‘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 criminal 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.
‘We’ve no proof against McIntyre. Stephen Palmer did not die quickly, and whoever did it either enjoyed the experience or had a reason to hate the man.’
‘What’s the connection between McIntyre and Palmer?’
‘From what we know, the two men never met each other.’
‘What do you want from me? You’re experienced enough not to need my advice,’ Goddard said as he leant back in his black leather chair.
‘I’m updating you. Palmer’s murder is twenty years old, that of Marcus Matthews is more recent. And we don’t know if there is a connection. If Hamish McIntyre killed Palmer, that’s one thing, but he didn’t kill Matthews, not because he wouldn’t have been capable, but because it wasn’t possible, the man had a broken leg. He would never have negotiated the stairs.’
‘So trying to pin a twenty-year-old murder on McIntyre, for which you have only circumstantial evidence, doesn’t help in solving the murder of Marcus Matthews.’
‘That’s about it. We’d never prove Palmer’s murder was the handiwork of McIntyre.’
‘Then find the proof, make the connection between the two men. Until then, keep away from Hamish McIntyre. The moment you go in heavy with him, you’re in for trouble, we all are. You’ve met him, what’s he like in person?’
‘Exceedingly polite and charming, well-spoken, no more the rough accent and the bad language; in other words, the archetypal upper-class Englishman.’
‘And the upper-class Englishman has surrounded himself with the establishment. The man has some impressive contacts. If, as you believe, he is guilty of murder, then make sure you can make it stick. I don’t want our noses ground in the dirt over this one. Palmer died for a reason, find that reason. It may still be a red herring, nothing to do with McIntyre and the death of Marcus Matthews, and you may just be wasting everyone’s time.’
‘That’s the problem. I know that we could be, but there are no leads on who killed Matthews.’
‘No one in the area remembers anything suspicious from six years back?’
‘None that we’ve found. We thought we had a lead, an old man down the street recollected someone entering the building, but he was just keen to be involved in the investigation. He couldn’t tell us who he had seen, which year it was. Quite frankly, I don’t think we can solve
