Last Reminder dcp-4

by Stuart Pawson

  ‘Thank you. I was taught by nuns — the Little Sisters of Saint Theresa. Thou shall not kill was another of their precepts that I took to heart.’

  I smiled. ‘Nice one. I walked into that. I believe you, Dominic, but Mr Makinson doesn’t.’

  ‘I find your confidence in me most moving. Presumably you believe my son did it.’

  ‘No,’ I admitted. ‘I don’t believe he did it, either.’

  ‘You don’t?’ he repeated, wide-eyed. ‘You amaze me.’

  ‘No,’ I confirmed.

  ‘Then why are we being harassed?’

  ‘It’s not my case. I’m interested in your financial dealings. It’s Makinson wants to do you for murder. Tell me all about K. Tom Davis, and the diamonds, and I might have a word with him.’

  ‘Inspector!’ he exclaimed. ‘Are you suggesting we do a deal? That is not the way I thought justice worked in this country. Whatever happened to innocent until proved guilty?’

  It went out of the window, along with full employment and respect for old people. ‘Not a deal,’ I replied. ‘Just cooperation. You were laundering money through Goodrich. First of all into diamonds, then into gold. We’ll find the proof, slowly. You’d be making it easier on yourself if you realised that and helped us.’

  He leant his chin on his fists and nibbled his thumbnails. After a while he asked, ‘Has Michael been arrested?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘We can’t find him.’

  ‘He’s a good boy. He would never kill anyone, I swear it.’

  Not by drawing a Stanley knife across their throat, I thought. But he’d feed them drugs until they crawled away and choked on their own vomit in a dark corner. ‘If you say so,’ I replied.

  We were talking in his cell. Ten by eight, eau-denil walls and a grille on the door. He was sitting on the bunk and I was on a plastic chair I’d taken in with me. Someone had brought him his own clothes — a pair of slacks and a polo shirt. Very Anglo. He leant forward, conspiratorially.

  ‘Is it safe to talk in here, Mr Priest?’ he whispered.

  ‘There’s no one in the cells next door,’ I told him. The Friday night drunks had all gone home and the other remandees were across the corridor. ‘Business is bad. And the custody sergeant is at his desk. You can talk.’

  He moved forwards, squatting on his heels close to me. ‘This…cooperation you mentioned, Mr Priest.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘I think a spirit of cooperation might be to our mutual advantage.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Nothing very heavy. Just, let us say, helping each other. Believe it or not, I trust British justice — it is the police I have no respect for. Eventually the courts will set me free and prove that Michael is not a murderer. Then life will go on, for all of us. We are not evil people. We are businessmen, and business is difficult in the present economic climate, as I am sure you are aware, Mr Priest.’

  ‘I read the papers,’ I said. And clean up the debris, I thought.

  ‘I am sure you do. Someone in your position could be very useful to us. We could call it a…consultancy. I imagine you have not many years left before you retire. On half-wage, if I am not mistaken. That would make running an expensive car very difficult, would it not, and I believe you have a certain penchant for the good things in life. Why don’t you go away and think about what I have said, Mr Priest?’

  Two-thirds salary, actually, but yes, the Jag would have to go. I stood up and hooked my arm through the chair and lifted it. ‘Sorry, Watts,’ I said, ‘but that’s not the kind of cooperation I had in mind.’ I tom-ti-tom-tommed on the cell door and heard the latch click on the outer gate. A few seconds later the grille slid back and the jailer peered in at me.

  ‘All done?’ he asked.

  I nodded, then turned to Watts as the door swung open. ‘The nuns let you down,’ I told him. ‘They forgot to drill into you the golden rule of English grammar.’

  ‘And what is that?’ he snarled.

  I gave him my most disarming smile. ‘Never start a sentence with a proposition,’ I said, and walked out. My visit had been a waste of time, but at least I got the one-liner in. Sometimes, that makes it all worthwhile.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Then came the icing on the cake. As I strolled out of the main entrance I recognised the back of DCI Makinson, briefcase in hand, ogling the scarlet torpedo parked in the chief constable’s place.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Makinson,’ I said as I walked round him and unlocked the door. I drove away without giving him another glance. I was having a magnificent day, and it was still early. Enjoy it while you can, I thought. It won’t last.

  At the supermarket I stocked up with bananas and cornflakes and purchased an aerosol of car polish. I looked for some white ribbon, but couldn’t see any, and they didn’t have any Occam’s razors, either, so I settled for Gillette. The wedding was scheduled for three. I had an early lunch, then waxed and buffed the Jag until my fingers ached and my eyes were burning from the glare. I was determined the bride wouldn’t regret that the Rolls-Royce people had let her down.

  I put my best suit on and went to collect her with plenty of time to spare. For a few minutes it looked as if the car would steal the show, but when she appeared from her old home for the last time she looked beautiful. It struck me that she wasn’t much older than Sophie.

  Her father folded himself into the back seat, ruining the creases in his trousers, and we went to the church the long way, via a few laps of Heckley town centre. I did a final flourish down Annabelle’s cul-de-sac when we reached the church, but her car wasn’t there. I hadn’t expected it to be.

  I sat in the Jag for the service, and afterwards posed, hand on door, for the photographer.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t stay for the reception?’ the bride asked, as I drove her and her new husband to the Masonic Hall. ‘It’ll be no problem to fit you in.’

  ‘We’d like you to stay,’ the groom added.

  ‘No,’ I insisted. ‘It’s kind of you, but I’ve a few things to do.’

  ‘Then what about the disco, tonight?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes!’ the bride enthused. ‘Then you can dance with Aunty Gwen. I think she’s taken a shine to you.’

  I couldn’t think of a reason to refuse. Annabelle was incommunicado and the bride’s father was a great storyteller. He was a rep with Armitage Shanks, which made you smile before he started. It was either the disco, the local, or stay in. One of the bridesmaids was attractive. ‘What time does it start?’ I asked.

  After I’d eaten, carefully checking the list of ingredients on the side of the packet for garlic, I showered and floppped on the bed for a nap. I felt relaxed for the first time for ages, and fell asleep. When I awoke it was nearly dark and I was under the duvet.

  It was half past nine when I arrived back at the Masonic Hall, still in the Jag because I’d forgotten to swap the cars round again. I had to park it in the alley round the back.

  ‘We thought you’d changed your mind,’ the bride’s father told me. ‘You missed some great speeches at the reception. What’ll you have?’

  He bought me a pint and propelled me towards the buffet. It looked as if a bomb had hit it, but I found some chicken drumsticks and little sausage rolls. I leant on the wall, plate balanced in one hand, watching the dancers.

  They were probably the bride’s old schoolfriends, boys and girls. I was always tall for my age. These days, I’d be considered average. Junk food must be good for you. The girls wore baggy T-shirts that reminded me of those sheets they drape over new models in car showrooms, hiding, but hinting at, the bodywork concealed underneath. One wore fishnet tights, and her legs were so long they resembled twin, if upside-down, Eiffel towers.

  My free hand was in the pocket of my leather jacket, and I fingered the keys of the finest bird-pulling car God ever invented. I did a little calculation and smiled, wistfully. Biologically speaking, and possibly legally, too, I was old enough to be her granddad. I let go o
f the key and reached out for my glass.

  Aunty Gwen hit me as I finished my last drumstick. She was too much of everything. Too much Estee Lauder, too much make-up, too much…Aunty Gwen.

  The group was playing seventies stuff, so I allowed myself to be dragged on to the dance floor and pretended to enjoy it. Twenty minutes later the sweat was running down Aunty Gwen’s face like a flash-flood in the Kalahari and she begged to sit down again.

  That’ll learn her, I thought, and went back to my wall, collecting an orange juice on the way.

  I stayed a polite hour, wished the happy couple all the best and turned to leave. The bride’s father followed me. At the door he said, ‘Er, Charlie. Thanks for stepping in like you did. It was good of you. Made her day. A hundred and twenty, was it?’ He pulled a roll of notes out of his top pocket and offered them to me.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘Call it a wedding present.’

  ‘Nonsense. You can’t be expected to do it for nothing.’

  I took the roll from him, peeled the first twenty-pound note of it and popped the rest back in his pocket. ‘That’s fine,’ I said, waving the twenty.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. It was a good excuse to polish the car and it’s been a bit of a change for me.’

  ‘Smashing. I’ll say the rest’s a present from you, eh?’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘Oh, and, er, sorry about our Gwen.’ He laughed.

  It was drizzling outside. I turned up my collar and walked between the parked cars out into the main road and up the side street, lined with the overspill. The trees still had leaves on them, blotting out the feeble street lights. As I turned the next corner the sound of the group inside came through an open window as they started playing the hokey-cokey. Thank God I’d left. Trouble was, I was wideawake. Blame it on the afternoon nap, the music, those legs. Eggs, chips and a pot of tea on the motorway sounded inviting, so I decided to take the Jag for a burn-up.

  Several other late-comers had parked behind me, and the E-type is so low you don’t see it until you’re there. As it came into view it seemed to be leaning. The camber must be bad, I thought. And it wasn’t shining like it should be.

  It was like a fist in the stomach. I stood and looked at it, gasping for breath. My lungs were empty, but I couldn’t inhale. I dropped the keys and sat on the low wall, forcing my head down, trying to drag the cold night air into my chest.

  It had been done over. They’d slashed three of the tyres, poured a gallon of brake fluid on it, smashed the driver’s window and razored the leather seats.

  I forced my breathing: in, out, in, out; until I’d calmed down. ‘It’s only metal and rubber,’ I said over and over to myself.

  The glove box is lockable, so they hadn’t been in there. I retrieved my portable and rang Heckley nick. I needed Jimmy Hoyle and his breakdown truck, fast, but didn’t carry his number around with me. They passed the message on and told him it was urgent.

  ‘How about the SOCO giving it a going-over,’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘Not here,’ I told him. ‘I want it away before anybody else sees it. No point in ruining everybody’s day. It’ll have to be at Jimmy’s, in the morning.’

  Jimmy Hoyle and I played in the same football team, a long time ago. We were in a cup final against Halifax Town juniors, who we regarded as professionals. Jimmy scored what should have been the winning goal in the last period of extra time, but I let in a penalty in the closing seconds. We were thrashed, four-nil, in the replay.

  ‘Chuffin’ ’ell!’ he exclaimed when he saw the Jag. He’d done most of the restoration, so it hurt him as much as me. ‘Aw, Charlie, you must be gutted.’

  ‘It’s only metal and rubber,’ I asssured him, without conviction. ‘Just get it away, quick as pos.’

  We winched it aboard his truck and fifteen minutes later left the Masonic Hall behind us, the strains of the Gay Gordons filtering through the ventilators. I realised what I was missing and didn’t feel too bad.

  Jimmy said he could manage to unload it, so he took me straight home. All the neighbours peered through their curtains as I jumped down from the cab and waved him off, his yellow flashing light washing the fronts of the houses with waves of jaundice.

  Sleep was impossible. I watched a movie on TV, followed by a couple of CDs. Then I turned the lights off and stared into the fire until the birds started singing. It wasn’t the car. That could be repaired. Earlier in the day, twelve thousand miles away, Justin Davis would have been getting off a plane, or maybe the highway patrol pulled his car over. A stranger’s hand would have fallen on to his arm in a show of sympathy. ‘Could you come with us, sir,’ they’d have said. ‘I’m afraid we have some bad news for you.’

  How in the name of evil do you tell a man that his wife was found in the bath, dead, with her throat slashed?

  Superintendent Isles released Dominic Watts and circulated an APW for his son, Michael Angelo Watts, backed by a warrant for his arrest. We’d do him for drugs, if not murder. I spent the rest of Sunday on household chores and gave my little patch of grass what I hoped was its last cut of the year. I had a key to Annabelle’s, so I took my mower there and gave her a short-back-and-sides, too. I removed the mail from behind her door and came home. It had only been an excuse to see if she was back. I don’t fool myself, most of the time.

  On Monday morning Mr Isles admitted that no forensic evidence to link either of the Wattses with Lisa had come to light. Her telephone number was in Michael’s Filofax, that’s all, and he could have dropped the telephone anywhere. Information was coming through that he was hiding in Chapeltown, Leeds. Makinson had interviewed K. Tom and Ruth Davis. K. Tom claimed Lisa rang him about her agency and problems she was having with her VAT payments. He did her tax returns for her, he said. She’d rung back later to confirm a figure. Ruth had gone to bed early with a migraine, and Makinson reported that their relationship appeared strained. How jolly astute of him.

  ‘Did he ask what the VAT figure was?’ I wondered.

  ‘What, and cast doubts on the man’s integrity?’ Les answered sourly. ‘He couldn’t do that. Today we’re interviewing Lisa’s agency girls,’ he continued. ‘That should be interesting. Might even do them myself. DCI Makinson can talk to Michael’s friends.’

  ‘Ha! Good idea,’ I agreed. ‘If I can get away I might have a ride over to Brid. See if I can find this Jimmy the Fish character that went to see Cliff Childs.’

  ‘It was Childs who lifted the Hartog-Praat bullion?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘OK. Give it some priority, then, Charlie.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Have you seen the papers?’

  ‘Not yet. Is she in them?’

  ‘You’re in for a treat,’ he sighed.

  Most of the troops were out. Several of them collect a morning paper on their way to work, for the football results, the pin-ups and a lightning resume of the news, in that order. Their choices are depressing. I wandered round their desks, collecting a small forest’s worth of bumfodder, and took them into my office.

  One or two had done the crosswords, presumably while waiting at the traffic lights. I refolded them all and spread them out, front pages uppermost.

  The UK News set the tone, as usual. The headline was only two words, but it covered well over half of the page. It said, ‘B LOOD B ATH ’.

  Underneath, it told the reader that the beautiful wife of daredevil motorcycle ace Justin Davis had been found naked in the bath with her throat cut. Presumably many of their readers didn’t realise it was customary to remove one’s clothes before taking a bath.

  What was it that Phineas T. Barnum said? Nobody ever lost money by over-estimating the bad taste of newspaper proprietors? I turned to page two, as instructed, where it revealed that her body was found by an off-duty CID inspector who was making a ‘social’ call. The inverted commas were their shorthand for nudge-nudge, wink-wink. I scanned the others, but Yuk! N
ews said it all. I gathered them together and dumped the lot in the WPB.

  Commander Fearnside had given me Jimmy ‘the Fish’ McAnally’s last known address and details of where his shop was, so I awarded myself a day at the seaside. It was a bright but blustery morning and the sun was in my eyes as I joined the procession of HGVs on the M62, heading towards Hull. I slipped into the fast lane and hit the local radio button for the news and traffic information.

  I learnt that the police were looking for a man in connection with Lisa’s death, and that her husband was coming home from Australia. All traffic was flowing normally, they said, but the champion jockey had taken a heavy fall at Newmarket and been rushed unconscious to hospital. His condition was stable.

  At the end of the motorway I took the North Cave Road, through Beverley. I caught up with a line of traffic and dropped in behind them. After a few miles the young woman in the car following me pulled out and made a death-or-glory bid to overtake us all. A lorry heading the other way loomed out of a dip in the road and blazed his headlights at her. She hit the brakes, blue smoke puffed from under a wheel and she squeezed back into line. Hanging in her rear window was a sign that said ‘Baby on board’, and I could see the top of the child’s head over the seat. The poster might have been more effective pinned to her steering wheel.

  I parked on the south promenade, about half a mile from the town centre. It was pay and display down one side, so I left the car on the other, with everybody else’s. Bridlington was much as I remembered it, but huge signs and a compound filled with earth-moving plant indicated that changes were coming in the off-season. Bringing the place into the twentieth century would be a good idea, before the rest of us hit the twenty-first. Unless, of course, that meant more fast food outlets, amusement arcades and soopa-loopa rides. On second thoughts, leave it as it is.

  The place was busy. The boarding houses and hotels extend the season by offering ridiculously cheap rates, and senior citizens take advantage of them. They wandered along the prom in couples and little groups, raincoats buttoned against the breeze, waiting for the next mealtime or cup of tea to come around. I looked for a suitable pub and memorised its name. The gulls hovering over the harbour or perching on the masts of the fishing boats were enormous. These were proper seagulls.