‘What did you find?’
‘The remains of a heart pacemaker.’
Wendy, who had been listening at the door, said. ‘That’s correct. The man had a medical condition.’
‘Bob Palmer?’
‘We’ll get Forensics to see if they can get a number off the pacemaker to trace it, but it’s Jacob Wolfenden,’ Larry said. ‘The man never caused trouble, and he ends up dead in a drum of acid. No justice in this world, is there?’
‘None at all,’ Isaac agreed. ‘McIntyre sleeps easily in his bed, most nights that is, although he may not sleep tonight.’
‘Proof that his daughter murdered Liz Spalding?’
‘We’re waiting for a phone call from Jim Greenwood.’
In the background, raised voices at the farm.
‘What is it?’ Isaac said.
‘I’m heading over there,’ Larry said. ‘It sounds important.’
‘We’ll hold on the line,’ Goddard said.
A retching sound came back down the phone. The sound of a man clearing his throat, his voice weak. ‘They’ve found Palmer. I thought it was only Wendy, but it’s me as well.’
‘Identity confirmed?’
‘The man’s been chopped up, a chainsaw by the looks of it. He’s been buried in a compost heap.’
‘We’ll take the identity as Bob Palmer unless confirmed otherwise. Any other evidence out there? Is this Hamish McIntyre’s handiwork?’
‘The chainsaw was found earlier, burnt, though. There’s another fire, but only ash and debris, the remains of a shoe.’
‘McIntyre?’ Isaac said.
‘It’s his farm, his car. That would be the logical deduction.’
‘Logic’s not what we want; it’s proof,’ Goddard said.
‘That’s why we’re staying here, sir. We need to put a name to this. If we can do that, the person can’t wriggle out of it. Liz Spalding’s death may be open to debate, but this is murder, clear and unequivocal.’
Chapter 33
Diane Connolly’s car had been in Polperro at the time of Liz Spalding’s death, Jim Greenwood had phoned to confirm. It was enough to convince Homicide that Samantha Matthews had been there and her denial was invalid. She would remain in the cells at Challis Street until she was remanded to await her trial.
Fergus Grantham had put forward arguments in the interview room when the woman had been told of the latest developments. Her reaction had been to say no more. To Isaac, that was either supreme arrogance or a belief that the two men in her life would see her free soon enough.
Richard Goddard was delighted and did not delay in updating his superiors. Isaac, however, could not rest on his laurels. One murder had been wrapped up, although he couldn’t help but feel that the woman would wangle her way out of the more serious charge due to a technicality, and would eventually accept the lesser charge of manslaughter, a tragic accident, when two women who had disliked each other intensely over the years had let their anger run free.
The trial, Isaac knew, would dwell on the events of the past, Samantha’s affair with Stephen Palmer, his death, and then the recent discovery of the body of her husband.
Isaac had seen Grantham’s waning interest, as though he was trying to distance himself. It was either, Isaac thought, the natural affectation of a man who preferred to be on the winning side, or a convicted woman who would not long hold his affection, even if it had ever been that.
Isaac had met other ‘Granthams’ in his time; always wanting to be on the side of good over evil, the innocent over the guilty, the righteous over the malevolent.
And even if the woman could squirm her way out of a murder conviction, she was tainted goods, and an ambitious man would not allow it to be seen that he was still with her.
He’d dump her soon enough, Isaac knew, as a lover and as a client, if he could.
***
At eight in the morning, two marked police cars pulled up in front of Hamish McIntyre’s mansion. They were followed by Isaac and Larry in Isaac’s car. Another vehicle brought four crime scene investigators.
Armstrong answered the door on the second knock, although he would have seen and heard the vehicles outside. Imperiously he looked at the two police officers. ‘Yes, what is it?’
‘We have a warrant to search these premises,’ Isaac said gleefully, another charge of murder in the forefront of his mind.
‘I’ll let Mr McIntyre know that you’re here.’ The door closed.
‘Let them have their moment,’ Larry said.
The crime scene investigators were kitting up at the back of their vehicle. Gordon Windsor had entrusted the search to Grant Meston, his second-in-charge.
The door reopened after five minutes. Hamish McIntyre stood there in a dressing gown. ‘I’ve spoken to Fergus Grantham,’ he said. ‘He’ll be here in forty minutes. If you’d care to wait, I’m sure we can deal with this misunderstanding.’
‘Unfortunately, Mr McIntyre, we can’t. We believe that proof will be found on these premises relating to the murderer of Bob Palmer and Jacob Wolfenden.’
‘There’s nothing to be found here.’
‘Then you’ll not object.’
‘Why, Chief Inspector, should I?’ An ingratiating tone in the man’s voice. It sounded false.
‘We’ll start with Armstrong’s room,’ Isaac said.
‘What’s this all about?’
‘You’ve been told of the two bodies at your farm?’
‘I own more than one farm.’
‘This farm is neglected.’
‘A long-term investment strategy.’
‘The same as Charles Stanford?’
‘If you mean Judge Stanford, then it may well be. I can’t say I’m familiar with the man’s investments, not having seen him for many years.’
‘Not since he found a colleague of yours not guilty, is that it?’
‘Baiting will do you no good, Inspector. You’ve put together a weak case against my daughter, but rest assured, it will not stick.’
