Last Reminder (3 page)

Sparky poked his head round the door. ‘Morning, Mr Wood,’ he said.

‘Good morning, David. Glad to see we’ve got some brains on the job.’

‘She did it,’ I told them, holding up Mrs Zwendsloot’s file. ‘It’s bound to be the last one we look at.’

‘Thought you might like to know – he was a financial adviser,’ Sparky announced.

‘A financial adviser?’ we echoed in unison.

‘That’s right. The neighbour told me.’

‘Just what I thought,’ Gilbert claimed.

‘Well, if you’re going to
ask’
I protested. ‘Anybody can
ask.
’

‘The neighbour’s called Eastwood,’ Sparky said. ‘Might be a good idea if you had a word with him,
Charlie. He seems to know a bit about the victim.’

‘Right. Will do.’ Sparky might still be a constable after serving as long as me, but I always do as he says.

Gilbert said, ‘I’ll get back to the factory, start things at that end. Incident room over there?’

‘Mmm.’

‘Want me to drag the HOLMES team in?’

I nodded my head. ‘Yeah, but only one of them. I can’t see us needing it. I haven’t heard of any other financial advisers being bumped off.’

‘OK. What help do you need?’

I threw a desperate glance at the rows of filing cabinets. ‘What’s the chances of getting someone from the Fraud Squad to have a look at these? He might even be known to them already.’

‘Will do. I’ll see you when you get back.’

Dave led me round to the neighbour’s house. It was in the same style as Goodrich’s, but smaller and the garden was well kept. Eastwood was as tidy as the garden. He was late middle-aged, with neat grey hair and one of those scrubbed complexions that looks as if it belongs on a baby. He wore a patterned cardigan that might have been a Christmas present from an aunt who thought he was still a teenager, and a striped tie. And shiny shoes. People who wear a tie and leather shoes in their own homes disconcert me.

Sparky introduced us. ‘I wonder if you could
repeat to Inspector Priest what you have already told me about Mr Goodrich.’ With a conspiratorial wink he added, ‘Then I don’t have to write it down.’

‘Ah, I see,’ Eastwood replied with a smile. He didn’t seem perturbed by the fact that his next-door neighbour was lying, or more precisely, sitting, with his head bashed in.

He gave us the general background that we needed.

Goodrich was single and lived alone. He had been a financial adviser, dealing with clients all over the East Pennine region and was famous for his involvement with a variety of worthy causes. He had a reputation for supporting local charities and for an ability to commute modest savings into serious wealth.

‘You sound sceptical,’ I interrupted.

‘Do I?’ Eastwood replied, with exaggerated surprise.

‘So what was the secret of his success?’

‘Well, for a start, he was a master of
self-publicity.
And he’d made a few good investments, but he didn’t realise that it was just good luck. He thought he was clever. Infallible. Believed his own publicity. There’s only one way to make a lot of money on the markets, Inspector, and it’s the same as the way for losing a lot of money.’

I leant forward, waiting for the secret to be revealed. This could be useful.

‘Gambling,’ he explained.

‘Gambling?’

‘That’s right. Going for the big-interest investments. Trouble is, this year’s top earner is often next year’s disaster. Goodrich thought he could pick them out, but he just had a little luck. He only advertised his successes, nobody knows about the fortunes he lost.’

‘So you weren’t one of his clients?’

‘No chance, thank God. I am assistant manager of the Heckley branch of the York and Durham, so all my investments are through them.’

‘Lucky you. What else can you tell us about him?’ I’d let him volunteer what he could, then ask the searching questions. Like: did you kill him?

‘Well,’ he continued, ‘six months ago, his luck ran out. He was declared bankrupt. Apparently it was the talk of the neighbourhood, but unfortunately I was away on holiday; missed all the gossip. Since then he’s lived like a recluse.’

Sparky said, ‘So what will have happened to all his clients?’

Eastwood shrugged. ‘Nobody knows. It’s all up in the air. Some will have lost their money, others will have had their investments frozen. Either way, there’s a lot of angry people after Hartley’s hide. Apparently,’ he added with relish, ‘quite a few of them are retired police officers.’

Hartley. Hartley Goodrich. A fine name for a
whizz-kid. I wondered if growing up with a name like Goodrich had made it inevitable that he would drift into the world of high finance. As soon as he learnt the meanings of the components of his name, did the cells down one side of his body grow larger, subtly bending him towards anything that smelt of money? There used to be a dentist in Halifax called I. Pullem, and I remember marvelling at such an incredible coincidence, but it wasn’t. Long before the poor kid had cut his own first tooth his relatives would bounce him on their knees, saying, ‘By ’eck, our Ian, tha’ll make a reet good dentist when tha grows up.’ It wasn’t a coincidence, it was inevitable.

And then there’s me. Priest. I was never ordained – didn’t like the uniform – but I do take confessions.

‘When did you last see him?’ I asked.

After some thought he said, ‘Last Wednesday.’ They’d crossed paths in the doorway of the newsagent’s shop, about a quarter of a mile away, and exchanged good mornings.

‘And you haven’t seen or heard of him since?’

‘No, I’m afraid not, Inspector.’

‘Did you notice any comings and goings over the weekend?’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry, but no. You see, the two houses are separated by the hedge and are almost invisible to each other. Also, I spend a lot of time in my little workshop, at the other side. At the moment I’m constructing a model of the
Temeraire
.’

‘The
Fighting Temeraire
?’ I wondered.

‘Yes. Are you familiar with her?’

‘Only from the painting.’ I did a thesis on it at college. Turner, the painter, was the true father of impressionism, but he doesn’t get the credit.

‘She was second in the line at Trafalgar. Avenged Nelson’s death. It’s said that…’

‘Is there a Mrs Eastwood, sir?’ Sparky interrupted.

‘Oh, er, no. Well, yes there is, but not here. We were divorced not long ago.’

‘Pardon me for asking,’ Sparky told him, ‘but women are often more observant about these things than we mere males.’

‘Yes. Yes, I can understand that, but I’m afraid I live quite alone.’

I said, ‘Have you ever heard anything about any particular dealings he made that might have brought about his downfall? Anything at all? And if it was other people’s money he was losing, why has he been declared bankrupt?’

He shook his head. ‘I really don’t know, Inspector, but he had his fingers into all sorts of schemes. I don’t envy you, having to unravel the mess he’s in. It’s true about the bankruptcy, though. It was in the papers, and he had a brief mention on the consumer programme on Radio Four.’

I’d been hoping that Eastwood might have pointed us in the right direction, or any direction.
Now we’d have to rely on the Fraud Squad, and they could take months. Unless, of course, one of the names in the filing cabinets could help us.

I thanked Mr Eastwood for his cooperation and said we’d no doubt have to consult him again. He seemed quite pleased at the prospect. Funny how the right choice of words can create a favourable impression. If I’d suggested that we’d like him to help us with our enquiries he’d have been scared witless.

The photographers had finished and the SOCOs had moved to other parts of the house, so we had the run of the kitchen. The pathologist was informed and the police surgeon came to confirm that life was extinct.

We have a new lady pathologist. When she arrived we shook hands and I told her my name. ‘DI Charlie Priest,’ I said.

‘Professor Simms,’ she replied.

Sometimes, I prefer working with the opposite sex, although my reasons aren’t anything to do with their competence, efficiency, or anything else revolving around ability. That’s evenly shared between the genders. It’s because usually they have softer voices. This is a grubby job, and a gentle voice, at the right time, might be all that makes it bearable.

She had a quick look at the overall attitude of the body, then knelt on the floor to see up at his face.

‘Handsome enough, for his age,’ she said, pulling at an eyelid with her thumb.

‘The sort of face you’d trust?’ I wondered aloud.

‘Mmm. Why do you ask?’

‘Apparently he was some sort of financial adviser.’

She took his temperature with a thermometer in his mouth and used another for the room temperature. When they had him on the slab they’d stick one up his bottom. The doc examined all his limbs, loosened his shirt to look at his torso, smelt where his breath would have been, if he’d had any.

I needed confirmation of cause of death, and a rough estimate of its time, quick as possible. The prof looked puzzled, and kept returning to the wound on Goodrich’s head. I knew she wouldn’t be hurried, so I left her to it.

Maggie was still out talking to neighbours, while Sparky and Jeff Caton, who’d just arrived, were looking at files in the office. I studied the place, taking in the machinery and devices of modern-day commerce. However did we manage without them all? This office had everything. Until it all went wrong. He’d filed for bankruptcy six months ago, and that was the last filing he’d attempted. Since then all the paperwork that came into the office had been piled on the desks and in the brightly coloured trays. The reason was obvious.

‘He had a secretary,’ I announced.

The two of them turned to me.

‘He had a secretary until he went bankrupt, then she had to go. Find her, then maybe she can help us with this lot. Failing that, we’ll have to bring Luke in to crack his computer.’ Luke was a civilian nerd who talks to computers like some people talk to their hairdressers. ‘We need a complete list of his clients. That should give us something to start on.’

‘Just sorting a few out to be going on with, boss,’ Sparky told me.

‘Good. Find a couple of local ones for me to visit. Jeff, you have a look at his diary, and see if you can find an address book. We need his secretary, pronto. Not to mention next of kin.’

‘Inspector?’

I turned round to find the professor looking round the door. She said, ‘Time of death, late yesterday. Say between four and midnight. Can’t be more precise than that, I’m afraid.’

‘And the cause?’ I asked.

She gave me a weak smile. ‘Contradictory indications. For the time being let’s say it was the blow on the head. There are no other marks on the body. Sorry, but we’ll know better when we open him up. I’ve finished with him here, so you can arrange for his removal.’

‘Right, Professor. Thank you.’

‘There is one thing I’d like to show you. It might be interesting, but on the other hand it might be nothing.’

I followed her through into the kitchen. Goodrich was still more or less as I’d seen him earlier, slumped forward with one hand on the chair arm, the other in his lap, fist clenched.

‘Look here,’ the professor said, taking his fist. She pointed with the tip of her pen into the circle made by his thumb and first finger. ‘He’s holding something.’

I could see the end of a piece of clear plastic, or maybe Cellophane.

‘Do you want to retrieve it now?’ she asked.

I nodded. ‘Yes, please. Might as well.’

I held the rigid arm while she prised his fingers open. Slowly a piece of plastic, a couple of inches long by half-an-inch wide was revealed. It fell into my gloved hand and I peered at it.

‘How about that?’ I said after a few seconds, holding it towards the doctor.

‘Wowee!’ she gasped, under her breath. ‘Is it real?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ I confessed. I’d only ever bought one, and that ended in disaster.

It was a little transparent package, thermo-sealed to avoid tampering. At one end was what looked like a frame of microfilm, and at the other a piece of paper with some numbers and letters on it.

In the middle was the biggest diamond I’d ever seen.

Colonel Bartlett was a wiry little man with a wiry moustache and a grizzled wire-haired terrier following him around, as if attached to his ankle by a very short lead. Sparky had found the colonel’s file in Goodrich’s cabinets and, as he lived less than a mile away, I’d come round to see what he could tell me. His wife, who I felt an overwhelming urge to call Lady Bartlett, although I suppose she was a mere Mrs, placed a delicate tea-cup and saucer on the table alongside me, with a matching plate holding a couple of pieces of that cake that looks like a chequered flag with marzipan round the edge. If he was wiry, you could have cut cheese with her.

‘Thank you. That’s most welcome,’ I said.

‘Dead, did you say?’ the colonel asked. The dog had left his ankle and come to sniff at mine. We were sitting in flowery easy chairs in their pleasant front room. A large regimental photograph hung above the fireplace, and on the sideboard was one
of Bartlett himself, looking remarkably Errol Flynnish. Mrs Bartlett, the niceties of hospitality accomplished, perched on his chair arm.

‘Yes, sir. I’m afraid so. You weren’t close to him in any way, were you?’

‘No. Not at all. Business only. And bad bladdy business at that, if you ask me.’

‘That’s exactly what I do want to ask you about. First of all, though, can I ask you to treat this conversation as confidential, as we haven’t found any next of kin yet?’

‘Of course, Inspector. Mum’s the word.’

Mrs Bartlett nodded her agreement. The dog was definitely interested in my left ankle. I noticed that it had grown an erection, so I pulled my feet against the chair. It’s difficult to conduct a serious interview with a terrier shagging your leg.

‘At the moment,’ I began, ‘we’re treating his death as suspicious.’

‘You mean…murder?’

‘Possibly, although not necessarily.’

‘Oh my God!’ Mrs Bartlett wailed. I’d have thought army wives were made of sterner stuff.

‘Can’t say I’m surprised,’ Bartlett declared. ‘Might have done it myself, a few years ago.’

She was ahead of him. ‘Does this mean,’ she asked, ‘that we are…suspects?’

‘Please,’ I said, holding my hands up in a gesture of appeasement. ‘We have no suspects, so, in a way,
everybody is a suspect. At the moment I am only interested in investigating Goodrich’s affairs. All I know about him is that he was some sort of financial adviser. I plucked your name from the files because you are nearby, and I hoped you might be able to fill me in with some details about his business dealings.’

‘Oh, we can do that,’ Bartlett declared, unable to hide the bitterness that my visit had resurrected. ‘We can certainly do that.’

They had £70,000 invested with Goodrich – most of their life savings. Someone at the golf club had introduced him, and at first things had gone fairly well.

‘To be fair to him, it was a bad time,’ Bartlett said. ‘The recession, you know.’

I nodded sympathetically, although I’ve never understood how the whole world could be in recession at the same time. Unless recession is a virus, like Asian flu.

He continued. ‘He put our money in various bonds, PEPs, stuff like that. All High Street names, and we had steady returns, although they were quite small. Then, one evening, he came round on his regular visit and suggested it was time we made our portfolio work for us. He was a dynamic bugger, I’ll say that for him. Would’ve made a bladdy good colour sergeant.’

‘So what did he suggest?’ I asked.

‘Diamonds,’ he growled.

‘Diamonds?’ This was what I was looking for.

‘Investment diamonds, to be precise,’ Mrs Bartlett informed us.

‘So you transferred your savings into these diamonds, on his suggestion?’

‘Yes, but not all of it, thank God,’ the colonel replied. He anticipated the next question. ‘We bought three, at just over one carat each. Cost us thirty thousand altogether.’

‘So what went wrong? Didn’t they exist?’

‘Oh, they existed all right. They did quite nicely to start with – looked as if they’d double their value in about five or six years. Then one day, completely out of the blue, a letter came from a firm of lawyers acting on behalf of the official receiver. It said that the company who supplied the diamonds, called IGI – International Gem Investments – were bankrupt, and we qualified as creditors. Eighteen months later all we’ve found out is that our diamonds are worth approximately one tenth of what we paid for them.’

I took a sip of tea and, trying not to attract the dog’s attention, stretched out my legs. I had cramp in them. ‘So what went wrong?’ I asked. ‘Were they selling the stones to more than one person?’ That’s a well-tried scam, used with everything from armaments to…Zimmer frames. You prove you possess something, maybe a boatload of Italian wine that is going cheap because your
brother-in-law 
works in the excise office, show the punters round it, supply them with samples and all the paperwork, but do the same thing with ten other people.

Bartlett rose to his feet. ‘I’ll fetch the bumf, let you see for yourself.’

When he’d gone I asked Mrs Bartlett if the rest of their money was safe.

‘Yes, thank God,’ she told me, ‘but we’re not receiving any income from it. Low interest rates sound a good idea, until you’re depending on your savings. Poor Gerald’s taken it badly. Blames himself. Always thought he was a good judge of a man’s character. Now he works three days a week as a groundsman at the golf club. We should have been…’ She produced a tissue from within the folds of her dress and blew her nose. I’m sorry, forgive me.’

‘It’s all right,’ I murmured, awkwardly.

Bartlett returned and handed me a sheaf of documents, some glossy, some photocopied.

‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘Have a look at that lot. Some from Goodrich, saying what a fine deal they were, some copied from various financial magazines, whose advice was bordering on the criminal, and some nice glossy brochures from IGI.’

I pulled out a glossy and started reading. In times of recession, it said, people the world over looked for more traditional investments to safeguard their
wealth. Like gold, or, it suggested, diamonds. In a typical year enough diamonds were mined to fill an average-size skip. Ninety per cent of these would be industrial grade, used for making machine tools. Eight per cent would be gemstones, used in the jewellery trade, and the remaining few, the very best, would be snapped up by investors.

My left leg felt warm. I lowered the papers and looked down. The dog had jumped it while I wasn’t looking. Rover didn’t know what danger he was in – I used to take penalties with my left foot. I snatched it back, placed it hard against the front of my chair and pressed my feet together for mutual protection. The stones in this two per cent, the leaflet continued, would be measured for weight, colour, clarity and cut, and then each one sealed in a package with a piece of microfilm containing its exact description. That sounded like what Goodrich was clutching when he died. The price of diamonds, it assured the reader, had not gone down in sixty years.

As I finished the brochure and put it to the back of the bundle I was holding, Bartlett said, ‘Except, it’s all bladdy balderdash.’

‘Can I borrow these?’ I asked.

‘Of course. Anything to help.’

‘Thanks. So what’s balderdash?’

‘All that about investment diamonds. There’s no such thing. It’s nonsense. IGI dreamt up the whole
scheme. While they were selling plenty everything appeared pukka gen, but as soon as a few people tried to cash in, the whole damn plot fell through. We were investing in IGI, not in diamonds.’

‘But you’re happy that they exist?’ I queried.

‘Oh yes, but what we paid ten grand each for could have been bought for less than one in any bladdy souk in the world.’

‘Do you still hold them?’

‘No, we never held them. They’re all in a bank on the Isle of Man.’

‘So you’ve never even seen them?’

‘No, but the diamonds are there. The receiver is trying to allocate them to the various investors at the moment. Only problem is, their value is as what they call collectibles. You know, jewellery. Might make a decent pair of earrings for her and a tie pin for me. If I could get my hands on the scoundrels, I’d…I’d…’

His face started to glow like my ceramic hob does when I forget to turn it off. Mrs Bartlett put her hand on his shoulder and he covered it with his own. ‘Don’t upset yourself, Gerald,’ she murmured to him.

‘No, try not to upset yourself. And for what it’s worth, it looks as if someone did get their hands on Goodrich. What about safeguards?’ I asked. ‘Didn’t you make sure he was a member of the appropriate governing bodies?’

‘Of course we did,’ Bartlett replied indignantly. ‘He was a member of everything. More bladdy initials after his name than Saddam Hussein. And all as bladdy worthless. Washed their hands of us. Said we should have read the small print.’

I offered words of sympathy and stood up to leave, thanking them for their assistance and Mrs Bartlett for the tea. I hadn’t touched the cake. ‘One last thing,’ I said. ‘Could you let me have the name of the receiver who’s handling the bankruptcy? It might be useful to have a word with him. If I find anything, I’ll let you know.’

While I waited for the colonel to fetch the information the dog leapt up into the chair I’d vacated, rolled on to one side and started licking its cock. They do it because they can.

The next couple Sparky had found for me were an even sadder story. He’d worked as a window cleaner all his life and was now an invalid, crippled with arthritis and emphysema. They’d had twelve thousand pounds invested with Goodrich, doing reasonably well in General Accident, but he’d persuaded them to buy a couple of small diamonds with it and they were now poorer and wiser. Thirty English winters of climbing ladders and squeezing a washleather, with nothing to show for it but ill health. There was no doubt about it, Goodrich had left a long wide trail of heartbreak and anger in his wake. The enquiry was four hours old, and we had
enough genuine suspects to crew a quinquereme of Nineveh.

I needed a break, so I fished the mobile out of the glove box and dialled my favourite number. After three rings a soft, warm voice confirmed that I’d got it right.

‘It’s Charlie,’ I said, ‘desperately in need of a friend. Any idea where I might find one?’

‘Sorry,’ she replied in a comic voice, ‘we’re not doing friends today. Today, friends is off,’

Annabelle Wilberforce is built like a beanpole, with short fair hair and a smile that flakes granite. Once, she lived in Africa, where she witnessed the atrocities of the civil war in Biafra. From there she moved to Kenya and married a man who became a bishop. He died of cancer, and now she hangs about with me.

‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ I said, lamely. I wasn’t really in the mood to be half of a comedy double act.

‘We can do fish fingers,’ she declared, in the same silly voice. ‘Or even fish arms, fish legs, or a nice piece of rump fish. Fish is definitely on.’

‘Wait!’ I shouted into the phone. ‘What’s got into you? Can a man find a sensible conversation round here?’

‘Sorry, Charles,’ she said in her normal voice. ‘I thought you said you wanted cheering up.’

‘No, I said I needed a friend.’

‘Oh, well, I’m the one you want. My middle name is Abacus.’

‘Abacus?’

‘That’s right – you can count on me.’

I put my hand over the mouthpiece so she couldn’t hear me chuckling. When I’d recovered I said, ‘Is it possible for us to have a normal
man-to-man
talk without all these silly comments and second-rate impersonations?’

‘You have a hangover!’ she announced with obvious glee.

‘No I haven’t.’

‘Yes you have. I can tell. The hard-boiled,
hard-drinking
detective has a hangover after too much sloe gin.’

‘I thought religious people didn’t drink.’

‘You choose your religious friends and I’ll choose mine. If you don’t mind me saying so, you were drinking it as if it were lemonade.’

‘I didn’t realise it was so strong. I’ll know better the next time.’

‘We won’t be invited again!’ she exclaimed. ‘Not after you…after you… Well, you know.’

‘Now you
are
having me on. Listen, Annabelle. Something’s cropped up. A suspicious death. I doubt if I’ll be able to see you for the next two or three nights. OK?’

‘You mean a murder?’ Now she sounded anxious.

‘I didn’t say that. Can’t say much on the phone; I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.’

‘How about popping round for lunch? Surely you are allowed a lunch break.’

‘That sounds a good idea. Tomorrow, about one.’

‘Let me know if you can’t make it. And Charles?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Be careful.’

‘Don’t worry. It’s not very heavy. Just routine.’

Except it’s never just routine. I put the phone in my pocket and drove back to Goodrich’s house.

The body had gone, replaced by a couple of marginally healthier ones from Fraud Squad.

‘Not…Maud and Claud, from Fraud?’ I asked when I saw them.

‘Not…Defective Inspector Priest?’ the female DS responded. I’d worked with them once or twice before; been for a drink with them a few more times; seen them in the canteen several times a day for the last five years. ‘Where do you want us to start?’ she asked.

‘That lot,’ I said, waving expansively at the rows of filing cabinets. ‘Find out what he was up to. Oh, and who killed him.’

‘It’s gonna be a long night,’ she sighed.

I had a wander round the house. If fingerprint experts found a tenth as much evidence as they leave behind we would eliminate crime. Every surface in the place was coated with their powders, creating an impression of neglect. His sitting room was all black leather and stripes. He must have read
somewhere that stripes were sophisticated, so he’d gone overboard with them. Or perhaps he had a contact in a deckchair factory. Everything looked expensive and tasteless. A couple of heavy table lamps were held aloft by naked nymphettes, at odds with the large hunting scene above the fireplace. I looked at it more closely. Original, about three thousand quid at a guess, by an unknown artist whose credibility would die with him.