Six Years Too Late

by Phillip Strang

  Greenwood felt at ease. The vicarage, a two-storey building, more than three hundred years old, had a certain charm about it. He looked at the vicar and his wife, comfortable in each other’s company. He realised that was what he would have liked with his first wife, but she was gone and the second was giving trouble. It wouldn’t be long before he’d be on his own again.

  ‘How long did you speak to Palmer?’ Greenwood said.

  ‘Ten minutes, no more. I had to get back to the house, prepare for Sunday’s sermon, not that many turn up these days. Are you a religious man?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Not many are, but I think they’re missing something good in their lives. It’s not only about money and power, is it?’

  ‘I try to live a good life,’ Greenwood said. ‘Sometimes a few too many drinks, and maybe my language is a bit colourful. But I’m a police officer, and sometimes we see things we’d rather not. Shakes your faith, the inhumanity.’

  ‘Sin, the work of the devil.’

  ‘That’s not why I’m here, is it?’

  ‘No, I suppose it isn’t. You want to talk about Mr Palmer. You want to find out who killed that poor woman and to punish the person for their crime.’

  ‘My job is to find and arrest the person.’

  ‘What goes through the minds of people who do such things?’ the vicar said.

  Jim Greenwood thought the man should get out and about a bit more. Naivety, a belief in the meek inheriting the earth, the good ensured of a place in heaven, was alright in the church, an admirable sentiment. But he knew that evil abounded in the most unlikely of places. It had even come to a small village by the sea.

  ‘That’s not my concern. And as to the woman’s punishment, that’s up to a judge and a jury to decide, not me.’

  ‘Mr Palmer told me about the dead woman. He spoke about his brother, but not as much as he did about her.’

  ‘I spoke to him the next day after the murder. Told him to leave well alone, but I don’t trust him. I’m convinced he’s going to do something.’

  ‘You spoke to him out of a feeling of goodness in your heart?’

  ‘I think you’re putting too fine a point to it, Vicar,’ Greenwood said. ‘I don’t want another dead body, and I don’t want to have to arrest the man. Quite frankly, he’s plain stupid.’

  ‘He spoke about the other two women at the funeral. He said he knew one, Bec Johnson.’

  ‘I’ve heard that name mentioned before.’

  ‘It was the other one he was more concerned about, the woman with the hat.’

  ‘We know who the woman is, but we can’t prove she committed the murder. Palmer, who hasn’t found out who she is yet, believed she was Liz Spalding’s rival for Stephen’s affections.’

  ‘A married woman, he believed.’

  ‘He was unable to give us much in the way of information, only that she wore a wedding ring.’

  ‘He questioned me about her. He didn’t know about the tattoo.’

  ‘What tattoo? It’s not been mentioned before.’

  ‘I shook the woman’s hand, offered a few words of consolation. She thanked me, made a few remarks about what a sad occasion it was, the usual stuff.’

  ‘The tattoo?’ Greenwood asked again.

  ‘On her right hand, just above the wrist on the inside, a small butterfly was tattooed there. Is it important?’

  ‘I’d say so, Vicar.’

  Jim Greenwood knew what he had was dynamite. ‘Thank your wife for the tea and scones, they were delicious. I have to make a phone call.’

  ‘I can’t think of anything else. If I do, I’ll give you a call,’ the vicar said.

  Greenwood walked around the house, opened the garden gate and moved over to near his car. He took out a cigarette and lit up. His phone, last year’s model, was in his inside jacket pocket. He took it out and made a call.

  ***

  Armstrong considered his options. If he were intent on seizing Hamish’s criminal empire, it would mean the man’s daughter had to be out of the way.

  So far, he had been honest with his boss, telling him what Wolfenden had said. He had even looked around the area, visiting the pub in question, checking out the alley where Palmer had accosted Wolfenden.

  Armstrong knew that he did not have the innate street cunning of Hamish, nor the intellect of his daughter. But what he had was a lot of time in prison, contacts, people who owed him a favour, or would do anything if the money was right.

  In the mansion, Samantha was nowhere to be seen. Hamish, freed from discussing business-related matters with his daughter, was back in the conservatory tending to his orchids.

  ‘I’ve got feelers out,’ Armstrong said. ‘I need to take off for a few days, check out a couple of addresses. The man doesn’t appear to be in London at this time.’

  ‘Four days, no more. I want to know where this man is. See if Wolfenden has been discreet. I don’t want my daughter open to ridicule and innuendo.’

  ‘Wolfenden?’

  ‘What does he know?’

  ‘He knows the reason Palmer’s asking questions. He knows your daughter.’

  ‘I gave my word that he was safe,’ Hamish said. ‘If the police talk to him?’

  ‘Who knows with people like him? Decent, honest, credit to his neighbourhood.’

  ‘Naive and stupid, you’re right, Gareth. If his freedom is on the line, he’ll talk. And once the police make the connection…’

  ‘There’s still no proof.’

  ‘It may be best to nip it in the bud. Are you up to it?’

  Armstrong knew what McIntyre was intimating. He’d held up a few places in his time, threatened people with guns, but the man was suggesting murder. He wasn’t sure how to reply. He took a couple of minutes to think it over.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Armstrong said. If he did this for Hamish, he knew that his position would be more secure. He would be the natural successor if Samantha were either killed or incarcerated.

  Samantha returned as he was leaving.

  Although he wanted to be rid of her, Armstrong had to admit that she was a attractive woman; the sort of woman, if he were a few years younger, who would have suited him just fine.

  Chapter 27

  Bob Palmer left the area soon after dragging Wolfenden into the alley. He was confused, unsure where to go. In the end, he found himself back at his house. He peered through the curtains in the front room, saw his neighbours washing the car or taking the dog for a walk or playing with the children. None of it interested him.

  The best he could do was to go back to London, possibly revisit the Stag Hotel, not that he had enjoyed the ambience of the place, nor the recalcitrant attitude of the barman. And if Jacob – he never knew his surname – had made an official complaint, there was the possibility that the police would be interested.

  He spent the night in the house, not sleeping, increasingly agitated, before leaving in the early hours of the morning before the sun had risen.

  In London, he checked into a hotel ten miles away from where Stephen had conducted his business. He had thought in his confused mind to start enquiring at the local tattoo shops, but he decided against that. He made a few phone calls, old acquaintances of Stephen’s that he had known, but most of them had moved on; a few answered the phone, none expressed any interest in meeting the dead man’s dull brother.

  Palmer turned on the television in the room, an old black and white movie, Sherlock Holmes he thought it was, but he wasn’t focusing. Inside him, the constant welling up of emotion, thinking back to that night with Liz.

  Nobody cared about her, only him. He had seen the other mourners at the funeral, sad faces for sure, but a few weeks and they would get on with their lives.

  He walked out of the hotel and took a bus back to where he had met Jacob. He walked into the bar, even though he had said he would not.

  ‘A pint of beer, he said to the barman.

  ‘If you’re looking for Jacob, he’s n
ot here.’

  ‘Jacob, not this time. I’ve no questions, not any more. And if I did, you wouldn’t tell me, would you?’

  ‘If you’re aiming to drag me into an alleyway, the same as you did Jacob, don’t expect to come out of there in one piece. People like you sicken me. Nerdy, clinging, unable to deal with life.’

  ‘You’re right, I suppose. They’re both dead, Stephen and Liz; get on with life, that’s what I say.’

  The barman, experienced as he was with dealing with people down on their luck, people with a sad story to tell, knew that the man did not intend to get on with his life.

  He hadn’t liked the look of him the first time, and as to why he had ventured into the pub again… God only knows, he thought. And if they ever find out that he’s looking for her, then it’s his funeral, not mine.

  ‘I’ll give you a word of advice,’ the barman said. ‘Get out of here before someone sees you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I’m giving advice, not details. It’s up to you to make your own decision. I can supply you with beer for as long as you keep paying, but I don’t want blood in here; not yours, not mine.’

  ‘Then give me a name,’ Palmer said.

  ‘Not a chance.’

  In the bar, Bob Palmer could see very few people. It wasn’t an attractive place to be, not trendy, out of tune with the modern customer.

  To one side of the bar, an elderly couple sat holding hands, probably reflecting on their lives, he thought. Near to the open fire at the rear of the bar, an old woman sat, a small glass in front of her. She was knitting. He remembered his mother used to knit, but that was a long time ago. Nowadays, nobody had the time. Three young people sat along the far wall. He was sure they were underage, but the barman obviously didn’t care, and neither did he.

  ‘Give me a hint, and I’ll go,’ Palmer said.

  ‘I’ve given you my advice. That’s all you’re going to get from me.’

  ‘Jacob, what time do you expect him in?’

  ‘He’s a free agent, comes and goes as he likes. Wish I could. I’m stuck here with two children at home, a wife who needs more money. Are you single?’

  ‘I’m single, always have been,’ Palmer replied.

  Nothing like it. I can remember when I was on my own, plenty of good nights down the pub, not this dive, mind you. No shortage of women, ready and able.’

  ‘Why did you get married?’

  ‘She told me she was on the pill, but you can’t trust them, never can. She wanted a kid, but she wanted the ring on the finger as well. I was done for.’

  ‘Jacob? Where can I find him?’

  ‘Look here, Palmer, I’ve been civil to you, but get out of here, please. It’s good advice I’m giving you. If you don’t go, I’ll have to make a phone call, not that I want to. I don’t want to tell these people where you are. You’re probably a decent enough guy, mind your own business as a rule. You’re educated, I can see that. This place is for losers.’

  Not sure what to do, Palmer downed his drink and left. Outside, on the other side of the road, keeping out of sight, Jacob Wolfenden. He made a phone call.

  ***

  The team in Challis Street realised the importance of what Jim Greenwood had found out from the vicar. Isaac and Wendy were in the car heading to Palmer’s house in Oxford.

  Isaac was on hands-free, Larry and Greenwood on the conference call. ‘Palmer hasn’t made the connection yet?’ Isaac said.

  ‘Not according to my contacts,’ Larry said.

  ‘He soon will. Is the tattoo correct?’

  ‘I’ve seen it,’ Wendy said. ‘Not that I thought much of it. There’s more than one woman in London with tattoos on her arm.’

  ‘Palmer is not looking for those women,’ Greenwood said. ‘If he talks to the right people, he’ll find out the name.’

  ‘And when he does? What do you reckon?’ Isaac said.

  ‘Barely able to blow the skin off a rice pudding, but if the man’s aggrieved, sees himself as the dead woman’s avenger, then who knows.’

  ‘He’s capable,’ Wendy said. ‘Men like him keep to themselves all their lives, but once riled, they’re unstoppable. If he finds Samantha Matthews, he’ll do something stupid, regardless. Probably thinks there’s a place for him in heaven, Liz at his side.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s religious,’ Greenwood said.

  ‘He doesn’t have to be,’ Isaac said.

  ‘What do we do?’ Larry asked.

  ‘We’re not going to give Samantha Matthews protection, that’s for sure. And if we let her know about Palmer, then we know what will happen.’

  ‘Her father will act.’

  ‘Catch-22,’ Isaac said. ‘Palmer’s heading into areas that he doesn’t understand or know.’

  ‘Or cares about,’ Wendy said.

  ‘What’s Wally Vincent got to say for himself?’ Greenwood said. ‘He’s got the judge down there. He may know more, possibly find another clue from Stanford.’

  ‘Not sure he can,’ Isaac said. ‘We can get him on the line. Give me two minutes to bring him in.’

  ‘We’re not far from Palmer’s place,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Stay back, keep an eye on the house from a distance; see if anyone’s there.’

  The phone rang in Brighton, Wally Vincent answered.

  ‘We’ve got Jim Greenwood on the line down in Cornwall,’ Isaac said. ‘Palmer has a important clue to this mysterious woman that we didn’t know about previously.’

  ‘McIntyre’s daughter?’

  ‘That’s it. And the man doesn’t need proof, not like we do.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s much I can do,’ Vincent said. ‘Charles Stanford, from what we can see, hasn’t got anything to do with this.’

  ‘Talk to the man, explain the situation. He hates McIntyre. We need to know if there’s anything else that he may have missed, something that will give an insight into McIntyre; a reason to meet with the man again.’

  ‘I thought you were going to do that anyway.’

  ‘We’re looking for Palmer at the present time. The man’s been hanging around in London, nearby to where his brother lived, but now he’s disappeared, and we’re worried.’

  ‘We’re not the only ones in this street keeping a watch on Palmer’s house,’ Wendy said. ‘Do you see the Mercedes over there?’

  ‘I see it,’ Isaac said. ‘I even know whose car it is.’

  ‘McIntyre’s?’ Larry said.

  ‘It’s the same registration number. We can’t see the driver from here.’

  ‘You know what that means?’ Wendy said.

  ‘Bob Palmer is in serious trouble. McIntyre’s out to get the man.’

  ‘He’ll protect her at all costs,’ Larry said. ‘Bob Palmer is a dead man if we don’t get to him first.’

  ‘Samantha is at greater risk. McIntyre, or whoever is in that car, will value their own life, Palmer won’t.’

  ‘Do we have anyone keeping a watch on her?’ Isaac said.

  ‘Not round the clock,’ Larry said.

  ***

  Wendy saw the Mercedes pull out from the kerb. Quickly, she started her car and drove into the driveway of a nearby house.

  ‘It’s a cul-de-sac; he’ll have to come back this way. I don’t want us to be seen,’ she said.

  ‘Keep a watch on him in your rear-view mirror,’ Isaac said. ‘See if you can see who the driver is.’

  Inside the house where Wendy had parked, a face peered out. The front door opened soon after. ‘You can’t park there,’ the occupant of the house said.

  Isaac wanted to get out of the car and show his warrant card, but he didn’t want the driver of the Mercedes to see him.

  Wendy waved to the woman, tried to let her know to hold on for one minute, but she wouldn’t be quietened.

  Isaac smiled at the woman, said nothing.

  The Mercedes drove by, both Wendy and Isaac looking in the rear-view mirror. Wendy glanced around, trying to get a better vi
ew. There was only one thing they were sure of through the tinted windows of the other vehicle: Gareth Armstrong was driving.

  Isaac got out of the car and laid on the charm.

  ‘Sorry about my outburst’ the woman said. ‘We get a few hooligans around here, blaring music, causing trouble. Only the other week, they had a massive party up the road, the police came. We didn’t get much sleep that night.’

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ Wendy said.

  ‘Twelve, going on thirteen years. It was a good place back then, but it’s gone to the dogs now.’

  ‘The house at the end of the street, the one with the yellow front door. What can you tell us about it?’

  ‘Not a lot. Keeps to himself. My husband uses him to do his tax returns every year. He’s self-employed. Bob does a decent job, doesn’t charge too much. There’s always some money to come back to us. Apart from that, there’s not much I can tell you about him. He doesn’t talk a lot, polite when you see him, which is not that often.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Not really. We know he had a brother, but he died some years ago. He mentioned it to my husband once when they were over at his house.’

  ‘Have you seen him lately?’

  ‘He was here the other day. I could see the light on in his house, but I didn’t see him. His car was out on the street, not sure why, as he’s got a garage to one side; but as I said, he minds his own business, we mind ours. The ideal neighbour if you ask me. It won’t take long to put the kettle on.’

  ‘We’ll take you up on your offer,’ Isaac said. Wendy was surprised, as she thought he would be keen to get back to London, to follow up on the Mercedes. But then a local woman with local knowledge might know something useful.

  Inside, the house was neat and tidy, nothing out of place, but otherwise not a lot of charm. On a sunny windowsill in the kitchen, a cat was curled up. A dog, initially excited to see visitors, sat in an old cane basket.

  My husband is out and about a lot, busy, doing well for himself,’ Sheila Godfrey said.