Stuart Pawson - Last Reminder

‘Sorry, Charlie,’ Adey responded. ‘There’s no prize for second place. In fact…’ He looked at his sheet of paper again. ‘In fact, we don’t seem to have your entry fee. It would appear that you owe us two quid.’

‘Get stuffed!’ I yelled. I was going to add something else, but behind him I noticed one of the canteen ladies holding up the telephone and gesturing towards me. I sprinted towards Adey, and a look of surprise flickered across his face, but I went straight by him and took the handset from her.

It was the front desk. ‘We’ve had a report of a body in a house out by Sweetwater,’ the duty sergeant told me. ‘Milkman reported it. Looks like a suspicious death.’

‘Have you somebody there?’ I asked.

‘Mmm. Young lad called Ireland. Only six months service, but he’s sensible enough. He says there’s a head wound and a broken plant pot nearby.’

‘OK. We’ll be with you in a minute.’

I was putting the phone down when I heard him call, ‘Charlie?’

‘Yes?’

‘How did you go on?’

‘Useless. Only managed second place.’

‘That’s not bad.’

‘Nah. I could have won it if I’d entered.’

People were drifting away. I put my hand on Dave Sparkington’s shoulder and said, ‘C’mon, sunshine. We’ve a suspicious death over in Sweetwater.’

‘Ooh, great,’ he answered, rising to his feet. As he threaded his arms into his jacket he asked, ‘Are we taking the murder bag with us?’

‘Might as well,’ I told him.

Dave turned to the table where DC Margaret Madison was deep in conversation with three uniformed WPCs. ‘Maggie,’ he called.

She looked up at us.

‘You’re wanted.’

Mad Maggie took a final gulp from her mug and joined us. ‘What’s so funny?’ she asked, warily eyeing each of us in turn.

‘Dave made a sexist comment,’ I told her. ‘We’ve a suspicious death. Let’s go.’

‘Umph!’ she retorted, glowering at him.

A uniformed constable, male, at an adjacent table, was reaching over for the ketchup. Maggie took the opportunity to snaffle the Eccles cake from his side plate as we passed by.

‘That’s called theft,’ I informed her.

‘Then I’m safe as houses. This lot couldn’t catch a train.’

I collected all the available information from the duty sergeant while Dave fetched anything we might need from the office upstairs. We piled the stuff in the boot of my car and set off. Sweetwater is an upmarket development on the outskirts of Heckley, encroaching on to the moors like bracken does. I’d considered moving there myself when they started building, until I saw the prices. Maggie knew the area, and gave me directions through a mouthful of crumbs.

‘Don’t make a mess in my car,’ I warned her.

‘Soddy, both,’ she replied. ‘It’th the nexg threet on the lebd.’

It was the last house, separated from its neighbour by about fifty yards of what the estate agent probably referred to as paddock and a thriving hawthorn hedge. It was posh, private and remote. Young Constable Ireland was waiting at the gate.

‘Good morning, Graham,’ I greeted him, having asked the duty sergeant for his first name. ‘What have you got for us, then?’

He gabbled a description of what he’d seen when he entered the house, stressing that he hadn’t touched anything and not leaping to any conclusions. Usually they have it solved before I arrive, until the facts emerge.

‘Was this door open?’ I asked.

‘Yes, sir. Well, unlocked.’

‘I see. This’ll be your first suspicious death?’ I surmised.

‘Yes, Mr Priest, sir.’

‘OK, this is what happens. I take a peek inside, as carefully as possible, to confirm what you’ve already told us. If I’m satisfied that it looks like murder we send for the duty detective superintendent who takes over as SIO. He will then bring in all the boffins and momentum does the rest. Where’s the milkman who reported it?’

‘He rang from home, sir. Apparently he’d noticed that Sunday’s delivery was still on the doorstep when he came this morning. He finished his round, but was concerned, so he rang us.’

‘He delivers on Sundays?’

‘He must do, sir.’

‘Blimey, the man’s a paragon. He’ll be winning a good citizen’s award if he’s not careful.’ A fairly new Ford Scorpio stood in the drive. ‘Presumably he’d noticed that the car was still here. What’s the householder called?’

‘He’s a Mr Goodrich, sir.’

‘Goodrich, right. Now the first thing for you to remember, Graham, is that I don’t like being called sir. Use it when somebody of a higher rank is here, if you want, but otherwise, forget it.’

‘Oh, right.’

It makes me feel old, and I’ve never subscribed to all this deference towards rank. That’s why my promising career peaked at inspector, and I am now the longest-serving DI in the force. Sometimes I wonder if I’m like one of those women you see at office parties who are the wrong side of middle age, but who wear the shortest skirts and kick their legs higher than their younger rivals. No doubt about it, but at least a man can compete and still retain some of his dignity. Right at that moment I felt anything but dignified as I wriggled into a nifty pale blue overall and drew the hood over my head.

‘You don’t ’alf look a pillock in one of those,’ Sparky confirmed.

I took the disposable paper overboots he was offering and we walked to the front door of the imposing house. A pint of milk, gold top, stood on the step. I slipped the overboots on, and a pair of rubber gloves, then gingerly turned the door handle.

Graham had told me what to expect, but I still felt that familiar, intoxicating cocktail of nerves and curiosity as I edged down the passageway, casting my eyes from side to side, taking in the furniture and bric-a-brac that were like a fingerprint of a person’s life. Or of a marriage, perhaps. Poor Graham must have been scared silly when he walked in here. We’d take him for a pint, afterwards.

Goodrich was in the kitchen, slumped in a rocking chair facing the Aga stove. The kitchen was huge, and I could tell that this was the room in which he, or the family, if there was one, spent most of their time. It was a good room, large, but still warm and cosy. Farmhouse, in agent-speak.

The curtains were closed and the television was on. A blond-haired surf-clone was begging a girl in a bikini to come back to him, against a backdrop of the Wallagongawalla hills. Meanwhile, in the house, someone had done the washing-up. One plate, one knife and fork, one coffee mug, one pan. I knew the scene only too well. A glass of whisky — Knockando, according to the bottle — stood on the Aga, and another mug contained the makings for a fresh cup of Nescafe. The kettle was full but cold, and he’d never got round to brewing his drink.

An apparent reason wasn’t difficult to deduce. In his bald spot, towards the back of his head, was a gaping gash about an inch long. Lying on the floor, spilling its soil across the carpet, was a plant pot containing what I later discovered was a Dieffenbachia picta. I knelt down and saw where the edge of the heavy pot had made contact with skin and skull.

Maggie had armed young Graham with a book to keep a log of all visitors. They and Sparky gathered round when I emerged.

‘Single blow to the head with a plant pot,’ I told them. ‘Hardly a frenzied attack. Not much blood, possibly not immediately fatal. I get the feeling that he lives alone, but maybe has a cleaner or housekeeper. Rigor mortis, glass of whisky by his side, so he probably died last night. And he must have known his attacker well enough for them to be a visitor to his house.’

Sparky said, ‘So we’ll see what the neighbours have to say, eh?’