Monday morning?’
‘No problem. Monday it is,’ Les replied, gathering his papers together to indicate that the meeting was over.
Makinson said, ‘You have a weekend off, Mr Priest. I’m sure you’ve earned it. Monday morning you’ll find that it’s all neatly sewn up. Then you’ll be free to run about after your money-launderers.’
Isles turned to him and smiled like a May morning.
‘Inspector Priest,’ he confided, ‘has a tendency to see bogeymen where the rest of us see nothing. He believes that behind every little crook there is a conspiracy of big crooks feeding off him.’ His face hardened as he added, ‘The only trouble is, he’s caught more big-time villains than you and me put together have ever dreamt about. When Charlie speaks, I listen.’
Thanks, Les. I don’t like slapping down senior officers. These young ones can’t take it; go running for the rule book. It causes unpleasantness.
On the way home I called in at a jeweller’s and asked to see the top man. He confirmed that it was normal practice to melt gold with a butane flame. It didn’t oxidise or corrupt in any way.
The wedding wasn’t until three o’clock, Saturday afternoon, so I had plenty of time for other things. I swapped the cars round after breakfast and waited for the postman, but there wasn’t a letter or card from Annabelle.
The chief constable had no reason to be visiting the City HQ on a Saturday morning, so at precisely eight forty-five I swung the long nose of the E-type into his parking spot.
Les Isles was in, looking out of his window. ‘Saw you come, he said. ‘The car looks fabulous. Your dad would have been proud of it. Did he ever see it finished?’
‘No. He died two years before it was completed. Thanks for yesterday, Les. I’m grateful.’
He screwed his face up, like when you don’t want to laugh out loud, or even cry, so you give the muscles something else to do.
‘What’s so funny?’ I asked.
‘Nothing.’
It was a laugh he was suppressing. ‘Something’s amusing you.’
He leant back on the radiator and waved a mug at me, his composure regained. ‘Want a coffee?’
‘No thanks. I’ll pop down and see Dominic Watts, if you don’t mind. You still have him, I presume.’
‘For another five hours. I was thinking about your dad.’
‘Go on.’
‘Oh, I just owed him one.’
‘I’ll accept it on his behalf. Call it paid back in full. What did he do?’
He smiled at the memory. ‘It was during that time we were all sergeants. You’d gone to Leeds, I was here with him. I dropped a bollock. An almighty, gold-plated bollock. One of those that either finishes you or makes you a figure of ridicule for the rest of your career. Did he ever tell you about it?’
I shook my head. ‘No.’
‘Well, I’m not going to. I don’t know what he did, who he had a word with, but he covered up for me. Nothing happened. Years later, when he was ill, I went to see him in hospital. I thanked him for what he’d done. He said we had to stick together. Times were changing. He said that he worried about you, because you were reckless. He asked me to look out for you.’
Now it was my turn to gaze out of the window, over the roofs and chimney pots and tower blocks and steeples, without seeing any of them. Les was suggesting having a pint together sometime when his phone rang. He said, ‘Yes, sir,’ into it, and rolled his eyes at me. I gave him a wave and sneaked out.
Dominic Watts’s expression made me feel about as welcome as a shit fly on a prawn sandwich. ‘I presume you have come to rejoice at my predicament,’ he said, every consonant present, the cadence rising and falling like a waltz rhythm.
‘No,’ I told him. ‘I derive no pleasure from seeing a man of your age in a cell.’
‘Then why are you here? I have nothing to say to you or anyone else. First you accuse my son of dealing in drugs, now you are attempting to pin a murder charge on me. These are false accusations.’
‘I want to ask you some questions, I said. ‘As you know, you are entitled to have a solicitor present. Do you require a solicitor?’
‘I have nothing to say, either in the presence of a solicitor or without one.’
‘How well did you know Hartley Goodrich?’ I asked.
‘I have no comment to make.’
‘Did he act as your financial adviser; arrange some investments for you?’
‘You have examined his papers — his books — I presume.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you know the answer to your own question, Inspector Priest.’
‘We know he placed some money for you with a variety of financial institutions. Do you know anybody called Jones?’
‘No, I do not.’
‘Then how do you explain these?’ I removed some photocopied pages from my inside pocket and passed them across to him. When his house was searched, Maud had found entries in a notebook that corresponded with the amounts of money paid into one of the Jones accounts.
His eyes flicked downwards for an instant, before he said, ‘I cannot explain them, Inspector, for I do not recognise them.’
‘They were found in your house.’
He didn’t reply.
‘And similar lists were found in Michael’s house.’ He stiffened at the mention of his son’s name. ‘Along with a quantity of cannabis and a few hundred ecstasy tablets. What’s gone wrong? Can’t he afford heroin any more? Starting at the bottom again, is he?’
‘They were planted by your officers.’
‘That won’t do, Dominic,’ I told him.
‘And I am not a murderer. No doubt if you try hard enough you will pin one of these crimes on us.’
‘Did you know Lisa Davis?’
‘No!’
‘So you didn’t cut her throat?’
‘Does it matter how many times I deny it?’
‘Your son keeps a Filofax. Handy things, Filofaxes, though I never felt the need for one myself. Lisa Davis’s phone number was found in it. He knew her, and his fingerprints were found on the phone.’
He shook his head in frustration. ‘I have been over this many times with Chief Inspector Makinson. I did not murder that unfortunate young woman. My son did not murder her. What will it take for me to convince you?’
I’d strayed over into the wrong investigation. ‘Know what I like about you?’ I asked.
‘No, Inspector,’ he proclaimed. ‘I am surprised to find that I have any redeeming features, in your eyes.’
‘It’s your use of the language,’ I said. ‘Day after day we interview people who were born in this country who cannot string a subject, verb and object together — they communicate in grunts — but your English is impeccable. Under different circumstances it might be a pleasure to talk to you.’
‘Thank you. I was taught by nuns — the Little Sisters of Saint Theresa. Thou shall not kill was another of their precepts that I took to heart.’
I smiled. ‘Nice one. I walked into that. I believe you, Dominic, but Mr Makinson doesn’t.’
‘I find your confidence in me most moving. Presumably you believe my son did it.’
‘No,’ I admitted. ‘I don’t believe he did it, either.’
‘You don’t?’ he repeated, wide-eyed. ‘You amaze me.’
‘No,’ I confirmed.
‘Then why are we being harassed?’
‘It’s not my case. I’m interested in your financial dealings. It’s Makinson wants to do you for murder. Tell me all about K. Tom Davis, and the diamonds, and I might have a word with him.’
