‘Conclusive?’
‘Not yet, but give us time. We’ll get the woman yet.’
***
After the phone call from Wolfenden, McIntyre knew he needed to act. Palmer was causing trouble, ruffling feathers, getting closer to Samantha.
Wolfenden, not comfortable to be involved in something he knew was dangerous, followed instructions. He kept back from Bob Palmer as he walked down the street, followed him as far as the train station, and got on two carriages behind him. At each station, he got off, looking for Palmer, getting back on if he couldn’t see him. Uncomfortable as he was, given the precarious situation he was in, he had to admit to a sense of excitement, a sleuth stalking his man.
At the third station, Palmer got off, Wolfenden in pursuit. He saw him enter a rundown, flea-bitten hotel two minutes from the station. He phoned McIntyre who phoned Armstrong.
‘Stay where you are,’ McIntyre said. ‘Keep a watch on that place and if Palmer comes out, follow him. And don’t lose him, not this time.’
‘I didn’t want to be involved,’ Wolfenden said.
‘You’re not. Gareth will be there soon enough, leave it to him.’
‘Once he’s here?’
‘Make yourself scarce. I’ll see you right, mark my words. I look after my friends, you know that.’
Jacob Wolfenden knew that well enough but was he regarded as a friend or a threat. Bob Palmer had been a nuisance, but he had had to tell McIntyre about him. Even now he wasn’t sure of the truth. Had Samantha been responsible for the death of this other woman? He supposed he could check, but ignorance was safer.
Armstrong arrived an hour later. ‘Is he still inside?’ he said.
‘No one’s come out, not yet.’
‘You’ve not been in?’
‘Hamish told me to stay outside. What do you intend to do?’
‘That’s not your problem.’
‘I don’t want to be involved.’
‘You’re involved whether you like it or not. Either you’re with me on this, or you’re not. Which is it?’
‘I just want to go back to the pub, have a drink, mind my own business.’
‘Don’t we all. Sometimes a man has got to stand up for what’s right.’
‘Not me,’ Wolfenden said. He no longer felt the excitement that he had experienced earlier. He knew now that he was inexorably involved and he didn’t like it. A lifetime of minding his own business down the drain, purely because he had tried to protect his own skin.
‘Wait here,’ Armstrong said.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘What needs to be done. Here are the keys to the car. When I come out the front door of the hotel, make sure you’re there with it.’
‘I have no option, have I?’
‘None at all.’
Armstrong crossed the road and went into the hotel. At the reception, a downcast woman in her fifties, a cigarette drooping out of her mouth, the ash about to fall on to the desk. She looked up. ‘You want a room?’ she said.
‘One of your best,’ Armstrong said.
‘Best, we don’t have. It’s either a view of the street, not that there’s much to see, or else a building site out the back.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Out the back, it is,’ the woman said. She continued to look at the television raised high in one corner. Not looking up again, only seeing the hand pass across the money for the room.
‘One flight up, second on the left. Room 14,’ she said. ‘You’ll find the light switch just inside on the right. One other thing, no women.’
Armstrong knew that didn’t ring true. It was the sort of place where men brought women. The only issue was how much you slipped her to look the other way.
‘I’ve got a friend staying here, the name of Palmer. What room’s he in?’
‘Room 23, up one flight from you. He went for the deluxe.’
‘Deluxe, what’s the difference?’
The same as yours, only the sheets are cleaned more regularly.’
‘Cheaper?’
‘They’re all the same price. And remember, no women.’
Bypassing the first floor and the room he had just paid for, Armstrong continued up one flight. Outside Palmer’s room he paused, put his ear to the door. It was quiet. He knocked on the door.
A voice from inside. ‘What is it?’
‘Room service.’
‘You didn’t see the sign on the door?’
‘I saw it, but it’s my job that’s at stake here. If I don’t check the minibar, I’m paying for the contents.’
‘Give me one minute.’
The door opened; the two men stood looking at one another.
‘You’re not room service,’ Palmer said. ‘Not dressed in a suit.’
‘You and I need to have a little chat.’
‘About what?’
‘You’ve been asking questions.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’ve got the answers.’
Armstrong hesitated for a moment. Entering the hotel had been simple enough, so had finding Palmer. But now, with the man in front of him, he needed to make decisions. The man could remove the threat of Samantha, or else he could dispose of him that day.
‘What kind of answers?’
‘You’ve been looking for a woman.’
‘She was a friend of my brother’s.’
‘Liz Spalding?’ Armstrong said.
‘She was my brother’s girlfriend, a friend of mine.’
‘Do you believe the other woman murdered her?’
‘I need to talk to her. Maybe I’m wrong, I don’t know,’ Palmer said. The man who stood in his room looked hard and cruel. He wanted to trust him, to give him money for information in return, but why was the man standing there at his door?
Since he had set out from the village, he had felt empowered. But now the nervousness and the fear returned. One wrong word and this man would be violent. He knew that he wanted to get away, maybe to go back to his house, to forget everything.
‘I
