It was unusual, Larry thought. Back in London, the pathologist, not an affable man, would barely give you the time of day. And no comment before the autopsy.
Wendy thought there was a refreshing air of informality out of London. She remembered back to when she’d been a junior constable in Sheffield, many years in the past now, the ease of conversation in the station. Of course, there were a few idiots, one or two up themselves, and others who brown-nosed at the first opportunity. Even so, London was better, especially with Isaac Cook as her senior.
Leaving Jim Greenwood in Pathology, Larry and Wendy took the opportunity to find a small restaurant for lunch.
‘It’s my wife,’ Larry said as they sat down, each eating a salad. Larry had to admit that it had been some time since he had tasted food unimpaired by cigarettes and beer. ‘I’ve got to stop smoking now,’ he said.
‘Cold turkey is best,’ Wendy said. She knew he would suffer for a few weeks, the same as she had. He’d also find it hard to know what to do with his hands, the need to fumble with the cigarettes in his pocket, the need to take one out to stick in his mouth and light up.
Ninety minutes later, Greenwood joined them from Pathology. He ordered steak and chips. For once, Larry did not envy him.
‘Nothing to report,’ Greenwood said after he had emptied half a bottle of tomato sauce onto his plate. ‘He sliced the woman open from stem to stern.’
Both Larry and Wendy could tell that Jim Greenwood had not handled the sight of the blood and bone and the woman’s internal organs as well as he tried to portray. They knew that the pathologist would have executed a Y-shaped incision from her shoulder joints, meeting at mid-chest, the stem of the Y ending at the pubic region. He would have then removed the critical organs, including the brain afterwards, and then sent them to be checked and catalogued.
‘Apart from that,’ Greenwood continued, taking time out from his meal, ‘Taylor’s only other comments were that the woman appeared to be in good physical condition for her age, that she showed no signs of drug abuse, and that she could have probably lived to a ripe old age apart from her premature death.’
With no more to do in Plymouth and no reason to go back to Polperro, Larry and Wendy headed back to London. Jim Greenwood would continue with the investigation, and even if he was squeamish, he was a competent police officer. He’d not let them down.
Chapter 17
Hamish McIntyre was concerned; the continuing focus on his daughter, Samantha, troubled him. Gareth Armstrong had alerted him to DCI Cook’s visit to Fergus Grantham the night before. And now the death of Liz Spalding, Samantha’s rival for Stephen Palmer’s affection.
‘An unexpected surprise,’ Grantham said as he opened his door to find McIntyre standing there.
‘It’s not much of a surprise,’ McIntyre replied. He was looking for answers, willing to take whatever actions were necessary to remove the focus from his daughter.
‘What was Cook doing around your house last night?’ McIntyre asked as he sat in the chair that Isaac had sat in the previous night.
‘He was just fishing. He’s got no evidence against anyone, and his investigation is floundering. No doubt he’s under pressure from his superiors for a result. I was the last possibility, a stone unturned, a chance for him to nibble away at me to gain some information.’
‘And what did you give him?’
‘Nothing, just a brief reminder that he’s a police officer, and I am an experienced lawyer, and we’re not on a level playing field.’
McIntyre knew he was being fed a pack of lies by Grantham. ‘You’d better level with me,’ he said.
Grantham could see that he was being placed in an unenviable position. He wasn’t sure what the man’s reactions would be if he learnt of the strength of the relationship with Samantha. He assumed it would be favourable, but McIntyre had an unequalled reputation for dealing with those who interfered in his affairs.
‘I told him nothing,’ Grantham said.
McIntyre stood up, came close to Grantham. Under normal circumstances, the lawyer would have held his ground, used his intellect to belittle whoever was attempting to win a point against him, but not this time.
He sat quietly assessing the situation, trying to figure out what to say. For once, he was without words.
‘Let me tell you, Fergus Grantham, my daughter is innocent of any crimes levelled against her. If you and she wish to maintain the subterfuge that both of you seem to be at great pains to do, then so be it. She’s old enough, single, and I approve of you as a consort for my daughter.’
‘Thank you,’ Grantham said. One hurdle over, he thought.
‘Now, let us get back to where we were. What did DCI Cook want here last night?’
‘He had proof that Samantha and I were involved. I was in the house that night when the police came to interview her. He wanted me to admit that I was there. They could have asked Samantha, but as Isaac Cook said from that chair where you’re sitting, Samantha is still a person of interest. They’re not sure how she ties in to the deaths of Marcus and Palmer.’
McIntyre sat down again, this time choosing another seat. Outside, Gareth Armstrong sat in the car.
‘I’ve not spoken to her yet,’ Grantham continued. ‘He did not accuse Samantha directly; he only mentioned that she was a person of interest, and now another
