Wilkinson shouted over to the bar. ‘The drinks are on me.’
‘There we go,’ the barman said. A surge from the freeloaders. Isaac moved away and went over to where Fred was downing the last dregs of his beer.
‘DCI Isaac Cook,’ he said as he shook Wilkinson’s hand.
‘Inspector Hill?’
‘He’s busy trying to wrap up the investigation.’
‘All because of Palmer, that’s what this is.’
Two pints appeared: one for Isaac, another for Wilkinson.
‘Stephen or Bob?’
‘Both. The first one couldn’t keep away from McIntyre’s daughter; the other one stuck his nose in where it wasn’t wanted. Jacob’s dead because of them.’
‘You’re related to Hamish McIntyre.’
‘It’s important to him, family, that is.’
‘To you?’
‘I would appreciate it if you don’t mention my cousin, not here, not tonight.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Ten, eleven years.’
‘Where?’
‘Not far from here. I was walking down the street, a car pulls up alongside me, and he’s inside.’
‘You got in?’
‘Just sociable, nothing else. He took me to a restaurant, prices out of my reach, although the food was good. He spoke about our parents, growing up together, how well Samantha was doing.’
‘That’s all?’
‘With Hamish, the family’s all-important. It’s about his only redeeming feature. In fact, I can’t think of any other. As I said, I’ve not seen him for a long time; I hope I don’t see him again.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t like what the man became.’
‘He sees himself as a businessman.’
‘I know his idea of business; either you’re with him or you’re dead.’
‘Samantha?’
‘You arrested her for the murder of Liz, so I read.’
‘What do you reckon to that?’
‘I preferred Samantha to Liz, not that I knew either of them that well.’
‘Why Samantha?’
‘Liz was flighty, too liberal with her favours. Samantha, however, was studious, always thinking of others. Hamish brought her up well, never wanted her involved in what he did, the best schools, quality friends.’
‘Capable of murder?’
‘Not the woman I knew. But then, blood is thicker than water. She was more like her father than her mother; genetically disposed, maybe that’s what it was.’
‘She’ll claim it was an accident, two women arguing, a cliff, and one went over.’
‘Will it hold, her defence?’
‘It might.’
‘I’m pleased about that, but if you’ll excuse me, we’re here for Jacob.’
The far side of the bar, another person on their feet. ‘A round of drinks on me.’
The barman looked over at Isaac as he left, moved his eyes towards the group of heavy drinkers, the men who had never known Wolfenden.
Isaac knew what he meant.
***
Nobody expected Charles Stanford to walk into the police station in Brighton, least of all Wally Vincent. But there he was, and he was asking for him.
‘I suggest you get Inspector Hill down here,’ he said as he sat in the small cafeteria at the station.
‘He’ll take ninety minutes, give or take five to ten minutes either way,’ Vincent replied. ‘This is important, isn’t it?’
‘It’s information which you’ve never had. It’s the information you need.’
Vincent felt like saying not again, but he didn’t. He phoned Larry, who was at home watching the television with his wife.
‘It’s after ten in the evening,’ Larry said. ‘You’re still at the station?’
‘There’s not much at home for me. The quiet hours give me a chance to catch up on the paperwork,’ he said, not that he believed it. His wife had walked out two weeks previously, and the house felt empty without her, even though they had barely spoken for months, and they had been in separate beds for longer.
‘What is it?’
‘Mr Stanford’s here. He wants you down here as well.’
Larry looked over at his wife.
‘You should go,’ she said.
Outside, it was raining and the night was dark; an ominous sign, Larry thought.
Upon his arrival in Brighton, Larry went up to the second floor at the station. Both men were waiting for him.
‘The interview room, gentlemen,’ Stanford said. ‘I want this recorded.’
Larry couldn’t remember seeing the man so calm. The drive down, the police station, a man about to reveal hitherto unknown facts. It was surreal; he knew that.
‘You can dispense with the formalities,’ Stanford said. ‘I know them well enough, and I’m not about to make a confession.’
‘Very well, Mr Stanford,’ Vincent said. ‘The ball’s in your court.’
‘I met with Hamish McIntyre.’
‘When and where?’
‘Twenty-four hours ago. The where is not important, but it wasn’t at his house.’
‘Why did you meet him?’
‘He asked me.’
‘Personally?’
‘It was Fergus Grantham who set it up. There’s something you don’t know about Hamish and me.’
‘What is it?’ Larry asked. He wanted to yawn but stifled it.
‘I have made my peace with the man. I’m ambivalent as to his fate; you must understand that.’
‘We do, but Mr Stanford, with all due respect, you're being obtuse.’
Stanford looked up and around the room before focusing his gaze back on the two police officers. ‘As a child, I lived three doors down the road from McIntyre,’ he said.
‘We never knew that.’
‘Nobody knows.’
‘We would have checked your background,’ Vincent said.
‘My parents divorced when I was young. My father, who I can’t remember, other than a vague recollection, was not at home often. He was in the Merchant Navy, extended periods at sea. Up until the age of nine, my surname was not Stanford.’
‘Why haven’t you told us this before?’ Larry said.
‘I took the name of Stanford, my mother’s second husband’s surname. My father died when I was eleven, a drunken brawl somewhere in the Far East.’
‘There should still be a record.’
‘No doubt there is,
