‘Married women bring trouble. I can understand you being upset, but I suggest you don’t go asking too many questions.’
‘Why? What’s the problem?’
‘Stephen, he upset some of the other men, took some of their girlfriends, especially the good-looking ones.’
‘I still need to talk to people who knew him and Liz.’ Palmer was aware that he was telling a good story, putting on a great act, almost enjoying himself, but never forgetting.
‘I remember one girlfriend, she had a small tattoo close to her wrist,’ Palmer said. ‘He was keen on her, I know that, but he never introduced me to her. I’d like to talk to her about Stephen.’
‘I suggest you leave it there.’ Jacob said, picking up his steak and kidney pie and his beer and moving to the other side of the small room.
‘What’s up with him?’ the barman said.
‘I must’ve hit a raw nerve. I was asking him about one of Stephen’s women. She had a small butterfly tattooed on her inside arm, near to her wrist.’
‘Jacob knows his way around these parts. If he tells you to leave well alone, I’d suggest you do that. If you value your life, that is.’
But that was the issue: Bob Palmer didn’t, not any more. He was on a mission of vengeance, and he would not be swayed. He needed to know what Jacob and the barman knew.
Chapter 22
Fergus Grantham sensed the change. The last time they had made love, the day when he had questioned Samantha about the events in Cornwall, their lovemaking had been mutual, a bonding of two souls. But now, three days later, as he lay back on her bed, he looked at her sleeping. Exhaustion, he thought. It had been a blood sport, a gladiatorial contest with Samantha initiating congress, demanding more of him. No mention of love, no sweetness, just animal passion.
And if Samantha had taken another person’s life, she would be capable of doing it again.
He had been on his own ever since his wife had died suddenly. And now with Samantha’s husband confirmed dead and soon to be buried, there was no impediment to the two of them getting married. But he wasn’t sure if he wanted that any more.
Samantha turned over. ‘Still awake?’ she said.
‘Yes, just thinking about things. Nothing important.’
Samantha studied him, uncertain where their relationship was heading. She had told Brian Jameson that it was white-collar crime that interested her. But she knew, as Jameson must have, violence is never far away. She had seen the man eye her up and down before, even on the day when she’d made the offer to him. He was older than Fergus by a few years. He wouldn’t have the stamina to keep up, but sex is a potent drug. It makes men pliable in the hands of a skilful woman.
‘Fergus, stop worrying. I’m not about to do anything stupid. I know that things are moving fast.’
‘You need to be careful. The police are keeping a watch on you, attempting to tie you in with Cornwall.’
Samantha didn’t reply to his advice, only said, ‘I’m going to work with my father.’
‘Are you sure? That’s a dangerous road to travel.’
‘I am, but I’m smarter than my father. I have the benefit of a good education, social skills.’
‘We could be together on a more permanent basis.’ Grantham wasn’t sure why he had brought up the subject.
Samantha sensed the man wanted out. Not that she could blame him, but she still wanted him on her terms.
Fergus, she knew, could walk away from her and her father, his reputation as a defence lawyer intact.
She got out of bed, took a shower, dressed and left the house. She needed time to think. She needed to consider how to handle him, and if he were a risk, then she would need to consider the options.
***
Charles Stanford, now back in his house, reflected on the events at the police station. He had not handled it as well as he thought he should have. In the past, he would not have allowed the police to break through what he preferred to keep hidden; the problem was that the anonymous voice had sounded familiar.
But now, back in his house, he wondered what he should do. Should he confront the person whom he suspected?
But then, the voice had wanted the body to be found. The reason why eluded him.
He had considered going up to the top of the house at Bedford Gardens, but after the first floor, with the pain in his right leg, the soreness he felt in one shoulder as he held the bannister for support, he never ventured further.
Outside in the street, the yapping dog again.
His mind turned away from the police station and back to his house, the yapping dog, the nosy neighbours, and the general malaise in the area. He knew that Vincent, who may well be a good police inspector, had a soft heart. He could never believe that the man would enforce his removal from the house and into a care home.
He walked to the kitchen at the back of the house and put on the kettle, made himself a cup of tea and sat down. He opened the refrigerator, found little in there except for spoiled milk, a couple of eggs, a pizza which had remained unopened for some months and looked inedible. After the one he had consumed at the police station he felt a hankering for another.
Still dressed in his suit he opened the front door and left the house. It was the first time, apart from the visit to the police station, that he had looked and acted normal. He
