‘Idle conversation, that’s all,’ Gareth said, but he wasn’t sure if it was.
***
Bridget had gone through Charles Stanford’s phone records. On the day that he mentioned, he had received two telephone calls, one of no importance, the other from the anonymous caller.
‘It’s a pay-as-you-go phone,’ Bridget said. She was in Isaac’s office, updating him on the information that Stanford had, for whatever reason, given them. ‘It’s no help to us, I’m afraid.’
Isaac sat back on his chair, uncertain of how to proceed. They had two murderers in their hands, but they were powerless.
Hamish McIntyre had no need to provide an alibi. After all, twenty years in the past, and anybody who could have confirmed guilt or innocence would have probably forgotten or could even be dead. And with Samantha Matthews, the fact that she had been at her house on the day when Liz Spalding had died meant little. It was, after all, a five-hour journey each way. She could have driven at night, thrown the woman off the cliff, and been back in London before two in the afternoon the next day. Checks on her car registration number had proven unsuccessful up until now. Bridget was coordinating that activity but once out of London, the chance of using automatic number plate recognition was reduced. But Isaac knew she would not give in.
‘Do you have Samantha Matthews’ mobile number?’ Isaac asked.
‘I’ve already checked. She could have a pay-as-you-go as well. A lot of people do.’
‘Let’s come back to this anonymous call,’ Isaac said. ‘Are we able to get any clue from it as to whether it was a man or a woman? Stanford said it was a man, but that doesn’t mean it was.’
‘I can’t help you. Nothing more to go on.’
Bridget left the office and returned to her desk. She had plenty of work to keep her occupied for the rest of the day. Larry was out of the office, meeting with one of his informers. Wendy was also out, but she was back in Bedford Gardens.
It was not only Isaac who had been perturbed by Wally Vincent’s visit there. Larry and Wendy had as well, their professional pride damaged. He had found out something they hadn’t.
Wendy met with Billy Dempsey and Andrew Conlon. Neither had been able to add anything more although Billy had been cheeky, tried to get smart with Wendy. Not that it did him any good because Wendy, used to dealing with tearaway children when she was a junior officer in Sheffield, more years in the past than she cared to remember, had put him in his place quick smart.
Leaving the two young boys, she knocked on a couple of doors in the street. At the first house, an elderly woman invited her in, said she had something, but over a cup of tea Wendy realised the woman was just lonely and glad of a chat. She excused herself, knocked on another door. A young man in his twenties answered. He was high on recreational drugs.
‘What do you want?’ he said.
It was a beautiful house, no doubt plenty of money, but that never guaranteed that the children would grow up sensible, Wendy thought. Her sons had grown up a credit to her and her husband. No free cars for them, and if they wanted money to go out of a night, they had had to earn it. Both were married now with good wives and children, and they came to see her regularly.
But the man at the door knew nothing of the murder house, not much of anything. Wendy thanked him and left him to whatever he was doing. She walked past 11 Bedford Gardens, looked up at the house. Something didn’t seem right. She walked around to the back, found an open door. She knew enough not to walk in. If there were people inside, it could be dangerous.
She took out her phone and called Larry, keeping her voice low. ‘Get out to 11 Bedford Gardens immediately, park down the end of the road. There’s someone inside the house.’
‘Where shall we meet?’
‘I’m around the back. I suggest you wait at the front. If someone comes out the front, you’ll see whoever it is. I don’t want to move from where I am, not now. How long will you be?’
‘Fifteen minutes, twenty maximum. Can you stay there for that long?’
‘I’ll have to.’
***
Bob Palmer looked out of the hotel window. He could see very little; the only view he had was a brick wall no more than twenty feet away. If he looked up, a glimpse of the sky; down revealed only a narrow pathway cluttered with rubbish. Inside the room, a television mounted on the wall, a bed in one corner, a wardrobe that consisted of half-a-dozen metal hangers and a curtain instead of a door. He had chosen the place because it was depressing and dirty. He had no need for luxury, only penance for not protecting her as he should have.
In the pub, the barman had known something, he knew that, but Jacob, a man who had known both Stephen and Liz, knew more. But the regular had clearly been too frightened to say anything. Even after he’d wandered over to him, sat at his table, attempted to engage him in further conversation, the man had said little.
‘Don’t get involved,’ he’d said. ‘Leave now, go back to where you belong.’
After two minutes of Palmer’s increasingly agitated conversation, the man got up from his seat, downed his drink in one gulp, and walked out of the door. His parting comment: ‘You’ll get yourself killed.’
When he returned to the counter, the barman ignored Palmer, gave him a drink
