Isaac would later admit that the comprehensive medical and fitness examination and tests were for his inspector’s benefit. He wanted Larry back on the team in excellent condition: stamina restored, the enthusiasm of the man unbound, the good sense to look after his own well-being.
The examination and tests were a disaster, as both the doctor and Larry had expected. Isaac received a report within the hour of Larry leaving the doctor’s office: blood pressure – 140/90 mmHg, cholesterol level – 230 mg/dl, body mass index – 29. The one high point in the report was that Larry’s eyesight was excellent for a man of his age.
The fitness test, known as the multi-stage shuttle run test, was the worst. It consists of running between two lines fifteen metres apart, the electronic bleep progressively speeding up with each run stage until the participant reaches the required speed. Larry failed to complete the test, having to sit down and catch his breath, almost lying on the floor.
In the second stage of the fitness test, Larry fared better, in part because he still retained strength in his upper body. He managed to complete four of the five pushes of a 34 kilo (push) and 35 kilo (pull)
Isaac knew that if he presented the doctor’s report to Richard Goddard, he would agree and move Larry out of the department. It was an avenue that Isaac didn’t want to pursue, not just yet.
Chapter 9
Larry entered Homicide twelve hours after his reality check at the medical centre. Eight of the interceding twelve hours had been consumed by sleep, the other four with talking to his wife, who knew when her husband had something on his mind. She had wheedled the truth out of him, about how his job was on the line and that his physical condition was not good; not that she needed to be told that. The romantic interludes in the bedroom in the last year, before the children woke, had become infrequent. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him, but his snoring and belching had destroyed any chance of romance. Even so, he tried to reawaken affection in her, but she invariably started talking about this and that, or else got up and fussed around the house, or, if she really wanted to put him off, discussed furniture and wallpaper.
Wendy made a comment about Larry’s freshened-up look, and Bridget smiled. Isaac said no more on the matter; he had lambasted the man enough.
The early-morning meeting continued, Isaac emphasising a change in tactic, an attempt to find the reason for Marcus Matthews’ death, not the culprit, as they had no further leads. Charles Stanford, the retired judge and now semi-reclusive eccentric, had not been willing to say more about the house in Bedford Gardens, other than it was only still standing due to luck and not because he wanted it to.
Further discussions with Wally Vincent, down in Brighton, had not added much. Stanford, to him, was a pain to deal with, but he hadn’t had reason to visit and remonstrate with him for some time, and he hoped it would stay that way. He had enough to deal with, as murders and crime were not exclusive to London; they had their own villains, drug addicts, and reprobates.
With Larry focused, or as focused as a man could be when he was carrying fifty pounds of excess weight, he left the office with Wendy; their destination, the home of Stephen Palmer’s brother. He had been interviewed briefly before, but little had come of the conversation. That had been before the added focus on the case, the hope that there was a tie-in to the death of Marcus, though it was conceded by the department that that hope was slight. Marcus had almost certainly been present when Palmer died, and he had been killed since then. And the belief that if you keep digging long enough, something will turn up was current in the minds of all those in Homicide.
It was a useful gardening adage, but in a police investigation it often proved correct that the flower may bloom up above, but down in the soil, with the worms and the grubs, was where the truth lay. Not that Bob Palmer was a creature of the soil; he was an accountant.
‘I know what you’re feeling. I’ve been through this myself,’ Wendy said as the two police officers headed towards Palmer’s house in Oxford. It was motorway most of the way, and even though the traffic was light, there was steady rain and a light mist. The trip should have taken about ninety minutes, but as they were not in a hurry – the scheduled meeting with Palmer wasn’t until 11 a.m. – the two of them stopped at a motorway café for breakfast, Larry opting for cereal and a cup of tea, Wendy enjoying her bacon and eggs, looking over at the jealous eyes of her inspector.
‘It’s my health,’ Larry confided.
‘It’s your weight, Inspector, and if you don’t mind me saying it, your drinking.’
Larry did mind; it was the truth, but the truth sometimes hurts.
‘Why is it that what we love often gives us pain?’
‘The human condition,’ Wendy said, having heard the phrase on a television documentary.
‘It’s not so easy. I can’t stop drinking, and once I start, I enjoy the camaraderie, the atmosphere of the pub. I’ll miss it if I stop; if I don’t, it’s my career and my job.’
‘My husband, when he was alive, had a bout of drinking too much, spending too
