‘What about Brian Jameson?’ Larry asked. ‘What are you going to do about him?’
‘He’s been to see Tricia, I know that, and he’s been down here to the police station. They’ve not let him in to see me, not yet, but if he wants to talk, that’s fine. We were business partners for a long time, friends for longer. Hopefully, I can repair it with Tricia, but if she’s keen on Brian, there’s not much I can do.’
Larry left the man to his sorrows. Outside, he had a chat with the arresting officer and put in a word for Harry Anders, explained the situation.
‘My wife took off, found someone else,’ the officer said.
‘What did you do?’ Larry asked.
‘What any hot-blooded male would do.’
‘You struck him.’
‘Not that it helped. She moved in with him the next week, took the dog as well. All I got for it were bruised knuckles and a trashed kitchen. Still, it could be worse. I found myself another woman, causes me no trouble.’
***
It was two in the afternoon before Bob Palmer left his hotel. Jim Greenwood had seen him drive away, concerned that the man was about to do something foolish, and he’d given him a lecture about taking care, not taking the law into his own hands. The fact that he was grievously upset would be of no consideration if he caused trouble. Greenwood was sure he had wasted his breath.
Bob Palmer had been irrational, barely able to restrain the tears. ‘Maybe it’s for the better,’ he had said. ‘Liz has troubled me for many years. I can’t wish ill of the dead, but who knows, maybe I’ll get on with my life now.’
Greenwood phoned Larry and Wendy to update them on the situation. He had done as much as he could. The missing male friend had finally appeared; he had been at a seminar in the north of England, and although he was sorry that Liz had died, he seemed to take it in his stride.
‘I’ll send you a printout of who she phoned, who phoned her, messages received and sent,’ Greenwood’s final words before ending the phone call.
Pathology had submitted their final report. The cause of death consistent with falling from the top of the cliff onto the rocks below. Forensics had no more, other than a strand of hair from another person on the dead woman’s clothes.
‘Any idea where the hair came from?’ Larry asked.
‘I’ll send you the report,’ the forensic scientist said. ‘She could have picked it up anywhere. It could belong to the murderer, but then again, it might not.’
‘What else can you tell us about it?’
‘Blonde, but it’s been dyed. We’ve analysed the dye that had been used and an approximate time when it had been applied. DNA could prove crucial.’
***
Bob Palmer drove away from the village and from Liz. She had been his life for so many years. He knew that people did not understand him, but what did he care. His life had slipped by, his chance at happiness gone forever. He remembered that night so long ago, the love that she had shown him, the kindness, the warmth of her, and then before he had woken up, she was gone. He had not left the house for four days after that, not washed, not shaved, barely ate.
Without knowing where he was going after leaving Polperro, he found himself at his brother’s graveside. It was clear that no one had tended it for a long time. No flowers, weeds growing around the headstone, even birds sitting on it and defecating. He set to work to clean around the area. Liz had loved his brother, he knew that. And whereas Stephen had loved her in his own way, there was another woman, and she had been at the funeral. He was convinced it had been her in the village. He didn’t know why, intuition he supposed, but whoever she was, he would confront her.
He had had brotherly love for Stephen, but he had not been a friend. It had been subtle, Stephen’s putting him down, but its effects were long-reaching, even today. The thought of Stephen standing there, laughing at him filled him with rage.
The church vicar came over to where Bob was tidying the grave. It had been nine years since he had visited it, yet the vicar, a short man with a healthy mop of hair and a squeaky voice, still remembered him.
‘Mr Palmer, you’ve come to see your brother,’ he said.
‘I thought it was about time.’
‘It’s always good to see when one of my flock returns.’
Palmer remembered the man’s enthusiasm from before. He wasn’t religious, no strong convictions either way, but in the quiet moments in the house when it had all seemed too much, he had knelt by the side of the bed and prayed. He had prayed for Liz, he had prayed for him to forget her, but his prayers had never been answered.
‘Do you remember the funeral?’
‘There weren’t many mourners.’
‘It was what Stephen would have wanted.’ Bob Palmer knew that wasn’t true; it had been what he had decided. No speeches at the local pub afterwards, one after the other holding up a glass and telling the others what a good person Stephen had been, no hoorahs for him. The man had caused him enough aggravation in life; he had had no intention of allowing him the luxury of continuing the degradation.
‘What about those at the funeral?’ the vicar said.
‘Bec Johnson, you know of. She still lives in the area. I see her from time to time. The other women. One was Liz Spalding, a girlfriend of his. She’s dead now.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. A long time ago?’
‘Three
