I was suggesting that he demand four quid when Annabelle strode in, looking all the things that reduce me to the state of the young man who did her borders, and gave me a peck on the cheek.
‘Sorry about that, I was on the phone,’ she explained. ‘I thought I heard you. Have you met Donald, the person who works wonders in my garden?’ She was wearing a striped butcher’s apron over a skirt and bright red blouse, and I noticed the makings of lunch at the far end of the work surface.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve just remarked what a good job he does. I was wondering about making him a better offer to come and do mine.’
All the praise was making him blush. He rose to his feet, slouching, and put his mug in the sink. ‘I’ll go n-now,’ he announced.
‘But your bus isn’t for another fifteen minutes,’ Annabelle told him. Turning to me she said, ‘He missed the one he usually catches.’
‘Where do you live?’ I asked.
‘Oates S-S-Square,’ he informed me.
I briefly wondered if it was named after Titus or Captain. ‘Where’s that?’
‘N-near the p-park.’
‘Heckley park?’ I wondered with sudden interest.
‘Y-yes.’
‘Do you go in the park much?’
‘S-sometimes.’
I said, ‘Look, it’s trying to rain outside. I could easily run you home. It wouldn’t take ten minutes.’
‘N-no, I’ll walk to the n-next stop.’
‘Are you sure?’ Annabelle asked. ‘Charles could easily give you a lift.’
‘N-no thanks. Is it all r-right if I come WWednesday?’
‘Tomorrow? Instead of Thursday? Of course it is, if you prefer it. Have you put your money somewhere safe?’
‘It’s in my p-pocket. Bye.’
‘Goodbye, Donald.’
‘S’long, Donald. Nice to meet you.’
As the door closed behind him the smile slipped from Annabelle’s face. ‘He’ll go straight to the pub,’ she said.
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘If it makes him happy…’
She came to me and we hugged each other. ‘This is nice,’ I told her. ‘I think I could get used to it. Trouble is, I won’t want to go back to work.’
She leant back from my embrace. ‘I was ringing Marie and Toby to thank them for the meal on Sunday. They are coming to stay for a couple of days at half-term. They haven’t got a car, so I’ll have to run them around, show them the sights. You don’t mind, do you?’
Toby and Marie were the manufacturers of the sloe gin that had laid me low. ‘Of course not. They’re good company. Tell them to bring some home-brew with them.’
‘I doubt if they have any left,’ she reproached, breaking from my grasp.
‘Oh. So when is half-term?’
‘Three weeks. Right. Food. How does trout in almonds, with vegetables, sound?’
‘Dee-licious. With Annabelle surprise for pudding?’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that. I thought you only had an hour for lunch.’ She removed something from the refrigerator and busied herself with the cooking. ‘It was good of you to offer to run Donald home,’ she said, over her shoulder.
No it wasn’t. There was nothing good at all about it. I wanted a talk with him, ask him if he’d killed the swans in the park. But you are beautiful and naive, I thought. A summer’s breeze blowing through my corrupt and jaundiced life, and I don’t deserve you.
Sparky was replacing the phone as I walked in. ‘Appointment go well?’ he casually asked.
‘Yeah, not bad,’ I told him, sitting in the chair opposite.
He leant across and brushed my lapel. ‘Bit of seafood sauce on your collar,’ he said.
I looked down and pretended to wipe some more off. ‘It’s probably crime brulee,’ I replied. ‘It gets everywhere.’
‘I bet it does. There are no WAM Bee-Emms in Heckley, but two in Halifax. Unfortunately the owners don’t fit our description.’
‘Like, they’re white.’
‘Exactly.’
I thought about it for a few seconds. ‘They’ve got a point, you know,’ I said.
‘Who has?’
‘We’re only tracing this car because it was driven by a black person.’
Sparky turned on me. ‘No we’re not. We’re trying to trace it because it’s the only bloody lead we have.’
‘Yeah, maybe. But it looks bad.’
‘I don’t give a toss how it looks.’
‘That’s my boy. Anything on the diamond merchants, IGI?’
He turned over a sheet on his pad and read off it. ‘Head office, Park Square, Leeds. Three directors. One is the Right Honourable Lord Onchan, who lives on the Isle of Man. He was a professional figurehead, but he lives in a nursing home now. He won’t tell us anything because apparently he’s gaga. A man called Rockliffe was the money behind the venture. He went for a long drive without opening his garage doors, shortly after the whole thing went pear-shaped. Carbon-monoxide poisoning. Don’t let anybody tell you it doesn’t work when you’ve a catalyser fitted.’
‘And the third?’
‘A man named…’ He ran the pencil down his list of notes. ‘Here we are — K. Tom Davis.’
‘K. Tom Davis? What sort of a name’s that?’
‘A fine name. At least, I bet he thinks so.’
‘And he lives in the Outer Hebrides, no doubt.’
‘No, Wakefield.’
‘Wakefield…New Zealand?’
‘Uh-uh. Wakefield, capital of the old West Riding.’
‘Right then. Grab your coat and the A to Z. Let’s see what K. Tom Davis can tell us.’
CHAPTER FOUR
One would have been desirable, but K. Tom had a terrace of three, knocked through to make a single big house. It was a stone building with a stone-flagged roof, black with age and surrounded by farmland. At one time they had probably been tied cottages, inhabited by the estate’s various managers. Now it was a bijou residence for a crook. I knew what to expect inside — the usual catalogue of naff statuary and crap paintings, with eighteen hours of pan pipes dribbling out of the Bang and Olufsen — and my heart sank at the thought of it.
Nobody answered the door. I pressed the bell, Sparky hammered. We regarded two unsuccessful attempts as a licence to wander round the back, see if anyone was there.
‘This is how the other half live,’ I said as the conservatory came into view.
Sparky whistled through his teeth, saying, ‘I wouldn’t mind some of this bankruptcy myself.’
It stretched the full length of the back of the building, housing a full suite of wicker furniture, several sun-loungers, a forest of hibiscus and a modest swimming pool. A woman was reclining in one of the loungers, dark glasses hiding her eyes.
Sparky’s knock rattled the ice in her glass and she jerked awake, startled and alarmed. We held our warrant cards against the double glazing, and after peering at them she slid open the door that led in from the garden.
‘Yes?’ she asked, already on the defensive. In the lexicon of barmy questions, that must be the daftest.
Sparky said, ‘This is DI Priest from Heckley CID, and I’m DC Sparkington. Is Mr Davis in?’
‘Er, no, I’m afraid he isn’t.’ She was about forty-five, sharp featured, wearing what I suppose is called a sun-suit — baggy shorts with a matching top — in a bright flowery material. It, and her legs, gave her age away.
‘Are you Mrs Davis?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘May we come in?’
It was like stepping off the plane in Brazil. Although it was a dull day the temperature leapt fifteen degrees as we crossed the threshold, and the heavy smell of the flowers, mixed with swimming pool, hit you like a whore’s handbag. I was wrong about the music — it was ‘Lady in Red’, giving way to Radio Two’s fanfare — but I awarded myself a near miss.
‘This is very pleasant,’ I enthused, looking around. Mrs Davis eyed me as if I was a bailiff, making a quick assessment.
‘Could you tell me where Mr Davis is?’ Sparky asked. He’s better at keeping his mind on the job than I am.
‘Er, no, I’m not sure.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Just before lunchtime, this morning.’