‘He had something on his mind?’ Stanford said.
‘He wanted me dead.’
‘How could you know?’
‘I know the look of hate; I’d seen it before, not with him, but with others.’
‘Do you know why he hated you?’
‘I trusted the man. He had seen things, done things which he abhorred. Toughening up as I saw it. After all, someone had to take over from me when the time came.’
‘And now, you’ll die in your bed, an old man.’
‘I played hard. Someone else could have got to me.’
‘Killed you?’
‘Yes. But Marcus didn’t want to take over. At heart, he was a petty criminal; I never contemplated Samantha taking over, not even now.’
‘She’s still in prison.’
‘Grantham will get her out.’
‘If you had known that Matthews hated you, why did you keep him close to you.’
‘Hate’s a powerful weapon, especially if you can direct it.’
‘And then he died.’
‘He had a plan, not that I knew what it was. He couldn’t have been acting alone.’
‘Do you know who?’
‘Never.’
‘We didn’t meet here to just chat about old times, did we?’ Stanford said. He looked up at the clock on the wall, realised that it was past ten in the evening; two hours in the pub with a man he had previously hated, but not any longer. For whatever reason, he was the friend that he had known as a child.
‘I knew Marcus was up there.’
‘A phone call? Did you recognise the voice?’
‘I couldn’t go to the house, but you could.’
‘The voice?’
‘It told me that Marcus was in the top room. At the time, I wasn’t focusing that much.’
‘Who?’
‘Someone close, but I’ve no idea, and that’s the truth.’
‘A man?’
‘The man who had shot him.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘He wanted my fingerprints in that room. He wanted to implicate me.’
‘Is this what it’s all about? Marcus had wanted to kill you?’
‘He couldn’t have done it, but I knew that he wanted to. I had known that for years. I had forced him to do something a long time ago. He never forgave me.’
‘He killed Stephen Palmer.’
McIntyre put down his drink and stood up. ‘It’s been good seeing you, Charles. We’ll never meet again, I’m sure of that. I’ve told you all I know, now I suggest you use it wisely.’ And with that the man walked out of the pub, the group of men still bragging, getting progressively drunker.
Outside the pub, Fergus Grantham stood at the passenger door of his BMW. ‘Good to see an old friend?’ he said.
‘A friend, yes, I’d have to agree with that,’ McIntyre said as he sat in the car and drew the seat belt across himself.
Chapter 36
The Stag Hotel, usually empty apart from a few regulars, was full, standing room only.
Isaac stood to one side and looked around the room. In his hand, a pint of beer; the occasion, a get-together of friends and acquaintances of the late Jacob Wolfenden.
‘Good turn out,’ the barman said. ‘Where’s Inspector Hill,’ he asked.
‘His night off,’ Isaac said.
‘There are a few I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The drinks will start flowing; someone will stand up, offer to buy drinks for everyone. There are a few freeloaders, not that they’ll stay long.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Look around, what do you see?’
‘Most of them are getting on in years.’
‘The freeloaders want young women, and there are none in here, just geriatrics.’
‘Was Wolfenden a geriatric?’
‘The man was getting on, not in the best of health, but you know what I mean?’
Isaac did indeed, although the term ‘geriatric’ was used unwisely. Apart from the pacemaker, Wolfenden had been in reasonable health for his age. The acid hadn’t had time to damage his internal organs, although his skin had been peeled, the consistency of gel. He had been there when the pathologist opened the body up, the smell of sulphur still noticeable. He’d seen the Y-shaped incision, the removal of the organs, the grinder removing the top of the man’s skull, the brain coming out.
After he had finished, the pathologist’s assistants had stitched the body together, attempted to make it look presentable. But no funeral home, no matter how skilled, could ever make the man’s face recognisable. It was good that Wolfenden had lived alone, his wife having died nine years before, and there had been no children.
No one had come forward as a relative, no one had claimed the body. A sad ending, Isaac thought.
‘Here’s to good old Jacob,’ a man said. He was standing on a chair.
‘It won’t be long,’ the barman said.
‘Before what?’
‘A round of drinks on me.’
‘Who’s he?’ Isaac said to the barman over the general hubbub.
‘Alex Bridge. He’s never paid his round, always outside when it’s his turn.’
‘A friend of Wolfenden?’
‘Not that I know. He’ll make a rousing speech, sing the man’s praises and wait for someone else to pay.’
For the next twenty minutes, a succession of people stood up, offered a comment or two about the dead man. The bar was busy, drinks were selling quickly, and the barman was struggling to keep up.
‘I knew Jacob well,’ a man, better-dressed than the others, stood up and spoke. He did not stand on a chair as he was taller than most.
‘That’s Fred Wilkinson,’ the barman said. ‘He was in here when Palmer was a nuisance.
‘We went to the same school, although we were two years apart. He made his mark there, as he did in the area,’ Wilkinson continued.
‘Nonsense,’ the barman said.
‘What do you mean?’ Isaac said. He was on his second pint; the mood of the pub was having an effect on him.
‘Jacob was a decent man, I’ll grant Fred that, but make
