‘Your father’s here,’ Fergus said. ‘He’s doing what he can.’
‘He can’t do any more than you, not yet,’ Samantha said. She knew she’d had to go to Cornwall.
She still couldn’t understand why the discovery of Marcus’s body had brought the need for resolution of the past. It had been Marcus and her marriage to him that had kept her from Stephen. She knew her father had removed Stephen from her. But he had given his word at the time that he hadn’t been involved, and then soon after there was another child on the way and a husband she couldn’t get rid of. However, her hatred for her father then could never be enough to break the bond between them.
But, like her, Liz Spalding had been sleeping with Stephen; the two women sharing the one man, him enjoying every moment of it.
She knew he would never have been a reliable husband, always casting an eye here and there, but she could have dealt with it.
Isaac spoke to McIntyre, told him what was going on, received an oblique threat in return.
‘I remember my friends,’ McIntyre said. Standing alongside him, the blue-suited Gareth Armstrong.
Intimidation was not going to work with Isaac.
Larry was upstairs in Homicide with Bridget. ‘McIntyre’s downstairs, his car’s parked around the back of the building. It might help to have a look at it.’
Bridget had known that the car was a 2018 Mercedes S63. She had looked on the internet, found the exact model, but to see the actual vehicle could help.
She went down with Wendy, the two women looking around the car, peering in the window.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Armstrong, who had just gone outside for some fresh air, as police stations didn’t suit him, shouted out.
‘Just looking,’ Wendy said. ‘It must be great to drive.’ She hoped the man would be satisfied with her explanation, but wasn’t too concerned either way.
Back in Homicide, Bridget scrolled over the screen on her laptop. Automatic number plate recognition had done its job.
Isaac came over after having extricated himself from his conversation with Samantha Matthews’ father. ‘What is it?’
‘Not sure where the car’s headed. It looks to be a late night for me.’
‘I’ll stay with her,’ Wendy said as she walked in the door. ‘I’ll make sure she’s fed.’
Jim Greenwood was in a restaurant in Polperro, just off the main street. Popular with the locals, it also drew in the tourists like bears to a honeypot.
‘It was my car that was scratched, bloody tourists,’ the restaurant owner said as he sat down at Greenwood’s table. The police inspector liked the food, not the owner. He was a swarthy man, continually complaining, driving his staff to despair. It was the reason that the food was excellent, but the prices on the menu were high, and staff turnover was above the industry average. ‘It’s all right you sitting there eating your meal, but what about my car?’
‘What about your car?’ Greenwood said.
‘A car side-swiped it, left a blue streak down one side. I can tell you the exact time. It’ll be an insurance job; there goes my no-claims bonus.’
Greenwood, his interest piqued, finished his meal and went outside. The man’s BMW was parked close to the wall.
‘It’s on the other side,’ he said.
Greenwood walked around; the scratch mark was clearly visible on the silver-coloured car.
‘Where was it parked when this happened?’
‘I can show you where.’
‘Don’t move the car. I need to get Forensics down here.’
***
Bridget confirmed that the Mercedes had been picked up by a CCTV camera on the motorway heading north-east out of London, one hour after Palmer had disappeared from the hotel. It had taken her less time than she had thought, but it was still close to midnight, and both she and Wendy were exhausted.
‘What do you reckon? Isaac said when he was woken. He didn’t mind the late hour. To him, policing was 24/7.
‘I did a check on Hamish McIntyre before,’ Bridget said. ‘The man owns a lot of property. He’s got somewhere not far from Epping in Essex, near the village of Thornwood, a farm.’
‘Wendy, you and Larry get out there tomorrow early, take some uniforms, check around. I’ll phone Larry, let him know what’s going on.’
‘We’re leaving the office now,’ Bridget said.
Larry picked up Wendy at 6.10 a.m. She’d not had enough sleep, but she could doze on the way up.
It was early morning; the traffic hadn’t yet built up. It took Larry just over seventy minutes to pass through Epping and then Thornwood, turning left into Upland Road. A mile on the right, the entrance to the farm. A patrol car was parked across from the entrance of the farm, checking who was going in, who was coming out.
‘It doesn’t look to be much,’ Wendy said.
They drove eighty yards up the track, rutted in places, muddy puddles in others; it was making the car dirty.
The farmhouse, tired and unloved, a window open, a door hanging off its hinges, was neglected. Outside an old tractor that looked as though it hadn’t moved for a few years.
To the right of the farmhouse, an old barn. Larry and Wendy walked over to it, the uniforms remaining behind to check around the house.
It was Wendy
