Limestone Cowboy dcp-9

by Stuart Pawson

  She threw back her head and laughed. "Good God, Inspector, who have you been talking to?"

  I smiled at her. "Anybody who'll give me the time of day."

  "I shop at Grainger's. Is that a surprise? I wear normal, off-the-peg clothes. Do they expect me to shop in a cocktail dress?"

  "OK, I'm convinced. I'll cross out secret shopper. Can you give me the son's address, please?"

  "No problem."

  "Thanks. I believe that Sir Morton is away playing golf somewhere."

  "That's right, in Scotland."

  "If you don't mind me being personal, how do you know he hasn't spent a weekend of passion in the arms of one of his checkout girls?"

  "Because I know Mort, Inspector, and I can assure you that he'll find nothing with one of his checkout girls that he couldn't find at home, with interest. This whole thing is putting him under tremendous pressure, what with all the call-backs and the press constantly harassing him. He deserves his weekend away from it all."

  It was a convincing reply, but she'd taken the question in her stride, almost as if expecting it. "When I said checkout girl," I explained, "I didn't necessarily mean literally. I was referring to the entire female sex."

  "And my answer is the same, with interest."

  "Right. And what about you? Any skeletons in your cupboards?"

  "I love Mort, Inspector, and he loves me. We trust each other and neither of us is playing fast and loose with anyone else. All this has been a terrible strain on him and we'll both be grateful if you can find the perpetrator."

  "OK. Thanks for being so frank with me, Mrs Grainger, and thanks for the coffee. I wonder if it will be possible for me to have a quick word with Sebastian?"

  "Sebastian? No, Inspector. I'm afraid he's taken the rest of the day off."

  The valley traps the heat and the temperature was rising. The forecasters had promised the hottest day of the summer and it wasn't letting them down. Heading through town I dived into a parking place and walked to the sandwich shop, my jacket slung over my shoulder. A woman in leggings and an FCUK T-shirt coming in the opposite direction put on an unexpected burst of speed to beat me through the door. She had a face like bag of potatoes and a perspiration problem. I felt like asking her why she had fuck emblazoned across her bosom, but she would only have whined that it stood for French Connection United Kingdom and accuse me of having a dirty mind.

  Bollocks, I thought. It's just another nail in the coffin of civilization. Another tiny smidgeon of indecency to inure us against the collapse of public taste. Sex sells; selling makes money; money is God; amen. At that very moment some shit-brained graduate down in Soho or Docklands was no doubt wondering if the world was ready for an advertising campaign built around the English monarch who tried to stop the tide coming in — King Cnut. It was only a matter of time. I asked for a chicken tikka, in a soft roll, and followed the woman out into the sunshine.

  So what did that make me? I turned my head and watched my reflection in the shop windows: package in one hand; jacket dangling from the other; long legs striding out. Charlie Priest, lawman. Two nights earlier I hadn't gone to bed with my goddaughter, hadn't made love to her, and I was glad. There'd be no awkward silences when we next met, no avoiding being left alone with each other and no embarrassed looks across the table when we all went out together. We wouldn't have to measure our words every time we spoke, to avoid imaginary or accidental innuendos. I gave myself a wink and almost collided with a bus stop.

  I picked up the phone, put it down again, walked over to the window. The sunlight bounced off the station's windows and back-lit the building opposite. Down in the street people wandered about in skimpy tops and shorts. I can never understand how they change their clothes so quickly as soon as the sun comes out. I stared at the phone for a long moment, then picked it up and dialled.

  How did Mrs Grainger know that Sebastian had taken the rest of the day off? Perhaps he was going to, but he could still have been lurking about somewhere. She was quite certain that he'd already gone. Didn't she want me to talk to him? Mr Wood answered the phone almost immediately.

  "It's Charlie, Gilbert," I said. "I wouldn't mind taking the afternoon off."

  "Fair enough," he replied. "Is it work or play?"

  "A bit of both."

  "No need to book it then." "Cheers."

  And that invigorated me. The sun was shining, the outdoors beckoned and I had a free afternoon. I dialled another number. "Technical support," a voice confirmed. "It's DI Priest," I told it. "I want to borrow something."

  At home I changed into shorts and boots and put a few items in a rucksack. An hour after speaking to Gilbert I was sitting in the pay-and-display car park in Hebden Bridge, trying to be patient as a young woman loaded two infants and all their paraphernalia into a VW Golf. She gave me a hesitant wave as she drove away and I claimed the spot.

  I slung the gear over my shoulders and headed out of town, over the River Calder, the canal and the railway line. The signal was green and I like watching trains, but I'd a stiff walk ahead of me so I pressed on. A notice on a lamppost caught my eye, like the wanted poster I'd seen in Heckley, and further on I saw another. I crossed the road to read it. Claudius the cat had gone missing and its five-year-old owner was grieving. Small reward offered.

  The slope starts almost immediately, giving you little time to raise your metabolism, and I was soon puffing. The shade of the trees that cling to the valley side was welcome, but it was the hottest part of the day and I could feel sweat trickling down my spine. Fat bees busied themselves amongst the Himalayan balsam that lined the road and a peacock butterfly flew ahead of me, its wings flickering with colour in the dappled sunshine. If you could see Stoodley Pike from Dob Hall, you didn't have to be Isaac Newton to know that you'd be able to see Dob Hall from Stoodley Pike. I'd been there plenty of times in the past, usually making a decent circular walk of it, but today I took the more direct route, straight up Pinnacle Lane. In ten minutes I'd left the last house behind and soon broke out of the shelter of the trees.

  I'd borrowed a telescope from technical support. "What's it for?" I was asked.

  "Um, watching someone."

  "Is this an approved operation?"

  "Off course it is."

  "Right. Do you prefer straight or angled?"

  "I haven't a clue. Something you just look through."

  "We'll make it straight, then. Any idea what magnification?"

  "You tell me."

  "How far away are they?"

  "About a mile, perhaps a little over."

  "Daylight or darkness?"

  "Daylight. This afternoon."

  "Nice and bright then. OK, I'll fit the 40x eyepiece but put a 20x in with it in case you find that too difficult to hold. You'll need a tripod, too."

  "Great. Any chance of someone bringing it over?"

  So in my rucksack I had an Opticron 50mm telescope, as favoured by birdwatchers, and a Vivitar tripod was slung over my shoulder.

  The track gains about five hundred feet in a quarter of a mile, which is a stiff climb. I'd brought a bottle of water but didn't need it just yet. The path levelled out and then it was a straight blast towards the summit.

  It's hard to imagine the euphoria that swept the nation after Wellington's victory at Waterloo. It must have been like VE Day, the Falkland and Gulf War celebrations and the Millennium all swept into one great orgy of triumphalism. Honours were piled upon the man, and this part of the kingdom showed its gratitude by subscribing towards a monument, now known as Stoodley Pike. It fell down after forty years but they built another one and used a better concrete mix the second time. The hint of a breeze on the exposed moor was welcome, then it was another climb for the last half mile.

  They picked a good spot for it, with views of the kingdom in all directions. To the west and east stretched the plains of Lancashire and York, their boundaries lost in the haze, while to the south the moors lay folded and rumpled all the way down into Derbyshire, li
ke a duvet on an unmade bed. But I was interested in the opposite direction, across the Calder valley. It was in full sun, basking in the uncharacteristic heat wave, and I wondered if property prices depended on which side of the valley you were situated. A field down below was set out with jumps as if a gymkhana was expected, and traffic was stationary all the way into Todmorden.

  There's a viewing gallery about twenty feet up the tower, accessed by a spiral staircase. For part of the way you are in total darkness, groping for the steps with your feet while trailing a guiding hand on the wall. The tripod slipped off my shoulder and nearly tripped me, but after a few seconds we were stepping out into the sunshine again. I walked round the gallery, taking in the view, but it wasn't much better than at ground level, and the balustrade was at an awkward height, so I felt my way back down the stairs and set up the telescope on a flat rock at the edge of the escarpment.

  I scanned the far side of the valley with my binoculars but couldn't locate Dob Hall. Back to first principles. How did I get there this morning? Find the road, follow it along, turn right after the pub. Ah! There it was. I'd been underestimating the power of the binoculars, moving too far. The Hall was in a wooded area but the trees had been cleared from the front to open up the view. I wondered how they won permission for that, but was grateful at the same time. The front of the house was visible, with a lawn to one side and the garage block to the other. The office and leisure complex was at the rear, out of sight. I scanned around, looking for prominent landmarks, then turned to the telescope.

  It was harder than I expected but eventually we mastered it and the Georgian facade of Dob Hall with its elegant entrance portico swam into view. There were two cars parked in front of the house and a single sun lounger sat on the lawn. Keeping one eye closed was irritating after a few minutes so I used the binoculars. I don't know what I expected or hoped to see. Sebastian prowling around the premises, proving Debra Grainger had lied? The woman herself skinny-dipping in the fish pond? I don't know, but it was a good excuse for an afternoon out of the office, and I'd settle for that.

  I ate the chicken tikka sandwich and drank some of the water. A steady procession of walkers stopped at the Pike before giving me a friendly wave and moving on. They were mainly grey-haired couples, no doubt with matching anoraks stuffed in their 'sacks. I reminded myself that it was Monday afternoon but for them it was just another day. Perhaps there would be life outside the police force, after all.

  I was doing a sweep with the bins when a movement caught my attention. A figure, no doubt Mrs Grainger, was spreading a towel on the sun lounger. She placed something on the little table that stood alongside, carefully tucked in the ends of the towel and arranged her elegant limbs to take advantage of the sun's rays. She was wearing a one-piece white swimsuit. I smiled to myself, wondered if what I was doing was perverted, and turned to the telescope.

  It was a better view, much better, but at that magnification, even with a tripod, it's difficult holding the picture steady. And maybe my hand was shaking just a little. Somehow, it didn't seem real. It was like watching her on TV, starring in an Andy Warhol film where nothing happens for eight hours. I stood up, did a few stretching exercises and watched a train crawl down the valley towards Mytholmroyd, Halifax and the rest of the world.

  I was back at the telescope, wondering whether to try the 20x eyepiece, when the action started. Mrs Grainger had turned over to cook her back when a pair of black-trousered legs appeared alongside her and their owner lowered a tray onto the little table. She turned her head away from him in an eloquent gesture, but he wasn't to be rebuffed. He stood looking at her for a few seconds, as if saying something, then sat next to her on the edge of the lounger and placed his hand in the small of her back. She leapt to her feet, snatching up the towel, and I knocked the telescope out of focus.

  It must have been nearly a minute before I found the garden again, this time with the binoculars. Sebastian, if it was he, was stretched out on the sun bed, hands behind his head. He sat up, reached for something off the tray and appeared to down it in one gulp before resuming the horizontal position. Well, well, well, I thought. What was all that about?

  He stayed there for another five minutes before storming off into the house. I packed the gear and set off back down the hill. There's a rather nice teashop in town, and a piece of apple pie, with cream and a pot of tea, would round off the perfect day just nicely.

  Chapter Eight

  Derek Johnstone from South Dyfed rang me that evening, one second after I'd dipped a number six squirrel hair brush into a tin of black enamel. I dropped the brush and raced into the house to answer the phone.

  "Sorry to ring you at home, Charlie," he began, "but I'm taking tomorrow off."

  "A great idea, Derek," I said. "Wouldn't mind taking advantage of this weather myself."

  "Well, actually, it's for my aunt's funeral."

  "Oh, I am sorry."

  "That's all right. She was ninety-one and would insist on riding her bike."

  "Oh. Right."

  "I've managed to have a look at the files for the case you mentioned and I've put some of the relevant stuff in the post. Frankly, Charlie, it all looks cut and dried. At least on the face of it. Witnesses saw Abraham Barraclough following the girl, the blood group matched, he had scratch marks on his neck and he made a full confession."

  Abraham Barraclough. That was the first time I'd heard his name, and Rosie had evidently reverted to her maiden name after her divorce. Good for her. I said: "Witnesses. Who saw him?"

  "Several adults and children. There's a bit of a headland between the village and the school. The road and footpath follow the coastline round it, but some of the kids take a shortcut over the hill. The girl — Glynis Evelyn Williams — was seen to take the shortcut, and Abraham Barraclough was seen outside the school, hanging around. Later, they found her body up there."

  I knew about the blood under Glynis's fingernails, presumably causing the scratch marks. It sounded like the clincher. I wasn't prepared for this interview, didn't know which way to take it.

  "You said: 'Cut and dried, on the face of it.' What did you mean by that?"

  "Ah!" he replied. "That's one small blot on the landscape. I thought you might like to talk to the investigating officer who took the statement, one Chief Inspector Henry Bernard Ratcliffe, so I looked him up."

  "Goon."

  "Apparently he was pensioned off on, um, ill health about two years after this case."

  The way he pronounced the words gave them added meaning. "You mean it wasn't ill health?" I said.

  "This was back in seventy-six, Charlie, when ill health was a convenient way of sidelining somebody with minimum fuss."

  "So what did he do?"

  "Not sure. I've mentioned it to a couple of the lads who were around then and they think he was involved in the death of a vagrant in Swansea. Apparently he had rather strong views on things and didn't care where he aired them."

  "That's interesting, Derek, I'm very grateful for all the trouble you've taken. Is this Henry Bernard Ratcliffe still alive, do you know?"

  "Pensions will tell you that."

  "So they will. You're a treasure."

  He lived at Crest View, Tarporley Road, Chester, I learned next morning when our pensions department rang me back. I bit my lip, dithered awhile and dialled the number.

  "Matron," came the reply. Not what I'd expected.

  "Oh, er, good morning," I blustered. "My name is, er, Priest and I'm trying to locate an old colleague. I was given this number but was expecting it to be his home."

  "It may very well be," Matron replied. "This is the Crest View Hospice. What is your colleague's name?"

  "Ratcliffe. Henry Bernard Ratcliffe."

  "Yes, we do have Mr Ratcliffe staying with us. Do you want me to try to find him for you?"

  "Um, not for the moment, please. Can-you tell me what's wrong with him?"

  "No, Mr Priest. I'm not at liberty to discuss a patient's medi
cal details."

  "Of course not," I agreed in my most understanding tone. "I shouldn't have asked. Fact is, Matron, I'm a police officer, as was Mr Ratcliffe, and some questions have arisen about one of his cases. Would it be possible for me to come and discuss it with him?" I struggled to find the correct expression for having all his marbles and settled for: "Will he know what I'm talking about?"

  "Oh yes, Mr Priest. Chief Inspector Ratcliffe has all his mental faculties. It's his body that's letting him down. I'm sure he'll be delighted to see an old colleague."

  I wasn't so sure, but three hours and seventy-eight miles later I was turning the two handles on the door of Crest View Hospice. They put two handles on the door to stop the inmates escaping. When I haven't the wit to get round that one I'd rather be out of it. Unless… unless the idea is that if you take both hands off the Zimmer frame you fall to the floor. I shuddered and pushed the door open.

  It was an old building, probably built in the thirties, but the inside was shiny-clean and smelled of furniture polish and boiling vegetables. It was nearly lunchtime and one or two patients were already seated at a long table that I could see through an open door. I knocked on the Matron's door, also open, and she looked up and smiled.

  "Mr Ratcliffe is sitting outside," she told me after the introductions. "I told him he had a visitor coming." She led me through a lounge dotted with easy chairs, mostly unoccupied, and down a short corridor. An impossibly tall, thin man coming the opposite way stood to one side and snapped me an impeccable military salute. He was wearing a red beret with a feather cockade in the front. I smiled and gave him a rather sloppy one back, like President Reagan used to.

  "Major Warburton," Matron explained as we walked along.

  The husk of what had once been Detective Chief Inspector Ratcliffe was hunched in a wheelchair in the corner of a courtyard, catching the sun. Matron pointed to him and then left me, as if she didn't want to be there, but I suppose she had work to do. He was wearing a shirt buttoned to the neck, a straw trilby and grey trousers that hung over his bony knees. A walking stick leaned against one of them.