Six Years Too Late

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Why are you sweating?’ Larry said.

  ‘It’s hot in here. I just brought up a barrel; it’s hard work.’

  ‘I’ve been around the area, asked a few questions here and there, spoken to one or two friends.’

  ‘Informers?’

  ‘People who keep their ear to the ground. Those that understand that a friendly policeman comes in handy, especially when they’re serving underage drinkers.’

  ‘I can’t help you.’

  ‘Even if you knew something, you wouldn’t tell me either. Is that about the sum of it?’

  ‘Sometimes I hear things, barmen always do. I’ve learnt not to take it in, to let it pass through from one ear to the next.’

  ‘I can understand people not wanting to talk. It’s not that simple, though.’

  An old man walked into the pub and over to the bar. ‘A pint of your best,’ he said. He looked over at Larry. ‘One for you?’

  ‘Thanks, but not today.’

  ‘You’ve got it wrong,’ the old man said. ‘Alcoholic? I’m Fred Wilkinson, by the way.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ It was the first time Larry had openly admitted the fact.

  ‘What is it? Stress at work, the wife giving you aggravation, the children answering you back. We’ve all gone through it, turned to the drink, tried to forget, just another one for the road. It doesn’t help. All you get is more aggravation, end up losing your home, the respect you once had.’

  ‘The wife and the children are fine,’ Larry said.

  ‘What are you? Accountant, engineer?’

  ‘I’m a police inspector, Challis Street.’

  ‘Fair enough. Plenty of stress, villains you’d rather not have to deal with, sights you’d rather not see.’

  Larry pushed the photo across to the old man. The barman looked on anxiously.

  ‘It won’t do you any good. One or two pints of a night does no harm. You’re a police officer, used to self-control.’

  ‘Give me a half-pint,’ Larry said. Maybe the old man’s right, he thought.

  ‘He’s familiar. I’ve seen him in here.’

  ‘We need to find him. Any help would be appreciated.’

  Larry put the glass to his mouth, took a sip. He put it back down on the bar.

  ‘You’ve got to learn how to control yourself.’

  ‘In the meantime, the photo.’

  ‘He upset Jacob; I know that. I could hear him tell the photo to leave well alone. Stormed out of the place, did Jacob. Usually he sits at the bar or on his own, drinks a few pints and leaves.’

  ‘What happened after that?’

  ‘The photo came back up to the bar, sat on the chair you’re sitting on,’ Fred said. ‘Just about the only excitement that night.’

  Fred looked over at the barman. ‘You must remember what the man said.’

  ‘Withholding evidence is a crime,’ Larry said. ‘I’m from Homicide. A couple of murders so far. We don’t need another one.’

  ‘He was a nuisance. I told him to get out. I had customers to serve, and he’s getting in the way. I said to him that if Jacob tells you to leave well alone, then do just that. Jacob’s lived here for a long time. He knows everyone; I don’t.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Fred said. ‘That’s why everyone likes Jacob. Too many people these days sticking their noses in.’

  ‘We’re getting somewhere,’ Larry said. ‘Bob Palmer, that’s the name you identified, is warned off, but he doesn’t take any notice. Is that it?’

  ‘That’s it,’ the barman said. ‘The second day, this Palmer character grabs Jacob in the street, threatens to hit him, not that he did. Jacob’s soon in here, downs a couple of whiskies, a pint of beer. and then he’s outside making a phone call.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘I didn’t ask. As I said, I mind my own business.’

  ‘Where is Jacob?’

  ‘Jacob Wolfenden, that’s his full name. I’ve not seen him for a couple of days, unusual as he doesn’t miss his daily imbibe, not often, that is. You get used to seeing the regular faces, get to know something about them. But Jacob doesn’t say much. Not about himself anyway.’

  ‘We know that Palmer’s looking for someone.’

  ‘There’s only one person around here who scares everyone,’ Fred said.

  The barman looked at him. ‘You shouldn’t go there, Fred.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Larry said.

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ Fred said. ‘The man doesn’t frighten me, not any more. And besides, what can he do? I’m getting old, so is my wife. The man might be a vicious gangster, but I’ve known him all my life.’

  ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘He’s my cousin, younger than me by a few years.’

  ‘It won’t stop him,’ the barman said.

  ‘Family is all-important to him. We’re related on our mothers’ side. As children, we had time for each other, played in the street sometimes, went to the cinema together.’

  ‘What’s your background, Fred?’ Larry asked.

  ‘The same as Jacob’s. Kept my nose clean, did an honest job for a fair salary. I’m not ambitious, not like my cousin.’

  ‘Your cousin's name?’

  ‘I thought we’d dealt with that. Don’t you know the villains around here?’

  ‘I know the name of one.’

  ‘Hamish McIntyre, that’s who you want. If Jacob isn’t around, talk to him. Don’t mention my name, that’s all.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t frightened of him.’

  ‘He wouldn’t harm me, not seriously. He could put me in hospital for a few days, though. I prefer to keep away from those places.’

  ‘It’s over to you,’ Larry said, looking at the barman. ‘Fred’s in the firing line. Whatever I learn here will reflect back on him. Now, what was Palmer asking?’

  ‘He was looking for a woman.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘A woman with a butterfly tattooed on her right arm, on the inside near the wrist. Leave me out of this and let me go back to selling drinks. Jacob didn’t want to be involved, neither do I.’

  Larry left the pub; his beer remained untouched.

  Chapter 31

  Wendy found out where Wolfenden lived, a remarkably pleasant house. Even though he had led a quiet life, never rising to any significant seniority in the factory where he had worked, he had obviously been a frugal man: never spending a lot of money, saving it where he could.

  ‘It doesn’t bode well,’ Isaac said. It was the regular early-morning meeting. As they were integral to the investigation, Jim Greenwood and Wally Vincent were dialled in.

  ‘So where is Palmer?’ Larry said.

  ‘What do we have on Hamish McIntyre? Has the man been up to his old tricks?’

  ‘We’ve had no reports of him leaving his place, and we know that his daughter’s there a lot of the time. Thick as thieves, those two.’

  ‘An apt term,’ Wendy said.

  ‘If Palmer had gotten too close, McIntyre would have acted, which appears to be the case,’ Larry said.

  I’d agree with you on that,’ Isaac said.’ And Jacob Wolfenden’s missing as well.’

  ‘Which means the body count is no longer three; it’s five. Does Chief Superintendent Goddard know yet?’

  ‘He’s been updated. He’s not happy about it, but there’s not much he can do, other than pressuring us to do better.’

  ‘Better? We’re doing all we can.’

  What did the barman say, Larry?’

  ‘He thought that Wolfenden was keeping a watch on Palmer.’

  ‘His car has been found but not the man.’

  Where is it now?’

  ‘It’s been impounded,’ Wendy said.

  ‘The hotel?’

  ‘The man was helped out of the hotel by two other men. We got that much from the woman on reception, not that she wanted to be involved.’

  ‘The hotel?’ Bridget said.

  ‘Palmer could have afforded better.’ />
  ‘Let’s assume that Wolfenden followed Palmer out to the hotel.’

  ‘So why was he following him?’ Wendy said.

  ‘Keeping your nose clean sometimes means that you’re pushed into a corner,’ Larry said. ‘Wolfenden was not a strong-willed character; honest and decent, but not the sort of person to stand up to anyone. He could have been threatened, not sure how to react.’

  ‘Badly,’ Wendy said. ‘He would have taken the easier option.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘If McIntyre pressured him, he’d follow.’

  ‘Follow who? Palmer or McIntyre.’

  ‘Do we know how McIntyre found out about Bob Palmer?’

  ‘I’ve given it some thought,’ Larry said. ‘The barman said that Wolfenden was upset, shaking like a leaf after Palmer had accosted him in the street. After he had calmed down, he made a phone call.’

  ‘McIntyre?’

  ‘It’s possible. I ran it past the barman now that he’s willing to talk.’

  ‘Change of heart?’

  ‘The man’s not too fussy as to who goes in the pub. Underage drinkers, after-hours drink fests, God knows what else. I showed him a photo of Armstrong. He confirmed the man had been in one time, had looked around, said little and had left.’

  ‘Wolfenden’s phone records, Bridget?’ Isaac said.

  ‘I’ve not got the number.’

  ‘According to Fred Wilkinson, McIntyre had grown up in the area. Both Wolfenden and Wilkinson knew the man well. It could have been purely social if he had phoned him, but that seems unlikely,’ Larry said.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ Bridget said.

  ‘You’re either on McIntyre’s side, or you’re not. Wolfenden would have known that. He made a choice. Let the man know before he found out that Palmer had been speaking to him. It would save himself explaining later to a man who wouldn’t have been listening.’

  ‘The hotel, the two men holding the third,’ Isaac said. ‘What do we know about them?’

  ‘Nothing that helps,’ Wendy said. ‘I followed up with the woman. She said she hadn’t seen much, but then she probably turns a blind eye to a lot of things.’

  ‘Prostitution?’

  ‘It goes on there, I’m sure of it. The woman tried to emphasise that it was an excellent hotel, no trouble, good food, but I went up to Palmer’s room, found his keys and his belongings, not that he had many. He had paid in advance, and if he wasn’t there, no need to clean the room or change the sheets.’

  ‘She was unable to identify either of the two men?’

  ‘She probably didn’t see them, not that closely; too busy watching the television or fiddling with her nails. I’d say she had known the hotel intimately when she was younger.’

  ‘Turning tricks in there?’

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘We’re assuming one of the men is Wolfenden. He’s cornered, doesn’t know what to do. On the one hand, he’s keeping McIntyre off him, but on the other, he’s now involved. Could he have made a run for it, staying low?’

  ‘It’s what we would like to believe, but if Bob Palmer were closing in on this woman, McIntyre wouldn’t allow anyone to hide.’

  ‘Who’s he got working for him?’

  ‘Gareth Armstrong, the man’s butler, general dogsbody. He’s got a criminal record, no violence. He and McIntyre have known each other for a long time. One rose up in the criminal echelon, the other stayed with minor crime. Armstrong wasn’t a master criminal; got to know the insides of a few prisons before McIntyre employed him.’

  ‘Any chance of CCTV cameras?’

  ‘Not in the hotel,’ Bridget said.

  ‘How about on the street?’

  ‘I’m still trying.’

  ‘We know that Palmer left the hotel at close to ten minutes past three in the afternoon.’ Isaac said.

  ‘That’s the closest the woman could give us,’ Wendy said. ‘One of her favourite programmes was on television; it had just started.’

  ‘We were in Oxford,’ Isaac said, looking at Wendy. ‘We saw Armstrong leave at just after one in the afternoon.’

  ‘He took off in a hurry. Someone must’ve phoned him,’ Wendy said.

  ‘How long to get from Palmer’s house to that hotel?’

  ‘Under two hours, depends on the traffic. We were back in Challis Street before three.’

  ‘Could the third person have been Armstrong?’

  ‘There was blood in Palmer’s room, an attempt by someone in the bathroom to clean him up.’

  ‘Wolfenden wouldn’t have hit him, too scared to.’

  ‘Armstrong could have,’ Larry said.

  ‘This assumes the three men left the hotel and got into McIntyre’s Mercedes.’

  ‘Can we trace it? What do you reckon, Bridget?’

  ‘It depends on the woman in the reception, getting the time correct.’

  ‘Give her the benefit of the doubt, for now,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Can we trace the car’s movements?’

  ‘It’s an easy car to spot, a Mercedes,’ Bridget said.

  ***

  Confirmation had been received that the blonde hairs found in Diane Connolly’s car and on Liz Spalding’s clothes were a perfect DNA match.

  Samantha Matthews was at home when Larry and Isaac knocked on her door. Initially, she had been polite, inviting them in, offering them a cup of tea. But neither of the police officers was in the mood to mess around with her. This time Fergus Grantham was in the main room of the house. He was drinking a glass of red wine.

  ‘What is it, Officers?’ he said.

  ‘Are you Mrs Matthews’ lawyer? Isaac said. He realised they had intruded on an intimate moment; Grantham’s shirt, the top two buttons undone, a flushed look on Samantha Matthews’ face.

  ‘I am if it’s required,’ Grantham said. ‘Your knocking on the door of this house is becoming a bit of a habit, isn’t it?’

  ‘Then, Mr Grantham, I suggest that you advise your client.’ Isaac walked over to Samantha Matthews. ‘I’d like you to accompany us to Challis Street Police Station.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Mrs Matthews, I’m arresting you for the murder of Liz Spalding,’ Isaac said.

  Grantham attempted to intercede, Isaac taking no notice of him.

  ‘This must be a joke, Chief Inspector,’ Samantha said.

  ‘It’s no joke. We can place you at the scene of the murder. You stole a car in St Austell, drove to Polperro, committed the crime. After that, you returned to St Austell.’

  ‘You can’t arrest my client,’ Grantham said.

  ‘We have a warrant for her arrest.’

  ‘My client, Mrs Matthews, has an unblemished record. She’s raised three children, all upstanding citizens. She’s active with the local church. How can she be guilty of a heinous crime?’

  ‘Mr Grantham, I suggest you accompany your client to the station. Once there, we’ll conduct an interview. She will have a chance to put forward her defence. You will be able to advise her. Outside the house is a police car. She will go to the station in that vehicle. Is that clear?’

  Samantha Matthews looked at Fergus Grantham. ‘What can you do?’

  ‘Nothing at this time,’ he said. ‘We’ll have you out before the end of the day.’

  Isaac knew he was taking a calculated risk. The truth was that they didn’t have proof that Samantha Matthews had thrown the other woman over the cliff.

  What they had was a suspect that Palmer and the police believed was the murderer, the small tattoo clearly visible. They had matched DNA in Diane Connolly’s car and on Liz Spalding’s clothes. What they didn’t have was a match to Samantha Matthews’ hair.

  ***

  Hamish McIntyre’s reaction was not unexpected when Samantha phoned him from the house.

  ‘Fergus?’ McIntyre’s response after the initial shock.

  ‘He’s here with me. Don’t worry, nothing will happen.’

  ‘What’s the charge?�
�

  ‘The police say I murdered a woman. It’s pure conjecture.’

  McIntyre did not comment. She could lie to the police as much as she liked, but not to him. He would have preferred that she hadn’t committed the act, but guilty or not guilty, he would ensure that no jury would ever convict her.

  ‘Give Fergus the phone,’ McIntyre said.

  Samantha handed over the phone, Fergus put it to his ear. ‘I’ll deal with it, don’t you worry,’ he said.

  But Hamish McIntyre did. If you commit a crime, trivial or not, you make sure there is never any evidence. But his daughter wasn’t a criminal. Did she have the inherited knowledge to ensure that no evidence would be found?

  ‘I’ll be at the police station,’ McIntyre said.

  ‘I’ll have your daughter out soon enough,’ Grantham said. He hoped he was not going to be drawn into the crime due to his relationship with Samantha. And if he was, how far would he go to protect her, especially if the police had done their homework? He was treading a narrow line, he knew that.

  One wrong action on his part, one missed opportunity to devalue the police case against Samantha, and her father, a man who would not accept failure, would react.

  Grantham got into the back of the police car and held Samantha’s hand; it was clammy, she was worried, and he knew she had every reason to be.

  At the police station, the interview, the formal charging, explaining what was going to happen.

  ‘My client wishes to state her innocence,’ Grantham said.

  ‘Duly noted,’ Isaac said, Larry at his side. He looked at Isaac, knew full well that his DCI was pushing the envelope. The evidence was substantial, not cast iron, not yet.

  ‘Mrs Matthews,’ Isaac said, ‘we have proof that you were in St Austell on the day that Liz Spalding was murdered. Do you deny that?’

  Samantha looked at Grantham.

  ‘My client withholds any answers until she knows what evidence you have against her,’ he said.

  ‘We have video proof that Mrs Matthews’ car was parked at the railway station in St Austell, Cornwall, on the day that Liz Spalding, an acquaintance of hers and Stephen Palmer’s, was murdered. True or not?’