‘Euros,’ Maud told us.
‘That’s right, Euros. Where will that leave you, Mr Drugs Dealer? I think you’d be better off investing in my lovely diamonds. They’re a much more flexible currency, accepted all round the world.’
‘You’re supposed to be a drugs dealer,’ Jeff told him.
‘Oh, am I? Sorry, I wasn’t listening when you picked the teams.’
‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘It’s a good point, but I think we’ve milked this for all we can. The conclusion is that if these Jones boys are one or more drugs dealers it would make a lot of sense for them to convert their money into diamonds. Or it would have done, before the diamond market crashed.’
Everybody agreed, except Jeff, aka Bluebottle, who said, ‘I told you I’d rather have gold.’
I thanked Brian for his contribution and he went back to his cosy office at headquarters with a coathanger behind the door. Nigel had a query about priorities on the outstanding crimes printout I’d passed over to him and Sparky rang our friends in Drugs Squad. I was halfway up the stairs when Elsie caught me, waving the chitty for the sandwiches.
A couple of Goodrich’s clients looked interesting. One was the husband of the landlady of a town-centre pub, with convictions for handling stolen property. He was known to our intelligence officer because of the shady characters who drank with him. Goodrich had invested forty thousand of his hard-earned smackeroos, fifteen of it in diamonds, and he looked the sort of person who might bear a grudge.
The other was a retired rugby player with a conviction for violence, and his benefit money was now helping to heat K. Tom’s swimming pool. Wouldn’t like to be on the wrong side of him. They both sounded dangerous, so I gratefully agreed when Sparky and Jeff volunteered to interview them.
It was nearly lunchtime when the call from Mike Freer of the Drug Squad came. ‘Shagnasty!’ he boomed in my ear. ‘What’s this about you playing snakes and ladders, with real ladders?’
‘Hiya, Catfish,’ I replied. ‘I thought I told Sparky to ring you.’
‘I’m returning his call. From home — I’m having a day off. In fact we were thinking of having a ride out your way for a bite of lunch. Can you recommend anywhere?’
‘I can, as a matter of fact. Yesterday we called in a pub called the Eagle, up on the back road to Oldfield, just before the tops. Menu looked good, can’t speak for the food. Oh, and they serve hand-pulled Black Sheep.’
‘I would say that clinches it, my little crime-buster. The Eagle it is.’
‘What’s the celebration?’
‘Good grief, Sherlock! It’s no wonder you’re in the detectives. Actually it’s our wedding anniversary, but we don’t make a song and dance about it. What did you want me for?’
‘It was you that rang me.’
‘Ah yes, but I rang you because David Sparkington, whom God preserve, and may his offspring be as numerous as the stars in the sky, rang me. And he rang me because you asked him to. Therefore, I deduce that it is really you that wants to talk to me.’
‘Right. OK. Here it comes: does the name Michael Angelo Watts mean anything to you?’
I heard him exclaim: ‘Waah!’ and the phone went dead.
‘Hello?’ I said.
‘Sorry, Charlie. Just crossing myself. Michael Angelo does voodoo, he’s not one to tangle with.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘If you can get away why not join us, about one o’ clock?’
‘Would discussing him over lunch spoil the meal?’
‘No, not at all. I could pretend I was eating him.’
‘And I wouldn’t be in the way?’
‘Don’t be silly — it’s our twenty-third!’
‘Right. Thanks for the invite. I’ll see you at one.’
I don’t normally give myself extended lunch hours in the middle of a case. Mostly, I don’t have a break at all. But I had an excuse. I rang K. Tom Davis’s number to no avail, so I typed a letter to Justin Davis, asking him to contact me. I could drop it in at Broadside while I was up there. He might even be in. I sealed the envelope and drummed my fingers on the telephone. After a moment’s hesitation I picked it up and dialled Annabelle’s number.
She answered, breathless, after the fortieth ring, just as I was considering putting it down.
‘I’ve been out,’ she puffed. ‘Heard the phone as I unlocked the door.’
‘Morning drinky-poos with the neighbours?’ I teased. She’d told me about the social scene in Kenya, and the difficulties of escaping the endless alcoholic circus of entertaining that the ex-pats created to alleviate the boredom of their lives.
‘No. I’ve just been to the churchyard.’
‘So you haven’t eaten?’
‘Not yet. Are you coming over?’
‘No. Today lunch is on me. Can you be ready in about half an hour?’
‘Oh, er, yes, I suppose so,’ she replied, without enthusiasm.
‘You don’t sound sure. If there’s a problem it’s OK.’
‘No, er, thank you. I think I’d like that, Charles. About half an hour, did you say?’
Annabelle still has lots of connections with the church. She fundraises and sits on committees, but I get the impression that she’s more concerned with temporal than spiritual matters. She met her husband in Biafra, at the height of the famine, but what they saw there cemented his faith and nearly destroyed hers. I wasn’t surprised when she said she’d been to church, except that she’d said churchyard, and it never registered with me.
Before leaving the office I put the keys to Goodrich’s house in my pocket. Maud had finished there, but I’d have another look round after lunch.
I parked in the turnaround at the end of Annabelle’s cul-de-sac and walked along her drive to the kitchen door. Donald was at the bottom of the garden, behind the compost heap, deep in concentration. I paused with my hand on the door knob, watching him.
He was poised, like a heron waiting to pounce, one leg slightly raised and a garden fork held level with his chest, the tines pointing at the ground.
Suddenly he struck. The fork plunged forward, again and again, until Donald straightened up, triumphant, and held the implement aloft. Impaled on it, squirming in its death throes, was a rat.
He gazed at it, grinning, until his eyes re-focused and he saw me, fifty yards away, watching him. He lowered the fork, and I turned the door handle.
Annabelle met me in the kitchen and gave me my customary peck. ‘I’ll just get my coat and some money for Donald,’ she said. As she disappeared I saw his be-dribbled coffee mug on the draining board.
‘I’ll be in the car,’ I shouted through to her, and picked up the mug between my finger and thumb, holding the edges. I went to the car, placed the mug in the glove box and waited.
‘So what’s the celebration?’ she asked as she slid into the passenger seat.
I told her about ringing Mike for some information, and it just happening to be his wedding anniversary.
‘Super,’ she replied. ‘Do you often break off for parties in the middle of the day?’
‘It’s not a party, it’s a working lunch.’
Annabelle insisted on stopping at a corner shop for a bunch of flowers for Susie, although I warned her that this might create some disharmony in the Freer household.
‘You buy me flowers,’ she stated. ‘If this Mike doesn’t, then it is on his own head.’
‘Ah, but I’m a new man,’ I replied with all the ingenuousness I could muster, only to be rewarded with an ‘Hurrumph!’ and a scowl as she slipped out of the seat belt.
Buying the occasional bunch of flowers for a lady is one of the few lessons I’ve learnt about relationships. Probably the only one. A couple of quid for a bunch of daffs, every two or three weeks, is the best investment it is possible to make. The rewards are a thousandfold the expenditure. The secret is to make them intermittent, without apparent reason. That has the additional benefit of giving you an excuse if you forget a special date in the calendar. You just loftily state that you buy her flowers when you decide to, not as and when dictated by convention and commercialism.
Annabelle came back carrying a bunch of roses and the new issue of the Heckley Gazette. I pulled out into the traffic as she scanned the front page. After a few seconds she said, ‘Did you know you are in the paper?’
