Free Last Reminder by Stuart Pawson Page A

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 wayto 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.’
    He’d left, she told us, saying he was off to see their son, Justin.
    ‘And when are you expecting him back?’
    ‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’
    ‘But some time today?’
    ‘He said he might be gone a day or two.’
    I butted into their conversation. ‘Does he often go away without telling you when he’s coming back?’
    ‘Yes, he does,’ she replied, defiantly.
    ‘Where does Justin live?’
    She gave us an address and directions. He lived in a house called Broadside, up on the moors, not too far from Heckley. ‘But they might not be there,’ she added.
    ‘So where might they be?’
    ‘Justin races motorcycles, he’s a speedway rider, and races on the Continent once or twice a week. Tom acts as his manager-cum-mechanic. Travels allover the place with him. They might be abroad. I think he said something about a big meeting in Gothenberg, but I may be mistaken.’
    ‘Justin Davis?’ Sparky asked.
    ‘Yes. Have you heard of him?’
    ‘Mmm. Seen his picture on the sports pages.’
    ‘Could you tell me what it’s all about? Why do you want to speak to my husband?’
    It had taken her a long time to come round to asking that, almost as if she’d been expecting us. She had been living on a knife edge since the business went bust, but my heart wasn’t bleeding for her. ‘Did you know a man called Hartley Goodrich?’ I asked.
    She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘He was a business acquaintance of Tom’s. We heard about his death on local radio over breakfast. It said you were treating it as suspicious.’
    ‘For the time being,’ I told her. ‘But at the moment we’re just trying to build up a picture of his movements.’ I took a CID card from my