‘Of course. Anything to help.’
‘Thanks. So what’s balderdash?’
‘All that about investment diamonds. There’s no such thing. It’s nonsense. IGI dreamt up the whole scheme. While they were selling plenty everything appeared pukka gen, but as soon as a few people tried to cash in, the whole damn plot fell through. We were investing in IGI, not in diamonds.’
‘But you’re happy that they exist?’ I queried.
‘Oh yes, but what we paid ten grand each for could have been bought for less than one in any bladdy souk in the world.’
‘Do you still hold them?’
‘No, we never held them. They’re all in a bank on the Isle of Man.’
‘So you’ve never even seen them?’
‘No, but the diamonds are there. The receiver is trying to allocate them to the various investors at the moment. Only problem is, their value is as what they call collectibles. You know, jewellery. Might make a decent pair of earrings for her and a tie pin for me. If I could get my hands on the scoundrels, I’d…I’d…’
His face started to glow like my ceramic hob does when I forget to turn it off. Mrs Bartlett put her hand on his shoulder and he covered it with his own. ‘Don’t upset yourself, Gerald,’ she murmured to him.
‘No, try not to upset yourself. And for what it’s worth, it looks as if someone did get their hands on Goodrich. What about safeguards?’ I asked. ‘Didn’t you make sure he was a member of the appropriate governing bodies?’
‘Of course we did,’ Bartlett replied indignantly. ‘He was a member of everything. More bladdy initials after his name than Saddam Hussein. And all as bladdy worthless. Washed their hands of us. Said we should have read the small print.’
I offered words of sympathy and stood up to leave, thanking them for their assistance and Mrs Bartlett for the tea. I hadn’t touched the cake. ‘One last thing,’ I said. ‘Could you let me have the name of the receiver who’s handling the bankruptcy? It might be useful to have a word with him. If I find anything, I’ll let you know.’
While I waited for the colonel to fetch the information the dog leapt up into the chair I’d vacated, rolled on to one side and started licking its cock. They do it because they can.
The next couple Sparky had found for me were an even sadder story. He’d worked as a window cleaner all his life and was now an invalid, crippled with arthritis and emphysema. They’d had twelve thousand pounds invested with Goodrich, doing reasonably well in General Accident, but he’d persuaded them to buy a couple of small diamonds with it and they were now poorer and wiser. Thirty English winters of climbing ladders and squeezing a washleather, with nothing to show for it but ill health. There was no doubt about it, Goodrich had left a long wide trail of heartbreak and anger in his wake. The enquiry was four hours old, and we had enough genuine suspects to crew a quinquereme of Nineveh.
I needed a break, so I fished the mobile out of the glove box and dialled my favourite number. After three rings a soft, warm voice confirmed that I’d got it right.
‘It’s Charlie,’ I said, ‘desperately in need of a friend. Any idea where I might find one?’
‘Sorry,’ she replied in a comic voice, ‘we’re not doing friends today. Today, friends is off,’
Annabelle Wilberforce is built like a beanpole, with short fair hair and a smile that flakes granite. Once, she lived in Africa, where she witnessed the atrocities of the civil war in Biafra. From there she moved to Kenya and married a man who became a bishop. He died of cancer, and now she hangs about with me.
‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ I said, lamely. I wasn’t really in the mood to be half of a comedy double act.
‘We can do fish fingers,’ she declared, in the same silly voice. ‘Or even fish arms, fish legs, or a nice piece of rump fish. Fish is definitely on.’
‘Wait!’ I shouted into the phone. ‘What’s got into you? Can a man find a sensible conversation round here?’
‘Sorry, Charles,’ she said in her normal voice. ‘I thought you said you wanted cheering up.’
‘No, I said I needed a friend.’
‘Oh, well, I’m the one you want. My middle name is Abacus.’
‘Abacus?’
‘That’s right — you can count on me.’
I put my hand over the mouthpiece so she couldn’t hear me chuckling. When I’d recovered I said, ‘Is it possible for us to have a normal man-to-man talk without all these silly comments and second-rate impersonations?’
‘You have a hangover!’ she announced with obvious glee.
‘No I haven’t.’
‘Yes you have. I can tell. The hard-boiled, hard-drinking detective has a hangover after too much sloe gin.’
‘I thought religious people didn’t drink.’
‘You choose your religious friends and I’ll choose mine. If you don’t mind me saying so, you were drinking it as if it were lemonade.’
‘I didn’t realise it was so strong. I’ll know better the next time.’
‘We won’t be invited again!’ she exclaimed. ‘Not after you…after you… Well, you know.’
‘Now you are having me on. Listen, Annabelle. Something’s cropped up. A suspicious death. I doubt if I’ll be able to see you for the next two or three nights. OK?’
‘You mean a murder?’ Now she sounded anxious.
‘I didn’t say that. Can’t say much on the phone; I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.’
‘How about popping round for lunch? Surely you are allowed a lunch break.’
‘That sounds a good idea. Tomorrow, about one.’
‘Let me know if you can’t make it. And Charles?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Be careful.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s not very heavy. Just routine.’
Except it’s never just routine. I put the phone in my pocket and drove back to Goodrich’s house.
The body had gone, replaced by a couple of marginally healthier ones from Fraud Squad.
‘Not…Maud and Claud, from Fraud?’ I asked when I saw them.
‘Not…Defective Inspector Priest?’ the female DS responded. I’d worked with them once or twice before; been for a drink with them a few more times; seen them in the canteen several times a day for the last five years. ‘Where do you want us to start?’ she asked.
‘That lot,’ I said, waving expansively at the rows of filing cabinets. ‘Find out what he was up to. Oh, and who killed him.’
‘It’s gonna be a long night,’ she sighed.
I had a wander round the house. If fingerprint experts found a tenth as much evidence as they leave behind we would eliminate crime. Every surface in the place was coated with their powders, creating an impression of neglect. His sitting room was all black leather and stripes. He must have read somewhere that stripes were sophisticated, so he’d gone overboard with them. Or perhaps he had a contact in a deckchair factory. Everything looked expensive and tasteless. A couple of heavy table lamps were held aloft by naked nymphettes, at odds with the large hunting scene above the fireplace. I looked at it more closely. Original, about three thousand quid at a guess, by an unknown artist whose credibility would die with him.
Upstairs were a junk room, a gymnasium of sorts, a study-cum-library and his bedroom. The gym had an exercise bike, a jogging machine and one of those multipurpose machines of torture that they threatened Galileo with. The speedo on the bike told me he’d cycled eighteen miles on it, and the jogger had done forty-five. Arnie Schwarzenneger was safe.
The books were unedifying. Mainly thrillers, at the more violent end of the spectrum. He was a Jackie Collins fan. Some Wilbur Smith and John Grisham, lots of book club editions. One cabinet was filled with military histories.
In the bedroom, above the double bed and on the facing wall, were arty photographs of young men flexing their pecs. Black and white, so the sweat showed. The duvet cover was chequered, almost Black Watch tartan, with matching pillow cases. Two pillows, one on top of the other, sat in the middle of the bed.
