Last Reminder by Stuart Pawson

the Jag when my father died. It was a wreck, but I restored it, more or less in his memory. Then I sold it and bought it back again. It’s fun to drive, but I’m not an enthusiast. Annabelle likes it, which is all the reason I need for keeping it.
    Upstairs, I had another coffee with Gilbert. ‘Hobnob?’ he asked, pushing the packet towards me.
    ‘Not for me,’ I replied with a grimace. ‘I’ve just finished a piece of chipboard.’
    I brought him up-to-date with the case and Gilbert filled me in with a few titbits that he’d gleaned. Goodrich was a member of the Rotary club, Neighbourhood Watch, the Road Safety Committee and several other worthy organisations; all of which, no doubt, brought him many openings through which to ply his trade. Nothing illegal in that.
    ‘Let’s have this one sewn up, Charlie,’ Gilbert said. ‘Then we can get the strength back on the streets, where they belong. I’m catching hell from the Chamber of Commerce.’
    ‘My heart bleeds for you,’ I told him, looking at my watch. ‘I bet some of those shopkeepers can be really nasty. C’mon, let’s see what Fraud Squad have found for us.’
    There were twenty-five assorted policemen and women waiting in the conference room, talking noisily, reading newspapers – all, depressingly, tabloids – and sitting on the desks.
    ‘Quiet!’ I shouted, trying to hush them. Slowly, they turned their attentions our way. ‘We don’t expect you to leap to your feet when we come in,’ I railed, ‘but it would be nice if you could tear yourselves away from the football pages.’
    ‘It’s the financial news,’ the worst offender answered, turning a picture of a blonde bimbo towards me.
    ‘OK. Settle down. Before we begin Mr Wood has an urgent message.’
    ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Very urgent. Next week I am on holiday, so it would be nice if we could wind this up before then.’
    ‘Skiing in Aspen, Mr Wood?’ Sparky wondered aloud.
    ‘No, David, we’re going to our cottage in Cornwall. The phone number is ex-directory and sorry, but you can’t have it. The next piece of good news I have for you concerns overtime.’
    ‘All unpaid,’ somebody called out.
    ‘I didn’t say that,’ Gilbert told him. ‘We might manage to squeeze something from the budget, but no promises. Now let’s get on with this enquiry. DS Newley is at the PM, so hopefully he’ll have some news for us soon. Meanwhile, we’ll treat it as murder, committed some time on Sunday evening. Over to you, Mr Priest.’
    ‘I’ll assume you all know the background,’ I told them, ‘so let’s fill in the details. Jeff, what can you tell us?’
    DS Caton placed his notebook on the desk in front of him. ‘Not a great deal, I’m afraid,’ was the answer. ‘First of all, Goodrich doesn’t appear to have any next of kin. He never married and his parents are dead. An older sister died a couple of years ago, and so far we’ve not found a will. Various solicitors he did business with are being contacted with a view to finding this. We have managed to track down his secretary. In Scotland.’
    ‘Day out for you there, Jeff,’ someone said.
    ‘Don’t think I’ll bother,’ he responded. ‘She’s a middle-aged widow and only worked for him for two years, before he went bankrupt. Now she’s returned home to look after her elderly parents. We’ve asked the local CID to have a word with her.’
    Funny how these youngsters thought ‘ middle-aged widow’ was a pejorative. I knew one that any of them would have climbed a hot lava flow for, except that they’d have been in my footsteps.
    ‘Anything else?’ I asked.
    ‘Not really. Young Luke has found something, on Goodrich’s computer, but I’ll let Maud tell you that.’
    ‘Thanks, Jeff. The stage is yours, Maud.’
    She stood up. ‘Can I come to the front?’ she wondered.
    ‘Course you can.’ I jumped to my feet. ‘Here, use my chair.’
    ‘It’s OK, Mr Priest. I prefer to stand.’ She