Stuart Pawson - Last Reminder

Bartlett rose to his feet. ‘I’ll fetch the bumf, let you see for yourself.’

When he’d gone I asked Mrs Bartlett if the rest of their money was safe.

‘Yes, thank God,’ she told me, ‘but we’re not receiving any income from it. Low interest rates sound a good idea, until you’re depending on your savings. Poor Gerald’s taken it badly. Blames himself. Always thought he was a good judge of a man’s character. Now he works three days a week as a groundsman at the golf club. We should have been…’ She produced a tissue from within the folds of her dress and blew her nose. I’m sorry, forgive me.’

‘It’s all right,’ I murmured, awkwardly.

Bartlett returned and handed me a sheaf of documents, some glossy, some photocopied.

‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘Have a look at that lot. Some from Goodrich, saying what a fine deal they were, some copied from various financial magazines, whose advice was bordering on the criminal, and some nice glossy brochures from IGI.’

I pulled out a glossy and started reading. In times of recession, it said, people the world over looked for more traditional investments to safeguard their wealth. Like gold, or, it suggested, diamonds. In a typical year enough diamonds were mined to fill an average-size skip. Ninety per cent of these would be industrial grade, used for making machine tools. Eight per cent would be gemstones, used in the jewellery trade, and the remaining few, the very best, would be snapped up by investors.

My left leg felt warm. I lowered the papers and looked down. The dog had jumped it while I wasn’t looking. Rover didn’t know what danger he was in — I used to take penalties with my left foot. I snatched it back, placed it hard against the front of my chair and pressed my feet together for mutual protection. The stones in this two per cent, the leaflet continued, would be measured for weight, colour, clarity and cut, and then each one sealed in a package with a piece of microfilm containing its exact description. That sounded like what Goodrich was clutching when he died. The price of diamonds, it assured the reader, had not gone down in sixty years.

As I finished the brochure and put it to the back of the bundle I was holding, Bartlett said, ‘Except, it’s all bladdy balderdash.’

‘Can I borrow these?’ I asked.

‘Of course. Anything to help.’

‘Thanks. So what’s balderdash?’

‘All that about investment diamonds. There’s no such thing. It’s nonsense. IGI dreamt up the whole scheme. While they were selling plenty everything appeared pukka gen, but as soon as a few people tried to cash in, the whole damn plot fell through. We were investing in IGI, not in diamonds.’

‘But you’re happy that they exist?’ I queried.

‘Oh yes, but what we paid ten grand each for could have been bought for less than one in any bladdy souk in the world.’

‘Do you still hold them?’

‘No, we never held them. They’re all in a bank on the Isle of Man.’

‘So you’ve never even seen them?’

‘No, but the diamonds are there. The receiver is trying to allocate them to the various investors at the moment. Only problem is, their value is as what they call collectibles. You know, jewellery. Might make a decent pair of earrings for her and a tie pin for me. If I could get my hands on the scoundrels, I’d…I’d…’

His face started to glow like my ceramic hob does when I forget to turn it off. Mrs Bartlett put her hand on his shoulder and he covered it with his own. ‘Don’t upset yourself, Gerald,’ she murmured to him.

‘No, try not to upset yourself. And for what it’s worth, it looks as if someone did get their hands on Goodrich. What about safeguards?’ I asked. ‘Didn’t you make sure he was a member of the appropriate governing bodies?’

‘Of course we did,’ Bartlett replied indignantly. ‘He was a member of everything. More bladdy initials after his name than Saddam Hussein. And all as bladdy worthless. Washed their hands of us. Said we should have read the small print.’

I offered words of sympathy and stood up to leave, thanking them for their assistance and Mrs Bartlett for the tea. I hadn’t touched the cake. ‘One last thing,’ I said. ‘Could you let me have the name of the receiver who’s handling the bankruptcy? It might be useful to have a word with him. If I find anything, I’ll let you know.’

While I waited for the colonel to fetch the information the dog leapt up into the chair I’d vacated, rolled on to one side and started licking its cock. They do it because they can.

The next couple Sparky had found for me were an even sadder story. He’d worked as a window cleaner all his life and was now an invalid, crippled with arthritis and emphysema. They’d had twelve thousand pounds invested with Goodrich, doing reasonably well in General Accident, but he’d persuaded them to buy a couple of small diamonds with it and they were now poorer and wiser. Thirty English winters of climbing ladders and squeezing a washleather, with nothing to show for it but ill health. There was no doubt about it, Goodrich had left a long wide trail of heartbreak and anger in his wake. The enquiry was four hours old, and we had enough genuine suspects to crew a quinquereme of Nineveh.

I needed a break, so I fished the mobile out of the glove box and dialled my favourite number. After three rings a soft, warm voice confirmed that I’d got it right.

‘It’s Charlie,’ I said, ‘desperately in need of a friend. Any idea where I might find one?’

‘Sorry,’ she replied in a comic voice, ‘we’re not doing friends today. Today, friends is off,’

Annabelle Wilberforce is built like a beanpole, with short fair hair and a smile that flakes granite. Once, she lived in Africa, where she witnessed the atrocities of the civil war in Biafra. From there she moved to Kenya and married a man who became a bishop. He died of cancer, and now she hangs about with me.

‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ I said, lamely. I wasn’t really in the mood to be half of a comedy double act.

‘We can do fish fingers,’ she declared, in the same silly voice. ‘Or even fish arms, fish legs, or a nice piece of rump fish. Fish is definitely on.’

‘Wait!’ I shouted into the phone. ‘What’s got into you? Can a man find a sensible conversation round here?’

‘Sorry, Charles,’ she said in her normal voice. ‘I thought you said you wanted cheering up.’

‘No, I said I needed a friend.’

‘Oh, well, I’m the one you want. My middle name is Abacus.’

‘Abacus?’

‘That’s right — you can count on me.’

I put my hand over the mouthpiece so she couldn’t hear me chuckling. When I’d recovered I said, ‘Is it possible for us to have a normal man-to-man talk without all these silly comments and second-rate impersonations?’

‘You have a hangover!’ she announced with obvious glee.

‘No I haven’t.’

‘Yes you have. I can tell. The hard-boiled, hard-drinking detective has a hangover after too much sloe gin.’

‘I thought religious people didn’t drink.’

‘You choose your religious friends and I’ll choose mine. If you don’t mind me saying so, you were drinking it as if it were lemonade.’

‘I didn’t realise it was so strong. I’ll know better the next time.’

‘We won’t be invited again!’ she exclaimed. ‘Not after you…after you… Well, you know.’

‘Now you are having me on. Listen, Annabelle. Something’s cropped up. A suspicious death. I doubt if I’ll be able to see you for the next two or three nights. OK?’

‘You mean a murder?’ Now she sounded anxious.

‘I didn’t say that. Can’t say much on the phone; I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.’