Last Reminder dcp-4

by Stuart Pawson

  Gilbert took a sip of coffee, grimaced and produced a dispenser of sweeteners from his drawer. He clicked one into his cup and gave it a perfunctory stir. Now he was playing for time. ‘Is that an offence?’ he wondered, although he knew the answer.

  ‘Depends on what the intention was,’ I confirmed.

  ‘And that’s nearly impossible to prove.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  He did the routine with the sweeteners again, complete with grimace.

  ‘Why don’t you use sugar?’ I suggested.

  ‘Empty calories.’

  ‘You could always eat one less biscuit.’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody self-righteous. So I can tell Les Isles that we don’t need his help and we can wind up the enquiry and put the troops back where they belong — keeping the streets tidy, eh?’

  I shook my head. ‘I want to keep on with it,’ I declared. ‘Tell Mr Isles that it’s not murder, but Goodrich is — was — up to his neck in something, and I want to find out what it was. A murder enquiry gives me the licence I need to knock on doors. Doors that otherwise would be slammed in my face.’

  Gilbert said, ‘And where does the coroner fit in with this little scheme of yours?

  ‘You have a word with him. Don’t you have a lodge meeting, or something, where you could collar him?’

  Gilbert rolled his eyes. ‘We’re in the same bloody golf club,’ he stated.

  ‘You don’t play golf,’ I reminded him.

  ‘I’m a social member, same as he is. They have the best selection of whiskies in the county. If I have a word with him it will be in office hours, not over the Macallan.’

  ‘OK. Thanks.’

  ‘I said “if.”’

  ‘We need the inquest adjourning, indefinitely,’ I said. ‘If no next of kin turn up it shouldn’t be a problem. I want to find out who the Jones boys are, and where all that money came from.’

  ‘Right, but I want DS Newley back, running operations, and most of the staff.’

  ‘No problem, but I’ll need Sparky, Maggie, young Caton, and Maud at least.’

  ‘It’s a deal. We’ll start winding down tomorrow, and you can have until the end of the week.’

  ‘The end of the week!’ I gasped, dismayed. ‘That’s not long enough!’

  Gilbert held his arms out, like John the Baptist on the banks of the Jordan. ‘I’m on holiday next week,’ he announced. ‘You’ll be in charge. What more can I say?’

  ‘Right,’ I said, nodding and smiling. ‘Right.’

  I had an hour at the keyboard, typing my own version of events, and read a financial magazine that I’d bought on the way in, swotting up the difference between a PEP and a TESSA, in case anybody asked me. Fraud Squad was still working through the files when I called at Goodrich’s house. We’d decided it would be easier to work from there, rather than hump all the files to the nick, where we didn’t have room for them. I noticed that they’d commandeered a kettle and his tea-bags.

  The rest of the house already smelt of disuse — death, even — or was my imagination playing games with me? I wandered through the rooms, trying to read the mind of a man I’d never met. He was obviously well off. The pans in the kitchen were by Le Creuset. I’d heard of them because Annabelle told me that she’d just bought one, and he had a full set. I put the Dieffenbachia back in its bowl and ran some water into it. The curtains in the other rooms were made of a heavy silken material, elaborately ruffled and brocaded, with ropes to open and close them. The dining room seated eight around a polished mahogany table, with a captain’s chair for the head of the household. It all looked unused under a thin patina of dust, as if the place had been sealed until the master came home from the war. The decor throughout was by Barratt, out of Harewood House. Upstairs the slim-hipped slack-lipped young men still held their poses, and a red admiral had died of exhaustion against a window. I opened drawers, felt down the back, found an unopened packet of twelve condoms, long past their use-by date, and gave an uneasy nod of recognition.

  Sparky came looking for me. Maud and Brian had identified the banks that Goodrich used, and went off to put the willies up the managers. It’s a stiff sentence for not reporting suspicious cash transactions.

  As soon as they’d gone I asked, ‘Anything on the WAM number?’

  ‘No, but we’re in with a chance,’ he replied. ‘AM is a Swindon registration mark, so there shouldn’t be too many around here. I’ve asked Swansea for a printout of any BMWs with those letters kept in Heckley to begin with. No point in overdoing it just yet.’

  ‘Good. Now let me tell you something.’

  Sparky listened as I related the pathologist’s findings, a big grin splitting his face when I’d finished. ‘You crafty sod,’ he said. ‘Trust you to make a convenience out of a midden. So we’re after wheeler-dealers, eh, and not really bothered who biffed him on the bonce?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  ‘Right. Well, I think we need to know who was in that car, whoever we upset. I’ll get back to the station and do some chasing.’

  ‘You do that,’ I told him. ‘And find me the addresses of the directors of the diamond company, IGI, if you have the time. Maybe we should pay them a visit. I’d, er, buy you some lunch, but I have an appointment. See you later.’

  ‘I noticed you’d washed your neck,’ he replied.

  First thing I saw outside Annabelle’s back door was a pair of Wellington boots that were far too large and definitely not her colour. I knocked and went in. Seated in the kitchen was a young man, several inches of sock wriggling off the end of his toes, as if his feet desperately needed circumcising.

  ‘Hello,’ I said. It seemed as good as anything.

  ‘Hello,’ he repeated nervously. He had a long face that was slightly askew, and nursed an empty coffee mug.

  ‘I’m Charlie,’ I told him. ‘And you must be Annabelle’s gardener.’

  He nodded and examined the coffee mug. His trousers were too long for him and his jacket sleeves too short, and they looked as if they’d been machine-washed at regular intervals. The poor lad obviously wasn’t quite all there. ESN, we used to call it — educationally sub-normal — but that was now considered politically incorrect and I couldn’t remember the new term.

  ‘You’ve certainly done a good job,’ I admitted. ‘Annabelle’s garden has looked smashing all summer.’ I gave him a grin. ‘I hope you charge her the proper rate for the job.’

  ‘Sh-she pays m-me three pounds f-fifty an hour,’ he declared in a burst of verbosity.

  I was suggesting that he demand four quid when Annabelle strode in, looking all the things that reduce me to the state of the young man who did her borders, and gave me a peck on the cheek.

  ‘Sorry about that, I was on the phone,’ she explained. ‘I thought I heard you. Have you met Donald, the person who works wonders in my garden?’ She was wearing a striped butcher’s apron over a skirt and bright red blouse, and I noticed the makings of lunch at the far end of the work surface.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve just remarked what a good job he does. I was wondering about making him a better offer to come and do mine.’

  All the praise was making him blush. He rose to his feet, slouching, and put his mug in the sink. ‘I’ll go n-now,’ he announced.

  ‘But your bus isn’t for another fifteen minutes,’ Annabelle told him. Turning to me she said, ‘He missed the one he usually catches.’

  ‘Where do you live?’ I asked.

  ‘Oates S-S-Square,’ he informed me.

  I briefly wondered if it was named after Titus or Captain. ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘N-near the p-park.’

  ‘Heckley park?’ I wondered with sudden interest.

  ‘Y-yes.’

  ‘Do you go in the park much?’

  ‘S-sometimes.’

  I said, ‘Look, it’s trying to rain outside. I could easily run you home. It wouldn’t take ten minutes.’

  ‘N-no, I’ll walk to the n
-next stop.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Annabelle asked. ‘Charles could easily give you a lift.’

  ‘N-no thanks. Is it all r-right if I come WWednesday?’

  ‘Tomorrow? Instead of Thursday? Of course it is, if you prefer it. Have you put your money somewhere safe?’

  ‘It’s in my p-pocket. Bye.’

  ‘Goodbye, Donald.’

  ‘S’long, Donald. Nice to meet you.’

  As the door closed behind him the smile slipped from Annabelle’s face. ‘He’ll go straight to the pub,’ she said.

  I shrugged my shoulders. ‘If it makes him happy…’

  She came to me and we hugged each other. ‘This is nice,’ I told her. ‘I think I could get used to it. Trouble is, I won’t want to go back to work.’

  She leant back from my embrace. ‘I was ringing Marie and Toby to thank them for the meal on Sunday. They are coming to stay for a couple of days at half-term. They haven’t got a car, so I’ll have to run them around, show them the sights. You don’t mind, do you?’

  Toby and Marie were the manufacturers of the sloe gin that had laid me low. ‘Of course not. They’re good company. Tell them to bring some home-brew with them.’

  ‘I doubt if they have any left,’ she reproached, breaking from my grasp.

  ‘Oh. So when is half-term?’

  ‘Three weeks. Right. Food. How does trout in almonds, with vegetables, sound?’

  ‘Dee-licious. With Annabelle surprise for pudding?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that. I thought you only had an hour for lunch.’ She removed something from the refrigerator and busied herself with the cooking. ‘It was good of you to offer to run Donald home,’ she said, over her shoulder.

  No it wasn’t. There was nothing good at all about it. I wanted a talk with him, ask him if he’d killed the swans in the park. But you are beautiful and naive, I thought. A summer’s breeze blowing through my corrupt and jaundiced life, and I don’t deserve you.

  Sparky was replacing the phone as I walked in. ‘Appointment go well?’ he casually asked.

  ‘Yeah, not bad,’ I told him, sitting in the chair opposite.

  He leant across and brushed my lapel. ‘Bit of seafood sauce on your collar,’ he said.

  I looked down and pretended to wipe some more off. ‘It’s probably crime brulee,’ I replied. ‘It gets everywhere.’

  ‘I bet it does. There are no WAM Bee-Emms in Heckley, but two in Halifax. Unfortunately the owners don’t fit our description.’

  ‘Like, they’re white.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  I thought about it for a few seconds. ‘They’ve got a point, you know,’ I said.

  ‘Who has?’

  ‘We’re only tracing this car because it was driven by a black person.’

  Sparky turned on me. ‘No we’re not. We’re trying to trace it because it’s the only bloody lead we have.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe. But it looks bad.’

  ‘I don’t give a toss how it looks.’

  ‘That’s my boy. Anything on the diamond merchants, IGI?’

  He turned over a sheet on his pad and read off it. ‘Head office, Park Square, Leeds. Three directors. One is the Right Honourable Lord Onchan, who lives on the Isle of Man. He was a professional figurehead, but he lives in a nursing home now. He won’t tell us anything because apparently he’s gaga. A man called Rockliffe was the money behind the venture. He went for a long drive without opening his garage doors, shortly after the whole thing went pear-shaped. Carbon-monoxide poisoning. Don’t let anybody tell you it doesn’t work when you’ve a catalyser fitted.’

  ‘And the third?’

  ‘A man named…’ He ran the pencil down his list of notes. ‘Here we are — K. Tom Davis.’

  ‘K. Tom Davis? What sort of a name’s that?’

  ‘A fine name. At least, I bet he thinks so.’

  ‘And he lives in the Outer Hebrides, no doubt.’

  ‘No, Wakefield.’

  ‘Wakefield…New Zealand?’

  ‘Uh-uh. Wakefield, capital of the old West Riding.’

  ‘Right then. Grab your coat and the A to Z. Let’s see what K. Tom Davis can tell us.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  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 y
ou 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.’