One would have been desirable, but K. Tom had a terrace of three, knocked through to make a single big house. It was a stone building with a stone-flagged roof, black with age and surrounded by farmland. At one time they had probably been tied cottages, inhabited by the estate’s various managers. Now it was a bijou residence for a crook. I knew what to expect inside — the usual catalogue of naff statuary and crap paintings, with eighteen hours of pan pipes dribbling out of the Bang and Olufsen — and my heart sank at the thought of it.
Nobody answered the door. I pressed the bell, Sparky hammered. We regarded two unsuccessful attempts as a licence to wander round the back, see if anyone was there.
‘This is how the other half live,’ I said as the conservatory came into view.
Sparky whistled through his teeth, saying, ‘I wouldn’t mind some of this bankruptcy myself.’
It stretched the full length of the back of the building, housing a full suite of wicker furniture, several sun-loungers, a forest of hibiscus and a modest swimming pool. A woman was reclining in one of the loungers, dark glasses hiding her eyes.
Sparky’s knock rattled the ice in her glass and she jerked awake, startled and alarmed. We held our warrant cards against the double glazing, and after peering at them she slid open the door that led in from the garden.
‘Yes?’ she asked, already on the defensive. In the lexicon of barmy questions, that must be the daftest.
Sparky said, ‘This is DI Priest from Heckley CID, and I’m DC Sparkington. Is Mr Davis in?’
‘Er, no, I’m afraid he isn’t.’ She was about forty-five, sharp featured, wearing what I suppose is called a sun-suit — baggy shorts with a matching top — in a bright flowery material. It, and her legs, gave her age away.
‘Are you Mrs Davis?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘May we come in?’
It was like stepping off the plane in Brazil. Although it was a dull day the temperature leapt fifteen degrees as we crossed the threshold, and the heavy smell of the flowers, mixed with swimming pool, hit you like a whore’s handbag. I was wrong about the music — it was ‘Lady in Red’, giving way to Radio Two’s fanfare — but I awarded myself a near miss.
‘This is very pleasant,’ I enthused, looking around. Mrs Davis eyed me as if I was a bailiff, making a quick assessment.
‘Could you tell me where Mr Davis is?’ Sparky asked. He’s better at keeping his mind on the job than I am.
‘Er, no, I’m not sure.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Just before lunchtime, this morning.’
He’d left, she told us, saying he was off to see their son, Justin.
‘And when are you expecting him back?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’
‘But some time today?’
‘He said he might be gone a day or two.’
I butted into their conversation. ‘Does he often go away without telling you when he’s coming back?’
‘Yes, he does,’ she replied, defiantly.
‘Where does Justin live?’
She gave us an address and directions. He lived in a house called Broadside, up on the moors, not too far from Heckley. ‘But they might not be there,’ she added.
‘So where might they be?’
‘Justin races motorcycles, he’s a speedway rider, and races on the Continent once or twice a week. Tom acts as his manager-cum-mechanic. Travels all over the place with him. They might be abroad. I think he said something about a big meeting in Gothenberg, but I may be mistaken.’
‘Justin Davis?’ Sparky asked.
‘Yes. Have you heard of him?’
‘Mmm. Seen his picture on the sports pages.’
‘Could you tell me what it’s all about? Why do you want to speak to my husband?’
It had taken her a long time to come round to asking that, almost as if she’d been expecting us. She had been living on a knife edge since the business went bust, but my heart wasn’t bleeding for her. ‘Did you know a man called Hartley Goodrich?’ I asked.
She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘He was a business acquaintance of Tom’s. We heard about his death on local radio over breakfast. It said you were treating it as suspicious.’
‘For the time being,’ I told her. ‘But at the moment we’re just trying to build up a picture of his movements.’ I took a CID card from my wallet and signed it. ‘When Mr Davis comes back will you tell him to get in touch with me as soon as possible?’
Turn left,’ I told Sparky as we drove off.
‘This is not the way we came.’
‘I know. I want to look at something.’ I’d seen a sign at the side of the road that interested me. ‘So what do you think?’
He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Too suspicious to be true. He’s in the frame, though.’
‘Next right. I’ve never been to the speedway, have you?’
‘Took the kids about three years ago. Just the once. Sophie enjoyed it more than Daniel did. When I was a nipper we’d go to Odsal nearly every Saturday. It was fun.’ I could see him smiling to himself at the memory. He went on, ‘My favourite rider was a bloke called Eddie Rigg. And Arthur Forrest. We used to chant, “Two, four, six, eight; Eddie’s at the starting gate. Will he win? We don’t know. Come on, Eddie, have a go.”’
‘So what did you shout for Arthur Forrest?’
‘Two, four, six, eight, Arthur’s at the starting…’
‘Not very original,’ I declared.
‘I was only nine!’ he protested.
We’d arrived at the gate of the Yorkshire Sculpture Park, at Bretton Hall. ‘So this is where it is,’ I said.
Sparky turned the car round in the gateway. ‘Is this what we’re looking for?’
‘Yeah, I saw the signs on the main road. Might bring Annabelle at the weekend. It’s been on my list of places to visit since it opened.’
‘So what’s inside?’
‘Oh, just a big park, with about forty-eight million pounds worth of Henry Moore bronzes lying around.’
‘And they’re still there?’
‘One or two have gone walkies, I believe, but they’re only good for scrap value. It would be like stealing the Mona Lisa and getting eight quid for the frame at the risk of twenty years in the slammer for services to art.’
Dave glanced round, working out his bearings. ‘I reckon our elusive friend K. Tom must live just over the other side,’ he said.
I pushed the passenger seat back and reclined it a couple of notches. ‘Let’s see if he’s with his son,’ I suggested. ‘What was the house called?’
‘Broadside.’
‘That’s it. Drive slowly and wake me up when we arrive.’
Tiredness was catching up with me, but I only dozed. I opened my eyes as Sparky killed the engine twenty-five minutes later, and stepped out into a different weather zone. Broadside was a long, low bungalow, high on the moors, with views down towards the Peak District and huge picture windows to make the best of them. The big garden was contained by a stone wall and the nearest neighbour was two miles away.
I nodded in appreciation, gulping in the cool air and enjoying the wind tugging at my hair. ‘This is the one for me,’ I said.
‘What, no swimming pool?’ Sparky wondered.
We left the car on the road and crunched up the gravel drive, noting the sophisticated security system and hoping there wasn’t a dog. A triple garage stuck out to one side, or maybe it was a row of stables, and a satellite dish hung on a wall. Neither K. Tom or his son was there and I was beginning to feel more like an estate agent than a detective.
‘Should get decent TV reception,’ Sparky noted, nodding towards the Holme Moss and Emley Moor transmitter masts that dominated the skyline.
We didn’t nose around too much in case we triggered the alarm. Once we were sure the place was deserted we crunched back down the drive and carefully closed the big wooden five-bar gate behind us.
I looked at my watch. ‘Fancy a snifter?’ I asked. The snooze in the car had left me with a mouth like a rabbit’s nest. ‘The pub down the road had an open-all-day sign outside.’
‘Not while I’m on duty,’ Sparky replied, making something of a production out of it.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘You can sit in the car while I nip in for a quick one.’
He condescended to come in with me, agreeing that perhaps he could manage a pint of low-alcohol beer.
‘Yak! What’s this?’ he gasped, after the first sip.
‘It’s called I Can’t Believe It’s Not Dog Wee,’ I told him. My pint of Black Sheep was first class. After further grumbling from Sparky I took his glass back to the bar and had ten shots of lime juice put into it to mask the taste, and borrowed a menu.
‘Hey, this sounds good,’ I announced, flicking through the pages. It was all home-made, and they did Barnsley chops and rhubarb crumble. My mouth started to water.
‘I thought you’d eaten once, today,’ he protested.
‘It’s not for now,’ I said. ‘Maybe one evening. It looks a good place for a meal.’
We were nearly in Heckley when an ambulance came towards us, blue light flashing. Sparky held up the traffic to allow it to make a right turn across our bows. The word ‘Ambulance’ was emblazoned in back-to-front letters across its front. The sign writers must love doing that. I’d been thinking about the BMW the girl had seen outside Goodrich’s, wondering how far to take it. If it was a standard registration mark in Swindon there could be several thousand cars carrying it, hundreds of them BMWs. Tracing the car we wanted would be a lot of effort for a doubtful cause.
I said, ‘Do you think the WAM number is a no-no?’
Sparky nodded. ‘Looks like it. It was worth a shot. How far do you want us to go with it?’
‘Tell me what the girl said, the one who saw it.’
A youth in a Fiesta came tearing past us, realised he was running out of room, and hit the brakes. ‘Prat!’ Sparky cursed. ‘Sorry, what about the girl?’
‘Tell me exactly what she said.’
‘Right. She was going to work. She started at seven so it would have been about twenty to.’
‘So it was light.’
‘Correct. She noticed that there was another posh car outside Goodrich’s house, although she didn’t know his name.’
‘Had she ever met him?’
‘No. Never even seen him, that she knows of, but was intrigued by the fancy cars that called on him. I think it set her imagination wandering. The driver of this one, the BMW, was getting out, and she noticed that he was a black man. Be honest, Charlie — Sweetwater isn’t exactly Heckley’s answer to Harlem.’
‘OK. He was black. He was the wrong side of the tracks. Anything else? How come she didn’t get a description if she was so interested?’
‘Rasta haircut, and he took a briefcase out of the boot of the BMW, which she thought was odd. That’s all.’
‘Except she noticed the registration letters, and they struck a chord with her because she’s a George Michael fan.’
‘That’s about it.’
I half turned in the passenger seat, so I was facing him. ‘How does this sound?’ I asked. ‘If she saw him, watched him take his briefcase out of the boot, perhaps she was already past him when she took his number.’
‘You mean, in her mirror?’
‘Mmm.’
‘So it would be M-A-W, not W-A-M’
‘It’s worth a try.’
He nodded his approval. ‘Sounds possible. She could have been watching in her mirror and WAM on his number plate caught her attention. Do you want me to have another talk with her?’
‘No. Just give it a whirl.’
I looked at my watch as we were swinging into the nick car park. ‘Half six,’ I said. ‘You might as well have a reasonably early finish.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’ll just see if I can catch Nigel.’
He parked and released his seatbelt. ‘In that case, I’ll just try the DVLC with this number.’
I got out and spoke to him across the roof of the car. ‘OK, you win,’ I said. ‘We’ll both have an early night. See you in the morning.’
I called in at the supermarket on the way home and stocked up on frozen meals for slimmers. They’re the last thing I need, but they’re tastier than the regular ones. If you’re trying to encourage people to eat less, I’d have thought it would make more sense if they tasted like reconstituted tennis balls, but their loss is my gain, so to speak.
After I’d eaten I had a look at the E-type in the garage, sitting in it and running my fingertips round the wooden rim of the steering wheel. It smelt of leather, with perhaps a hint of Annabelle’s perfume, or maybe that was just my imagination. We’d had some adventures together, and some fun. The car didn’t need anything doing to it before the Lord Mayor’s parade, just a quick hose down and twenty gallons of petrol putting in. I wished Dad could see it now. I wished Mum could have met Annabelle, known I was doing all right.
I found my drawing board and a pad of 140 lb paper and did some sketches for the bullbars poster. Computers have taken all the skill out of lettering. I typed the words ‘Bullbars Kill Kids’ in forty point Optimum, with ‘Take them off, NOW!’ in smaller letters underneath it and ran off a copy. After a few adjustments it looked good. I watercoloured the sketch and superimposed the wording. When I was happy I did a final version. As an afterthought, in small letters across the bottom, I wrote that further information could be obtained from East Pennine Police Traffic Division, to make it look official without actually saying so.
There were only six of us at the morning meeting, including Nigel, who wasn’t in the team any more, and Brian from Fraud, who’d just called in to give us the latest findings. Maud was staying with us, and Jeff Caton. Sparky was barely able to contain himself, struggling to stifle a smile, like a scrap-dealer at a disaster. I deliberately ignored him.
‘First of all,’ I told them, ‘keep calling it a murder enquiry. Or at least, a suspicious death. We don’t want it leaking to the press that Goodrich died of natural causes. Mind you, they all reported his murder, so it’s unlikely that they’ll retract the story and apologise. The main problem is Wednesday’s Heckley Gazette. We could ask them not to print the truth, but it might be easier just to keep them in the dark, so watch what you say. Right, Maud, what have you got for us?’
‘The credit’s Brian’s,’ she said. ‘So I’ll let him tell you.’
‘Right, ta,’ he said. ‘Well, I started ringing banks, partly armed with information from Goodrich’s files, partly cold calling, trying to pin down his clients’ accounts. In the end I had to start counting them on my toes — I’d run out of fingers. His main accounts seem to be here in Heckley, with First National, but he has other accounts in Bradford, Leeds and Halifax. None of the managers were willing to talk without consulting a higher authority, in fact they were all bloody cagey. Except one.’ He awarded himself a little smile of satisfaction. ‘Last year I was at Bradford, and we uncovered a potential fraud at a branch of the Consolidated that could have cost them millions. A young girl, a graduate recruit, had worked out a scam that was near foolproof. We saved the manager’s skin, so yesterday I decided it was time to call in the favour. He couldn’t have been more helpful: spent half an hour on the computer, with me looking over his shoulder, and tracked down an account at their Oldfield branch where the amounts coincided with those in the book for Mr D. Jones. I have a printout here.’ He waved a sheet of paper at us.
‘Well done,’ I said. ‘Tell us more.’
‘Right, ta. Well, all the money was moved on fairly quickly, to other accounts and various other places, but the two largest payments were made to someone called International Gem Investments, whose head office is in Leeds. Then we found something similar with his E account, which is with their Huddersfield branch.’
I must have shuffled or something, because Brian hesitated and looked at me. ‘Sorry, Brian,’ I said, ‘but maybe I can interrupt to explain something. When we interviewed the people who lost money through Goodrich, most of it went down the tube with something called investment diamonds, bought from this company called IGI. Apparently the intrinsic value of the diamonds they bought is only about a tenth of what they paid. And now IGI have conveniently gone bankrupt and the MD is playing hide-and-seek with us. Anything else?’
‘No, Mr Priest. That’s it.’
‘Thanks. OK, Dave,’ I said, turning to Sparky. ‘You need keep us in suspenders no longer. What have you got for us?’
He pushed his chair back on two legs and launched straight into his disclosure. ‘The registration number of the BMW seen outside Goodrich’s house would now appear to have the letters M-A-W, not W-A-M as we were first led to believe. A BMW of that mark is registered in the name of a citizen of Heckley called Michael Angelo Watts, who has numerous motoring convictions, all fairly trivial, and two for possession of a class B substance.’
We couldn’t confirm that he was black, but knowing smiles broke out here and there in our little group. They’d fall flat on their prejudices if we discovered that Watts’ ancestors came over with William the Conqueror, or the Bastard of Normandy, as we prefer to call him in these parts. It wasn’t much, but at least we now had something to follow that had the right feel about it.
‘Good,’ I said. ‘We’d better have a closer look at Mr Watts. Anybody want to say anything else?’
There were a couple of questions before I asked Maud and Jeff if they knew what they were doing next.
‘Bacon sandwich first priority for me,’ Maud said. ‘I’m famished.’
Why is it that the words bacon sandwich are guaranteed to start the saliva flowing? Pavlov must have wasted years messing about with dogs — he could have arrived at his conclusions after five minutes with a policeman and a bacon sandwich. ‘Good idea,’ I declared. ‘Let’s all have a bacon sandwich in the canteen, then you won’t need to stop for lunch.’
As we skipped downstairs I caught up with Sparky and said, ‘It might be useful to have a word with Drugs about Michael Angelo. Perhaps they’ll have something on him.’
‘We’ll look pillocks if he’s white,’ he whispered in reply.
It was between-times in the canteen, so it was deserted and the staff were cleaning the place. My order of six bacon sandwiches and six mugs of tea earned me a look similar to the one God threw at Moses when he was asked to part the Red Sea. I placed my arm round the manageress’s shoulders. ‘And put them on a chitty for me please, Elsie,’ I said. ‘We’ve been working all night.’
She gave me a more-than-my-job’s-worth scowl and went behind the counter.
Nigel was already sitting at a table with Maud. I pushed another table up to theirs and sat opposite them. I insisted that a puzzled Jeff join them, which left two places at my side for Brian and Sparky.
‘Right,’ I said brightly. ‘It’s role-play time. Just what you’ve all been waiting for. You three, at that side of the table, are a heap-big drugs dealer, and us at this side are an extremely clever financial adviser. Let’s have a talk.’
Five blank faces turned to me.
‘Go on, then,’ I urged, flapping my hands.
‘Go on what?’
‘Talk. What would we have to say to each other?’
‘What about?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. What would a drugs dealer and a financial adviser have to say to each other?’
‘Which are we again?’ Jeff asked.
‘The dealers.’
‘Right. OK.’ He licked his lips while gathering his thoughts. Eventually he said, ‘Hullooo,’ in a perfect impression of Eccles. I didn’t think he was old enough.
Sparky responded, a la Bluebottle. ‘Hello, my little curly nosed friend,’ he mimicked.
‘Hulloo, Bluebottle, what have you got there, my hairy-legged master of disguises and funny voices?’
‘Sweeties.’
‘Sweeties? What sort of sweeties?’
‘Oooh! Make you fly in the sky sweeties. Want to buy any?’
‘OK, OK,’ I interrupted. ‘Stop messing about. We’ll just imagine the Goon Show voices from now on. Jeff, you were asking Dave if he wanted to buy any sweeties.’
‘Right.’ He coughed to clear his throat, as if ridding himself of the funny character. In his normal voice he said, ‘Wanna buy any drugs, Dave?’
Sparky replied, ‘No,’ but couldn’t resist embellishing it with Neddy Seagoon’s famous, ‘I’m trying to give them up, sapristi yackle!’ before adding; ‘do you want to buy an insurance policy? Probably could use one in your line of work.’
‘We have our own insurance. Why would I want some more?’
Brian chipped in with, ‘To get rid of some of that cash you’re swimming around in.’
Maud wasn’t to be outdone. She said, ‘You mean, if I came to you with a few thou in grubby fivers you could, sort of, put it somewhere more convenient for me?’
‘Oh, I would think so, if the price was right.’
After a pause Maud said, ‘We wouldn’t want it anywhere with our label on it, and I think we’d prefer something more substantial than an endowment policy. It’d be out of our hands, easy to seize.’
The teas had appeared on the counter and Nigel jumped up to fetch them. Sparky leant forward, elbows on the Formica, saying, ‘We could do you a nice little line in diamonds.’
‘Diamonds?’ Jeff responded. ‘We don’t not know nuffink about no diamonds. Gold would be better.’
‘We ’aven’t got no gold, only diamonds.’
‘Diamonds is nice,’ Jeff told us, ‘but who can value them for us? Everybody knows the price of gold.’
Sparky thumped the table. ‘We ’aven’t got no effin’ gold!’ he yelled. ‘Just diamonds, cloth ears!’
Nigel appeared with the teas while we were having a giggle break. ‘What have I missed?’ he asked.
‘Just a Sparkington tantrum,’ I told him.
He went back for the sandwiches, and Maud rose to help him. When we all had a mouthful I said, ‘So far, Nigel, we have the situation where the financial adviser is wanting to convert some of the dealers’ cash into diamonds. Now does that sound likely?’
He nodded, chewing and swallowing. ‘Remember that fire in Leeds — Harehills — last year? The local force found nearly three-quarters of a million in a suitcase in the basement. Not bad for a back-to-back terrace in a rundown area.’
We all remembered it. The fire had been started deliberately in what was known as a safe house. Safe for the drugs dealers who lived there. It had steel grilles over the windows and a lions’ cage gate over the door to foil any sudden raid by the Drugs Squad. Before they could gain an entrance all the evidence would be down the loo. Somebody poured petrol through the letterbox and ignited it. The residents escaped via holes conveniently knocked through into the adjoining properties, and when the fire brigade arrived they were stoned by a rapidly organised mob of local youths. Some of them were as local as Manchester. The riot team was called in, and next morning the money was found.
Jeff said, ‘Tell us more about these diamonds, then.’
‘No problem,’ I replied. ‘You pay me what you can, in cash, and I create a client account, just for you. Then I invest that money in diamonds with International Gem Investments. You can either leave them in the vault on the Isle of Man, or keep them yourself. Diamonds haven’t gone down in value since Pontius was a pilate — I’ll show you the bumf.’
‘And presumably you receive a nice commission for every diamond sold,’ Maud said.
‘That’s right, plus a small percentage from you to pay the cleaning bill.’
‘Makes sense,’ she conceded, ‘but I’m still not convinced.’
Nigel stirred a spoonful of sugar into his tea. ‘In America,’ he told us, ‘the drugs barons have so much cash stashed away that the administration has seriously considered changing the colour of the dollar bills just to foil them.’
‘It can’t be easy, buying a new Mercedes with a suitcase full of grubby fivers,’ I suggested.
‘Wouldn’t mind giving it a try,’ Sparky replied, adding, ‘I can’t really see us changing the colour of the fiver to fool the drugs boys. This lot can’t agree on when to change their underwear.’
Nigel leant forward. ‘No,’ he asserted, ‘but in three or four years we might all be spending Ecus, or Euro dollars.’
‘Euros,’ Maud told us.
‘That’s right, Euros. Where will that leave you, Mr Drugs Dealer? I think you’d be better off investing in my lovely diamonds. They’re a much more flexible currency, accepted all round the world.’
‘You’re supposed to be a drugs dealer,’ Jeff told him.
‘Oh, am I? Sorry, I wasn’t listening when you picked the teams.’
‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘It’s a good point, but I think we’ve milked this for all we can. The conclusion is that if these Jones boys are one or more drugs dealers it would make a lot of sense for them to convert their money into diamonds. Or it would have done, before the diamond market crashed.’
Everybody agreed, except Jeff, aka Bluebottle, who said, ‘I told you I’d rather have gold.’
I thanked Brian for his contribution and he went back to his cosy office at headquarters with a coathanger behind the door. Nigel had a query about priorities on the outstanding crimes printout I’d passed over to him and Sparky rang our friends in Drugs Squad. I was halfway up the stairs when Elsie caught me, waving the chitty for the sandwiches.
A couple of Goodrich’s clients looked interesting. One was the husband of the landlady of a town-centre pub, with convictions for handling stolen property. He was known to our intelligence officer because of the shady characters who drank with him. Goodrich had invested forty thousand of his hard-earned smackeroos, fifteen of it in diamonds, and he looked the sort of person who might bear a grudge.
The other was a retired rugby player with a conviction for violence, and his benefit money was now helping to heat K. Tom’s swimming pool. Wouldn’t like to be on the wrong side of him. They both sounded dangerous, so I gratefully agreed when Sparky and Jeff volunteered to interview them.
It was nearly lunchtime when the call from Mike Freer of the Drug Squad came. ‘Shagnasty!’ he boomed in my ear. ‘What’s this about you playing snakes and ladders, with real ladders?’
‘Hiya, Catfish,’ I replied. ‘I thought I told Sparky to ring you.’
‘I’m returning his call. From home — I’m having a day off. In fact we were thinking of having a ride out your way for a bite of lunch. Can you recommend anywhere?’
‘I can, as a matter of fact. Yesterday we called in a pub called the Eagle, up on the back road to Oldfield, just before the tops. Menu looked good, can’t speak for the food. Oh, and they serve hand-pulled Black Sheep.’
‘I would say that clinches it, my little crime-buster. The Eagle it is.’
‘What’s the celebration?’
‘Good grief, Sherlock! It’s no wonder you’re in the detectives. Actually it’s our wedding anniversary, but we don’t make a song and dance about it. What did you want me for?’
‘It was you that rang me.’
‘Ah yes, but I rang you because David Sparkington, whom God preserve, and may his offspring be as numerous as the stars in the sky, rang me. And he rang me because you asked him to. Therefore, I deduce that it is really you that wants to talk to me.’
‘Right. OK. Here it comes: does the name Michael Angelo Watts mean anything to you?’
I heard him exclaim: ‘Waah!’ and the phone went dead.
‘Hello?’ I said.
‘Sorry, Charlie. Just crossing myself. Michael Angelo does voodoo, he’s not one to tangle with.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘If you can get away why not join us, about one o’ clock?’
‘Would discussing him over lunch spoil the meal?’
‘No, not at all. I could pretend I was eating him.’
‘And I wouldn’t be in the way?’
‘Don’t be silly — it’s our twenty-third!’
‘Right. Thanks for the invite. I’ll see you at one.’
I don’t normally give myself extended lunch hours in the middle of a case. Mostly, I don’t have a break at all. But I had an excuse. I rang K. Tom Davis’s number to no avail, so I typed a letter to Justin Davis, asking him to contact me. I could drop it in at Broadside while I was up there. He might even be in. I sealed the envelope and drummed my fingers on the telephone. After a moment’s hesitation I picked it up and dialled Annabelle’s number.
She answered, breathless, after the fortieth ring, just as I was considering putting it down.
‘I’ve been out,’ she puffed. ‘Heard the phone as I unlocked the door.’
‘Morning drinky-poos with the neighbours?’ I teased. She’d told me about the social scene in Kenya, and the difficulties of escaping the endless alcoholic circus of entertaining that the ex-pats created to alleviate the boredom of their lives.
‘No. I’ve just been to the churchyard.’
‘So you haven’t eaten?’
‘Not yet. Are you coming over?’
‘No. Today lunch is on me. Can you be ready in about half an hour?’
‘Oh, er, yes, I suppose so,’ she replied, without enthusiasm.
‘You don’t sound sure. If there’s a problem it’s OK.’
‘No, er, thank you. I think I’d like that, Charles. About half an hour, did you say?’
Annabelle still has lots of connections with the church. She fundraises and sits on committees, but I get the impression that she’s more concerned with temporal than spiritual matters. She met her husband in Biafra, at the height of the famine, but what they saw there cemented his faith and nearly destroyed hers. I wasn’t surprised when she said she’d been to church, except that she’d said churchyard, and it never registered with me.
Before leaving the office I put the keys to Goodrich’s house in my pocket. Maud had finished there, but I’d have another look round after lunch.
I parked in the turnaround at the end of Annabelle’s cul-de-sac and walked along her drive to the kitchen door. Donald was at the bottom of the garden, behind the compost heap, deep in concentration. I paused with my hand on the door knob, watching him.
He was poised, like a heron waiting to pounce, one leg slightly raised and a garden fork held level with his chest, the tines pointing at the ground.
Suddenly he struck. The fork plunged forward, again and again, until Donald straightened up, triumphant, and held the implement aloft. Impaled on it, squirming in its death throes, was a rat.
He gazed at it, grinning, until his eyes re-focused and he saw me, fifty yards away, watching him. He lowered the fork, and I turned the door handle.
Annabelle met me in the kitchen and gave me my customary peck. ‘I’ll just get my coat and some money for Donald,’ she said. As she disappeared I saw his be-dribbled coffee mug on the draining board.
‘I’ll be in the car,’ I shouted through to her, and picked up the mug between my finger and thumb, holding the edges. I went to the car, placed the mug in the glove box and waited.
‘So what’s the celebration?’ she asked as she slid into the passenger seat.
I told her about ringing Mike for some information, and it just happening to be his wedding anniversary.
‘Super,’ she replied. ‘Do you often break off for parties in the middle of the day?’
‘It’s not a party, it’s a working lunch.’
Annabelle insisted on stopping at a corner shop for a bunch of flowers for Susie, although I warned her that this might create some disharmony in the Freer household.
‘You buy me flowers,’ she stated. ‘If this Mike doesn’t, then it is on his own head.’
‘Ah, but I’m a new man,’ I replied with all the ingenuousness I could muster, only to be rewarded with an ‘Hurrumph!’ and a scowl as she slipped out of the seat belt.
Buying the occasional bunch of flowers for a lady is one of the few lessons I’ve learnt about relationships. Probably the only one. A couple of quid for a bunch of daffs, every two or three weeks, is the best investment it is possible to make. The rewards are a thousandfold the expenditure. The secret is to make them intermittent, without apparent reason. That has the additional benefit of giving you an excuse if you forget a special date in the calendar. You just loftily state that you buy her flowers when you decide to, not as and when dictated by convention and commercialism.
Annabelle came back carrying a bunch of roses and the new issue of the Heckley Gazette. I pulled out into the traffic as she scanned the front page. After a few seconds she said, ‘Did you know you are in the paper?’
I remembered the quote I’d given the editor, and a little wave of panic swept over me, like when the dentist’s receptionist calls your name. ‘Er, no. What’s it say?’
‘It’s on the front page. You didn’t tell me about the swans in the park.’
‘No. It’s not a very pleasant topic of conversation.’
‘It says: “Inspector Priest of Heckley CID told us that they were treating it as a very serious crime.”’
I heaved a sigh of relief — that didn’t sound too bad. But my contentment was premature.
We travelled the rest of the way in silence, Annabelle reading the rest of the paper, then watching the fields go by, as they gradually changed from handkerchiefs of grass to blankets of moorland, divided by drystone walls.
‘The heather’s starting to turn purple,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she replied, her face turned away from me.
Susie was delighted with the flowers, blushing and saying she shouldn’t have bothered. I was right — Mike wasn’t a great flower buyer. I’d have to have a word with him.
The girls had lasagne, while I chose a steak — ‘Just for a change’ — and Mike tackled a Barnsley chop. Annabelle couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw it. Later, halfway through my rhubarb crumble, I said to him, ‘So what’s special about this Watts?’
Mike paused, spoonful of cheesecake in mid-air. ‘Michael…Angelo…Watts,’ he enunciated, chewing each word as thoroughly as the rack of ten lamb chops he’d just devoured. ‘Drugs dealer extraordinaire. On his own, we could probably handle him. Unfortunately he’s under the protection of his father, the one and only Dominic Watts.’
‘Never heard of him,’ I admitted.
Mike finished off his pudding. ‘Haven’t you? I’m surprised. Mr Wood knows all about him — they’ve had several dust-ups.’
‘Gilbert? How come?’ I asked, puzzled.
‘Because Dominic Watts is president of some association of local traders — he invented the position himself — and sits on the local Community Forum.’
‘Oh, them,’ I said, intending to add, ‘wankers,’ but deciding it was more grammatical to leave it out.
‘Don’t you read the minutes?’
‘No. Gilbert’s good about things like that. As long as we produce results he does his best to shield us from the flak. They only sit every three months, don’t they?’
‘Three years would be too soon. Twice we’ve done Michael for possession, twice I’ve been hauled before a disciplinary panel. Racial harassment. He just smokes a little ganja now and again for his migraine, or his MS, or in honour of Haile Selassie. You know the picture.’
I went to the bar for some more drinks. Community Forums were set up by the local Police Authorities in the wake of the Bristol riots. They’re comprised of various dignitaries and businessmen, who grill and generally slag-off the poor senior officer who has been delegated to attend. In theory they make suggestions about police activities, priorities, that sort of stuff, but they usually degenerate into chronic moaning sessions. We need them desperately, and the intentions are noble enough, but recording them in the minutes is no substitute for action on the streets. And then there are the members, like Watts, with their own private agendas.
When I was seated again Mike told me that Michael lived in the middle of a block of three excouncil houses on the edge of the Sylvan Fields estate. His father, Dominic, who owned the whole block, lived in an end one. ‘Claims it’s some sort of housing cooperative,’ he said, ‘but it’s just a safe house for dealing drugs.’
‘A safe house, on my patch?’ I replied.
‘’Fraid so, Charlie.’
‘Like, fortified?’
‘Yep. The middle house for sure. We call on him now and again but there’s steel bars across the door. We never get in.’
I said, ‘We could spin him, if you wanted. No need for you to be involved.’
Mike shook his head. ‘Good of you to offer, but you’d be wasting your time. If you did find a magistrate willing to sign a warrant, by the time you’d battered the door down all the evidence would be on its way to the local sewage works, via the toilet.’
I explained to Annabelle and Susie how a safe house, imported from Los Angeles, worked, but I don’t think they believed me. Things like that didn’t happen in Heckley.
We left Mike and Susie in the pub and drove the couple of miles to Broadside. I parked outside the gate and reached into my pocket for the letter I’d written.
‘I think I could live here,’ I declared.
Annabelle turned to look at the house. ‘Mmm, it is lovely,’ she agreed, without conviction.
‘I won’t be a minute. I’ll just pop this through the letterbox,’ I told her, waving the envelope.
This time they were in. A face at the window saw me approach and a young man opened the door as I reached it.
‘Mr Davis?’ I asked.
‘Justin Davis,’ he replied, pleasantly. ‘What can I do for you?’
He was in his late twenties at a guess, small and wiry, with fair hair tied back in a ponytail.
‘Detective Inspector Charlie Priest, from Heckley CID,’ I replied. ‘I was wondering if I could have a chat with you some time?’
‘Who is it, darling?’ a female voice asked, moments before a willowy blonde swayed into view. She was the type that knows they look good in jeans and a navy-blue sweater, so that’s what they wear. Only the cream-coloured labrador was missing.
He half turned to her. ‘A policeman,’ he said, followed by, ‘Now?’ to me.
‘Er, well, actually, I’m off duty at the moment. I was just passing and intended leaving a note for you. We called yesterday, but you weren’t in.’
‘It’s now or never,’ he stated. ‘I’m off to Australia tomorrow. What’s it about?’
‘Do you know a man called Hartley Goodrich?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘No. Should I?’
‘He was a business acquaintance of your father’s. Unfortunately he was found dead Monday morning.’
‘I think you’d better come in,’ the woman said.
‘Thanks, but first I’ll pop to my car and tell my girlfriend that I’ll be five minutes, if you don’t mind. We’ve just had lunch at the Eagle.’
As I turned to leave she said, ‘It’s all right, I’ll fetch her,’ and sidled past me in the doorway, adding, ‘I’m Lisa Davis, by the way.’
Her husband took me inside, past a heap of designer luggage in assorted shapes, sizes and colours. The room was bright and airy, furnished with light woods and lots of chrome. On a stand, in a corner of the room, was the biggest parrot I’d ever seen.
‘Good grief, what’s he called?’ I asked, warily, as the bird bobbed up and down as if about to launch an attack.
‘Oh, that’s Joey. He’s a scarlet macaw,’ Davis junior replied.
The ultimate executive toy, I thought. An endangered species. His beak looked as if it could slacken the wheel-nuts on an Eddie Stobart articulated lorry.
‘Does he bite?’ I asked.
‘No, he’s an old softie.’ He walked over to the bird, which lowered its head, expecting a tickle. ‘Have you ever been bitten by a parrot?’
‘Er, no,’ I admitted. ‘That pleasure has never fallen within the, er, ambit of my experiences.’
‘Ha! You don’t know what you’ve missed. Come and look.’ He prised open the bird’s beak for me to study from a safe distance. ‘You get three bites for the price of one, and it hurts three times as much. I’ve broken my arm, ankle and collar bones, but nothing’s ever hurt me as much as a bite from a parrot.’
‘I thought you said he was an old softie?’ I commented.
‘No, not from Joey,’ Justin replied. ‘Lisa’s parents have a pet shop. I’ve been bitten there, when we’ve been looking after it for them.’
‘Right, well, I’ll take your word for it.’
‘Please, sit down,’ he said.
I chose a seat a long way from the bird, but where I could keep a wary eye on it. ‘Are you racing in Australia?’ I asked, sinking so far into an easy chair that I briefly wondered if I’d be joining him. A photograph of Justin and Lisa, him dressed like a knight at a tournament in his speedway leathers and clutching a huge cut-glass vase, hung over the fireplace. It was the only clue to how he earned his living, but I knew that somewhere there would be a special room stuffed to the Artex with his trophies. I have three football medals in a Zubes tin.
‘Yeah. The season’s ended here,’ he replied, ‘so it’s three months over there, every winter. It’s a hard life.’ He was grinning as he said it.
‘You’re not doing too badly out of it,’ I reminded him, with a wave of a hand.
‘We’re all adrenaline junkies,’ he explained. ‘The money helps, but nobody goes into speedway for the money. It’s the travelling that gets you down.’
I’d have liked to have heard all about it. As a failed sportsman, they’ve always fascinated me. I didn’t know anything about speedway, but it was a Cinderella sport, and I’d bet pain and sacrifice were a commoner story than fame and riches.
Justin was polite and friendly, but I was there to quiz him about his father’s involvement in a scam.
‘We met your mother yesterday,’ I explained. ‘She said your father was possibly over here, or maybe he’d gone to a race meeting with you. I’m trying to piece together Mr Goodrich’s movements, and I’d like a word with your father. Have you any idea where he might be?’
‘You said…dead. Was this guy murdered?’ he asked. At the mention of his father he looked worried, or angry. His face was pale and he fidgeted with his fingers. Maybe he was ready for another fix of adrenaline.
‘At the moment it’s just a suspicious death,’ I lied.
Voices came from the hallway as Lisa and Annabelle came in, then faded into another room.
I opened my mouth to ask, ‘When did you last see your father?’ but choked it off. We’d had too many paintings in this enquiry. ‘Have you seen your dad recently?’ is what came out.
‘No,’ he whispered, his brow creased in thought.
‘So when did you last see him?’
‘In the summer, when I went round to see Mum. He was there. July. I don’t think I’ve seen him since then.’
‘He doesn’t go to meetings with you?’
‘No.’
‘Never?’
He gave a little smile. ‘Sometimes I wonder if he’s there in the crowd, watching me, but it’s a dream, I know he’s not. We fell out. They sent me to a good school, wanted me to go on to university, be a lawyer, help him in the business. Thought I should be grateful. I bunked off to go racing.’ He paused, wondering how much to confide in this stranger. ‘Truth is,’ he said, ‘K. Tom is only my stepfather. I was about six or seven when he married my mother. Let’s just say we don’t get on. He came to see me race once, about two years ago, in Gothenberg. Came up to me in the paddock, right out of the blue, saying he’d brought me my spare bike, just in case I needed it.’
‘And had he?’
‘Yeah. He’d collected it from here and taken it over to the Continent. Said he’d had a premonition that I’d need it, wanted to be involved, let bygones by bygones, all that crap. I said “OK,” but he never came again.’
Lisa appeared and placed two coffees on a low table. ‘We’re in the kitchen, talking seriously,’ she said, walking out with an exaggerated wiggle and a backward glance.
I shouted a thank you after her, and when she’d gone I asked Justin, ‘How much do you know about K. Tom’s business?’
‘Nothing. He’s into all sorts of wheeling and dealing, all over my head.’
‘What about International Gem Investments? Have you heard of them?’
‘Was that the diamonds racket?’
‘Mmm.’
‘In that case, I’ve heard of them. He sent me a load of information about it and rang me up, said he’d double my money in two shakes of a cat’s tail. I showed it to my manager, who said, “No way.” Then I read that they’d gone bust and a lot of people had been hurt. Since then I’ve had nothing to do with him. Bad for my image, I’m told, as if that mattered.’
‘Sounds as if you have a good manager.’
‘The best. She’s called Lisa.’
I shook his hand and thanked him for being candid with me. He told me that he didn’t like K. Tom, but was convinced that he couldn’t kill anyone. ‘Oh, he’s not a suspect,’ I reassured him. They both walked to the gate with us, and as I got into the car Lisa said goodbye to me across the roof, her eyes lingering just a little longer than was necessary.
I broke the silence a mile down the road. ‘They’re a pleasant couple,’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘They have a parrot.’
‘Really?’
‘A scarlet macaw.’
‘Mmm.’
I looked across at Annabelle. She was staring straight forward, her face pale, hands in her lap. I felt I was with a stranger. As soon as a lay-by appeared I swung into it and stopped, switching off the engine to indicate the seriousness of the situation. Annabelle took a deep breath and bit her lip.
I said, ‘All the way up here you were quiet. In the pub with Mike and Susie you were the old charming Annabelle, a delight to be with. The same, no doubt, with Lisa Davis. Now, alone with me, you’ve gone quiet again. It’s obviously something I’ve done or said that’s upsetting you. For that, whatever it is, I apologise. If I’ve inadvertently hurt you, then I’ve hurt myself a hundred times more. But if I don’t know what it is, how can I make amends?’
She turned to face me, and I looked into those light-blue eyes that can look like cornflowers in June but now shone like glaciers. Something gripped me that I’d last experienced when I’d looked down the barrel of a twelve-bore held by a madman. It was called fear, but this time it was desolation, not death, that I was risking.
‘You think Donald did it, don’t you?’ she said.
So that was it. ‘Oh,’ I replied.
‘You think Donald killed the swans in the park. You offered to take him home so you could quiz him. I’m surprised you didn’t ask him for his fingerprints.’
My eyes flicked towards the glove box that held his coffee mug. ‘It’s a possibility,’ I told her, lamely.
‘But Donald’s parents are friends of mine, Charles. Donald is a friend of mine. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Can you imagine what it must be like for him? He was brain damaged at birth, and he knows it. He knows what he is like, and if that isn’t enough he has to fight prejudice, too. It makes me so angry.’
She was close to tears, and she doesn’t cry easily. I risked reaching out and holding her hand, and she placed her other one over mine. The best thing to say when you don’t know what to say is nothing.
I could go so far towards imagining what it must be like for Donald. Willing to work, but no proper job. No chance of ever driving a car or enjoying himself on equal terms with other young people. And then there was sex. Every time he looked at a newspaper or the TV he’d hear about couples bonking, or have some bimbo’s breasts thrust towards him. This mysterious activity was being used to sell everything from cars and coffee to walnut whips, but at twenty-eight he’d never had a nibble of it. The nearest he ever got was to dig the garden of the beautiful lady who was a friend of his parents. We’re told that it’s themselves that the mentally handicapped usually hurt, not other people. If that’s true, and it is, then they must have the forbearance of the angels.
After a few minutes I said, ‘I’ve been a policeman for a long time. Maybe too long. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve lost sight of how normal people behave. But I’m a good cop and I enjoy what I do. I’ve tried to share as much of it with you as I can, Annabelle, to involve you as much as possible. I’ve tried, love, believe me, I’ve tried.’
She squeezed my hand and said, ‘I know you have, Charles — that’s why you brought me here today. It’s not all your fault. I’ve been feeling a little low since the weekend, perhaps I’m over-reacting.’
I placed my hands back on the wheel and shook my head. ‘No, you’re not over-reacting. You’re dead right. I’ve let my prejudices show, and it hurts.’
Annabelle started to speak, but I interrupted her with the words, ‘Look in the glove box.’
Puzzled, she moved the catch and the lid fell open, revealing Donald’s coffee-stained mug. ‘Oh, Charles,’ she sighed, lifting it out. ‘You are impossible.’
The intention was to take Annabelle home and then visit Goodrich’s house for a last look. Maud had confiscated what documents she needed, so we’d vacated the place. It was now standing empty, but under regular surveillance from the mobiles to discourage ghouls and souvenir hunters. As we drove into town I said, ‘Goodrich — the dead man — lived alone. I’m going there next for a look round. Maybe you could come and give me a woman’s perspective on him, eh?’
She smiled indulgently. ‘You don’t have to, Charles,’ she replied. ‘What would your superiors say if they discovered that you were in the habit of taking your ladyfriends on investigations?’
‘I don’t have ladyfriends,’ I protested. ‘I have you. And we don’t have superior officers, we have senior officers. Have you ever studied psychology?’
‘Only for a year.’
‘Good, you’re hired — consultant psychologist. Hold tight, we’re back on duty.’ I flicked the Cavalier down a gear and stepped on the accelerator.
Let’s face it, anybody would grasp the opportunity to rummage round somebody else’s home. When it had belonged to a murder victim, and Annabelle still thought it was murder, you’d have to be moribund not to be intrigued. I parked on the drive and unlocked the door to the house.
‘This doesn’t feel right,’ she whispered, glancing round the kitchen. It smelt like the inside of my washing basket at the end of the week — what my mother would have described as foisty — and the dust from the fingerprint team had redistributed itself evenly over every surface. We’d turned the power off, and it was much colder than on my previous visits.
‘Why?’ I whispered back to her.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Why are we whispering?’ I whispered.
I steered her through the kitchen and gave her a quick tour of the place. ‘Ooh!’ she said, when she saw the photos in the bedroom.
‘First question, Madame Psychologist, is: “Was he gay?”’
‘I’d need more evidence before I could give a diagnosis, Mr Policeman,’ she replied.
‘You psychologists are all the goddamn same,’ I railed. ‘Where would we be if we asked for evidence every time we needed to make a decision?’
‘So what are you looking for?’ Annabelle wondered.
‘Well, we’ve had a good search of the place, but we don’t seem to have discovered much about the man himself. We know quite a bit about his business, but nothing about his social life. Maybe he was gay, maybe not. Most of all we’d like some names and addresses, or telephone numbers, apart from the ones in his diary. Otherwise, anything that might be of interest.’
‘And where do you want me to look?’
‘I’ll rummage in the pockets of his suits, see what I can find there. How about if you had a good fossick through his bookshelves; see what that tells you about the man. You’re better read than me,’ I added.
‘Mmm. Right.’
I could see that she was apprehensive about being left alone. ‘C’mon, I’ll show you his library,’ I said, giving her a squeeze.
There were fifteen suits in the wardrobe. I found cinema tickets in the more casual pockets, a menu for a Rotary Club bash in a dinner jacket. It would be interesting to know what films he liked, but hardly productive. The odd fiver and a tenner were stuffed into top pockets, as if he’d been given them in change at the bar and not bothered to put them in his wallet. There was a membership card for a dining club and another condom. He had more ties than a lottery winner has relatives, and amongst his highly polished shoe collection I found a pair of tooled leather cowboy boots that he must have bought in a moment of weakness and never worn. I’d have loved them.
I lifted drawers out and looked into the bare cabinets. His nooks and crannies were a lot cleaner than mine. Nothing in his luggage — matching Vuitton — but the name tickets were from the Caribbean Queen Cruise Line. So he’d been on a cruise. Lucky him.
I wandered in to see Annabelle. ‘How’s it going?’ I asked.
‘His reading tastes are about as dismal as yours.’ Pulling a volume out she said, ‘Look at this.’
It was The Illustrated Kama Sutra. I extended an arm towards the bedroom, saying, ‘We could always…no better not. It might confuse the SOCO.’
We’d already seen the Kama Sutra, and a catalogue of ladies’ underwear of the type that a lady would never wear. It wasn’t enough to typecast him. I told her that I was going downstairs, to investigate the lounge, and a patrol car called while I was there. I thought about making some tea, but decided it might look callous. His drinks cabinet was well stocked, mainly whisky, and he had all the Mad Max and Lethal Weapon videos. In a display cabinet were some Lladro figures, several pieces of Caithness glass — how do they do that? — and three cheap little trophies announcing that he’d been Salesman of the Year. Personally, I’d have taken the GTX with wide wheels and go-faster stripes. It’s easy to knock — I’ve never made Cop of the Year. All I found down the back of the settee was a paperclip and a button.
‘Charles?’ I heard, followed by footfalls on the stairs.
‘In here.’
Annabelle came through the doorway, doing her best to stifle a smile. ‘Cherchez la femme,’ she said, holding a dark brown folder towards me.
‘What have you there?’ I asked.
‘Photographs.’ She placed the folder on the table and pulled a sheaf of glossy prints from it, blown up to about ten by eight. The logo on the folder was the same as on his luggage labels — wavy lines, surmounted by a crown.
In the first photograph, which was in a cardboard mount so you could stand it on the sideboard, Goodrich had his arm round an attractive woman and they were gazing into each other’s eyes. He was wearing a flowered shirt and they both had chains of blooms draped around their necks. Behind them was a lifebuoy with the name Caribbean Queen emblazoned on it.
‘Do you know her?’ Annabelle asked.
‘No. Never seen her before. Let’s look at the others.’
The next one showed him resplendent in white tuxedo, shaking hands with a ship’s officer, presumably the captain. I had the impression that it was part of a ritual: shake hands with the skipper as you go in to dinner, then buy the photo at an inflated price while you’re feeling replete. A nice little earner, as they say.
‘Sadly, I’ve never met him, either,’ I declared, pointing at the captain. ‘Next please.’
There were five of them on this one. Two pirates were standing behind three paying customers, making sure they had a good time by threatening them with plastic cutlasses and leering at the camera. Goodrich and the woman we’d seen earlier were laughing, but the other man with them looked embarrassed.
It’s hard to tell with photographs. They’re not the definitive evidence that you are led to believe by films and books, but I was fairly sure I knew who this third person was.
‘But I have met him,’ I said, pointing.
‘Ooh, good. Who is he?’
‘He’s called Eastwood. I think I’d better have another word with him.’
‘Does he live nearby?’
‘Fairly near. Like, next door.’
‘Right, boss. Let’s go.’
‘Uh uh. The only place you are going is home. I don’t want you solving my most difficult case single-handed. Besides, he’ll be at work.’
Driving to Annabelle’s, I told her that it wasn’t murder, but that we were using the enquiry to look into Goodrich’s business dealings, which looked shady. I left it at that and she didn’t ask any questions, although I’d gamble that she had plenty.
‘The Davises were a decent couple,’ I said. ‘Very pleasant.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You don’t sound sure.’
‘She fancied you. Don’t tell me you did not notice.’
‘Er, no. Can’t say I did.’
‘Well, I noticed.’
‘Really? She is rather attractive, so maybe it’s as well they’re going away tomorrow,’ I said, smiling.
‘She’s not going with him. Not for a couple of weeks. So I don’t want you making any follow-up enquiries.’
‘Oh, er, right.’
At her gate I thanked her for her assistance, and told her I meant it. I wasn’t being patronising. ‘You never told me where you found the pictures,’ I added.
‘They were just inside a book.’
‘The Kama Sutra?’
‘Mechanised Warfare on the Eastern Front.’
‘No wonder we missed them.’
As she opened the car door I said, ‘Am I forgiven, then?’
Annabelle closed the door again. ‘Not completely,’ she answered, looking at me but not smiling. ‘But perhaps in a day or two.’
‘OK. I’ll settle for that.’
She heaved a big sigh and fidgeted with the collar of her jacket. ‘It’s not your fault, Charles,’ she confessed. ‘It’s me. Next Saturday would have been mine and Peter’s wedding anniversary. I’ve been trying to push it out of my mind, but when you said it was Mike and Susie’s…’
She shrugged her shoulders and left the rest of it unsaid.
‘I’m sorry, I never realised,’ I told her.
‘You weren’t to know.’
‘Look,’ I started, not really knowing what I was going to say. ‘I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. I can either smother you with attention, take your mind off things, or maybe you’d prefer some time to yourself?’
‘I thought you were busy, with this enquiry.’
‘Priorities. I can make time.’
She was quiet for a moment, then said, ‘I think I’d like a few days to myself, if you don’t mind, Charles.’
‘OK,’ I mumbled.
There are two roundabouts, three sets of traffic lights and about eight junctions between Annabelle’s house and mine, but I don’t remember negotiating any of them. It had to happen, but I couldn’t help feeling that something was slipping away. I expect too much from relationships, invest everything I have in them, but it’s me that hurts when they fall through. I’d never felt like this before about anyone, and knew I never would again. There’d been an awful lot of before, but there could never be another again. I yanked the handbrake on outside the place I call home, then realised I was supposed to have gone to the police station. I cursed and restarted the engine.
The office was deserted, which was fine by me. I typed my reports and read some others. Eastwood would be busy assistant-managering at the York and Durham. I’d assume he worked normal office hours and hit him at about six, after he’d eaten but before he started on the Temeraire.
Maggie and Sparky came in with long faces. They’d plenty of misery to report, but no confessions.
Eastwood was leathering his Audi when I arrived, still wearing his suit and tie. Some office types can’t wait to get out of a suit when they go home, but he wasn’t one of them.
At the back of his house I noticed a brand new greenhouse standing on a concrete base. It must have been new because there was nothing in it. Eastwood apologised for the non-existent mess and showed me inside.
‘How can I help you, Inspector?’ he asked.
I didn’t prat about. I just laid the photo of the pirate attack on the table and said, ‘Do you recognise this lady?’
He swallowed and placed two manicured fingers over his lips, as if a great gob of bile had just made a bid for freedom. ‘Y-Yes,’ he stuttered, stifling a burp. ‘It’s m-my ex-wife.’
‘Oh, could you explain?’
‘Well, er, yes. Did you find this at Hartley’s?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Well, er, 1993 I think it was. Joan and I had booked to go on a cruise, and Hartley remarked that he hadn’t had a holiday for years. We saw quite a bit of him in those days — he used to make up a bridge foursome, twice a week. So, Joan and I discussed it between ourselves and suggested he come on the cruise with us. He leapt at the idea.’
I bet he did. ‘So why did you stop seeing so much of him?’ I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Just one of those things. We grew bored with him. All he ever talked about was work, kept trying to involve me in his schemes, pump me for information, that sort of thing.’
‘And you like to leave it all behind you in the office,’ I suggested. ‘Work on your models.’
‘Quite, Inspector.’
‘Pardon my asking, Mr Eastwood, but was your divorce anything to do with Goodrich?’
The bile was still causing him a problem. ‘No,’ he replied, swallowing and grimacing at the same time.
‘Mrs Eastwood wasn’t having an affair with him?’
‘No, certainly not.’
He’d replied just a little too quickly, so I waited for him to enlarge.
‘She…he… She went through a bad patch — nerves, you know. Then decided she wanted a completely fresh start. I think he influenced her, made her feel dissatisfied, but no more than that. We quarrelled a lot. She didn’t appreciate the pressures I was under.’
No, it must be difficult trying to make all those little figures with peg-legs and eye-patches and parrots on their shoulders. ‘So where is she now?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, where did she go?’
‘To a flat in Heckley, but she’s moved since then.’
‘And you don’t know where?’
‘No.’
‘Where would you look if you needed to find her?’
‘I really don’t know.’
‘Think, Mr Eastwood. Has she any relatives?’
‘Oh, yes. A sister in Bradford. They were fairly close, she might know where Joan is.’
‘Do you have the sister’s address?’
‘I suppose so, somewhere.’
‘In that case, I’d be very grateful if you could find it for me.’
On the way out I cast a backward glance at the concrete pad under the greenhouse, and wondered how thick it was.