Six Years Too Late

by Phillip Strang

  ‘The video evidence?’ Grantham said.

  Isaac opened a folder and showed the accused woman and her lawyer a photo taken from the video.

  ‘I need time to consult with my client.’

  Isaac halted the interview. Both he and Larry left the room.

  Outside in the corridor, DCS Goddard was waiting. ‘Are you sure about this?’

  ‘It’s the only way,’ Isaac said. ‘We can place her in St Austell.’

  ‘After that?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  At the entrance to the police station, a commotion. ‘Samantha Matthews’ father has arrived,’ Larry said.

  ‘He can wait,’ Isaac said.

  Ten minutes after the temporary halt, the two officers re-entered the interview room.

  ‘My client doesn’t deny that she has been to St Austell in the last few weeks,’ Grantham said. ‘What she will not agree to is the date that you mentioned.’

  ‘The video is time-stamped,’ Isaac said.

  ‘That may be the case, but has it been checked and calibrated recently? It could be faulty, or maybe the railway staff didn’t maintain it.’

  Grantham had a point. It wasn’t a CCTV camera mounted on a traffic light looking for cars running a red light. It was a camera installed inside the railway station’s small car park. It wasn’t there to apprehend murderers. Its purpose had just been to monitor movement and to deter the budding Leonardo da Vincis who felt that spray painting graffiti onto the station walls was artistic licence.

  ‘If your client parked at the railway station, the question is why?’

  ‘I was tired,’ Samantha said. ‘I had driven down from London, hoping to get to Penzance.’

  Any reason?’

  ‘I like to get out into the country sometimes. I’m a free agent, the children have left home, except for the youngest but she’s at boarding school most of the time.’

  ‘You must have checked how far it was.’

  ‘Not really. We used to go down to Penzance for our holidays when I was younger.’

  ‘Okay, you park at the railway station, then what do you do? Look around Penzance?’

  ‘Not that much. It wasn’t as I remembered it. I took the train back to St Austell, picked up my car and drove home.’

  ‘There was an old blue Subaru parked next to you.’

  ‘I can see it on the photo,’ Samantha said.

  ‘Where is this heading?’ Grantham said.

  ‘The woman in the Subaru was in a hurry to get up to London on a day return. She left the car open, the keys in the ignition. We’ve interviewed her. She’s a reliable witness. She has told us that she spoke to the lady in the car next to her, Mrs Matthews’ car, that is. Told her briefly her plans for the day.’

  ‘It’s flimsy evidence,’ Grantham said.

  ‘Inside the Subaru, Forensics has found strands of blonde hair. On Liz Spalding’s clothing also. A DNA match has been confirmed.’

  ‘I’m not sure where this is heading,’ Samantha said.

  ‘You were at the funeral of Stephen Palmer. Is that correct?’

  ‘A long time ago, but yes, I was.’

  ‘Liz Spalding was a rival of yours for his affections.’

  I believe that I’ve already admitted that I was having an affair with him.’

  ‘Don’t you find it strange that you were close to where your rival was murdered?’

  ‘A coincidence, what else?’

  ‘I think we’re wasting our time here, don’t you, Chief Inspector?’ Grantham said.

  ‘Your client has been charged with murder. We will require a DNA sample from her.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘It is within our legal rights,’ Isaac said. ‘Mrs Matthews, you have been charged with the murder of Liz Spalding. You will be held in our cells for now. Is that understood?’

  Samantha Matthews looked at Fergus Grantham. He said nothing, just gave a slight sideways shake of his head.

  Chapter 32

  Jim Greenwood, aware of what had happened in London, focused on proof of Diane Connolly’s car having been in Polperro. He had spoken to Mrs Venter again, but she had to be deemed unreliable.

  ‘I saw a car down by the harbour,’ she said. ‘I’m certain it was blue.’

  ‘Do you remember the woman?’

  ‘I think I saw her up the lane, not far from where the poor woman died. But I can’t be certain, the mind wanders sometimes.’

  As Larry had explained to him on the phone, ‘Even if we tie the woman into St Austell and to the Subaru, there is still an element of doubt. A smart defence lawyer, the witness unreliable and easily discredited, the jury disregarding the testimony. And even if we make the connection, Samantha Matthews could claim that she had gone down there just to chat with the woman and that it was an unfortunate accident.’

  ‘I’ll keep checking,’ Greenwood said.

  Samantha Matthews sat in the cell at Challis Street; Fergus Grantham was with her. He was not concerned about a successful outcome, but he worried that he was too intimately involved with Hamish McIntyre. His record of success in defending the indefensible was excellent. There was no shortage of clients willing to pay him handsomely. He had never interfered with a witness or tampered with the evidence or swayed the jury other than by his eloquence, but he wasn’t naive, he knew that a word in the right quarter would often get the desired result.

  ‘Your father’s here,’ Fergus said. ‘He’s doing what he can.’

  ‘He can’t do any more than you, not yet,’ Samantha said. She knew she’d had to go to Cornwall.

  She still couldn’t understand why the discovery of Marcus’s body had brought the need for resolution of the past. It had been Marcus and her marriage to him that had kept her from Stephen. She knew her father had removed Stephen from her. But he had given his word at the time that he hadn’t been involved, and then soon after there was another child on the way and a husband she couldn’t get rid of. However, her hatred for her father then could never be enough to break the bond between them.

  But, like her, Liz Spalding had been sleeping with Stephen; the two women sharing the one man, him enjoying every moment of it.

  She knew he would never have been a reliable husband, always casting an eye here and there, but she could have dealt with it.

  Isaac spoke to McIntyre, told him what was going on, received an oblique threat in return.

  ‘I remember my friends,’ McIntyre said. Standing alongside him, the blue-suited Gareth Armstrong.

  Intimidation was not going to work with Isaac.

  Larry was upstairs in Homicide with Bridget. ‘McIntyre’s downstairs, his car’s parked around the back of the building. It might help to have a look at it.’

  Bridget had known that the car was a 2018 Mercedes S63. She had looked on the internet, found the exact model, but to see the actual vehicle could help.

  She went down with Wendy, the two women looking around the car, peering in the window.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Armstrong, who had just gone outside for some fresh air, as police stations didn’t suit him, shouted out.

  ‘Just looking,’ Wendy said. ‘It must be great to drive.’ She hoped the man would be satisfied with her explanation, but wasn’t too concerned either way.

  Back in Homicide, Bridget scrolled over the screen on her laptop. Automatic number plate recognition had done its job.

  Isaac came over after having extricated himself from his conversation with Samantha Matthews’ father. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Not sure where the car’s headed. It looks to be a late night for me.’

  ‘I’ll stay with her,’ Wendy said as she walked in the door. ‘I’ll make sure she’s fed.’

  Jim Greenwood was in a restaurant in Polperro, just off the main street. Popular with the locals, it also drew in the tourists like bears to a honeypot.

  ‘It was my car that was scratched, bloody tourists,’ the restaurant owner said as he sa
t down at Greenwood’s table. The police inspector liked the food, not the owner. He was a swarthy man, continually complaining, driving his staff to despair. It was the reason that the food was excellent, but the prices on the menu were high, and staff turnover was above the industry average. ‘It’s all right you sitting there eating your meal, but what about my car?’

  ‘What about your car?’ Greenwood said.

  ‘A car side-swiped it, left a blue streak down one side. I can tell you the exact time. It’ll be an insurance job; there goes my no-claims bonus.’

  Greenwood, his interest piqued, finished his meal and went outside. The man’s BMW was parked close to the wall.

  ‘It’s on the other side,’ he said.

  Greenwood walked around; the scratch mark was clearly visible on the silver-coloured car.

  ‘Where was it parked when this happened?’

  ‘I can show you where.’

  ‘Don’t move the car. I need to get Forensics down here.’

  ***

  Bridget confirmed that the Mercedes had been picked up by a CCTV camera on the motorway heading north-east out of London, one hour after Palmer had disappeared from the hotel. It had taken her less time than she had thought, but it was still close to midnight, and both she and Wendy were exhausted.

  ‘What do you reckon? Isaac said when he was woken. He didn’t mind the late hour. To him, policing was 24/7.

  ‘I did a check on Hamish McIntyre before,’ Bridget said. ‘The man owns a lot of property. He’s got somewhere not far from Epping in Essex, near the village of Thornwood, a farm.’

  ‘Wendy, you and Larry get out there tomorrow early, take some uniforms, check around. I’ll phone Larry, let him know what’s going on.’

  ‘We’re leaving the office now,’ Bridget said.

  Larry picked up Wendy at 6.10 a.m. She’d not had enough sleep, but she could doze on the way up.

  It was early morning; the traffic hadn’t yet built up. It took Larry just over seventy minutes to pass through Epping and then Thornwood, turning left into Upland Road. A mile on the right, the entrance to the farm. A patrol car was parked across from the entrance of the farm, checking who was going in, who was coming out.

  ‘It doesn’t look to be much,’ Wendy said.

  They drove eighty yards up the track, rutted in places, muddy puddles in others; it was making the car dirty.

  The farmhouse, tired and unloved, a window open, a door hanging off its hinges, was neglected. Outside an old tractor that looked as though it hadn’t moved for a few years.

  To the right of the farmhouse, an old barn. Larry and Wendy walked over to it, the uniforms remaining behind to check around the house.

  It was Wendy who saw it first. ‘A car’s been up here, look at the tyre marks.’

  ‘There must be two ways into the farm,’ Larry phoned the patrol car officers to come up to the barn. Intuition told him it was where they should be looking.

  It was a potential crime scene. All four donned coveralls, gloves and shoe protectors.

  ‘Better safe than sorry,’ Wendy said. She took a photo of the tyre tracks clearly imprinted in the drying mud and sent it to Bridget who forwarded it to Gordon Windsor.

  ‘It’s the same tread as the Mercedes in the car park,’ Bridget said. ‘I took a few photos when we were out there looking at it.’

  Larry opened the barn door; it creaked. He smelt the hay. At the back of the barn, the ropes that had been used to restrain someone, the drag marks on the ground. He retreated from the barn, careful not to disturb possible evidence.

  ‘Anything?’ Wendy said.

  ‘Phone Gordon Windsor, tell him to get his team here.’

  ***

  Isaac saw one flaw in the investigation. He was standing, unusual for him as he preferred to sit when conversing, but everyone except Bridget was out of the office, so he was on the speakerphone in the conference room.

  ‘We’ve lost focus,’ he said. ‘If Jim Greenwood and Forensics make the connection, provide unassailable proof that Samantha Matthews is guilty of the murder of Liz Spalding, if Gordon Windsor finds evidence of foul play at McIntyre’s farm, there still remains the initial murder, the death of Marcus Matthews.’

  ‘Have we?’ Larry said. ‘I don’t want to dispute you, but aren’t these all pieces in the puzzle, the final piece yet to be found and placed?’

  ‘I’d agree, but it doesn’t alter the fact that we’ve got nothing. A room at the top of a house, a dead man, an owner who keeps feeding us dribs and drabs, hoping we’ll go away…’

  ‘Which we do,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Jim, you’re online. What’s the latest from your end?’

  ‘Forensics have been down, impounded the restaurant owner’s car, not that it stopped him complaining.’

  ‘A problem?’

  ‘Not for me. He can keep on bellyaching for all I care. We’re close on this one.’

  ‘Proof?’

  ‘Diane Connolly’s car has had a rough life. The woman, even though Mike Doherty’s got a thing for her, set himself up a date, is a lousy driver. The vehicle is a harlequin quilt, more than one or two scratches down the sides, a dent on the front wing.’

  ‘Where’s this leading?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Sorry, a little excited. My first Homicide and it looks as though we’ve got a win.’

  ‘Understood, but it’s premature for me to offer you congratulations.’

  ‘Miss Connolly, who didn’t look after her car, barely roadworthy, had an accident ten months ago. That time it wasn’t her fault, a truck caught her on the right-hand side of the car, damaged it enough for it to spend time at a panel beater’s in St Austell.’

  ‘Where’s this going?’ Larry said. As good a man as Greenwood was, he could talk.

  ‘The panel beater did a matchup of the car’s colour. He’s still got a sample of the paint that he used. At least he did have, as Doherty’s been there with someone from Forensics; it’s now evidence and up in Plymouth for analysis.’

  ‘The paint on your friendly restaurant owner’s car?’

  ‘Samantha Matthews caught it fair and square. A six-inch streak on the left-hand side of the rear of the car. Forensics have already conducted some analysis, a spectrophotometer, and the paint at the panel beater’s and down the side of the man’s car are a match.’

  ‘Conclusive?’

  ‘Ninety per cent. Forensics won’t put their name to it, not just yet. Later today they should, after they’ve conducted further tests.’

  ‘No sightings of the woman in the village?’

  ‘None that can be relied on. Just too many tourists in the place and she wouldn’t have stood out.’

  ‘Which means,’ Isaac said, ‘even if we can prove that she was in the village, she could still claim that it was Liz Spalding who became aggressive; that it was an accident.’

  ‘Which we know it wasn’t.’

  ‘Knowing and proving are two different things. She’ll claim, even at this late date, and after so many denials, that it wasn’t her fault.’

  ‘Lying will go against her,’ Larry said.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, not much, not if Grantham is representing her. He’ll say that she was frightened, unable to comprehend what had happened that day. Her husband’s body had just been found.’

  ‘The daughter of a gangster,’ Wendy said. ‘Another reason she’d not want to state the that, guilt by association.’

  ‘It’s unlikely that Grantham will use that, not unless he has to.’

  ‘He will,’ Larry said,’ if McIntyre’s daughter’s freedom’s at stake.’

  ‘We might not see a conviction for first-degree, but it’ll be hard to wriggle out of second-degree,’ Isaac said.’

  ‘We need the proof today,’ Larry said. ‘We can’t hold her indefinitely, not with Grantham on her case, and her father will bring up heavier guns if he has to.’

  ‘An inappropriate term,’ Isaac said.

  ‘More senior lega
l advisers are what I meant to say.’

  ‘Money’s no object as far as his daughter is concerned. Larry, you’re with Wendy and Gordon Windsor. Good job by the way.’

  ‘Does McIntyre know we’re here?’

  ‘Not from us, not yet. Any reason to let him know?’

  ‘It might faze him if you confront him with the fact.’

  ‘He’s not in the station at present, although he’ll be back soon enough. How soon before one of you two can be back in the office?’

  ‘I can be there in ninety minutes,’ Wendy said. She knew what was likely to be discovered at the barn. She had seen her share of bodies, and judging by the blood and Hamish McIntyre’s reputation, they would be barely human, more reminiscent of the offal at a slaughterhouse.

  ‘I’ll stay,’ Larry said.

  ‘Wendy, ninety minutes. We’ll caution McIntyre, bring him into the interview room, lay the facts out for him, look for the reaction, and see how far he’ll open up.’

  ‘What are you hoping for?’ Wendy said.

  ‘If he wants to protect his daughter, he might be forced to open up more than he’d like. There’s a possibility he’ll open himself to prosecution.’

  ***

  Armstrong, immaculately-dressed as usual, steered the Mercedes around London, McIntyre in the back seat. Outwardly calm, inwardly fraught with worry, Armstrong tried to focus on what his boss was saying, watching out for the traffic at the same time. He was not handling either well.

  ‘What is it?’ McIntyre said. ‘You’re not yourself today. A conscience over deeds committed?’

  ‘I’m fine, Hamish.’

  McIntyre knew that something was amiss with the man, but he wasn’t his priority. Samantha was in serious trouble, and her protection was paramount.

  That was why Stephen Palmer had died, as had his brother and Jacob Wolfenden, a man who had never wronged him, never said a word out of turn. He knew that Wolfenden had known things about him when he was starting out in crime. The man could have fingered him back then, but he never had. He had to admit to feeling remorse over his death.