Isaac had not needed to speak to his senior about the course of action he was contemplating. As an experienced police officer and the senior investigating officer in Homicide, the decision on how to proceed was his. But Richard Goddard was a friend, a mentor, a sounding board.
***
Two floors down, on Isaac’s return the team were busy going over the evidence. Wendy was, as usual, struggling with the paperwork. Isaac knew that Bridget would help her out when she had a free moment, which didn’t look to be anytime soon. Larry was propped up in a chair, the weak sun coming in through the window gently warming him as his eyes closed.
‘Larry, my office, now,’ Isaac said, brusquely. Wendy looked up from her laptop, looked over at Larry, looked up at Isaac; her expression showed that she knew what was afoot. Bridget continued tapping away at the keyboard on her laptop, the monitor to her right-hand side.
‘Larry, you’re letting the side down,’ Isaac said inside his office.
The detective inspector rubbed his eyes, fiddled with his tie, skewed at the neck as usual. ‘I’ve got a few things on my mind. I’ll do better, believe me.’
Isaac didn’t.
‘Larry, you’ve got a good family, a supportive wife, and a good record in this department, but you’re an alcoholic.’
‘Admittedly, I like a few pints once or twice a week, but I can give it up anytime I want.’
‘You can’t, and you know it, even if you won’t admit to it. I can either reprimand you, file an official report, or you can sort yourself out.’
‘It’s the pressure at home, to bring in more money, to study, to become a chief inspector.’
‘Most people thrive on pressure. What’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing for others, but it’s not for me.’
‘You’re of little use to me at the present time. It’s moderation that is needed, not abstinence. You’ve got to break the cycle.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘You won’t. I’m sending you for a full medical and fitness evaluation. I want to know that you’re fit enough, mentally astute, and able to either stop the alcohol or to temper your need for it.’
‘I need to drink. It’s the one way the villains open up to me. If they see me as one of them, then they talk. I can’t be there in the pub with them drinking orange juice, can I?’
‘I’d agree. Getting drunk every time is not vital, though.’
‘You’re right,’ Larry said.
In spite of his reply, Isaac could see a man in denial.
‘Tomorrow at 8 a.m. you’re to report for your medical. Bridget will give you the details of where to go.’
‘Does the department know?’
‘Not from me. It’s up to you, and this is the last time we’ll have this conversation. In the past, you’ve pulled yourself together. This time I’m not sure that you can. I suggest that you get a good night’s sleep, and present yourself for your medical tomorrow.’
A sheepish man left the office. Although optimistic by nature, Isaac could not help but hold the view that Detective Inspector Larry Hill was a lost cause.
***
Gareth Armstrong drove the Mercedes from Hamish McIntyre’s country mansion to Hammersmith. McIntyre was in the back seat enjoying the luxury of the vehicle, the smell of the leather, the air of respectability that it afforded him.
As McIntyre prepared to knock on the door of the house, it opened.
‘I know you didn’t kill Marcus,’ Samantha Matthews said.
‘I would never have harmed him, why would you never believe me?’ McIntyre said as he moved forward to embrace his daughter, the one constant in his life, the person he loved more than any other.
‘You’ve harmed others, why not him?’
‘Because he was your husband, the father of your children, my grandchildren.’
‘You’d better come in; loitering on the doorstep will only have the neighbours gossiping.’
McIntyre breathed a sigh of relief; his daughter’s sarcasm meant that the rift between the two had healed.
Inside the house, an air of tranquillity ensued. It was as if nothing had occurred between the two, so fond of each other that they were. The gangster, honest enough with his daughter to allow that appellation to be applied to him, was confident in knowing that she would never condemn or criticise him for what he had been in the past, the actions he had committed, the violence he had meted out.
‘Annie?’ McIntyre asked.
‘Better than I expected. There were tears, but she was always closer to her father than the others.’
‘I misjudged him when you married him.’
‘He cared for us.’
‘I know.’
‘Who killed him?’ Samantha changed the subject.
‘I’ve got my people looking for clues, checking old acquaintances, visiting places they’d rather not.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing so far. It seems he waited in that room. Why would someone wait to die?’
‘Marcus had strange ideas of right and wrong.’
‘Still, it’s bizarre. Why give your life on a principle, an agreement made in the past?’
‘There was always a side to him that I didn’t understand.’
‘I’ll not relax until we find out who killed him.’
‘The police?’
‘They can conduct their investigation; I’ll conduct mine.’
‘And if you find out who it is?’
‘He answers to me, not to a judge and jury.’
Hamish McIntyre left the house later that night. Before leaving, he spent time with Annie, sat with her as she did her school work, spoke to her about her father, her hopes for the future. Samantha watched the two of them with affection, seeing herself there with her father instead of Annie. She knew that she loved her father intensely, the man who had brought her up single-handed after the death of his wife, her mother. She knew she’d never lock him out of her life again.
***
Larry presented himself for his medical, only to be told that it
