‘Who else knows this?’
‘Nobody that I know of.’
‘Fred Wilkinson, Jacob Wolfenden?’
‘Wilkinson’s mother and mine used to talk over the garden fence. Supposedly he had an older sister who used to babysit me, but I can’t remember her.’
‘Does he know you as Charles Stanford?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Wolfenden?’
‘I can’t remember the name, but I was only young when I left.’
‘What are you here for, Mr Stanford? It’s not to talk about old times.’
‘Hamish didn’t kill Matthews; I know that now.’
‘How?’
‘The man opened up to me. He’s dying.’
‘Should you be telling us this?’
‘He has left it at my discretion. He wants to be left in peace, his daughter to be free.’
‘Neither is likely,’ Larry said. ‘If he’s looking for us to leave him alone, you know that won’t happen.’
‘He knows that. He told me he had received a phone call around the same time as I had. Only the person told him that Marcus was in the room at the top of the stairs.’
‘What else is there?’
‘He suspected for some time before Matthews died that the man was planning something, incapable of doing it. Hamish had forced him to do something in the past which he hadn’t wanted. To make a man of him, Hamish said.’
‘What did he do?’
‘I asked him a direct question. He wouldn’t answer.’
‘The question?’
‘Did he kill Stephen Palmer?’
‘Are you saying Marcus killed him?’
‘I’m not saying anything. I’m only repeating the question, interpreting the man’s reply. Make what you want of it.’
‘We can’t charge a dead man, not even McIntyre,’ Larry said.
‘No point, not now. The man hasn’t got long to live, three to six months; he only wants to protect his daughter.’
‘Then who killed Matthews?’
‘The person who phoned him.’
‘Did he recognise the voice?’
‘He said he didn’t.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘I can’t be sure, but there’s a clue, isn’t there?’
Larry looked at Wally Vincent, a bemused look on their faces.
‘Not that we can see,’ Vincent said.
‘Marcus Matthews must have harboured an intense hatred of his father-in-law for years, but he was incapable of doing anything about it. Hamish was scathing about the man’s lack of a backbone.’
‘We need someone with an as intense hatred; willing to enter into a pact with Matthews.’
‘An agreement either to kill McIntyre or to be killed,’ Larry said. ‘Matthews did have unusual ideas about wrong and right. Could he have believed in a Samurai code?’
‘If he had, then we need someone equally determined to remove the parasite McIntyre,’ Vincent said. ‘Bob Palmer would have killed the daughter.’
‘Palmer had no backbone, the same as Matthews. He wouldn’t have killed her,’ Larry said.
‘Is there any more?’ Vincent said.
‘I believe that’s all,’ Stanford said. ‘I’ve made my peace with Hamish; forgiven him for his past misdemeanours, forgiven myself for not protecting that dear woman.’
‘We’ll be in touch.’
Stanford walked out of the station. He had done what had been necessary. Now there remained only one more thing to do.
***
Finding people who had hated Hamish McIntyre was not difficult, the man had made plenty of enemies, but Homicide was looking for someone unique.
The team spent two days in the office going through the evidence, checking and double-checking, looking for suspects. A visit out to McIntyre was thought to be of little value, as, for once, Stanford had been believed.
Bridget had checked the street where McIntyre had lived, confirmed that three doors down there had been a woman with a young boy, a husband in the Merchant Navy. Charles Stanford was found to have been Charles Bailey at birth, although it had never been registered, nor had he been baptised. Bradley Stanford, a solicitor with a practice in Hampstead, had been the first person to recognise the young Stanford, legally that is.
‘The Wilkinsons lived next door, that’s confirmed,’ Bridget said. ‘Fred Wilkinson lives there to this day.’
On the third day, Larry, finally tiring of the regimen of the office, left. ‘I’ll scout around,’ he said. ‘See if anyone has strong opinions about McIntyre. Maybe there’s someone obsessive, the sort of person who could make an agreement with Matthews.’
Isaac wasn’t sure where his inspector was going or what he hoped to achieve. The person they wanted would be concealed in plain sight.
Isaac and Wendy, taking Larry’s lead, left the office soon after. Their first call, Fred Wilkinson. The man opened the door to his house. It was a Sunday morning and from the rear of the house came the smell of bacon.
‘An unexpected visit,’ Wilkinson said. A large dog stood to one side of him, its teeth bared. ‘Just pat it, it’s harmless,’ he said.
Isaac, never a dog lover, followed the man’s advice. Wendy didn’t, having no intention of being bitten.
‘We need to talk to you about your childhood; in this house, according to our research.’
‘I was born here, and yes, all my life here, apart from my time in the Army.’
Wilkinson’s wife – she looked older than him, although probably wasn’t – was standing in the kitchen, a frying pan in her hand. ‘There’s more,’ she said.
‘A cup of tea will do,’ Isaac said. Jenny had fed him well that morning, and he wasn’t hungry. He looked over at Wendy, knew she wouldn’t refuse usually.
‘Thanks, but I’m fine. Next time, maybe,’ Wendy said, which was what Isaac had wanted. The visit, outwardly sociable, was anything but that.
‘Tell us about the Army,’ Isaac said as the four sat at the table
