Larry’s shirt was not as tight as it had been a few days previously, his belt was in one notch, and most noticeably his breath was not smelling of stale alcohol, although his smoking had not reduced, and he had brought the smell with him into the office. Another issue to address with him, Isaac thought, but there were more pressing matters.
It was a phone call later that morning from Wally Vincent in Brighton that had raised further interest in Stanford. As Vincent had put it, Stanford was becoming a nuisance again, shouting at the neighbours, establishing a no-go area on the pavement at the front of the house. The police had been there a couple of times in the last couple of weeks to remove the makeshift barriers, but each time Stanford had put them back. The man showed all the signs of someone who should be locked up for his own safety, and if he wasn’t going to desist, then they weren’t sure what to do. Eccentricity, madness and paranoia were hardly crimes that justified a lengthy period in the cells, and the resultant publicity, hounding a respected judge, an old man, was not wanted.
Four hours later, Larry and Isaac were in Brighton. Vincent felt like making a comment about Larry’s improved appearance but declined; he had sensed the tension between the two of them on their previous meeting.
‘Stanford’s become a damn nuisance,’ Vincent said as he ate his lunch, steak and chips, at a restaurant close to the seafront, a blustery gale blowing off the sea, a few seagulls milling around, but no tourists to feed them. To add insult to injury, Larry could see that Vincent could eat a full plate of food and still keep off the weight. No doubt the man was a drinker, Larry thought, but felt no need to comment. For him, chicken with rice and salad, small portions. It satisfied the hunger, gave him the energy to do his job, but it wasn’t a meal, never would be. And now the latest ultimatum from his wife: stop smoking.
Still, he had to admit it wasn’t all bad. With his reduced intake of food, his abstinence from alcohol, and a walk around the block every morning, he was fitter and had more stamina. His wife had responded in kind, so instead of his badgering her for affection, it was her who had initiated it on the last couple of occasions.
‘What makes a man such as him act this way?’ Isaac asked. He had ordered the same food as Larry, but to him, the meal was more than sufficient, even if the chicken was dry and the salad wasn’t as fresh as it could have been. Still, it was Vincent’s choice of restaurant, although Isaac would be paying.
‘I’ve not given it much thought. All I know is that we have to deal with it if it gets out of hand. One day, he’s calm, the next he’s barking mad. The latest episode, he’s out on the street screaming at the dog over the road, not that it had done anything. It’s a little terrier, yaps on occasions, but we all learn to live with noise and irritation.’
The problem with Stanford, according to Wally Vincent, was that one word out of order, one attempt to cajole him into behaving better, and Stanford, mad as he was, still had influence. An ex-judge, a former barrister, Queen’s Counsel – allowances were made for someone with those credentials.
To Isaac, it did not excuse him from further questioning. He had a murder enquiry to conduct, not that it was going that well at all. Marcus Matthews’ body languished in a cold and sterile room, not being released to his nearest and dearest, not just yet. The autopsy had been conducted, Forensics had completed all their checks, the pathologist’s report, long on detail, short on useable facts, was in the hands of those that needed it. Another couple of weeks and Samantha Matthews could dress in black and be the grieving widow, even if it was six years too late.
Chapter 13
Charles Stanford opened the door on the third knock.
‘This is official,’ Wally Vincent said. This time he showed his warrant card.
‘If you’ve come about that dog, you’re wasting your time,’ Stanford said. He was dressed in an old dressing gown; it was clear that he had not shaved for several days.
‘It’s either here or down at the station,’ Vincent said.
‘I’ve got my rights; I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘We’re not here about the dog,’ Isaac said. ‘We need to know of your association with Marcus Matthews, also Hamish McIntyre.’
‘McIntyre, I know.’
‘How?’ Isaac thought the man had taken one step back when the name of the gangster was mentioned. He had only mentioned McIntyre on the spur of the moment. If the connection could not be made to Marcus Matthews, then Hamish McIntyre could be another direction to take the enquiry.
‘I was a judge, you know that well enough,’ Stanford said. ‘He was before me once, disturbing the peace or something like that.’
Isaac knew that the man was evasive. There had never been any indication that Stanford had trouble remembering the past. A colleague of McIntyre’s had been up before him on a case of grievous bodily harm, the death of a man in unusual circumstances, and the jury had recorded a verdict of not guilty after the evidence, supposedly cast iron, had been dismissed.
However, whatever the reason for the verdict of innocent, Stanford had conducted the trial correctly.
‘Your house in Bedford Gardens has to have some relevance to Marcus Matthews, and by default Hamish McIntyre,’ Isaac said. ‘We must establish that connection today.’
Vincent could see that Isaac was determined, but he had been dealing with Stanford for a long time. He knew that the DCI was not
