Last Reminder dcp-4 Read online

  ‘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 o
f 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?’