I drove through the Land of a Thousand Curries, past cinemas converted into mosques or carpet warehouses, and halal butchers that had been Coops and Thrifts when I was a kid. Old men in pyjama trousers, sticking out from under Umbro anoraks, strolled the pavements, followed by women who might have been sixteen or sixty, ravishing or dog-ugly. The veil is a great equaliser. I felt uncomfortable. I think I subscribe to the melting pot theory of integration. If we have to have ghettos, let them be multinational. The Romans knew a thing or two. When they conquered a country they adopted the local gods. It must have saved them a lot of hassle.
Dorothy opened the door as far as a chain would allow and a cat shot out through the gap. It was a bow- fronted terrace house in a street that was running to seed but not quite decay. I’d had to park three doors away, and a couple of cars standing on blocks told me that the rot was starting.
‘I’m DI Priest from Heckley CID,’ I told the pale face that peered at my warrant card through the gap, almost level with my own. ‘I’m trying to trace your sister, Joan Eastwood. I wonder if I could come in and have a word with you?’
She took the chain off and let me in. The front room was barely furnished, with unframed prints by Klimt and Modigliani on the emulsioned walls, and I had the choice of sitting either on an upright chair or something between a futon and a palliasse. I chose the upright and Dorothy dossed on the floor, next to her coffee mug and ashtray. She was wearing jeans and a baggy sweater that was perpetually falling off one shoulder, revealing a pale-blue bra strap.
‘Sorry,’ she said, waving the mug at me and removing the fag from her lips to have a drink. ‘Can I offer you a coffee?’
‘Thanks all the same, but no. Can you tell me if you know where Joan is?’
‘Is this to do with Hartley Goodrich?’ she asked.
‘Yes. We believe your sister was friendly with him and may be able to tell us something about his lifestyle.’
She smiled and took a drag of her cigarette, which brought on a coughing fit. For a few seconds I thought she was going to choke, but another swig and a puff restored her equilibrium. Sometimes I think there must be a link between smoking and coughing. Perhaps it’s something the medical profession should look into. ‘Ambleside Road,’ she said. ‘Number twenty-three. That’s Leeds, Alwoodley. A nice area. And, boy, will she be able to tell you about Hartley’s lifestyle.’
‘Go on.’
‘No, I’m only guessing about them. You’d better ask her yourself.’
‘So you think they were having an affair?’
She nipped the butt of her cigarette into the ashtray and reached out for the packet of Benson and Hedges that was nearby. ‘More than likely, in my opinion.’
‘Have you ever met Goodrich?’
She nodded and smiled, dabbing the end of a fresh cigarette against a five-for-a-pound plastic lighter.
‘When was this?’ I asked.
‘Bout four, five years ago. Maybe longer. They used to play bridge on Saturday evenings and tried to fix me up with him. Joan was full of how wonderful he was. Hartley this, Hartley that. In fact, he was a slimy little toad, except that he wasn’t little, apart from his intellect. I couldn’t stand the guy, but for a couple of weeks I had a certain sadistic pleasure in pandering to his political views. Then I exploded and told him what a fascist shite he was.’ She turned her hands palms upwards. ‘That was the end of my journey into suburbia.’
I laughed, conscious that she probably regarded me as a fascist shite, too. ‘I bet that was worth seeing,’ I said.
‘I enjoyed it, but I’ve a feeling I may have driven Joan into his arms. Have you met her ex, Derek?’
‘Yes. He gave me your address.’
‘Has he finished the Temeraire, yet?’
‘No, not yet,’ I chuckled.
She heaved a big sigh and put the cigarette between her lips. I rose to leave, thanking her for her assistance. The fug in the room was like it used to be in pubs twenty years ago.
She hauled herself upright, saying, ‘You’re a man of the world, Inspector, so you probably recognise the types. I’m the bright sister who made a mess of things; Joan was the dumb one who made good. C’est la vie.’
‘Oh, I suspect you have your moments,’ I told her.
‘Moments,’ she agreed, nodding wistfully.
‘One more thing — when did you last see Joan?’
‘It’d be about six weeks ago. Met her for lunch in Leeds. But we talk on the phone every fortnight or so.’
‘And did she seem just the same as always?’
‘Yes, as far as I could tell.’
‘Does she work?’
‘Yes, as a nursing auxiliary at the local hospital. She moved there to be near the job. Perhaps that’s something you should ask her about, too.’
‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me.’
‘She worked for York and Durham, like Derek. Pension plan, key to the executive toilets, the full package. Left in an unseemly hurry and was unemployed for a while, after their marriage collapsed. I’d have thought she could have wangled herself a transfer to another branch. Something happened, but I don’t know what.’
‘I see. Thanks. So when I’ve gone, presumably you’ll give her a sisterly ring and tell her I’m looking for her.’
‘Yes, presumably I will.’
‘In that case, maybe we could ring her now and make me an appointment, if you don’t mind?’
Joan worked shifts and wasn’t answering, so I rang her from the station the following morning and then hot-wheeled it over to Leeds. She was probably about five years older than her sister and a good six inches shorter. She had a round face compared with Dorothy’s long Virginia Woolf countenance, and dressed differently — mohair twinset against denim and Aran. As far as I knew they were full sisters, but it didn’t look as if they shared the same gene pool. Perhaps their mother had been susceptible to the odd smooth-talking insurance man, too. The permissive society didn’t really begin in the sixties, we just started talking about it then.
She had the upstairs flat in a rather swish maisonette. Rented furnished, I presumed, although her stamp was on the place: lots of artificial flowers and the dreaded Lladro. Her hand shook as she poured me a cup of tea.
‘Mmm, I needed that,’ I told her, taking a sip. When she was settled I asked her how well she knew Mr Goodrich.
‘Fairly well, I suppose,’ she replied.
‘I believe you held bridge evenings,’ I prompted.
‘Y-yes, that’s right. For a while.’
‘Was he any good?’
‘Quite good. Very competitive — he tried harder than we did. He liked to win.’
‘Did he bring his own partner?’ I asked. I’d heard about bridge evenings. Sometimes they didn’t even bring a pack of cards.
‘No. We always had a problem finding a fourth. The lady on the other side of us liked a game, but she had to go into a home. Alzheimer’s disease. Then Dorothy made the numbers up for a while, but it wasn’t really her thing. So eventually they fizzled out.’
‘And how many times did you go on holiday together?’
She’d put her cup down, then picked it up again to keep her fingers occupied. Now she placed it back on the table to avoid spilling the contents. I obviously knew a lot more than she expected.
‘Just the once, a Caribbean cruise.’
‘Mrs Eastwood, was Goodrich one of the reasons for the failure of your marriage?’
She shook her head defiantly. ‘No, not at all.’
I asked her all the routine stuff about when she’d last seen him, finishing off with a query about investments.
‘After the divorce,’ she said, ‘Derek had to buy my half of the house. Hartley offered to invest the money for
