‘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.
