Last Reminder (15 page)

Neither of them moved, apart from a slight sinking motion. Joan appeared not to comprehend that she was a free woman. Mrs Bannister recovered first. ‘This is all highly irregular, Inspector,’ she declared. I think she’d have preferred a murder-one rap.

‘Mmm, it is, isn’t it?’ I agreed, amiably. ‘But at no time have we said that this was anything other than a suspicious death. Mrs Eastwood has admitted to an assault, but she has aptly demonstrated that she was provoked, and that her intentions were not unduly malicious. As the victim was already dead…’ I upturned my palms.

‘In that case… You said my client is free to leave.’

‘Yes. At no time has she been under arrest.’ I turned to the tape recorder. ‘Interview terminated at…eleven thirty-two.’ I clicked it off and extracted the tapes.

Joan smiled for the first time in a week. ‘I…I don’t know what to say,’ she mumbled.

‘How about “Goodbye”?’ I suggested with a grin.

Mrs Bannister grabbed her briefcase and jumped to her feet. She had an urgent appointment to attend.

‘Before you go,’ I said, ‘do you mind if I have a quick word with Joan in private?’

She hesitated, and a look of panic flickered across Joan’s face, as if she expected me to make a dramatic denouement and tell her that she was under arrest.

‘Don’t worry,’ I assured her. ‘It’s nothing to do with Goodrich’s death.’ I handed a copy of the tape to Maggie, who led Mrs Bannister to the front desk to sign for it.

When they’d gone I said, ‘It must be a great relief to know that you didn’t kill Hartley.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I…don’t know if I’m supposed to thank you, or not.’

‘I doubt it,’ I told her. ‘I’m afraid I did lead you on a bit, but the truth came out, eventually.’

‘Yes, and I wasn’t very honest, was I?’

‘You’re not a very convincing liar,’ I told her.

She blushed, saying, ‘I’m sorry for all the trouble I caused you, Mr Priest. And ashamed of myself for being so devious. At one time…before…’

She let the rest of it hang in the air. She was going to say that at one time, before she met Goodrich, she wouldn’t have known how to tell a lie.

‘Joan,’ I began, ‘the conversation you had with Hartley about K. Tom Davis and the Hartog-Praat
robbery. That’s what I want to ask you about. Is there anything at all you can remember him ever saying about the gold?’

But there wasn’t. He talked about it once, then warned her never to mention it again, and she hadn’t. It looked as if the trail petered out with him. I walked Joan to the foyer, where we met up with Maggie and Mrs Bannister again. The solicitor asked Joan if she was all right, and she nodded and smiled.

‘There’s just one final thing, Mrs Eastwood,’ I said.

The three women gave me their attention.

‘When we searched Goodrich’s car,’ I told her, ‘we found a packed suitcase in the boot. It looked as if he was about to go away for a few days. Just thought you’d like to know.’

She smiled briefly, and her eyes filled with tears. It was drizzling outside, which must have felt good on her face. When they reached the car Mrs Bannister put an arm around her shoulders. I wouldn’t have told her if I’d known it would upset her.

I collected a hot chocolate from the machine and walked upstairs with Maggie. ‘Another one for the clear-up rate,’ I boasted.

‘Not even a piddling Section Forty-seven,’ she replied.

‘But a blow for justice, Maggie. Who do you
think we should catch this afternoon?’

‘Ah, I’d like a word with you about this afternoon. Do you think I could have an hour off to visit the optician?’

‘God, yes,’ I said. ‘In fact, I ought to come with you. I either need some reading glasses or longer arms.’

I held the office door open for her and she gave me one of her exasperated looks. ‘Oh, I can read all right,’ she assured me. ‘Reading’s no problem. Reading’s just fine. It’s the bigger objects that I can’t see. Do you know, about a week ago I examined this car, and guess what? There was a suitcase in the boot, and I completely overlooked it. Never saw a thing.’

Commander Fearnside caught me at home, halfway between boil-in-the-bag cod in butter sauce and
Look North.
Five minutes earlier the phone had rung but nobody had been there, although I thought I heard breathing.

‘Did you try ringing a few minutes ago?’ I asked him.

‘No, Charlie. This is my first attempt. Why? Somebody playing silly buggers?’

‘Probably. What can I do for you?’

‘Right. Well, the file for the Hartog-Praat robbery is in the post, but I’ve had a chat with the SIO and thought I’d fill you in with the relevant stuff.’

‘Great. Fire away.’

‘First of all, just over a ton and a half of gold was stolen, worth about ten million pounds at today’s prices. None has been recovered. Money like that causes rifts in the underworld community, and
tongues wagged. Someone put the finger on a certain bank robber and general blagger called Cliff Childs. Prints in one of the getaway cars led us to a property in the East End owned by a pal of his, so we lifted him. He was ID’d by one of the guards through a tattoo on his neck. He’s well into a twenty-year sentence, could be out in three or four, but he was only the sharp end. The brains were never caught.’

‘So someone is still sitting on a pot of gold, holding it for him.’

‘Ha! I hope they are, for their own sake. He’ll be bloody annoyed if they’ve blown it in, what?’

‘Mmm. Anything else?’

‘That’s only the beginning. All of Childs’ associates, visitors, phone calls, et cetera, are monitored, as far as is possible. Most of them are predictable, but a couple of visitors were interesting. Early in his sentence a smalltime crook called Jimmy McAnally called on him a couple of times, right out of the blue. Their paths had crossed in Strangeways, so they could have known each other. Then, blow me down if he didn’t visit him again, about eighteen months ago. Another crook called Morgan had visited Childs at about the same time as McAnally’s first two visits, but he died in a brawl shortly afterwards.’

‘So what did you make of these visits?’

‘Nothing, except that, just popping up like they
did, they could have been messengers between Childs and whoever was holding the gold. Everything else coming out of his cell has been perfectly innocent.’

‘Doesn’t he have a wife?’

‘She ran off to Majorca with his worst enemy, before the trial.’

‘That sounds suspicious.’

‘No, we’ve kept tabs on them, and they’re running a little bar, struggling to get by. Let me tell you about McAnally.’

‘Oh, sorry, Mr Fearnside. Fire away.’

‘Jimmy McAnally worked the Billingsgate market, hence his nickname – Jimmy the Fish. He did three years for several offences of handling. Then he had a leg amputated after a car crash and married someone he met in hospital. She’s a Yorkshire girl, with more than her fair share of that common sense you’re supposed to be imbued with up there. She insisted that they move north, and now they live in…Bridlington, is it?’

‘Could be.’

‘Right. Well, it’d be interesting to know why he visited Childs, don’t you think?’

‘Mmm, yeah. And you don’t mind if I go along and ask him?’

‘Be my guest, Charlie. Nobody else is working on it.’

‘Thanks. I’ll keep you informed.’

‘That’s all we ask.’

‘How did the talk go?’

‘What talk?’

‘Friday, to the City gents.’

‘Oh, them. All right, thanks.’

In other words, not brilliant. I replaced the phone and wondered why talking to Fearnside always made me feel like Hercules couldn’t make it, so could I do his labours for him? Cleaning out the Augean stables is just a euphemism for shovelling shit.

The phone rang again, but nobody spoke. I dialled 1471, and a pleasant, if stilted, lady’s voice told me that she did not have the caller’s number. It was all the excuse I needed, so I tried Annabelle, but she wasn’t in.

Next day I took the prayer meeting and wasted the rest of the morning waiting for the CPS to come up with some answers. They eventually rang me back to say they couldn’t see any purpose in charging Mrs Eastwood, but would I still submit the paperwork? They could cocoa. I was wondering what to do about lunch when Nigel breezed into the office, smiling with a mischievous smugness, like a little boy who’d broken his best friend’s Tonka toy. When he saw me he put his hands to his head and yelled, ‘Aaargh!’

There’s a ritual to go through with Nigel. ‘So?’ I said, inviting him to explain.

‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’

‘The good, please, if it’s not too much trouble.’

‘Four years each for the Deans, with eighteen months for the driver.’

‘Great,’ I replied. ‘That should keep them out of our hair for a while. And the bad?’

‘They’re suing us.’

‘Suing us? What for?’

‘Would you believe it? Subjecting them to unnecessary danger in the form of liquids that may be of a carcinogenic nature, and exposing them to ultra-violet radiation, which is a proven carcinogen.’

‘Are they serious?’

‘Mmm. Deadly. Their brief is demanding to see any safety and health guidelines that come with the products.’

‘Silly pillocks.’

I took him across the road for a sandwich and a glass of shandy, and asked him to do some final polishing of arrangements for the rhubarb run.

‘And what about the warrant?’ he asked. ‘Does that need collecting?’

‘Warrant?’ I echoed. ‘We won’t be using a warrant, Nigel. Warrants is for cissies.’

Now he looked worried.

I left him in the pub and drove to my CADs
meeting at the Civic Hall. The Community Action against Drugs committee is a new venture, meeting every month or so at the request of various concerned groups, mainly tenants’ associations on the estates. To offset unilateral action by some more militant factions, we’d decided to hold a ‘Shop a Pusher’ campaign. The
Gazette
would be asked to publish a pro-forma, saying something like ‘The following person has tried to sell me drugs…’ We were meeting to finalise the wording. I suggested that we add a footnote saying that the police would only take action after a person had been named six times from separate sources. The committee talked me down to four, but I didn’t mind. It was only there for reassurance; we’d ignore it if it suited us to.

Back at the office I typed up the CAD committee decisions and did a report of the previous night’s conversation with Fearnside. As an afterthought I added a note about the two silent phone calls I’d received. I looked at the mess in my office and wondered about putting everything in order, just in case I was told to stay away, after the rhubarb run, but I decided to risk it.

At home I had a frozen Christmas dinner for one, which was ghastly, and the only phone call was from Mike Freer to wish us luck. I slept like a vulture on a dead tree.

The dawn chorus on the Sylvan Fields estate is just as likely to be the police helicopter as a vocal blackbird. It’s a busy time there. Some towns have a park ‘n’ ride scheme; on the Sylvan Fields it’s park ‘n’ torch. Clattering overhead, a helicopter would arouse less interest than a three-legged dog peeing against a lamppost.

As soon as I heard it, I clicked the tit and ordered all units to stand by.

‘Sewer Rats in position,’ came back to me, followed by, ‘JCB approaching target, ready when you are,’ and, ‘Zulu Ninety-nine in position.’

‘Look at that,’ I said, nudging Sparky and nodding. The clouds had dissolved, and through the windscreen we could see Venus in the pale sky, bright as a daisy in a lawn.

‘It’s Venus,’ he confirmed.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I said.

‘Some of us see it every morning. C’mon, let’s go.’

‘It might be an omen,’ I told him. ‘Did you know that the Sioux called General Custer the Son of the Morning Star, because he always attacked at dawn?’

‘I do now. They’ll be having their breakfasts if we hang about any longer.’

I raised the radio to my lips. ‘Rhubarb to all units: Tallyho! Tallyho!’

Sparky leant across and shouted, ‘Scrag the
bastards!’ into the instrument.

Instantly the air was filled with the warbling of sirens, drowning out the chopper. We screeched around the corner and saw the JCB that we’d borrowed from a nearby building site turn to point at the front door of Michael Angelo Watts’ fortress. Cars came from all directions and angled in beside it.

Police were leaping out on to the pavement, slamming doors and slamming them again just for effect. Curtains were flung back all down the street as bleary-eyed neighbours in their night attire, or lack of it, wondered what the excitement was. Sparky and I strode down the short path, the front of the building illuminated by the chopper’s searchlight.

‘What happened to him?’ Sparky said as we reached the front door.

‘Who?’ I asked, reaching through the bars.

‘General Custer.’

I glowered at him and beat the door with my fist. ‘Police! Open up!’ I yelled.

Sparky reached through and thumped harder and yelled louder. We’d have heard feet running up and down the stairs, people shouting and toilet-flushing noises if it hadn’t been for the helicopter.

He squinted up at it, saying, ‘He’s fading my jacket with that fucking light.’ He only swears when he’s nervous.

We hammered for nearly five minutes before the door opened as far as a security chain would allow it and a wide-eyed boy aged about twelve peered through the gap. He was wearing a giant-sized T-shirt with a catchy logo, and probably nothing else. ‘Hello, son,’ I said. ‘We’re the police. Is your father in?’

He shook his head.

‘Is Michael Angelo Watts in?’

‘No.’

‘Then will you please fetch whoever is in charge to the door.’

He closed it and we heard the latch being applied again. I waved at the JCB driver and he revved the engine and raised the shovel in a menacing gesture. Two minutes later a bare-chested adult with short dreadlocks was addressing us through the gap.

‘What the fuck you want?’ he demanded.

‘Are you Michael Angelo Watts?’ I asked.

‘Yeah. Whad if I am?’

‘We’re looking for a man called Moses Sitole. We believe he’s a friend of yours. Can you tell me if he’s here?’

‘I don’t know no Moses Sitole.’

‘So he’s not here.’

‘Never fuckin’ heard o’ him.’

‘Let me show you a picture.’ I removed a carefully cropped photocopy of a Bob Marley album cover from my inside pocket and passed it through the gap to him.

‘You a fuckin’ joke, man,’ he assured me.

‘So you don’t know this man?’

‘I never see him before.’ His teeth were magnificent.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Looks like we’ve been given some bad information. Sorry to have troubled you, Mr Watts. Try to have a nice day.’

As I walked off I heard him call, ‘Hey, you.’

I turned, but it was Sparky he was talking to. They glared at each other for a second before Watts said, ‘Who the fuck he think he is?’

‘We call him Crazy Horse,’ Sparky declared, winking at me as he came away.

I gave Zulu Ninety-nine a thank-you salute and he lifted effortlessly into the sky. Next time, if there is a next time, that’s the job I want. Sparky went to thank the JCB driver and I walked to the back of the next block, where the Sewer Rats were crouched around a manhole.

Van Rees’s two assistants were wearing white coats and looked like a pair of earnest sixthformers.

‘Any joy?’ I asked.

They nodded enthusiastically and gestured towards a row of plastic sample bottles, each containing about half a pint of cloudy water. ‘It looks very promising,’ one of them told me.

It had bloody better be, I thought.

We drove back in silence, Sparky in his morose
Yorkshireman mode. ‘Do you?’ I asked, as we approached the nick.

‘Do I what?’

‘Call me Crazy Horse?’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’ I was disappointed – he was a hero of mine. ‘What do you call me?’

‘Don’t ask,’ was all he’d say.

I rang Van Rees to tell him that the samples were on the way, and Mike Freer to update him.

‘You know what they say,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘If you’re not part of the solution, you must be part of the sediment.’

‘Yeah, very apt. And people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw orgies.’

I wrote, ‘If anybody rings for me, I’m at the CADs meeting,’ on a sheet of A4 and Blu-Tacked it to my window. With luck, I’d be able to hold them off until the results came in.

The clap hit the propeller at about two p.m. A pale-faced DC popped his head round the door and told me that the assistant chief constable wanted me, as soon as possible. ‘He sounded annoyed,’ he added, unnecessarily. I needed a change of scenery. Sparky volunteered to field all my calls and I went for a drive.

I left the car in the Sculpture Park and took a pleasant stroll towards K. Tom Davis’s mansion, about half a mile away by the lanes, but probably
much nearer across the fields. Word would soon be around that Goodrich’s death was from natural causes, so I needed to do as much interviewing as possible while everybody was on the defensive. We didn’t have much to go on, just a garbled boast into Joan Eastwood’s shell-like in a moment of alcohol-induced passion, but murderers have been hanged by less. And Mrs Davis had claimed that her husband went all over the Continent with Justin, although Justin said he never saw him. If he didn’t go with Justin, where did he go?

It was a long shot, but I like to keep the pressure on. Maybe the bullion robbers had got clean away with it, but I’d like them never to be free of that dread of the early-morning knock on the door. The same goes for war criminals. May they go to the grave expecting every policeman they see to be the one who puts his hand on their shoulder.

Neither K. Tom nor Mrs Davis was in, which wasn’t my number one preferred case, but I made the best of it. I wandered round, looking in through all the windows, being careful not to trigger the alarm. The conservatory was a beaut. Leisurely afternoons spent inside, catching up on my reading, with an occasional dip in the pool, sounded idyllic. Especially if Annabelle could have been there, too.