Stuart Pawson - Last Reminder

Sparky introduced us. ‘I wonder if you could repeat to Inspector Priest what you have already told me about Mr Goodrich.’ With a conspiratorial wink he added, ‘Then I don’t have to write it down.’

‘Ah, I see,’ Eastwood replied with a smile. He didn’t seem perturbed by the fact that his next-door neighbour was lying, or more precisely, sitting, with his head bashed in.

He gave us the general background that we needed.

Goodrich was single and lived alone. He had been a financial adviser, dealing with clients all over the East Pennine region and was famous for his involvement with a variety of worthy causes. He had a reputation for supporting local charities and for an ability to commute modest savings into serious wealth.

‘You sound sceptical,’ I interrupted.

‘Do I?’ Eastwood replied, with exaggerated surprise.

‘So what was the secret of his success?’

‘Well, for a start, he was a master of self-publicity. And he’d made a few good investments, but he didn’t realise that it was just good luck. He thought he was clever. Infallible. Believed his own publicity. There’s only one way to make a lot of money on the markets, Inspector, and it’s the same as the way for losing a lot of money.’

I leant forward, waiting for the secret to be revealed. This could be useful.

‘Gambling,’ he explained.

‘Gambling?’

‘That’s right. Going for the big-interest investments. Trouble is, this year’s top earner is often next year’s disaster. Goodrich thought he could pick them out, but he just had a little luck. He only advertised his successes, nobody knows about the fortunes he lost.’

‘So you weren’t one of his clients?’

‘No chance, thank God. I am assistant manager of the Heckley branch of the York and Durham, so all my investments are through them.’

‘Lucky you. What else can you tell us about him?’ I’d let him volunteer what he could, then ask the searching questions. Like: did you kill him?

‘Well,’ he continued, ‘six months ago, his luck ran out. He was declared bankrupt. Apparently it was the talk of the neighbourhood, but unfortunately I was away on holiday; missed all the gossip. Since then he’s lived like a recluse.’

Sparky said, ‘So what will have happened to all his clients?’

Eastwood shrugged. ‘Nobody knows. It’s all up in the air. Some will have lost their money, others will have had their investments frozen. Either way, there’s a lot of angry people after Hartley’s hide. Apparently,’ he added with relish, ‘quite a few of them are retired police officers.’

Hartley. Hartley Goodrich. A fine name for a whizz-kid. I wondered if growing up with a name like Goodrich had made it inevitable that he would drift into the world of high finance. As soon as he learnt the meanings of the components of his name, did the cells down one side of his body grow larger, subtly bending him towards anything that smelt of money? There used to be a dentist in Halifax called I. Pullem, and I remember marvelling at such an incredible coincidence, but it wasn’t. Long before the poor kid had cut his own first tooth his relatives would bounce him on their knees, saying, ‘By ’eck, our Ian, tha’ll make a reet good dentist when tha grows up.’ It wasn’t a coincidence, it was inevitable.

And then there’s me. Priest. I was never ordained — didn’t like the uniform — but I do take confessions.

‘When did you last see him?’ I asked.

After some thought he said, ‘Last Wednesday.’ They’d crossed paths in the doorway of the newsagent’s shop, about a quarter of a mile away, and exchanged good mornings.

‘And you haven’t seen or heard of him since?’

‘No, I’m afraid not, Inspector.’

‘Did you notice any comings and goings over the weekend?’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry, but no. You see, the two houses are separated by the hedge and are almost invisible to each other. Also, I spend a lot of time in my little workshop, at the other side. At the moment I’m constructing a model of the Temeraire.’

‘The Fighting Temeraire?’ I wondered.

‘Yes. Are you familiar with her?’

‘Only from the painting.’ I did a thesis on it at college. Turner, the painter, was the true father of impressionism, but he doesn’t get the credit.

‘She was second in the line at Trafalgar. Avenged Nelson’s death. It’s said that…’

‘Is there a Mrs Eastwood, sir?’ Sparky interrupted.

‘Oh, er, no. Well, yes there is, but not here. We were divorced not long ago.’

‘Pardon me for asking,’ Sparky told him, ‘but women are often more observant about these things than we mere males.’

‘Yes. Yes, I can understand that, but I’m afraid I live quite alone.’

I said, ‘Have you ever heard anything about any particular dealings he made that might have brought about his downfall? Anything at all? And if it was other people’s money he was losing, why has he been declared bankrupt?’

He shook his head. ‘I really don’t know, Inspector, but he had his fingers into all sorts of schemes. I don’t envy you, having to unravel the mess he’s in. It’s true about the bankruptcy, though. It was in the papers, and he had a brief mention on the consumer programme on Radio Four.’

I’d been hoping that Eastwood might have pointed us in the right direction, or any direction. Now we’d have to rely on the Fraud Squad, and they could take months. Unless, of course, one of the names in the filing cabinets could help us.

I thanked Mr Eastwood for his cooperation and said we’d no doubt have to consult him again. He seemed quite pleased at the prospect. Funny how the right choice of words can create a favourable impression. If I’d suggested that we’d like him to help us with our enquiries he’d have been scared witless.

The photographers had finished and the SOCOs had moved to other parts of the house, so we had the run of the kitchen. The pathologist was informed and the police surgeon came to confirm that life was extinct.

We have a new lady pathologist. When she arrived we shook hands and I told her my name. ‘DI Charlie Priest,’ I said.

‘Professor Simms,’ she replied.

Sometimes, I prefer working with the opposite sex, although my reasons aren’t anything to do with their competence, efficiency, or anything else revolving around ability. That’s evenly shared between the genders. It’s because usually they have softer voices. This is a grubby job, and a gentle voice, at the right time, might be all that makes it bearable.

She had a quick look at the overall attitude of the body, then knelt on the floor to see up at his face.

‘Handsome enough, for his age,’ she said, pulling at an eyelid with her thumb.

‘The sort of face you’d trust?’ I wondered aloud.

‘Mmm. Why do you ask?’

‘Apparently he was some sort of financial adviser.’

She took his temperature with a thermometer in his mouth and used another for the room temperature. When they had him on the slab they’d stick one up his bottom. The doc examined all his limbs, loosened his shirt to look at his torso, smelt where his breath would have been, if he’d had any.

I needed confirmation of cause of death, and a rough estimate of its time, quick as possible. The prof looked puzzled, and kept returning to the wound on Goodrich’s head. I knew she wouldn’t be hurried, so I left her to it.

Maggie was still out talking to neighbours, while Sparky and Jeff Caton, who’d just arrived, were looking at files in the office. I studied the place, taking in the machinery and devices of modern-day commerce. However did we manage without them all? This office had everything. Until it all went wrong. He’d filed for bankruptcy six months ago, and that was the last filing he’d attempted. Since then all the paperwork that came into the office had been piled on the desks and in the brightly coloured trays. The reason was obvious.