‘It is for me. I will go back to my little place, probably drink a bottle of whisky and aim to forget.’
Greenwood, with no more to say, moved away. He took his phone from his pocket and made a call. It was Larry that answered. He was in the office at Challis Street, two notches down on his belt, a healthier glow in his face, a nicotine patch on his arm. He had even got over fumbling in his pocket for the cigarette packet. He felt better, more so than he had in a long time, but it had not come easy.
‘I just met our friend Bob Palmer,’ Greenwood said. ‘He’s at Liz Spalding’s funeral, keeping to the back. I don’t trust him. He may do something stupid.’
‘Or he could find the guilty woman,’ Larry said.’ If he does, he’s dead.’
‘If you arrest her, you can get a DNA sample.’
‘She’s broken no laws, none that we can prove.’
‘It just goes to show,’ Greenwood said. ‘If you’ve got money, then you can get away with anything.’
‘Palmer’s just a bit player in this.’
‘I don’t trust the man, likely to do something stupid. I suggest you keep very close tabs on him. If he’s seen out and about, then check on him, give me a call,’ Greenwood said.
‘Any more you want from us?’ Larry asked.
‘My name on the charge sheet.’
‘If we have proof, you can come up to London and make the arrest.’
‘Palmer might attempt to kill her.’
‘If he succeeds, then I will arrest him.’
‘If he doesn’t?’
‘What I said before, the man is dead if he fails. Hamish McIntyre is protective of his daughter.’
‘I’ll talk to you later. I’ve got to check out Palmer, find out where he’s gone and what he’s up to.’ Greenwood put his phone back in his pocket.
He went over to where Liz Spalding had been buried. At the side of the grave, only one person stood: Bob Palmer. Tears were streaming down his face, he was shaking, speaking to the body. Jim Greenwood stood back, but he couldn’t hear what the man was saying, as though he was mouthing the words silently.
Greenwood walked over and stood next to him.
Palmer looked at him. ‘She was so beautiful. Why did she have to die?’ he said.
It’s not the dead that suffer, it’s the living,’ Greenwood said as he walked away to leave the man to mourn on his own.
Chapter 23
Gareth Armstrong neither approved of Samantha Matthews becoming involved in her father’s business nor did he like her. Not that he would have dared make either of those views known to her father.
He had come to understand how the man thought and acted, and not a stupid man – after all, he had read a lot of books in the prison library – he thought that Hamish would be better handing over to him. After all, he knew the criminal mind, whereas his daughter didn’t.
It was Gareth’s day off. He met with Dean Atherton.
‘What is it, Gareth?’ Dean asked. He could see the worried look on his friend’s face.
‘You know Samantha Matthews.’
‘Not personally. I keep you updated, but apart from that I keep my distance from her and her family.’
The father and daughter had been spending increasing amounts of time together, going over the legitimate real estate, the offshore bank accounts, the procedure where Hamish received a percentage from what he had farmed out to others to run. Gareth had to admit that he had never seen Hamish as content as when he was with Samantha.
But Hamish was not totally comfortable with exposing her to the villains he had dealt with; he confided that to Gareth on a couple of occasions.
‘Maybe it’s best this way,’ Hamish had said more than once, taking a philosophical approach to the matter. ‘Samantha is a smart woman, better educated than I am.’
‘What about the times when people act against her interests?’ Gareth said. ‘Will she be capable of doing what you did in the past?’
‘I did those out of necessity.’
Gareth knew that wasn’t altogether true. Hamish had a vindictive streak, the need to inflict pain occasionally. He had never been there when Hamish had dealt out violence and death, but he could imagine the scene: the gore, the blood-curdling screams, the anguish, and Hamish, detached from emotion, enjoying the experience.
And now Hamish preferred to be at his mansion, meeting with the locals and discussing community affairs, the church fête. Gareth knew that none of them knew who he really was. Most would have said he was an aggressive businessman who had succeeded in the city, and they were right, of course. But none knew the real truth, and almost certainly wouldn’t be perturbed by it, or not enough to isolate the man. People weren’t interested unless it impacted them personally and Hamish had been generous and accommodating, even inviting the vicar around on several occasions, the two of them sitting in the conservatory discussing what was needed for the area.
Hamish had put his hand in his pocket on one occasion, given over thirty thousand pounds, his name on a plaque in the church, proudly displayed, naming him as the benefactor whose generous donation had allowed the roof to be repaired.
‘What did you mean when you said you wouldn’t be interested in what Hamish got up to?’ Gareth asked, returning to his conversation with Atherton.
‘Be careful, Gareth, if you’re thinking of becoming involved in his business. You know what he’s capable of. He’s a great friend, a fearsome enemy.’
Gareth changed tack. He called over to the barman for two more pints of beer.
Dean put his knife and fork down and rubbed his stomach, wiped the gravy off his chin. ‘That was great.’
‘Any time.’
‘Gareth, why are you asking
