Puzzled, she moved the catch and the lid fell open, revealing Donald’s coffee-stained mug. ‘Oh, Charles,’ she sighed, lifting it out. ‘You are impossible.’
The intention was to take Annabelle home and then visit Goodrich’s house for a last look. Maud had confiscated what documents she needed, so we’d vacated the place. It was now standing empty, but under regular surveillance from the mobiles to discourage ghouls and souvenir hunters. As we drove into town I said, ‘Goodrich — the dead man — lived alone. I’m going there next for a look round. Maybe you could come and give me a woman’s perspective on him, eh?’
She smiled indulgently. ‘You don’t have to, Charles,’ she replied. ‘What would your superiors say if they discovered that you were in the habit of taking your ladyfriends on investigations?’
‘I don’t have ladyfriends,’ I protested. ‘I have you. And we don’t have superior officers, we have senior officers. Have you ever studied psychology?’
‘Only for a year.’
‘Good, you’re hired — consultant psychologist. Hold tight, we’re back on duty.’ I flicked the Cavalier down a gear and stepped on the accelerator.
Let’s face it, anybody would grasp the opportunity to rummage round somebody else’s home. When it had belonged to a murder victim, and Annabelle still thought it was murder, you’d have to be moribund not to be intrigued. I parked on the drive and unlocked the door to the house.
‘This doesn’t feel right,’ she whispered, glancing round the kitchen. It smelt like the inside of my washing basket at the end of the week — what my mother would have described as foisty — and the dust from the fingerprint team had redistributed itself evenly over every surface. We’d turned the power off, and it was much colder than on my previous visits.
‘Why?’ I whispered back to her.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Why are we whispering?’ I whispered.
I steered her through the kitchen and gave her a quick tour of the place. ‘Ooh!’ she said, when she saw the photos in the bedroom.
‘First question, Madame Psychologist, is: “Was he gay?”’
‘I’d need more evidence before I could give a diagnosis, Mr Policeman,’ she replied.
‘You psychologists are all the goddamn same,’ I railed. ‘Where would we be if we asked for evidence every time we needed to make a decision?’
‘So what are you looking for?’ Annabelle wondered.
‘Well, we’ve had a good search of the place, but we don’t seem to have discovered much about the man himself. We know quite a bit about his business, but nothing about his social life. Maybe he was gay, maybe not. Most of all we’d like some names and addresses, or telephone numbers, apart from the ones in his diary. Otherwise, anything that might be of interest.’
‘And where do you want me to look?’
‘I’ll rummage in the pockets of his suits, see what I can find there. How about if you had a good fossick through his bookshelves; see what that tells you about the man. You’re better read than me,’ I added.
‘Mmm. Right.’
I could see that she was apprehensive about being left alone. ‘C’mon, I’ll show you his library,’ I said, giving her a squeeze.
There were fifteen suits in the wardrobe. I found cinema tickets in the more casual pockets, a menu for a Rotary Club bash in a dinner jacket. It would be interesting to know what films he liked, but hardly productive. The odd fiver and a tenner were stuffed into top pockets, as if he’d been given them in change at the bar and not bothered to put them in his wallet. There was a membership card for a dining club and another condom. He had more ties than a lottery winner has relatives, and amongst his highly polished shoe collection I found a pair of tooled leather cowboy boots that he must have bought in a moment of weakness and never worn. I’d have loved them.
I lifted drawers out and looked into the bare cabinets. His nooks and crannies were a lot cleaner than mine. Nothing in his luggage — matching Vuitton — but the name tickets were from the Caribbean Queen Cruise Line. So he’d been on a cruise. Lucky him.
I wandered in to see Annabelle. ‘How’s it going?’ I asked.
‘His reading tastes are about as dismal as yours.’ Pulling a volume out she said, ‘Look at this.’
It was The Illustrated Kama Sutra. I extended an arm towards the bedroom, saying, ‘We could always…no better not. It might confuse the SOCO.’
We’d already seen the Kama Sutra, and a catalogue of ladies’ underwear of the type that a lady would never wear. It wasn’t enough to typecast him. I told her that I was going downstairs, to investigate the lounge, and a patrol car called while I was there. I thought about making some tea, but decided it might look callous. His drinks cabinet was well stocked, mainly whisky, and he had all the Mad Max and Lethal Weapon videos. In a display cabinet were some Lladro figures, several pieces of Caithness glass — how do they do that? — and three cheap little trophies announcing that he’d been Salesman of the Year. Personally, I’d have taken the GTX with wide wheels and go-faster stripes. It’s easy to knock — I’ve never made Cop of the Year. All I found down the back of the settee was a paperclip and a button.
‘Charles?’ I heard, followed by footfalls on the stairs.
‘In here.’
Annabelle came through the doorway, doing her best to stifle a smile. ‘Cherchez la femme,’ she said, holding a dark brown folder towards me.
‘What have you there?’ I asked.
‘Photographs.’ She placed the folder on the table and pulled a sheaf of glossy prints from it, blown up to about ten by eight. The logo on the folder was the same as on his luggage labels — wavy lines, surmounted by a crown.
In the first photograph, which was in a cardboard mount so you could stand it on the sideboard, Goodrich had his arm round an attractive woman and they were gazing into each other’s eyes. He was wearing a flowered shirt and they both had chains of blooms draped around their necks. Behind them was a lifebuoy with the name Caribbean Queen emblazoned on it.
‘Do you know her?’ Annabelle asked.
‘No. Never seen her before. Let’s look at the others.’
The next one showed him resplendent in white tuxedo, shaking hands with a ship’s officer, presumably the captain. I had the impression that it was part of a ritual: shake hands with the skipper as you go in to dinner, then buy the photo at an inflated price while you’re feeling replete. A nice little earner, as they say.
‘Sadly, I’ve never met him, either,’ I declared, pointing at the captain. ‘Next please.’
There were five of them on this one. Two pirates were standing behind three paying customers, making sure they had a good time by threatening them with plastic cutlasses and leering at the camera. Goodrich and the woman we’d seen earlier were laughing, but the other man with them looked embarrassed.
It’s hard to tell with photographs. They’re not the definitive evidence that you are led to believe by films and books, but I was fairly sure I knew who this third person was.
‘But I have met him,’ I said, pointing.
‘Ooh, good. Who is he?’
‘He’s called Eastwood. I think I’d better have another word with him.’
‘Does he live nearby?’
‘Fairly near. Like, next door.’
‘Right, boss. Let’s go.’
‘Uh uh. The only place you are going is home. I don’t want you solving my most difficult case single-handed. Besides, he’ll be at work.’
Driving to Annabelle’s, I told her that it wasn’t murder, but that we were using the enquiry to look into Goodrich’s business dealings, which looked shady. I left it at that and she didn’t ask any questions, although I’d gamble that she had plenty.
‘The Davises were a decent couple,’ I said. ‘Very pleasant.’
‘I suppose so.’
