‘That’s better. What hair are you talking about?’
‘The hair that the SOCO found at the scene of the crime. Mr Goodrich’s, that is.’
Realisation crept over me like when you stand under the heater in Marks and Spencer’s doorway on a frosty morning.
‘Oh, that hair!’ I exclaimed, clenching my teeth tight together to immobilise my face.
‘Yes. I’d just like to say that I’m sorry for the trouble it caused and I hope that it didn’t impede the enquiry too much. Oh, and it won’t happen again.’
Nice little speech. ‘Was it your hair?’ I asked, almost choking with the effort.
‘No, sir, Mr Priest. My girlfriend’s.’
‘I see. Presumably you got it on your collar when she kissed you goodbye.’
‘Something like that, Mr Priest,’ he blushed.
‘OK. Well I’m afraid it’s gone away for analysis. From that we will be able to tell all sorts of things about her: what medication she’s taking…hormone levels… Ooh, all sorts of things.’
‘Oh.’
‘And then there’s the cost. Fifty-two quid.’
‘I don’t mind paying,’ he blurted out, half reaching for his cheque book.
‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ I told him. ‘We’ll manage to lose it somewhere. So, apart from this little hiccup, Graham, how are you settling in?’
‘Fine, Mr Priest,’ he replied, almost smiling.
‘No problems?’
‘Mmm, I found it hard, at first. But it’s getting better. I suppose if you could manage it on your first day, the job wouldn’t be worth having.’
‘That’s the attitude, Graham,’ I said. ‘Give it a couple of years at least. Anything you need to know, don’t be afraid to ask.’
He was still thanking me as I saw him out of the door. Maggie placed a steaming mug on my desk and asked, ‘What was that all about?’
‘Problems with his sex life,’ I replied. ‘He just needed some advice.’
‘And he came to you!’ she exclaimed. It’s the casual remarks of friends that hurt most of all.
There was a football match on television that night, so I collected a frozen Chinese banquet and four cans of Sam Smith’s proper beer from the supermarket and had a quiet night at home. Can’t say I enjoyed myself, but I was doing what was expected of me.
While I was in the Friday morning meeting, listening to Gilbert’s long list of dos and don’ts, Joan Eastwood left a message to say she had some information I might be interested in. I picked up the phone, then decided to drive to Leeds instead.
Mrs Eastwood poured me a tea, barely avoiding spilling it into my china saucer. Everybody I spoke to on this case was nervous, as if they were hiding something. Even K. Tom Davis’s natural arrogance barely concealed the underlying fear, and now Mrs Eastwood was fussing around like a mother hen with a fox at the gate.
‘Can I offer you a biscuit, Inspector?’ she asked.
‘No thank you, Mrs Eastwood,’ I replied. ‘What exactly is it you wanted to tell me?’
She perched herself on the edge of a chintz-covered chair that might have shot out from under her had it not been so solid. ‘It’s about…Mr Goodrich,’ she admitted.
I peered at her over the rim of my cup and invited her to continue.
‘You said to ring you if I thought of anything else.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Well, it may be nothing, but on the other hand…’
‘Just tell me all about it, Mrs Eastwood. Anything you want.’
‘Very well. Er, I don’t know where to begin. Hartley — Mr Goodrich — and I were…close, if you know what I mean. We didn’t have an affair, but we were… I’m not sure what you’d call it.’
‘Let’s just say that you were very good friends.’
‘Yes. Very dear friends. I suppose it all sounds foolish to you, Inspector.’
‘No, Mrs Eastwood. It sounds the most natural thing in the world.’
‘Does it? Well, Hartley liked to talk about his work. Most of it was beyond me, but he was filled with all sorts of schemes. After he met K. Tom Davis he was convinced that they would both become millionaires. He was terribly impressed by Mr Davis, thought he could do no wrong. It was Davis who influenced him, got him into trouble.’
She was straying off the point, defending her boyfriend.
‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’ I asked again.
Her hands were in her lap, fingers intertwined and thumbs rotating around each other. ‘One night,’ she began, ‘two years ago, I was pulling Hartley’s leg about K. Tom, saying he thought more about him than he did me. He’d had a little too much to drink. We both had. There’d been a bullion robbery about seven years earlier, over six million pounds in gold bars stolen while on its way to a place in Sheffield…’
Suddenly, this was interesting. ‘The assayers’ offices,’ I said. ‘The Prat something robbery.’
‘Hartog-Praat, that’s right.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, apparently a few people were arrested but none of the gold has ever been recovered. Hartley boasted that Davis knew all about it. Next day he came to see me at work. He looked dreadful. Scared. Told me to completely forget what he’d said; never mention a word to anyone. So I didn’t, until now. With Hartley being killed in that horrible way, I wondered if…if…’
‘If maybe he’d spoken to anyone else?’
‘Yes, something like that.’
She sniffed and blew her nose on a tissue which she proceeded to twist into a passable origami corkscrew. My impression was that she had a lot more invested in this piece of information than she was claiming. I sipped my tea and waited for her to tell me more while giving her the once-over, the way we men are supposed to do. She was a little overweight, but it was evenly distributed. She carried it well — there was a Rubens model underneath that blouse and skirt, and two or three years ago she’d have been in her prime. I suppressed the improper thoughts, placing my cup on the table. If she had been having an affair with Goodrich, but didn’t want it to be public knowledge, that was fine with me. Adultery is still a sin, or at least an admission of failure, to most people, pop stars and Royal Family excepted, but why was she so nervous about it?
‘Is — is that of any use to you, Inspector?’ she wondered.
I stroked my lips with the knuckle of my first finger. ‘Nothing else?’ I asked. ‘Did he ever mention it again?’
‘No, never.’
‘Try to think.’
‘I’ve been thinking about it since your first visit. There’s nothing else. How close are you to finding Hartley’s…the person who attacked him?’
I uncrossed my legs and pushed myself more upright in the chair. ‘I thought we were fairly close,’ I told her, grateful that she hadn’t referred to his killer. ‘But this new information widens the field. Now there are a lot more people “in the frame”, as we say.’ I like to throw in some jargon, people expect it from a cop.
‘So you have… You are, er, following certain lines of enquiry?’
She was better at it than me. ‘Well, I shouldn’t really be telling you this,’ I said, picking my cup up again, ‘but we’ve found a hair at the scene of the crime. As soon as we have a suspect we’ll see if it matches. If it does, they have some explaining to do.’
The tissue fell to pieces in her grasp. It wasn’t Kleenex’s fault, she’d have done the same with a piece of corrugated iron.
‘A hair?’ she whispered.
‘Yes.’ I finished my tea and leant forward. ‘Let me explain how we work, these days,’ I confided. ‘Off the record, of course. We don’t just gather obvious clues, like hairs and fingerprints. We try to analyse the behaviour of the criminal, from all the little, apparently inconsequential things that he does, and from this we build up a portrait of the person we are looking for. In theory we could take a hair sample from everyone in the country, but this way we’ll narrow it down, eventually, to just the one we want.’
