‘Stephen was dead, and Bob was as upset as me. It seemed the right thing to do. I slept with Bob that night, and left him in the morning, a smile on his face. I never saw him after that.’
‘Did the experience help you?’
‘Not really. Stephen was fond of his brother, not that you’d know it. He would have approved of what I did.’
‘Did you approve?’
‘I believe that I left that house calm. I never shed a tear for Stephen again.’
To Wendy, the woman’s action, even if a little extreme, seemed plausible.
How Bob Palmer would have accepted that the woman of his dreams had loved him and left him was not known. However, it didn’t seem relevant; they were there to find what they could about Stephen’s death, how to prove that Hamish McIntyre had killed him. They needed the reason, and Liz sleeping with Bob after his brother had been murdered was not a motive.
‘At the funeral,’ Larry said, taken aback by the woman’s honesty, ‘there was a third woman. She was dressed in black, a wide-brimmed hat, a veil, black stiletto heels.’
‘It was a long time ago, and it’s not a time and place that I choose to remember. But yes, I do remember her.’
‘What can you tell us about her?’
‘She was one of Stephen’s playthings.’
‘Any more?’
‘She was married, about my age, maybe a little older.’
‘How do you know she was married?’
‘She was my rival, I instinctively knew. I knew he had another woman that he was keen on, keener than he was on me.’
‘But why? You were free, attractive, and you wanted him,’ Wendy asked. It was late in the afternoon, and in another hour it would be dark. She was glad that she had put a small overnight case in the back of the car. It was a five-hour drive back to London; she didn’t relish the trip that late at night.
‘Why do we love certain people and not others, why did he? After Stephen’s disappearance, I met my first husband, a doctor. The man could make paint peel off the wall of any room he entered, yet I loved him for his decency and his love for me. It was refreshing after Stephen.’
‘He sounds like Bob Palmer.’
‘Bob was a dreamer; my husband was not. He gave our children and me a great life, and if sometimes I wished he could have been more romantic, there’s something seductive about being comforted in the warmth of a loving family.’
‘You were married when you slept with Bob Palmer.’
‘It was once; no one ever knew, not my husband, certainly not my children. I couldn’t see it as being unfaithful as there was no emotional connection with Bob, no intention to leave my husband or to deceive him. It was a necessary act of compassion in a moment of weakness. Maybe you don’t understand, but it matters little now. My husband died, our eleventh year, and some were good, some were not, but I had no intention of leaving him, and I never looked at another man during that time.’
‘You never answered the question as to why you knew she was married.’
‘I think I did. He was with me, but he wanted her. But he couldn’t have her, the reason was obvious. And there she was at the funeral, the woman that I had despised.’
‘You didn’t confront her?’
‘What for? Time had moved on, I was married, and Stephen was dead. I didn’t want to talk to her, but I couldn’t hate her. To me, she didn’t exist.’
‘We need to find her.’
‘I can’t help you there, and I didn’t study her that closely at the funeral. I’m afraid your trip here today has been wasted.’
Wendy would have said it hadn’t, in that Bob Palmer had lied about him and Liz.
The verdict was out on whether Liz Spalding was a good or a bad person. Wendy would be willing to concede that she was the first of the two; Larry, if asked, would have reserved his judgement for later.
Chapter 12
Hamish McIntyre prided himself on his orchids, and he wanted nothing more than to spend his time with them, ensuring the pH of the soil was just right, the humidity and the temperature of the conservatory were at the optimum, and that he could focus on their colour and variety, and not on the past.
Five years ago he had decided that the aggravation, the stomach ulcer, the high blood pressure, weren’t worth it any more and he’d passed on to a colleague the mantle of leadership of his criminal empire. The clubs, as well as the drug importation and distribution businesses, were no longer his.
McIntyre now preferred to forget his dubious past, but he could not, because it reared its ugly head too often. It had happened twice in the past five years, and now it was happening again.
Gareth Armstrong, the ever-loyal butler, and now confidant of the gangster, had entered the conservatory. ‘Hamish, the word on the street is that the police are sniffing around.’ Whenever there were visitors in the house, Armstrong would not address his boss by his first name, but when it was just the two of them, then a degree of informality ensued.
McIntyre put down the small trowel, removed his gardening gloves, and sat down on an old wooden folding chair.
‘What is it?’ he asked as he raised a glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice to his mouth.
‘Does the name Stephen Palmer mean anything to you?’
McIntyre trusted Armstrong with his life, but he could not trust him with the truth, not this time. ‘No, never heard of him.’
‘It’s just that the police have reopened the enquiry into his death; they’ve been asking questions, meeting up with his brother, old girlfriends.’
‘How
