I went to the bar for some more drinks. Community Forums were set up by the local Police Authorities in the wake of the Bristol riots. They’re comprised of various dignitaries and businessmen, who grill and generally slag-off the poor senior officer who has been delegated to attend. In theory they make suggestions about police activities, priorities, that sort of stuff, but they usually degenerate into chronic moaning sessions. We need them desperately, and the intentions are noble enough, but recording them in the minutes is no substitute for action on the streets. And then there are the members, like Watts, with their own private agendas.
When I was seated again Mike told me that Michael lived in the middle of a block of three excouncil houses on the edge of the Sylvan Fields estate. His father, Dominic, who owned the whole block, lived in an end one. ‘Claims it’s some sort of housing cooperative,’ he said, ‘but it’s just a safe house for dealing drugs.’
‘A safe house, on my patch?’ I replied.
‘’Fraid so, Charlie.’
‘Like, fortified?’
‘Yep. The middle house for sure. We call on him now and again but there’s steel bars across the door. We never get in.’
I said, ‘We could spin him, if you wanted. No need for you to be involved.’
Mike shook his head. ‘Good of you to offer, but you’d be wasting your time. If you did find a magistrate willing to sign a warrant, by the time you’d battered the door down all the evidence would be on its way to the local sewage works, via the toilet.’
I explained to Annabelle and Susie how a safe house, imported from Los Angeles, worked, but I don’t think they believed me. Things like that didn’t happen in Heckley.
We left Mike and Susie in the pub and drove the couple of miles to Broadside. I parked outside the gate and reached into my pocket for the letter I’d written.
‘I think I could live here,’ I declared.
Annabelle turned to look at the house. ‘Mmm, it is lovely,’ she agreed, without conviction.
‘I won’t be a minute. I’ll just pop this through the letterbox,’ I told her, waving the envelope.
This time they were in. A face at the window saw me approach and a young man opened the door as I reached it.
‘Mr Davis?’ I asked.
‘Justin Davis,’ he replied, pleasantly. ‘What can I do for you?’
He was in his late twenties at a guess, small and wiry, with fair hair tied back in a ponytail.
‘Detective Inspector Charlie Priest, from Heckley CID,’ I replied. ‘I was wondering if I could have a chat with you some time?’
‘Who is it, darling?’ a female voice asked, moments before a willowy blonde swayed into view. She was the type that knows they look good in jeans and a navy-blue sweater, so that’s what they wear. Only the cream-coloured labrador was missing.
He half turned to her. ‘A policeman,’ he said, followed by, ‘Now?’ to me.
‘Er, well, actually, I’m off duty at the moment. I was just passing and intended leaving a note for you. We called yesterday, but you weren’t in.’
‘It’s now or never,’ he stated. ‘I’m off to Australia tomorrow. What’s it about?’
‘Do you know a man called Hartley Goodrich?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘No. Should I?’
‘He was a business acquaintance of your father’s. Unfortunately he was found dead Monday morning.’
‘I think you’d better come in,’ the woman said.
‘Thanks, but first I’ll pop to my car and tell my girlfriend that I’ll be five minutes, if you don’t mind. We’ve just had lunch at the Eagle.’
As I turned to leave she said, ‘It’s all right, I’ll fetch her,’ and sidled past me in the doorway, adding, ‘I’m Lisa Davis, by the way.’
Her husband took me inside, past a heap of designer luggage in assorted shapes, sizes and colours. The room was bright and airy, furnished with light woods and lots of chrome. On a stand, in a corner of the room, was the biggest parrot I’d ever seen.
‘Good grief, what’s he called?’ I asked, warily, as the bird bobbed up and down as if about to launch an attack.
‘Oh, that’s Joey. He’s a scarlet macaw,’ Davis junior replied.
The ultimate executive toy, I thought. An endangered species. His beak looked as if it could slacken the wheel-nuts on an Eddie Stobart articulated lorry.
‘Does he bite?’ I asked.
‘No, he’s an old softie.’ He walked over to the bird, which lowered its head, expecting a tickle. ‘Have you ever been bitten by a parrot?’
‘Er, no,’ I admitted. ‘That pleasure has never fallen within the, er, ambit of my experiences.’
‘Ha! You don’t know what you’ve missed. Come and look.’ He prised open the bird’s beak for me to study from a safe distance. ‘You get three bites for the price of one, and it hurts three times as much. I’ve broken my arm, ankle and collar bones, but nothing’s ever hurt me as much as a bite from a parrot.’
‘I thought you said he was an old softie?’ I commented.
‘No, not from Joey,’ Justin replied. ‘Lisa’s parents have a pet shop. I’ve been bitten there, when we’ve been looking after it for them.’
‘Right, well, I’ll take your word for it.’
‘Please, sit down,’ he said.
I chose a seat a long way from the bird, but where I could keep a wary eye on it. ‘Are you racing in Australia?’ I asked, sinking so far into an easy chair that I briefly wondered if I’d be joining him. A photograph of Justin and Lisa, him dressed like a knight at a tournament in his speedway leathers and clutching a huge cut-glass vase, hung over the fireplace. It was the only clue to how he earned his living, but I knew that somewhere there would be a special room stuffed to the Artex with his trophies. I have three football medals in a Zubes tin.
‘Yeah. The season’s ended here,’ he replied, ‘so it’s three months over there, every winter. It’s a hard life.’ He was grinning as he said it.
‘You’re not doing too badly out of it,’ I reminded him, with a wave of a hand.
‘We’re all adrenaline junkies,’ he explained. ‘The money helps, but nobody goes into speedway for the money. It’s the travelling that gets you down.’
I’d have liked to have heard all about it. As a failed sportsman, they’ve always fascinated me. I didn’t know anything about speedway, but it was a Cinderella sport, and I’d bet pain and sacrifice were a commoner story than fame and riches.
Justin was polite and friendly, but I was there to quiz him about his father’s involvement in a scam.
‘We met your mother yesterday,’ I explained. ‘She said your father was possibly over here, or maybe he’d gone to a race meeting with you. I’m trying to piece together Mr Goodrich’s movements, and I’d like a word with your father. Have you any idea where he might be?’
‘You said…dead. Was this guy murdered?’ he asked. At the mention of his father he looked worried, or angry. His face was pale and he fidgeted with his fingers. Maybe he was ready for another fix of adrenaline.
‘At the moment it’s just a suspicious death,’ I lied.
Voices came from the hallway as Lisa and Annabelle came in, then faded into another room.
I opened my mouth to ask, ‘When did you last see your father?’ but choked it off. We’d had too many paintings in this enquiry. ‘Have you seen your dad recently?’ is what came out.
‘No,’ he whispered, his brow creased in thought.
‘So when did you last see him?’
‘In the summer, when I went round to see Mum. He was there. July. I don’t think I’ve seen him since then.’
‘He doesn’t go to meetings with you?’
‘No.’
‘Never?’
He gave a little smile. ‘Sometimes I wonder if he’s there in the crowd, watching me, but it’s a dream, I know he’s not. We fell out. They sent me to a good school, wanted me to go on to university, be a lawyer, help him in the business. Thought I should be grateful. I bunked off to go racing.’ He paused, wondering how much to confide in this stranger. ‘Truth is,’ he said, ‘K. Tom is only my stepfather. I was about six or seven when he married my mother. Let’s just say we don’t get on. He came to see me race once, about two years ago, in Gothenberg. Came up to me in the paddock, right out of the blue, saying he’d brought me my spare bike, just in case I needed it.’