Last Reminder dcp-4

by Stuart Pawson

  ‘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-de
aler 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.