I was late, so I indulged myself with a leisurely breakfast. I have a theory about these things. Breezing into the office an hour after everybody else, bristling with energy like a hedgehog on the live rail, creates a better impression amongst the troops than skulking in at ten past, ill shaven and suffering from caffeine deficiency.
The personal radio propped against the window was asking all available cars to go to the by-pass, where a lorry had shed thirty tons of self-raising flour. A lot of other people were going to be late for work this Monday morning. Could be interesting if it rained. I looked out of the window but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, worse luck. I snipped the end off the boil-in-the-bag kippers, guaranteed not to stink out the kitchen, and poured myself another cup of strong, sweet tea.
I was on my way in, personal radio hissing and crackling on the passenger seat, when the message came for Lima Tango to go to the park.
‘We’ve our hands full at the by-pass, skip,’ I heard the observer protest. ‘Can it wait?’
I reached across and pressed the transmit button.
‘Charlie Priest to Heckley control. What’s the problem in the park?’ I asked.
‘Hello, Mr Priest,’ came the reply. ‘Have you slept in?’ Another theory crashed and burnt.
‘Only exercising my knack for being the right man in the right place. Am just passing park gates. What’s the problem?’
‘Not sure. Message garbled, caller sounded hysterical. We’d be grateful if you could take it.’
‘OK, will be at the keeper’s cottage in under two minutes. Out.’ I spun the car round and made a left turn through the gates of Heckley municipal park.
I grew up in this park. When I was a toddler my parents would bring me for walks on Sunday afternoons. We’d feed the ducks and I would ride the paddle-boats on the little lake. Later, it was birds’ nesting and cowboys and Indians in the woods. As teenagers we would moodily follow the girls around, rarely integrating with them, or maybe use the tennis courts or the putting green to show off our skills with racket and club. Later still, much later, it was moonlit strolls under the chestnut trees, the air heavy with the scents of magnolia, honeysuckle and unrequited lust.
A newspaper headline described the assassination of President Kennedy as the day innocence died. I’d put it about fifteen years later than that. No one in their right mind came into this park at night since that time, unless they were looking to be mugged, stabbed or raped. Teenagers of both sexes roared round on motorbikes or in stolen cars, leaving their jetsam of lager cans, used condoms and burnt-out wrecks in their wakes. Addicts and dealers plied their trade, while others sought comfort and privacy in the cloying darkness.
The leaves across the road told me that I was the first vehicle down the avenue that morning. The rhododendrons had long lost their blooms, but the roses were confused by the late summer and managed a respectable show. The tennis courts were still there, but Tarmac now, and their wire cages hung broken, like wind-blown spiders’ webs.
The curtains moved when I drew up outside the keeper’s cottage, and he came to the door as I opened his front gate. He was a little man, his face lined and cracked by the drought, or perhaps by the ceaseless battle against impossible odds to keep the park a thing of beauty. He wore a grey jacket over a collarless shirt. Gardeners always wear jackets. Roses grew round the door and his little garden glowed with colourful plants that I couldn’t begin to recognise. Clearly, no weed ever made it past infancy there.
I flashed my ID. ‘Detective Inspector Priest, Heckley CID,’ I told him.
He gestured with a wave of his hand, as if he had difficulty speaking. ‘They’re ower ’ere,’ he managed to say and, moving past me, he began striding towards the lake. I hadn’t expected him to congratulate me for being quick, and he didn’t. Two minutes is a long time when you are waiting for the police. I turned, carefully closed the gate, and followed.
There was a muddy patch leading down to the water’s edge, puddled by webbed feet and several generations of guano. The mud was criss-crossed with the tracks of mountain bikes.
I stood next to the keeper, surveying the carnage.
‘They allus come to t’door to be fed, every mornin’.’ I realised he was weeping. ‘They din’t come this mornin’.’
Well, they wouldn’t, would they? After a moment I put my hand on his arm. ‘Go put the kettle on,’ I suggested. ‘I’ll see what I can find here.’ He sniffed and nodded and shuffled away.
They were floating in the shallows, four of them, their necks abruptly terminated, so the carcasses resembled weird retorts from a Dali-esque chemistry set. There had been nothing graceful about these deaths. No prima ballerina, nudging her sell-by date, had given the performance of her career in this park last night. Deprived of life, of balance, the swans had slumped over, bobbing about with all the elegance of bags of sausages. Their waterlogged wings were extended and black feet reached upwards, like bats taking flight. When I looked into the water, staring through the reflections, I could see blood oozing into the mud. And everywhere, blowing across the grass, into the flower beds and the azalea bushes, was a blizzard of white feathers. Winter had come early, and I could taste kippers.
I hooked a finger into a discarded beer can and studied it. Once it had contained Newcastle Brown, and now it was smeared with gore. I used to be a Newky Brown man myself, a long time ago. We drank it in the back rooms of pubs with flagstone floors, listening to songs about moving on, and the people you saw on the streets of London. Never was a generation so deluded. Now we have people like that in every market town in the country. Back at the car I popped the can into a plastic Sainsbury’s bag.
The front room of the keeper’s cottage was tiny and cluttered. He and his wife collected toby jugs. And little dolls with crocheted clothes. And plates celebrating various events and places. A coal fire blazed in the hearth and condensation streamed down the windows. The keeper’s wife, still in her dressing gown, gave me tea in a china mug with teddy bears on it.
‘Don’t see many like that, these days,’ I said, nodding towards the fire. They mumbled agreement. The morning sun was lancing through the window, and between the runnels of water you could see the mist rising from the dew-sodden grass. ‘You’d live in a beautiful place,’ I told them, ‘if it wasn’t for the people.’ This time the agreement was more enthusiastic.
They’d seen and heard nothing. On the previous evening they had driven into the estate, to a harvest festival supper, and returned about ten thirty. It was impossible to say if the deed had been done by then. They gave me descriptions of the kids they regarded as the most likely offenders, but they meant nothing to me.
‘Do you know who to ring at the council,’ I asked, ‘to get them to remove the bodies?’
He was a council employee, so he did.
‘OK. Well, I suggest you arrange for them to be collected, as soon as possible. Do you have any objections if I ask the Gazette to do an article, with photographs? It’s very doubtful that we’ll catch anybody, but if we create enough fuss we might just tweak their consciences.’
They had no objections, but disagreed with me about the consciences. ‘Right. I’ll ask them to have a photographer here as soon as possible, and I’ll tell our town parks officer to call on you. Thanks for the tea. I’ll have another look around, and let you know if we turn anything up.’
Outside, I rang the Gazette. The girl on the front desk told me that the photographer was at the accident on the by-pass, but she’d see what they could do. I collected the Sainsbury’s carrier bag and wandered back to the water’s edge.
The tyre tracks led me through the flower beds, tiptoeing in the mud and trying to avoid the worst of the wet leaves that soon soaked my trouser legs. I found a plastic bag with evidence of solvent in it and a couple of butane canisters that might have been there for quite a while. Slowly, I worked my way towards the little jetty where the boats are moored.
The boats are intended for children only, and looked just like the ones that were there when I was a kid. I’ve never seen any similar ones anywhere else. They have paddles, operated by a hand-crank, and large white numbers painted on the side. To protect them from vandals a chain laced them all together, and the whole jetty was fenced off with iron railings that arced down into the water. I dropped the carrier and stared at the railings, hypnotised by the scene. I edged forwards, drawn by disbelief and horror.
Pulled over the tops of the iron spikes, like those socks that golfers use on their clubs, were the necks and heads of the four swans.
The office was unusually full when I arrived. Detective Constable David Sparkington, known as Sparky to cops and crooks alike, except when he’s in earshot, looked up from the keyboard he was tapping with all the confidence of a novice bomb disposal expert.
‘Morning, boss,’ he said. ‘Sleep in?’
‘No, I’ve been on a wild goose chase.’ It was the first time I’d been late in twenty-odd years, and everybody knew about it. ‘Heavy night,’ I explained.
‘Somebody lie on your shirt flap?’
‘Sadly, no. Home-made booze. Sloe gin, to be precise. God knows what they’d put in it, but it was good stuff.’
‘They put sloes in it. Otherwise it’s solid gin.’
‘It didn’t taste anything like gin.’
‘It doesn’t, but it is.’
‘That could explain it.’
Nigel Newley, my bright young detective sergeant, was doing his impression of a koi carp, opening and closing his mouth as he tried to interrupt us. ‘Thanks for going to the morning assembly, Nigel,’ I told him. ‘Give me twenty minutes to do a quick report and we’ll have a chat, unless there’s anything spoiling?’
‘OK, boss. There’s nothing that won’t wait.’
My little world is a partitioned-off corner of the main CID office. I hung my jacket behind the door and typed up the details of the Heckley Park massacre, in rhyming couplets to give it more impact. On the way in I’d left the beer can and other goodies with the scenes of crime boffins. When I’d finished I wandered out into the main office, looking for a cup of something hot and sweet and an update on the morning’s proceedings.
Sparky looked at his watch. ‘Might as well have one in the canteen in ten minutes, when they do the judging,’ he replied when I suggested putting the kettle on.
‘Judging? What judging?’ I asked, puzzled.
‘The silly tie contest. Don’t pretend you’d forgotten.’
The silly tie contest was the latest in a series of fund-raising exercises for the local hospital. ‘Aw, Carruthers!’ I thumped my palm with my fist. ‘Completely slipped my mind. What time does it start?’
‘Now.’
Nigel caught my attention with a wave. He placed his hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone he was holding and hissed, ‘Are you in, Mr Priest?’
I looked down, recognised what I modestly call my body, and nodded to him.
‘It’s the editor of the Heckley Gazette. Says somebody has killed the swans in the park, and that you know all about it.’
I reached over his desk and took the phone. ‘Hiya, Scoop. It’s Charlie Priest. Did you get a photographer there before the dustbin men took the bodies?’
‘We certainly did. Now all I want is a nice juicy quote from you.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Is your pencil poised?’
‘Yep.’
‘Have you licked it?’
‘Get on with it!’
‘OK, put this. Detective Inspector Priest, that’s spelt P-R-I-E-S-T, of Heckley CID, says, “If I catch the sadistic bastards who did this I’ll personally hang them by their knackers from the town hall clock.” Knackers starts with a K. Did you get all that?’
Nigel’s mouth dropped open, revealing a set of lower teeth whose gleaming symmetry could have graced a wall chart. Sometimes I hate him.
The editor, who I went to school with, thanked me. ‘Put it on the slate,’ I replied, handing the phone back to Nigel.
The troops were beginning to drift towards the door, on their way to the silly tie contest, so I stood there, reviewing them as they passed by. ‘Good morning, my brave young crime busters,’ I enthused, rubbing my hands together. ‘Nice to see you have all entered into the spirit of things, or are you just sloppy eaters?’
The canteen was crowded. I queued for a toasted currant teacake and mug of tea and joined two uniformed sergeants at their table. ‘Excuse me, is this chair vacant?’ I asked, in my best attempt at a Liverpudlian accent.
‘No, it’s just a bit absent-minded,’ one of them responded in a much better one, piling a couple of plates on top of each other to make some room.
I told them about the Heckley Park massacre and they agreed to round up a few glue-sniffers and take their dabs. A prosecution was unlikely, but we like to keep the pressure on them.
‘Can I have your attention, please!’ Gareth Adey, my uniformed counterpart, was standing up and using the canteen’s primitive PA system to bring the room to some semblance of order. After lots of mumblings and another request for silence he said, ‘Thank you. This won’t take long because some of you…’ He repeated himself for effect. ‘Some of you have work to do.’ It was a veiled dig at CID and an overt threat to his own men to get their butts out of there as soon as this was over. ‘As you know, we are here to announce the winner of the CID silly tie contest. This proved to be very difficult, as the depths of silliness being plumbed were extreme even for our beloved CID. So, without further ado, I announce the winner is…’ He pulled an envelope from his pocket and pretended to read the contents. ‘…the one-and-only Detective Constable Jeffrey Caton.’
Inspector Adey made an expansive gesture towards Jeff, and loud jeering erupted. Jeff strolled to the front of the room and took the microphone from Adey. When it was quiet again he said, ‘This is the proudest moment of my life. I’d like to thank the following people from the bottom of my heart: first of all, Mrs Brenda Prawn, who for many years worked the electronic testing machine at the Durex factory. If Brenda hadn’t had an off-day in June 1966, and let a faulty batch through, I might not have been here today. I’d also like to thank the midwife for having…’
‘Right, Jeff,’ Adey interrupted. ‘I think we get the message.’
‘Oh, OK.’ Jeff handed the mike back and whispered something in Adey’s ear.
Adey told us, ‘Jeff has kindly donated the first prize of ten pounds back to the hospital fund.’
Cheering and clapping all round, but we weren’t finished yet. Adey blew in the mike and asked for silence. ‘In the runner’s-up position,’ he said, ‘after a very tight contest, was our very own, wait for it, Detective Inspector Charlie Priest!’
The room burst into applause.
‘But I…’ I started, then shut up.
‘But you what?’ one of the sergeants asked, clapping and grinning like a seal in a salmon farm.
‘But never mind,’ I said, jumping to my feet. ‘I’ll take the money,’ I shouted, above the commotion.
‘Sorry, Charlie,’ Adey responded. ‘There’s no prize for second place. In fact…’ He looked at his sheet of paper again. ‘In fact, we don’t seem to have your entry fee. It would appear that you owe us two quid.’
‘Get stuffed!’ I yelled. I was going to add something else, but behind him I noticed one of the canteen ladies holding up the telephone and gesturing towards me. I sprinted towards Adey, and a look of surprise flickered across his face, but I went straight by him and took the handset from her.
It was the front desk. ‘We’ve had a report of a body in a house out by Sweetwater,’ the duty sergeant told me. ‘Milkman reported it. Looks like a suspicious death.’
‘Have you somebody there?’ I asked.
‘Mmm. Young lad called Ireland. Only six months service, but he’s sensible enough. He says there’s a head wound and a broken plant pot nearby.’
‘OK. We’ll be with you in a minute.’
I was putting the phone down when I heard him call, ‘Charlie?’
‘Yes?’
‘How did you go on?’
‘Useless. Only managed second place.’
‘That’s not bad.’
‘Nah. I could have won it if I’d entered.’
People were drifting away. I put my hand on Dave Sparkington’s shoulder and said, ‘C’mon, sunshine. We’ve a suspicious death over in Sweetwater.’
‘Ooh, great,’ he answered, rising to his feet. As he threaded his arms into his jacket he asked, ‘Are we taking the murder bag with us?’
‘Might as well,’ I told him.
Dave turned to the table where DC Margaret Madison was deep in conversation with three uniformed WPCs. ‘Maggie,’ he called.
She looked up at us.
‘You’re wanted.’
Mad Maggie took a final gulp from her mug and joined us. ‘What’s so funny?’ she asked, warily eyeing each of us in turn.
‘Dave made a sexist comment,’ I told her. ‘We’ve a suspicious death. Let’s go.’
‘Umph!’ she retorted, glowering at him.
A uniformed constable, male, at an adjacent table, was reaching over for the ketchup. Maggie took the opportunity to snaffle the Eccles cake from his side plate as we passed by.
‘That’s called theft,’ I informed her.
‘Then I’m safe as houses. This lot couldn’t catch a train.’
I collected all the available information from the duty sergeant while Dave fetched anything we might need from the office upstairs. We piled the stuff in the boot of my car and set off. Sweetwater is an upmarket development on the outskirts of Heckley, encroaching on to the moors like bracken does. I’d considered moving there myself when they started building, until I saw the prices. Maggie knew the area, and gave me directions through a mouthful of crumbs.
‘Don’t make a mess in my car,’ I warned her.
‘Soddy, both,’ she replied. ‘It’th the nexg threet on the lebd.’
It was the last house, separated from its neighbour by about fifty yards of what the estate agent probably referred to as paddock and a thriving hawthorn hedge. It was posh, private and remote. Young Constable Ireland was waiting at the gate.
‘Good morning, Graham,’ I greeted him, having asked the duty sergeant for his first name. ‘What have you got for us, then?’
He gabbled a description of what he’d seen when he entered the house, stressing that he hadn’t touched anything and not leaping to any conclusions. Usually they have it solved before I arrive, until the facts emerge.
‘Was this door open?’ I asked.
‘Yes, sir. Well, unlocked.’
‘I see. This’ll be your first suspicious death?’ I surmised.
‘Yes, Mr Priest, sir.’
‘OK, this is what happens. I take a peek inside, as carefully as possible, to confirm what you’ve already told us. If I’m satisfied that it looks like murder we send for the duty detective superintendent who takes over as SIO. He will then bring in all the boffins and momentum does the rest. Where’s the milkman who reported it?’
‘He rang from home, sir. Apparently he’d noticed that Sunday’s delivery was still on the doorstep when he came this morning. He finished his round, but was concerned, so he rang us.’
‘He delivers on Sundays?’
‘He must do, sir.’
‘Blimey, the man’s a paragon. He’ll be winning a good citizen’s award if he’s not careful.’ A fairly new Ford Scorpio stood in the drive. ‘Presumably he’d noticed that the car was still here. What’s the householder called?’
‘He’s a Mr Goodrich, sir.’
‘Goodrich, right. Now the first thing for you to remember, Graham, is that I don’t like being called sir. Use it when somebody of a higher rank is here, if you want, but otherwise, forget it.’
‘Oh, right.’
It makes me feel old, and I’ve never subscribed to all this deference towards rank. That’s why my promising career peaked at inspector, and I am now the longest-serving DI in the force. Sometimes I wonder if I’m like one of those women you see at office parties who are the wrong side of middle age, but who wear the shortest skirts and kick their legs higher than their younger rivals. No doubt about it, but at least a man can compete and still retain some of his dignity. Right at that moment I felt anything but dignified as I wriggled into a nifty pale blue overall and drew the hood over my head.
‘You don’t ’alf look a pillock in one of those,’ Sparky confirmed.
I took the disposable paper overboots he was offering and we walked to the front door of the imposing house. A pint of milk, gold top, stood on the step. I slipped the overboots on, and a pair of rubber gloves, then gingerly turned the door handle.
Graham had told me what to expect, but I still felt that familiar, intoxicating cocktail of nerves and curiosity as I edged down the passageway, casting my eyes from side to side, taking in the furniture and bric-a-brac that were like a fingerprint of a person’s life. Or of a marriage, perhaps. Poor Graham must have been scared silly when he walked in here. We’d take him for a pint, afterwards.
Goodrich was in the kitchen, slumped in a rocking chair facing the Aga stove. The kitchen was huge, and I could tell that this was the room in which he, or the family, if there was one, spent most of their time. It was a good room, large, but still warm and cosy. Farmhouse, in agent-speak.
The curtains were closed and the television was on. A blond-haired surf-clone was begging a girl in a bikini to come back to him, against a backdrop of the Wallagongawalla hills. Meanwhile, in the house, someone had done the washing-up. One plate, one knife and fork, one coffee mug, one pan. I knew the scene only too well. A glass of whisky — Knockando, according to the bottle — stood on the Aga, and another mug contained the makings for a fresh cup of Nescafe. The kettle was full but cold, and he’d never got round to brewing his drink.
An apparent reason wasn’t difficult to deduce. In his bald spot, towards the back of his head, was a gaping gash about an inch long. Lying on the floor, spilling its soil across the carpet, was a plant pot containing what I later discovered was a Dieffenbachia picta. I knelt down and saw where the edge of the heavy pot had made contact with skin and skull.
Maggie had armed young Graham with a book to keep a log of all visitors. They and Sparky gathered round when I emerged.
‘Single blow to the head with a plant pot,’ I told them. ‘Hardly a frenzied attack. Not much blood, possibly not immediately fatal. I get the feeling that he lives alone, but maybe has a cleaner or housekeeper. Rigor mortis, glass of whisky by his side, so he probably died last night. And he must have known his attacker well enough for them to be a visitor to his house.’
Sparky said, ‘So we’ll see what the neighbours have to say, eh?’
‘You and Maggie, yes please. Meanwhile I’ll send for the cavalry and get out of this lot. I feel like Woody Allen doing his impersonation of a sperm cell.’
‘No, you’re much funnier,’ Maggie assured me.
There’s a buzz in the air at the beginning of a murder enquiry. The adrenaline is pumping and you feel as if you are standing at the brink of some great discovery. Murder is the ultimate crime, with no going back. In the next few hours we would know more about the late Mr Goodrich than his bathroom mirror did. And perhaps we would know who hated him enough to kill him.
Most of all we needed to know who and what the dead man was. How did he earn his living? What was his social life like? More plainly, what did he do for money and sex? Maggie and Dave went knocking on doors. Neighbours can be amazingly forthright when they know that any comebacks are unlikely. The houses were widely spaced, so there weren’t too many doors to knock on in the immediate vicinity. In my street the builder would have fitted another three desirable dwellings, ideal for the first-time buyer, between Goodrich’s and the house next door. Maggie and Dave would ask the neighbours about him, his friends, his lifestyle; and about any odd movements, strange cars, et cetera, in the street. Slowly, we would build up a tapestry, leading us to the point where the guy in the last panel catches the arrow in his eye.
I took a quick look round the exterior of the house while waiting for the sub-divisional officer and the scenes of crime officers to arrive. It was made from fine old stone, probably reclaimed from some demolished Victorian building in the town, like a workhouse or a mill, or some other temple to suffering, and the SOCOs would paint the whole place silver with their aluminium fingerprint powder. There were three or four bedrooms, at a guess, with a double garage stuck on one side and what looked like an office extension on the other. The garden was designed for economy of effort — mainly grass, with a few shrubs and fruit trees round the edge. Once again I recognised the style. My ultimate ambition is to replace my grass with Astroturf. There were no footprints, no discarded swag bags, no signs of forced entry.
The scenes of crime van arrived and I let the officers in after a brief discussion. If they decided that the kitchen was where it all happened — the locus of the crime, to use the jargon — then I wanted to be let loose in the rest of the house as soon as possible.
‘Start with that,’ I suggested, pointing to the bottle of gold top standing on the step of the side door. ‘Let’s not waste time looking for the milkman.’
Next to arrive was Gilbert Wood, my superintendent. ‘Hello, Gilbert. What are you doing here?’ I asked.
‘Les Isles should have come but he can’t make it. They made an arrest yesterday in one of his other cases and time’s running out. He says can we manage and to keep him informed. So,’ he said and rubbed his hands together, ‘here I am to keep a weather eye on my ace detective.’
‘Great,’ I replied. ‘The old firm back together again.’
‘The old firm indeed. So what have we got?’
‘Male victim, fiftyish,’ I told him. ‘Killed by a single blow to the head. Broken plant pot, complete with plant, lying on the floor. Not a very determined attack — I’ve had worse knocks playing football. Possibly he died afterwards; choked or something. Rigor mortis, so he’s been dead a while. Maggie and Dave are talking to the neighbours.’
‘What about motive?’
‘Doesn’t look like robbery, at this stage. He’s sitting in his chair, with the telly on, so he must have known his assailant. Door not locked, no sign of forced entry. Looks as if they let themselves in, or out, walked up behind him, picked up the plant pot, and pow!’ I did a little demonstration of bashing someone’s skull in with a flower arrangement.
The SOCO came out, a bunch of keys dangling from his hand. He nodded to Mr Wood and turned to me. ‘Excuse me, Mr Priest. There’s an office at the side of the house. I’ve unlocked the outside door, so you can be having a look in there, if you want. The internal door was locked, so there’s probably nothing in it for us.’
‘Great. Thanks.’ I led Gilbert round the side and we let ourselves in.
The room was L-shaped, a single storey extension with lots of windows. It looked as if clients called on him, for the bottom bit of the L was a waiting area, with four chairs and a coffee table with magazines. Executive Car, What Boat? and Investment Monthly should have given me a clue to how Goodrich earned his crust, but they didn’t.
He had the biggest leather chair I’d ever seen, looking out of place behind the type of desk you can buy flat-packed in any office furniture store. On other desks there were two PCs, with VDUs, keyboards and a shared printer; fax machine, duplicator and shredder; and two walls were lined with filing cabinets. Between all these was an assortment of stacks of trays in coloured plastic, all flooding over with paperwork.
I didn’t know where to start, and Mr Wood didn’t offer any help. The blotter pad on Goodrich’s desk was from the Prudential and his walls bore calendars from Norwich Union and Sun Alliance. His diary had the Eagle Star logo embossed on the front and alongside it was a jotter pad from Scottish Widows.
‘He’s an insurance man,’ I concluded. They pay me a lot of money to arrive at conclusions like that.
Gilbert studied the diary while I riffled through a few drawers of files. Some were filled with glossy leaflets and presentations from various companies, but I soon found the ones filled with his clients’ files, all in neat alphabetical order. There were eight cabinets of them, each with four stuffed drawers. They started at Aaron and went right through to Mr and Mrs Zwendsloot. Somebody had some work to do.
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.