we have to deal with it if it gets out of hand. One day, he’s calm, the next he’s barking mad. The latest episode, he’s out on the street screaming at the dog over the road, not that it had done anything. It’s a little terrier, yaps on occasions, but we all learn to live with noise and irritation.’
The problem with Stanford, according to Wally Vincent, was that one word out of order, one attempt to cajole him into behaving better, and Stanford, mad as he was, still had influence. An ex-judge, a former barrister, Queen’s Counsel – allowances were made for someone with those credentials.
To Isaac, it did not excuse him from further questioning. He had a murder enquiry to conduct, not that it was going that well at all. Marcus Matthews’ body languished in a cold and sterile room, not being released to his nearest and dearest, not just yet. The autopsy had been conducted, Forensics had completed all their checks, the pathologist’s report, long on detail, short on useable facts, was in the hands of those that needed it. Another couple of weeks and Samantha Matthews could dress in black and be the grieving widow, even if it was six years too late.
Chapter 13
Charles Stanford opened the door on the third knock.
‘This is official,’ Wally Vincent said. This time he showed his warrant card.
‘If you’ve come about that dog, you’re wasting your time,’ Stanford said. He was dressed in an old dressing gown; it was clear that he had not shaved for several days.
‘It’s either here or down at the station,’ Vincent said.
‘I’ve got my rights; I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘We’re not here about the dog,’ Isaac said. ‘We need to know of your association with Marcus Matthews, also Hamish McIntyre.’
‘McIntyre, I know.’
‘How?’ Isaac thought the man had taken one step back when the name of the gangster was mentioned. He had only mentioned McIntyre on the spur of the moment. If the connection could not be made to Marcus Matthews, then Hamish McIntyre could be another direction to take the enquiry.
‘I was a judge, you know that well enough,’ Stanford said. ‘He was before me once, disturbing the peace or something like that.’
Isaac knew that the man was evasive. There had never been any indication that Stanford had trouble remembering the past. A colleague of McIntyre’s had been up before him on a case of grievous bodily harm, the death of a man in unusual circumstances, and the jury had recorded a verdict of not guilty after the evidence, supposedly cast iron, had been dismissed.
However, whatever the reason for the verdict of innocent, Stanford had conducted the trial correctly.
‘Your house in Bedford Gardens has to have some relevance to Marcus Matthews, and by default Hamish McIntyre,’ Isaac said. ‘We must establish that connection today.’
Vincent could see that Isaac was determined, but he had been dealing with Stanford for a long time. He knew that the DCI was not going to get far.
‘There’s no connection I know of,’ Stanford said. ‘We’ve been through this, now, how many times? As far as I’m concerned, the house can fall down. I’ve not been in it for more years than I care to remember, and I have no intention of revisiting it. Now, if you and your colleagues could leave my premises, I’d be much obliged.’
Regardless of Stanford’s protestations, Isaac had no intention of leaving. The man was a hostile witness, ex-judge or no ex-judge, and Isaac would not let him fob them off.
‘Then, Mr Stanford, I will require you to accompany us to the police station,’ he said.
The door finally opened fully to let the police officers enter the house.
‘I’ll be making a formal complaint to your superiors,’ Stanford said.
Isaac had heard the ‘formal complaint to your superiors’ many times before. He dismissed it without consideration.
‘Why would I be involved in the murder of a petty criminal, a person of little worth and less importance,’ Stanford said.
‘Mr Stanford, we are within our rights. However, we are willing on account of your past and illustrious career to allow our interview to be conducted at your house,’ Isaac said, aware that flattery would probably have little impact.
Inside the house, the four men entered a room to the right of the hallway. It appeared to be the one room in the house that was in good condition; it was the man’s library and study. On two of the walls, bookshelves reached to the ceiling. A cursory glance by Isaac showed that most of the books were legal references. He was impressed by the room, but not by the man who sat down in a voluminous armchair.
‘Get on with it,’ Stanford said. ‘I’ve no time for messing around with this.’
‘I don’t think DCI Cook is here to waste your time,’ Vincent said. He liked the DCI’s style, but didn’t think much of his inspector. Vincent was an ambitious man, he would admit that, and London was where he should be. He’d gone as far as he could in Brighton and dealing with the likes of Charles Stanford and the other troublesome people in the city no longer interested him. And as for murders, one or two a year, and most times a more senior officer would take the case. He, Wally Vincent, would be left with little to do, and the man who invariably took the case was not competent, and the man knew it.
‘It seems like that to me,’ Stanford said.
Isaac took no notice. ‘Mr Stanford, you’ve made it clear you do not know Marcus Matthews. If we accept that premise…’
‘Whether you accept what I said or whether you don’t,’ Stanford interjected, ‘is not important. I’ve granted you access to my house, now make the best use of it.’
Larry had not said much up until now, due in part, in his opinion, to the overbearing attitude of Wally Vincent. He felt the need to make his mark.
‘Mr Stanford, we’ve been to Bedford Gardens,’ Larry said. ‘There’s no way that Marcus Matthews would have chosen that house at random. He and whoever killed him must have had advance knowledge of who owned the house and the fact that it would be empty.’
‘I’m afraid that you, DI Hill, have a fanciful mind for the obscure,’ Stanford said. Isaac could see the man was irritable, verging on anger, and anger was a great asset in the hands of a seasoned investigating officer.
Sensing the change, Isaac seized the opportunity and raised his voice to indicate a new level of seriousness. Stanford was playing them for fools. ‘Inspector Hill is correct,’ he said. He was sitting on the front of his chair, bolt upright, his eyes focused on Stanford.
‘I don’t think so.’
Wally Vincent, not used to the approa
ch that Isaac was taking, sat back. It would be he, DI Wally Vincent, who would have to deal with the flak; it would be he who would be called in to see the chief superintendent to answer Stanford’s complaints. Even if the man hadn’t been an ex-judge, a formal complaint always required an internal investigation and a response to the person who had instigated the complaint.
‘We checked you out,’ Isaac said. ‘We’re aware of your record of achievement; we’re also aware that you were involved in two controversial cases, a barrister in one and a judge in the other.’
‘I acted correctly in both cases.’
‘But they must give you cause for concern sometimes.’
‘If you must know, and I don’t see why I should tell you, then yes, the last case is never far from my mind. The woman, for reasons unknown, condemned herself.’
‘What do you believe was the truth?’
‘Her background, where she had come from, the trafficking of women from that country to England, she must have experienced it.’
‘But you as a judge had no option but to sentence her to prison.’
‘I was powerless to do otherwise. And then she committed suicide by throwing herself off the roof of the building. It continues to haunt me, the anguish in her mind, the despair of never seeing her children again. Mitigating circumstances could well have given her a much-reduced sentence, but I couldn’t do it, the legal system would not allow it.’
‘You defended a man against the charge of murder, he got acquitted. And then the man committed another murder. How did you feel about that?’ Wally Vincent said. He didn’t want to be left out of the investigation, although he felt they were badgering the old man.
‘Inadmissible evidence, I’m afraid. The police must accept the blame for that, not me. But yes, another person dead. It must have happened to the three of you,’ Stanford said as he raised himself from his chair, went over to a bookshelf and picked up a book.
‘These continuing delays can do you no good,’ Isaac said.
‘I have no more to say on the matter,’ Stanford said as he put the book back on the bookshelf. ‘My conscience is clear as to what happened in one of my houses.’
‘Then, Mr Stanford, by your attitude and your reluctance to speak the truth, we can only consider you as a hostile witness.’
***
The visit to Stanford’s house, regardless of Isaac’s determination, proved to be a waste of time. It was agreed that either the man was up to his neck in what had happened or he was just an eccentric old man.
With no more to go on, Isaac and Larry made the trip back to London; there would still be time for the evening wrap-up meeting. This time it would be Isaac who would have to admit that he had failed in his objective.
In the office at Challis Street, four key team members sat down. Wendy had some updates, and she was keen to tell them what she had found out. Even though she had been a police officer for many years, over thirty now, she still got a thrill from doing her job well.
‘I’ve been working with Bridget on the cars that Stephen Palmer had sold from his used car lot,’ Wendy said.
‘It wasn’t easy,’ Bridget said. ‘The records from that far back are not as good as they are today.’
‘Bridget persisted, and with me doing some legwork, we made a connection to one of the persons of interest.’
‘Okay, let’s have it,’ Isaac said. ‘Who is this person?’
Wendy, a grin on her face, said, ‘Samantha Matthews purchased a car from Stephen Palmer, a Jaguar.’
‘Is she the woman at the funeral?’ Larry asked.
‘It’s a possibility,’ Isaac said. ‘Liz Spalding said her rival was a married woman.’
‘It makes sense,’ Larry said.
With the updated information, and Isaac keen to strike while the iron was hot, he and Wendy made the trip out to Samantha Matthews’ home. The woman was not pleased to see them.
Wendy instinctively knew why the woman was reluctant to let her and Isaac into the house; Isaac did not realise at first, but soon did. She was entertaining, and she did not want a disturbance while she had a man in the house.
‘Mrs Matthews, we have disturbing information regarding you and Stephen Palmer,’ Isaac said. Regardless of what the woman wanted and disregarding the probable reaction of her father, Isaac did not intend to stand on the front doorstep of the house for long.
‘Tomorrow, early,’ Samantha said. She was dressed casually in a loose-fitting blouse and a short skirt; she looked cheap and tarty, but then, Wendy thought, that was the effect that she wished to impart to her, as yet unidentified, lover.
‘Mrs Matthews, we believe that you may have been involved with Stephen Palmer at the time of his death,’ Isaac said. ‘We can either stand here and debate this matter, or else we can come into the house, sit down in your front room, and listen to your response as to whether we are correct or not.’
‘I can give you five minutes, but there is nothing to tell.’
Upstairs, in the house, the sound of someone moving around.
‘Mrs Matthews, we know there was a third woman at Stephen Palmer’s funeral. Were you that woman?’ Wendy asked. She had taken the direct approach; no need to procrastinate. If the woman was keen to be back up the stairs and in the arms of her lover, she would be more ready to tell the truth. And besides, she had not killed Palmer.
‘I met Stephen at a rough period in my life, my marriage to Marcus was not going well. He was increasingly involved with my father and his business enterprises. I was lonely, and Stephen was a charming man. In a moment of weakness, I allowed myself to be seduced by him.
Wendy, not as naive as the woman probably thought she was, knew that she had not been weak. Samantha Matthews was a woman of passion, and Stephen Palmer, by all accounts, was a tall, good-looking individual who women yearned for, and who knew how to treat them well. Marcus Matthews had only ever been described as a good man, a kind man, disregarding the fact he was a criminal. Wendy could understand Samantha’s weakness, as her husband had been more of a Marcus than a Stephen.
‘This is a serious matter,’ Isaac said. ‘You decided to keep this information secret. Why?’
‘It’s not something a woman is proud of,’ Samantha said.
‘And now you have another man upstairs in your bed,’ Wendy said. ‘You must have had concerns when Palmer vanished.’
‘I know what you’re thinking, but I’ll not believe it of Marcus or of my father.’
Wendy could see she was increasingly agitated to get her and Isaac out of the house. The previous good impression that the woman had given was rapidly being diminished.
‘Why did you attend the funeral?’ Isaac said. He had never been as enamoured of Samantha Matthews as Wendy was. She was the child of a vicious man, even if she was not vicious herself, and she must have known what the man was capable of, what he had done in the past.
‘He helped me out in a difficult period of my life. I had to pay my respects,’ Samantha said.
‘For three years, you believed that he had vanished, but at the funeral you were under no illusion as to what had happened. He had been murdered.’
‘Yes, I knew.’
‘But you didn’t suspect your father?’ Isaac asked. His patience was rapidly wearing thin.
‘Three years had passed, Stephen was dead, life was good.’
‘It’s hardly a reason not to believe that your father was responsible.’
‘It was to me,’ Samantha said flatly. She was a convincing liar, Isaac had to admit. She knew the truth, but why had she not confronted her father at the time of Palmer’s disappearance, and then, why not when the man was found dead in a warehouse.
Isaac could only believe that Samantha Matthews, in spite of her education, her social standing, her affluence, and the fact that she had never been in trouble once in her life, was no different to her father. It was clear that the affection that Samantha and her father felt for each other was well-founded. Both of them sic
kened him down to his gut.
It was not possible to get any more from the woman; she had admitted to her affair with Stephen Palmer, but nothing else.
Isaac and Wendy left the house to Samantha Matthews and her fancy man.
Outside, Wendy took a phone from her handbag and dialled Challis Street Police Station. Surveillance would be placed on the house; they needed to know the name of the man in Samantha’s bed.
Chapter 14
Dean Atherton, a small-time crook and part-time police informer, updated Armstrong on the police investigation. The two men met in a pub not far from McIntyre’s mansion.
‘How do you get all this information?’ Armstrong said. He was dressed casually, his day off. The suit and tie were gone; in their place a pair of beige trousers and a blue shirt, open at the neck.
Atherton, an unusually thin man – he said it was something to do with his genes – drank his first pint in one gulp. Armstrong looked over at the barman and lifted his glass, an indication for two more pints.
‘I keep my ear to the ground, that’s all,’ Atherton said. Armstrong liked the man; they had both shared a cell in Maidstone prison five years previously, and while it was luck who you shared with, he had struck lucky that time.
During the hours of darkness in the small cell, the two men had recounted the stories of their lives and how they turned to crime. Atherton had tried to avoid prison, but his family, including his mother and father, regarded crime as a vocation.
He had been a bright student, Atherton said in that small cell, but his parents had not encouraged him to continue his studies beyond the age of fifteen. And then, as he was taking stolen goods across the city in his backpack, the police had caught him, a conviction as a juvenile offender against him. After that, the opportunities to study, the enthusiasm to continue, were gone.
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