Isaac could only believe that Samantha Matthews, in spite of her education, her social standing, her affluence, and the fact that she had never been in trouble once in her life, was no different to her father. It was clear that the affection that Samantha and her father felt for each other was well-founded. Both of them sickened him down to his gut.
It was not possible to get any more from the woman; she had admitted to her affair with Stephen Palmer, but nothing else.
Isaac and Wendy left the house to Samantha Matthews and her fancy man.
Outside, Wendy took a phone from her handbag and dialled Challis Street Police Station. Surveillance would be placed on the house; they needed to know the name of the man in Samantha’s bed.
Chapter 14
Dean Atherton, a small-time crook and part-time police informer, updated Armstrong on the police investigation. The two men met in a pub not far from McIntyre’s mansion.
‘How do you get all this information?’ Armstrong said. He was dressed casually, his day off. The suit and tie were gone; in their place a pair of beige trousers and a blue shirt, open at the neck.
Atherton, an unusually thin man – he said it was something to do with his genes – drank his first pint in one gulp. Armstrong looked over at the barman and lifted his glass, an indication for two more pints.
‘I keep my ear to the ground, that’s all,’ Atherton said. Armstrong liked the man; they had both shared a cell in Maidstone prison five years previously, and while it was luck who you shared with, he had struck lucky that time.
During the hours of darkness in the small cell, the two men had recounted the stories of their lives and how they turned to crime. Atherton had tried to avoid prison, but his family, including his mother and father, regarded crime as a vocation.
He had been a bright student, Atherton said in that small cell, but his parents had not encouraged him to continue his studies beyond the age of fifteen. And then, as he was taking stolen goods across the city in his backpack, the police had caught him, a conviction as a juvenile offender against him. After that, the opportunities to study, the enthusiasm to continue, were gone.
Three years later, one week before his nineteenth birthday, Atherton was convicted for the more severe crime of robbery, receiving a two-year sentence, out in one for good behaviour.
He had never been a master criminal, always skirting on the edge of the next major crime that would ensure his fortune. But it never came, and all the good hopes that he had had as a child had come to nought. Life for him now consisted of a small and dreary one-bedroomed flat, three floors up, no lift. Still, the man was philosophical about his fate, and as long as he had food in his belly and enough for the occasional flutter on the horses and an occasional beer, he wished for no more.
Armstrong identified with the man’s outlook on life. However, he had Hamish McIntyre, a decent place to live, a weekly salary, the chance to drive Hamish’s cars, and the best food to eat.
‘What’s the latest?’ Armstrong asked.
‘Chief Inspector Cook has a good reputation. He’s not a man who gives in easy, and if he believes that Hamish McIntyre is involved in the death of either Matthews or Palmer, he’ll not give up until he has the truth.’
‘Hamish is not involved; he’s given me his word.’
‘And you believe him?’ Atherton said, a look of disbelief on his face.
‘We need to protect him, you and I.’
‘I don’t see what it’s got to do with me.’
‘Maybe you’re right, but I don’t intend to allow the man to be convicted of crimes he hasn’t committed,’ Armstrong said.
‘If McIntyre is forced into a corner, he’ll come out fighting, so will you. I hope he’ll remember those who had helped him. Me, for instance.’
Armstrong knew what Atherton was referring to. Hamish McIntyre was a man who looked after his friends, but not his enemies.
‘Did you know Samantha Matthews was screwing Stephen Palmer?’ Atherton said.
‘And if she was?’
‘It’s a motive for murder, don’t you think?’
***
Wendy was angry that the two constables she had assigned to keep an eye on Samantha Matthews’ house had missed the man who had been upstairs.
‘He must have known we were there,’ the ginger-haired Constable Gerry Hammond said. Wendy had seen him around the station, yet the first time she had given him an easy job, he had fluffed it.
Constable Nick Entwistle hadn’t fared much better, but then she had never been impressed by him. Six years in the station, he had not yet made it to sergeant, and it looked as though he never would. For one thing, even though he was only in his twenties, his weight was starting to increase. The once fit and active man who used to run competitively at the weekends changed after he was shot in the leg while apprehending an armed man. He had received an award for bravery, but now that was forgotten, and the enthusiasm that he had once displayed was long gone.
‘He must have gone out the back door,’ Entwistle said. ‘We were there all night. He must have left around two or three in the morning.’
‘Where were you two? Asleep?’ Wendy quizzed.
‘There was a Volvo parked around the back, and it was there most of the night, but in the early morning it was gone.’
‘We passed the registration number on to Bridget Halloran,’ Hammond said.
‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ Wendy said.
The two constables’ failure wasn’t the only disappointment that day; Larry had
