Last Reminder (7 page)

‘Like, they’re white.’

‘Exactly.’

I thought about it for a few seconds. ‘They’ve got a point, you know,’ I said.

‘Who has?’

‘We’re only tracing this car because it was driven by a black person.’

Sparky turned on me. ‘No we’re not. We’re trying to trace it because it’s the only bloody lead we have.’

‘Yeah, maybe. But it looks bad.’

‘I don’t give a toss how it looks.’

‘That’s my boy. Anything on the diamond merchants, IGI?’

He turned over a sheet on his pad and read off it. ‘Head office, Park Square, Leeds. Three directors. One is the Right Honourable Lord Onchan, who
lives on the Isle of Man. He was a professional figurehead, but he lives in a nursing home now. He won’t tell us anything because apparently he’s gaga. A man called Rockliffe was the money behind the venture. He went for a long drive without opening his garage doors, shortly after the whole thing went pear-shaped. Carbon-monoxide poisoning. Don’t let anybody tell you it doesn’t work when you’ve a catalyser fitted.’

‘And the third?’

‘A man named…’ He ran the pencil down his list of notes. ‘Here we are – K. Tom Davis.’

‘K. Tom Davis? What sort of a name’s that?’

‘A fine name. At least, I bet he thinks so.’

‘And he lives in the Outer Hebrides, no doubt.’

‘No, Wakefield.’

‘Wakefield…New Zealand?’

‘Uh-uh. Wakefield, capital of the old West Riding.’

‘Right then. Grab your coat and the
A to Z
. Let’s see what K. Tom Davis can tell us.’

One would have been desirable, but K. Tom had a terrace of three, knocked through to make a single big house. It was a stone building with a stone-flagged roof, black with age and surrounded by farmland. At one time they had probably been tied cottages, inhabited by the estate’s various managers. Now it was a bijou residence for a crook. I knew what to expect inside – the usual catalogue of naff statuary and crap paintings, with eighteen hours of pan pipes dribbling out of the Bang and Olufsen – and my heart sank at the thought of it.

Nobody answered the door. I pressed the bell, Sparky hammered. We regarded two unsuccessful attempts as a licence to wander round the back, see if anyone was there.

‘This is how the other half live,’ I said as the conservatory came into view.

Sparky whistled through his teeth, saying, ‘I wouldn’t mind some of this bankruptcy myself.’

It stretched the full length of the back of the building, housing a full suite of wicker furniture, several sun-loungers, a forest of hibiscus and a modest swimming pool. A woman was reclining in one of the loungers, dark glasses hiding her eyes.

Sparky’s knock rattled the ice in her glass and she jerked awake, startled and alarmed. We held our warrant cards against the double glazing, and after peering at them she slid open the door that led in from the garden.

‘Yes?’ she asked, already on the defensive. In the lexicon of barmy questions, that must be the daftest.

Sparky said, ‘This is DI Priest from Heckley CID, and I’m DC Sparkington. Is Mr Davis in?’

‘Er, no, I’m afraid he isn’t.’ She was about forty-five, sharp featured, wearing what I suppose is called a sun-suit – baggy shorts with a matching top – in a bright flowery material. It, and her legs, gave her age away.

‘Are you Mrs Davis?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘May we come in?’

It was like stepping off the plane in Brazil. Although it was a dull day the temperature leapt fifteen degrees as we crossed the threshold, and the heavy smell of the flowers, mixed with swimming pool, hit you like a whore’s handbag. I was wrong about the music – it was ‘Lady in Red’, giving way
to Radio Two’s fanfare – but I awarded myself a near miss.

‘This is very pleasant,’ I enthused, looking around. Mrs Davis eyed me as if I was a bailiff, making a quick assessment.

‘Could you tell me where Mr Davis is?’ Sparky asked. He’s better at keeping his mind on the job than I am.

‘Er, no, I’m not sure.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Just before lunchtime, this morning.’

He’d left, she told us, saying he was off to see their son, Justin.

‘And when are you expecting him back?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’

‘But some time today?’

‘He said he might be gone a day or two.’

I butted into their conversation. ‘Does he often go away without telling you when he’s coming back?’

‘Yes, he does,’ she replied, defiantly.

‘Where does Justin live?’

She gave us an address and directions. He lived in a house called Broadside, up on the moors, not too far from Heckley. ‘But they might not be there,’ she added.

‘So where might they be?’

‘Justin races motorcycles, he’s a speedway rider, and races on the Continent once or twice a week. Tom acts as his manager-cum-mechanic. Travels all
over the place with him. They might be abroad. I think he said something about a big meeting in Gothenberg, but I may be mistaken.’

‘Justin Davis?’ Sparky asked.

‘Yes. Have you heard of him?’

‘Mmm. Seen his picture on the sports pages.’

‘Could you tell me what it’s all about? Why do you want to speak to my husband?’

It had taken her a long time to come round to asking that, almost as if she’d been expecting us. She had been living on a knife edge since the business went bust, but my heart wasn’t bleeding for her. ‘Did you know a man called Hartley Goodrich?’ I asked.

She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘He was a business acquaintance of Tom’s. We heard about his death on local radio over breakfast. It said you were treating it as suspicious.’

‘For the time being,’ I told her. ‘But at the moment we’re just trying to build up a picture of his movements.’ I took a CID card from my wallet and signed it. ‘When Mr Davis comes back will you tell him to get in touch with me as soon as possible?’

Turn left,’ I told Sparky as we drove off.

‘This is not the way we came.’

‘I know. I want to look at something.’ I’d seen a sign at the side of the road that interested me. ‘So what do you think?’

He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Too suspicious to be true. He’s in the frame, though.’

‘Next right. I’ve never been to the speedway, have you?’

‘Took the kids about three years ago. Just the once. Sophie enjoyed it more than Daniel did. When I was a nipper we’d go to Odsal nearly every Saturday. It was fun.’ I could see him smiling to himself at the memory. He went on, ‘My favourite rider was a bloke called Eddie Rigg. And Arthur Forrest. We used to chant, “Two, four, six, eight; Eddie’s at the starting gate. Will he win? We don’t know. Come on, Eddie, have a go.”’

‘So what did you shout for Arthur Forrest?’

‘Two, four, six, eight, Arthur’s at the starting…’

‘Not very original,’ I declared.

‘I was only nine!’ he protested.

We’d arrived at the gate of the Yorkshire Sculpture Park, at Bretton Hall. ‘So this is where it is,’ I said.

Sparky turned the car round in the gateway. ‘Is this what we’re looking for?’

‘Yeah, I saw the signs on the main road. Might bring Annabelle at the weekend. It’s been on my list of places to visit since it opened.’

‘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-dealer
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.’