"They're old varieties," she explained. "Like me."
As I opened my car door she said: "Charlie." I noticed the concern that had crept back into her voice and turned to her. "About Glynis," she continued. "What you said about her being an immoral person. It has no relevance now, has it?"
"No," I replied. "None at all."
"If it did," she went on, "if it were necessary for it to come out, I wouldn't want to continue. I'd drop the enquiry. Glynis's parents are probably still alive, and I wouldn't want to do anything to upset them more than is necessary. God knows, it will be upsetting enough for them just to resurrect it all again."
I nodded my agreement and pulled the car door shut. Rosie was prepared to go to great lengths to clear her father's name, but not if it meant destroying the living. Her words had moved me, and I decided that she was a very special lady, one I wanted in my life. And what she said was in line with the words of her father's statement: "I saw her and wanted her", not "she led me on." He was protecting the girl's reputation, as Rosie wanted to do. Like father, like daughter.
Which meant that the words in the confession were Abraham Barraclough's own words, not Detective Chief Inspector Henry Ratcliffe's.
Which meant that Abraham Barraclough was a murderer.
Thieves are opportunists, and the varying British climate throws up a variety of opportunities. In winter we dash out to the car on frosty mornings and leave the engine running while we breakfast. The local Jack-the-Lad materialises out of nowhere and makes off with it. In summer it's garden furniture and barbecues left out overnight, and burglaries through open windows. We were enjoying a hot spell and the sun-starved citizens of Heckley were desperately catching up with their Continental and Antipodean cousins. Garages and supermarkets were stockpiling charcoal like Armageddon was round the corner, and the latest price was being quoted in the financial news. A thriving black-market in it emerged, with inferior brands from the Far East undercutting the market leaders. Thieves of all persuasions were having a field day.
"Plenty to do?" I asked when I returned to the office after the morning prayer meeting, and everybody mumbled their assent.
"I've been asked about the gala again. Any thoughts on it?"
"Wrestling in a big bowl of Kellogg's Frosties," somebody suggested.
"Too late; the Girl Guides are doing that."
"Three-legged pole vaulting?"
"British Legion."
"How about self body-piercing for beginners?"
"Women's Institute, but you've obviously given it some thought so thanks for your efforts."
Dave followed me into my office. "Changed your mind about the brass band concert?" he asked.
"Er, no Dave. Sorry, but I've something on."
"I hope this Rosie isn't going to ruin a beautiful friendship."
"Oh, I doubt it, Dave."
"Any news about the exhumation?"
"No, nothing."
"So what about dinner on Sunday?"
I pulled a face. "I'm sorry, Dave, but it's a bit awkward."
He turned to leave. "OK, no problem. If my wife's Yorkshires aren't good enough for you, so be it. Not the mention my kids' disappointment."
I watched him slouch into the big office and collect his jacket. We'd been through a lot together since we first met at a house fire in Leeds. He says I saved his life. I doubted it, but he'd saved
L
my reputation on a score of occasions since. Right then I felt as if I'd rather cut off my leg with a chainsaw before I'd hurt the big gorilla. Him and Rosie, too, but for one of them it was looking inevitable.
Sebastian answered the phone when I rang Dob Hall, but it wasn't him I wanted to talk to. It might have been useful but I wasn't in the mood and I prefer a pretty face. He put me through to Mrs Grainger.
"I'm afraid I have a hairdressing appointment in Hebden Bridge for ten o'clock, Inspector," she replied, after I'd introduced myself and asked to see her. "I could fit you in after that. What's it about?"
"Oh, just a general chat. We're not making much headway. How about morning coffee in one of the teashops?"
"That sounds delightful."
"I'll pick you up at the hairdressers. What are they called?"
Her hair was much blonder when dry, and she wore it almost down to her shoulders and flicked up at the ends. Sandals, Bermuda shorts and a sequined T-shirt completed the ensemble. It was a familiar look: CNN newsreader or astronaut's wife. I stood to one side as we entered the teashop, held her chair for her as she sat down, showed her the menu.
"Just coffee," she said.
"Is it up to standard?" I asked, when she'd tasted it.
"It's fine."
"Are the Press still bothering you?"
"It's died down. Just the occasional phone call. They're not camped outside the gate anymore."
"Last Monday," I began, "when I spoke to you, you told me that Sebastian had taken the rest of the day off. I don't think he did."
"Have you talked to him?" she asked, but I didn't answer.
The little cafe was above a gift shop and the sun was streaming in through the window, casting patches of bright colour on the tablecloths. I sat opposite her with my hands on the table, feeling the sun's heat on the back of them.
After a silence she said: "He normally has "Monday off. I just assumed he'd gone."
"How do you get on with Sebastian?"
"Get on with him? He's an employee of my husband's, that's all."
"Do you like him?"
"Like him?"
"I didn't mean in an affectionate way. Are you happy to have him around? He lives in, doesn't he?"
"It's a big house, Inspector. I don't normally see much of him."
"Which is how you prefer it."
"Yes." After a pause she went on: "Credit where it's due, I suppose. Sebastian has done well dealing with the Press at the gate. That took a lot of the pressure off Mort."
I was walking on unstable ground. I could hardly admit that I'd spent Monday afternoon spying on her through a 40x telescope. I said: "I detect a feeling of… disquiet when you talk about Sebastian. As if something about him makes you feel uneasy." Her hand was on the table, the tips of her fingers almost touching mine. It was an elegant hand, its length emphasised by nail extensions; an essential fashion accessory for many American women. I'd noticed that the hairdressing salon offered them as an extra service and suspected that Mrs Grainger was their main client.
She suddenly withdrew it and sat upright. "You're very perceptive," she admitted. "I don't like him. I've spoken to my husband about him but he says that Sebastian does a good job, claims he is indispensable."
"What's Sebastian's surname?" I asked.
"Brown. He's Sebastian Brown."
"Was there a scene between the two of you on Monday, after I left? Some unpleasantness?"
Two women in flowery dresses came panting up the stairs and after a discussion decided to sit at the table next to ours, near the window, making further revelations impossible. We exchanged smiles and the usual pleasantries about the weather. I went to pay our bill and followed Mrs Grainger down the stairs. I know, I know, the man is supposed to go first, but it never feels right to me.
"Let's have a look at the canal," I said when we were outside. We crossed the road and the river and walked along the tow-path a short way until we found a bench to sit on near where the tourist boats tie up. Mrs Grainger appeared happy to stay with me. She wasn't showing any reluctance to be interrogated. I suspected that Hebden Bridge had little to offer compared with wherever she came from and talking to me was a welcome diversion in her otherwise boring lifestyle. She crossed her ankles and produced a pair of shades from the bag she carried. On the water a mallard and her chicks saw us and headed our way like a battleship with escort, their wakes fanning out behind them. I reminded myself that I was working.
"Where did you meet Sir Morton?" I asked, making it sound like idle conversation rather than a police interview. I twisted round to face
her, my elbow on the backrest of the bench.
"In Florida." She laughed to herself at the memory.
Laughter is infectious and I smiled along with her, giving her time to explain.
"I was Miss Florida Oranges," she said. "My fifteen minutes of fame."
"Miss Florida Oranges?" I echoed.
"Don't laugh. One poor girl was Miss Ohio Potatoes and there was a Miss Oklahoma Pork Bellies."
Now I did laugh. "You're kidding!"
"I jest not."
"So who won the contest?"
"Who do you think?"
I bowed my head in contrition. "Forgive me."
"That's OK. When we were interviewed all the girls said they wanted to work with children and animals and for world peace. I said I wanted the money to pay my way through architects' school. Mort was there with a trade delegattbn from Britain. He sought me out and said that his company sometimes awarded scholarships to likely students. Would I be interested?"
"And you were."
"You bet. He paid all my fees, which was a great relief. Part of the deal was that he'd want an update of my progress every time he came to the States." She hesitated, before adding: "Let's just say that his visits became more and more frequent."
"And the rest is history."
"That's right." She smiled again. "Except… when I got to know him better, I learned that mine is the only scholarship Grainger's have ever awarded."
"That's a good story," I said. "And now you're a successful architect. Good for Sir Morton."
A narrow boat cruised by and the crew gave us a friendly wave. Papillon, all the way from Selby. Real geraniums were growing from old watering cans along the roof and painted ones twisted and spiralled along the length of the boat. We watched it putter away, venturing west towards Todmorden, Rochdale and the badlands of Lancashire, trailing a smell of diesel fumes, fresh paint and frying sausages behind it.
"Not that successful," Mrs Grainger admitted. "We haven't had any worthwhile contracts and it looks as if the London partnership is collapsing. We're a company in name only, I'm afraid."
"I'm sorry to hear that," I said. "I was very impressed with the office and leisure complex at Dob Hall."
"Yes," she sighed. "That was to be our flagship, but there are problems with it. One corner has subsided a little causing cracks. It was supposed to be on bedrock but the builder miscalculated, and we have a problem with condensation in winter. I didn't realise that this part of the world is semi-Arctic." She pronounced it see-my Arctic.
"I'm afraid so."
"Mort says he'll find a job for me at a checkout."
"Ha! I doubt if it will come to that."
An old lady in a woolly cardigan, her spindly legs encased in thick tights in spite of the weather, was throwing bread to the ducks, which appeared by the dozen out of nowhere. It looked as if she fed them every day. The mallards with chicks shepherded them towards the floating food, ferociously chasing away any intruders. Instincts, I thought. Protecting the family from danger and outside interference. It's all there, in the genes.
"In the cafe," I began, "you were telling me about Sebastian. You had some sort of confrontation with him on Monday."
"I didn't say that."
"But you did, didn't you?"
"How do you know?"
"It's my job to know."
"Have you spoken to him?"
"No."
"So you're guessing?"
"Let's call it intuition, Mrs Grainger. I read body language, think about your answers." She didn't look convinced. "And," I added, pointing at the sky, "we have a big satellite in geo-sta-tionary orbit, twenty-thousand miles high, watching our every move. Do you want to tell me about it?"
She uncrossed her ankles, pulled her feet under the bench and sat on her hands. "He — Sebastian — made a pass at me, that's all. He does normally take Monday off, like I said, but because he knew I was in the house on my own he stayed behind and tried his luck."
"What happened?"
"It was in the afternoon, long after you'd gone. I was sunbathing, taking advantage of this beautiful weather. I thought Sebastian had gone too, that there was no one at home but me.
Suddenly he joined me, on the lawn, carrying a tray with two drinks on it. Said he thought I might be in need of one. He sat down alongside of me and poured sun cream on my back, whispering what he considers to be swee,fnothings. It wasn't very nice, Inspector. I'm not used to talk like that. I jumped up and went inside and that was that."
Which was exactly what I'd seen, "Will Sir Morton sack him?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"Will you tell him?"
"No. It's not the first time it's happened. He's threatened me before, said he could bring it all down, if he wanted. If… if… if I didn't, you know."
"Grant him certain favours?" I suggested.
"Yes, that's it."
"What did he mean by bringing it all down?"
"I don't know. I can only assume that he has some sort of hold over Mort. Don't get me wrong, Mort likes him, thinks he's wonderful, but I suspect Sebastian knows something that would discredit my husband, if necessary. Has some inside information that he could use as an insurance policy against being fired. I'm not a complete fool, Inspector. I know Mort can be ruthless when necessary, and he's not afraid of cutting corners to land a deal. He's bound to have enemies."
Not to mention at least one mistress, I thought. The dark and voluptuous Sharon. A different type completely to brittle-blonde Debra Grainger.
"Can you think of any reason why Sebastian might be a suspect for contaminating the food?" I asked. "What would be in it for him?"
"I don't know."
"Do you think he'd be capable of doing it?"
"He's capable of doing anything."
We walked back to her car and I thanked her for being so frank with me. "I'm sorry to see you unhappy, Debra," I said,
"but maybe when we get to the bottom of this, things will improve." She thanked me for listening, wished me luck with the investigation and we shook hands.
In the evening I pressed on with the paintings, finishing the writing on both of them and starting to fill in the circles and ellipses with a white undercoat. I think when I paint. I think when I walk, too. I do a lot of thinking, more than I ought.
I couldn't help wondering about Mrs Grainger, uprooted from sunny Florida and transplanted in to Calderdale. We'd had three days of exceptional weather but soon — tomorrow in all probability — it would be back to the usual mixture. And in winter the breeze came straight off the Urals and cut like a bread knife. It was a pleasure talking to her. She was straightforward, hadn't tried to mislead me or conveniently forget things. She'd have a lot of time to think, too, living all alone in that big house while her high-flying husband entertained his mistress. All alone, that is, except for the sinister Sebastian — the Heathcliffe of Dob Hall — skulking around, watching her every movement, dreaming his dreams and making his plans. But why would Sebastian want to contaminate the food and bring disrepute on Grainger's? It didn't make sense. And when Mrs Grainger said that she wasn't a complete fool had I detected a sudden vehemence in her voice? Was it a tacit admission that she knew of a darker side to her husband and that she was aware of his philanderings?
"Job for you," I said, when I saw Dave next morning. "See what you can dig up on Sebastian Brown."
His eyebrows shot up. "Is that what he's called — Brown?"
"According to Mrs Grainger."
"Is he related to the desirable Sharon?"
Now it was my turn to express surprise. "I don't know. I hadn't made the connection. That's something else for you to find out."
"Can I talk to them?"
"If you want."
"And Mrs Grainger?"
"Um, no. I've already spoken to her."»
"I see," he said.
"No you don't," I replied. "It's just that I thought a personal, more… suave approach might be appropriate with, um
, Debra."
He gave me a sideways look that spoke volumes, all of them fiction. "What about Sunday lunch?" he asked. "Changed your mind, yet?"
I shook my head. "Sorry, Dave, can't make it."
He went on his way and I made myself a coffee before having a look at the paperwork on my desk. Pete Goodfellow had made it all look neat but hadn't done much to reduce the amount. I was wondering whether to concentrate on the budget, the staff development reports, the crime figures or the guidelines for dealing with suspected illegal immigrants when the phone rang. It was the father of Robin, the boy I'd cautioned.
"You asked me for some names, Inspector," he said.
"That's right. Did you have any luck?"
"Yes. I had a heart-to-heart talk with Robin. He's a good boy, Inspector."
"I believe you. We're all allowed the odd indiscretion when we're young. The reprimand is not the end of the world, it won't impede his progress through life."
He told me two names and I wrote them down.
"We'll have a look at them," I said, "and if there's any more thieving we'll talk to them. If Robin doesn't tell anyone about the reprimand they'll never know where we got their names from."
"I think he's learned his lesson."
"I'd say so." And he has caring parents, I thought. Most of the kids that come in are accompanied by their mothers, who see the whole process as an irritation and can't get out of the station fast enough.
"There's just one other thing," he was saying, hesitantly.
"What's that?" I asked.
"Have you seen yesterday's Gazette?"
"No, I haven't had time to look at it."
"The headline story is about dog fighting. Organised dog fighting."
"Oh, good," I replied. "We'd asked them to publish something and make an appeal for help. What can you tell me?"
"It's Robin again. He says there was this boy at school, last term, called Damian. He was a bit backward, apparently, shouldn't have been at the comprehensive. Mixed ability classes and all that. Robin says he never spoke to him directly but heard this from other boys. He was always on about a dog he owned that could fight better than anybody else's. Threatening to set it on to people. Then one day he simply announced that it had been killed but he was getting another."
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