Free Last Reminder by Stuart Pawson Page B

wallet and signed it. ‘When Mr Davis comes back will you tell him to get in touch with me as soon as possible?’
     
    Turn left,’ I told Sparky as we drove off.
    ‘This is not the way we came.’
    ‘I know. I want to look at something.’ I’d seen a sign at the side of the road that interested me. ‘So what do you think?’
    He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Too suspicious to be true. He’s in the frame, though.’
    ‘Next right. I’ve never been to the speedway, have you?’
    ‘Took the kids about three years ago. Just the once. Sophie enjoyed it more than Daniel did. When I was a nipper we’d go to Odsal nearly every Saturday. It was fun.’ I could see him smiling to himself at the memory. He went on, ‘My favourite rider was a bloke called Eddie Rigg. And Arthur Forrest. We used to chant, “Two, four, six, eight; Eddie’s at the starting gate. Will he win? We don’t know. Come on, Eddie, have a go.”’
    ‘So what did you shout for Arthur Forrest?’
    ‘Two, four, six, eight, Arthur’s at the starting…’
    ‘Not very original,’ I declared.
    ‘I was only nine!’ he protested.
    We’d arrived at the gate of the Yorkshire Sculpture Park, at Bretton Hall. ‘So this is where it is,’ I said.
    Sparky turned the car round in the gateway. ‘Is this what we’re looking for?’
    ‘Yeah, I saw the signs on the main road. Might bring Annabelle at the weekend. It’s been on my list of places to visit since it opened.’
    ‘So what’s inside?’
    ‘Oh, just a big park, with about forty-eight million pounds worth of Henry Moore bronzes lying around.’
    ‘And they’re still there?’
    ‘One or two have gone walkies, I believe, but they’re only good for scrap value. It would be like stealing the Mona Lisa and getting eight quid for the frame at the risk of twenty years in the slammer for services to art.’
    Dave glanced round, working out his bearings. ‘I reckon our elusive friend K. Tom must live just over the other side,’ he said.
    I pushed the passenger seat back and reclined it a couple of notches. ‘Let’s see if he’s with his son,’ I suggested. ‘What was the house called?’
    ‘Broadside.’
    ‘That’s it. Drive slowly and wake me up when we arrive.’
    Tiredness was catching up with me, but I only dozed. I opened my eyes as Sparky killed the engine twenty-five minutes later, and stepped out into a different weather zone. Broadside was a long, low bungalow, high on the moors, with views down towards the Peak District and huge picture windows to make the best of them. The big garden was contained by a stone wall and the nearest neighbour was two miles away.
    I nodded in appreciation, gulping in the cool air and enjoying the wind tugging at my hair. ‘This is the one for me,’ I said.
    ‘What, no swimming pool?’ Sparky wondered.
    We left the car on the road and crunched up thegravel drive, noting the sophisticated security system and hoping there wasn’t a dog. A triple garage stuck out to one side, or maybe it was a row of stables, and a satellite dish hung on a wall. Neither K. Tom or his son was there and I was beginning to feel more like an estate agent than a detective.
    ‘Should get decent TV reception,’ Sparky noted, nodding towards the Holme Moss and Emley Moor transmitter masts that dominated the skyline.
    We didn’t nose around too much in case we triggered the alarm. Once we were sure the place was deserted we crunched back down the drive and carefully closed the big wooden five-bar gate behind us.
    I looked at my watch. ‘Fancy a snifter?’ I asked. The snooze in the car had left me with a mouth like a rabbit’s nest. ‘The pub down the road had an open-all-day sign outside.’
    ‘Not while I’m on duty,’ Sparky replied, making something of a production out of it.
    ‘OK,’ I said. ‘You can sit in the car while I nip in for a quick one.’
    He condescended to come in with me, agreeing that perhaps he could manage a pint of low-alcohol beer.
    ‘Yak!