Last Reminder dcp-4

by Stuart Pawson

  ‘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.

  L
et’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 wh
en 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?’