I remembered the quote I’d given the editor, and a little wave of panic swept over me, like when the dentist’s receptionist calls your name. ‘Er, no. What’s it say?’
‘It’s on the front page. You didn’t tell me about the swans in the park.’
‘No. It’s not a very pleasant topic of conversation.’
‘It says: “Inspector Priest of Heckley CID told us that they were treating it as a very serious crime.”’
I heaved a sigh of relief — that didn’t sound too bad. But my contentment was premature.
We travelled the rest of the way in silence, Annabelle reading the rest of the paper, then watching the fields go by, as they gradually changed from handkerchiefs of grass to blankets of moorland, divided by drystone walls.
‘The heather’s starting to turn purple,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she replied, her face turned away from me.
Susie was delighted with the flowers, blushing and saying she shouldn’t have bothered. I was right — Mike wasn’t a great flower buyer. I’d have to have a word with him.
The girls had lasagne, while I chose a steak — ‘Just for a change’ — and Mike tackled a Barnsley chop. Annabelle couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw it. Later, halfway through my rhubarb crumble, I said to him, ‘So what’s special about this Watts?’
Mike paused, spoonful of cheesecake in mid-air. ‘Michael…Angelo…Watts,’ he enunciated, chewing each word as thoroughly as the rack of ten lamb chops he’d just devoured. ‘Drugs dealer extraordinaire. On his own, we could probably handle him. Unfortunately he’s under the protection of his father, the one and only Dominic Watts.’
‘Never heard of him,’ I admitted.
Mike finished off his pudding. ‘Haven’t you? I’m surprised. Mr Wood knows all about him — they’ve had several dust-ups.’
‘Gilbert? How come?’ I asked, puzzled.
‘Because Dominic Watts is president of some association of local traders — he invented the position himself — and sits on the local Community Forum.’
‘Oh, them,’ I said, intending to add, ‘wankers,’ but deciding it was more grammatical to leave it out.
‘Don’t you read the minutes?’
‘No. Gilbert’s good about things like that. As long as we produce results he does his best to shield us from the flak. They only sit every three months, don’t they?’
‘Three years would be too soon. Twice we’ve done Michael for possession, twice I’ve been hauled before a disciplinary panel. Racial harassment. He just smokes a little ganja now and again for his migraine, or his MS, or in honour of Haile Selassie. You know the picture.’
I went to the bar for some more drinks. Community Forums were set up by the local Police Authorities in the wake of the Bristol riots. They’re comprised of various dignitaries and businessmen, who grill and generally slag-off the poor senior officer who has been delegated to attend. In theory they make suggestions about police activities, priorities, that sort of stuff, but they usually degenerate into chronic moaning sessions. We need them desperately, and the intentions are noble enough, but recording them in the minutes is no substitute for action on the streets. And then there are the members, like Watts, with their own private agendas.
When I was seated again Mike told me that Michael lived in the middle of a block of three excouncil houses on the edge of the Sylvan Fields estate. His father, Dominic, who owned the whole block, lived in an end one. ‘Claims it’s some sort of housing cooperative,’ he said, ‘but it’s just a safe house for dealing drugs.’
‘A safe house, on my patch?’ I replied.
‘’Fraid so, Charlie.’
‘Like, fortified?’
‘Yep. The middle house for sure. We call on him now and again but there’s steel bars across the door. We never get in.’
I said, ‘We could spin him, if you wanted. No need for you to be involved.’
Mike shook his head. ‘Good of you to offer, but you’d be wasting your time. If you did find a magistrate willing to sign a warrant, by the time you’d battered the door down all the evidence would be on its way to the local sewage works, via the toilet.’
I explained to Annabelle and Susie how a safe house, imported from Los Angeles, worked, but I don’t think they believed me. Things like that didn’t happen in Heckley.
We left Mike and Susie in the pub and drove the couple of miles to Broadside. I parked outside the gate and reached into my pocket for the letter I’d written.
‘I think I could live here,’ I declared.
Annabelle turned to look at the house. ‘Mmm, it is lovely,’ she agreed, without conviction.
‘I won’t be a minute. I’ll just pop this through the letterbox,’ I told her, waving the envelope.
This time they were in. A face at the window saw me approach and a young man opened the door as I reached it.
‘Mr Davis?’ I asked.
‘Justin Davis,’ he replied, pleasantly. ‘What can I do for you?’
He was in his late twenties at a guess, small and wiry, with fair hair tied back in a ponytail.
‘Detective Inspector Charlie Priest, from Heckley CID,’ I replied. ‘I was wondering if I could have a chat with you some time?’
‘Who is it, darling?’ a female voice asked, moments before a willowy blonde swayed into view. She was the type that knows they look good in jeans and a navy-blue sweater, so that’s what they wear. Only the cream- coloured labrador was missing.
He half turned to her. ‘A policeman,’ he said, followed by, ‘Now?’ to me.
‘Er, well, actually, I’m off duty at the moment. I was just passing and intended leaving a note for you. We called yesterday, but you weren’t in.’
‘It’s now or never,’ he stated. ‘I’m off to Australia tomorrow. What’s it about?’
‘Do you know a man called Hartley Goodrich?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘No. Should I?’
‘He was a business acquaintance of your father’s. Unfortunately he was found dead Monday morning.’
‘I think you’d better come in,’ the woman said.
‘Thanks, but first I’ll pop to my car and tell my girlfriend that I’ll be five minutes, if you don’t mind. We’ve just had lunch at the Eagle.’
As I turned to leave she said, ‘It’s all right, I’ll fetch her,’ and sidled past me in the doorway, adding, ‘I’m Lisa Davis, by the way.’
Her husband took me inside, past a heap of designer luggage in assorted shapes, sizes and colours. The room was bright and airy, furnished with light woods and lots of chrome. On a stand, in a corner of the room, was the biggest parrot I’d ever seen.
‘Good grief, what’s he called?’ I asked, warily, as the bird bobbed up and down as if about to launch an attack.
‘Oh, that’s Joey. He’s a scarlet macaw,’ Davis junior replied.
The ultimate executive toy, I thought. An endangered species. His beak looked as if it could slacken the wheel-nuts on an Eddie Stobart articulated lorry.
‘Does he bite?’ I asked.
‘No, he’s an old softie.’ He walked over to the bird, which lowered its head, expecting a tickle. ‘Have you ever been bitten by a parrot?’
‘Er, no,’ I admitted. ‘That pleasure has never fallen within the, er, ambit of my experiences.’
‘Ha! You don’t know what you’ve missed. Come and look.’ He prised open the bird’s beak for me to study from a safe distance. ‘You get three bites for the price of one, and it hurts three times as much. I’ve broken my arm, ankle and collar bones, but nothing’s ever hurt me as much as a bite from a parrot.’
‘I thought you said he was an old softie?’ I commented.
‘No, not from Joey,’ Justin replied. ‘Lisa’s parents have a pet shop. I’ve been bitten there, when we’ve been looking after it for them.’
‘Right, well, I’ll take your word for it.’
‘Please, sit down,’ he said.
