Limestone Cowboy

by Stuart Pawson

  “Sit down,” I told Dave, “and I’ll fill you in.”

  When I finished he nodded knowingly and said: “So I’m right. All is not well there.”

  “That’s the way it looks.”

  “You reckon Sebastian tried it on with her?”

  “Mmm.”

  “And you saw all this through the telescope?”

  “Yep. And that’s not all. There’s a son and a daughter-in-law who live nearby. We ought to talk to them as soon as possible.”

  “Don’t change the subject. You spent all yesterday afternoon up at Stoodley Pike spying on Mrs Grainger as she lay topless on a sunbed?”

  “Not quite, she was wearing a one-piece costume.”

  “You’re turning into a dirty old man, you know that?”

  “You could be right. It was rather fun.”

  “Remind me to keep you away from my wife and daughter. Where do they live?”

  “Who?”

  “The son and daughter-in-law.”

  “Heptonstall.”

  “Let’s go see them, then.”

  “I’m supposed to say that.”

  Three churches appears excessive in a village the size of Heptonstall, but the Victorian parish church was built to replace its 15th century predecessor after its roof was blown off. For some reason they left the old church standing, so you could argue that they only count as one. Mopping up any Nonconformists is the Methodist chapel, where John Wesley preached. Corduroy and worsted paid for them, blood, sweat and religious fervour did the rest. Sylvia Plath is buried in the churchyard.

  A steep cobbled lane leads up to the village, high on a windswept hill. The place had a renaissance in the Sixties, inspired by Plath and her husband, Ted Hughes, when it attracted a community of poets and painters, some good, most indifferent. After one winter most of them left.

  “What are they called?” Dave asked as the road levelled and I eased off the accelerator.

  “Julian and Abigail.”

  They lived in three wool-maker’s cottages knocked into one, on the far side of the village. It was three stories high, with a row of windows all along the top floor to allow light into the rooms where the work was done. That’s what the books say, but it could have been to save lifting blocks of Yorkshire stone all the way up there. Builders were a canny lot even in those days. We parked alongside an elderly Volvo 340 and Dave pressed the bell. The thud-thud-thud of a drum machine or a big engine shook the ground beneath our feet.

  Abigail Grainger answered the door. She had black hair that reached halfway down her back and was wearing a tie-dyed kaftan and beads. For a moment I was back at art college, bottle of cider in my hand, asking if this was where the party was. Dave checked her identity and introduced us.

  “Is Mr Grainger in?” he asked.

  “Please come in,” she said with a smile. “Yes, but he’s busy for the moment.” The noise was louder now, and had resolved into a dum dum da-dum, dum dum da-dum, dum dum da-dum, repeated endlessly. She led us into a white-walled sitting room with a bare wooden floor and Habitat furniture and invited us to take a seat. There was a large painting on the wall, consisting of a single smear of red paint on a white background. People knock abstract expressionism, but paintings like that are difficult to do. The best way is to put the canvas on the floor at the bottom of a tower and drop the paint on it from the top. The skill is in hitting the canvas. You get one go and there’s no touching up. This one didn’t quite work, because the artist had tried to improve the initial splash, and you can’t do that.

  “Can I ask what it’s about, Inspector?” she asked, addressing Dave and speaking artificially loud to overcome the background noise.

  He didn’t correct her. “It’s about the food contamination at the Grainger’s stores,” he told her. “Just routine enquiries. Can I ask what Mr Grainger does for a living?”

  “I’d have thought that was obvious,” she replied with another smile, wafting a hand through the air.

  “He’s a drummer, a musician?” Dave tried.

  “A rhythmologist,” she replied.

  “A… rhythmologist?”

  “Yes, otherwise known as a drum therapist. He has a client with him at the moment, but he’ll soon be through. We’re all held together by vibrations, Inspector. All matter can be reduced to a waveform. The seasons, menstrual cycles, lunar cycles, circadian rhythms, alpha and beta waves… when these get out of synch with each other the problems start. Drum therapy helps find the common harmonics and bring them back into synchronism. It’s a wonderful technique.”

  The intensity of the noise had increased. Now it was dum dum DA-DUM, dum dum DA-DUM, dum dum DA-DUM and there appeared to be two drummers at work.

  “I see,” Dave lied.

  I jumped in to the rescue and pointed at the painting. “Are you the artist, Mrs Grainger?”

  “No,” she replied, looking down and adjusting the kaftan over her knees. “I’m not so talented. I have a gift but it’s a very small one.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Auras, Constable,” she replied, looking at me. “I see auras.”

  “I wouldn’t call that a small gift.”

  “A gift, a curse, I’m never sure what it is.”

  We weren’t sure either, so we kept quiet. Drum therapy and seeing auras can kill a conversation as surely as accountancy and fitting tyres.

  Mrs Grainger fidgeted, smiled and looked slightly embarrassed. “Would you… would you like me to describe your auras?” she asked.

  Now it was our turn to fidget and look embarrassed. “Um, yes, please, if it doesn’t hurt,” Dave replied.

  “Or cost,” I added.

  “On the house,” she laughed. “Well, as soon as I opened the door I saw it. Your auras are different, very different, but they blend together perfectly. It’s what I was saying about vibrations. You are a team, and it shows.” She turned to face me. “Your aura is largely blue,” she said, “with some green transitions. You are the rock of the team. Some might describe you as a plodder, but that’s what gets the work done. I’m being honest. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Um, no,” I told her.

  “And you, Inspector,” she went on, turning to Dave, “yours is much more complicated. I see oranges and yellows, the colours of inspiration and flair. You take the sideways view, see past the obvious and right into the heart of a problem. And into the hearts of people. Your intuition and the constable’s dedication make you a formidable team.”

  Dave stretched forward to lean on his knees and stare down at the floor. When he looked up his face was a mask. “I’m impressed,” he said through clenched teeth, nodding his approval. “I’m really impressed. You’ve got us to a T.”

  I stood up and wandered over to the window. As I was looking out, admiring the shadows on the cottage opposite and taking deep breaths, the drumming stopped and the relief reminded me of the time I had an abscess lanced. Behind me I heard Mrs Grainger ask if we’d like a glass of water. When she left the room I turned round and resumed my seat. Dave gave me a big, self-satisfied smile.

  I pointed at the painting. “Tell her you like it,” I whispered.

  She came back carrying a tray with three tumblers of iced water. Dave was standing in front of the painting, about a foot from it.

  “What do you think?” she asked, placing the tumblers on a low table.

  “Hmm, I like it,” Dave replied.

  “Good. What do you like about it?”

  “Oh, er, it’s very, um, very, um, red,” he replied.

  “You’re so perceptive,” she told him. “The artist – he’s an old friend of ours – mixes his own colours. He says that’s the reddest red in the world.”

  “Is it true,” I asked, desperate to bring the conversation under control, “that you sometimes act as a secret shopper for Sir Morton?”

  “No,” she replied with a smile. “Who on earth told you that?”

  “Oh, it just came out in conversation.�
�

  “I shop at Grainger’s, of course I do, and sometimes I read the auras of the staff. If I see something I don’t like I write to Morton and tell him, but that’s all. Dishonesty, untrustworthiness, laziness, they all show in the aura, but he doesn’t believe me.”

  Floorboards creaked somewhere and we heard voices. “That’s Julian,” Mrs Grainger said, standing up again. “I’ll tell him you’re here.” When she returned we were both sipping our water.

  “How’s the water?”

  “Very refreshing,” I replied. “Just what we need on a day like this.”

  “We bring it from a spring we found, on Moss Crop hill. We think it’s wonderful.”

  I gulped down the mouthful I’d taken and wondered about sheep excrement. “Have you had it tested?” I enquired.

  “It has a good aura,” she assured us. “If I’ve interpreted it properly there are lots of GFRs in it.”

  “GFRs?”

  “Good free radicals. It’s been in the ground for millions of years, so all the bad free radicals have been taken up. There’s nothing in it to combine with the body’s free radicals and oxidise them.”

  “That’s good.” I placed my tumbler on the table, nearly crashing it into Dave’s as he did the same. Her husband and a thin man appeared outside the window, talking earnestly. They shook hands four-handed and Julian turned to come back in.

  He was wearing jeans and a Save the Planet T-shirt with sweat patches under his arms and on his chest, as if he’d just finished a marathon. He was balding on top but his ponytail clung on in defiance of the passing years. I jumped up and did the introductions, properly, but his wife didn’t appear to notice the switching of the ranks.

  He turned to her for a moment, his face alive with as much fervour as the people who once thronged the churches along the road. “What did you think?” he asked her.

  “It was wild,” she assured him. “You were really emping. I could feel it.”

  “We were, weren’t we? I think we’ll move on to the tom-toms next session.” He turned to us. “Sorry about that, Inspector. Just discussing my last client. Has Abi told you what I do?”

  “Yes, she has,” I replied. “And all about our auras.”

  “Ha ha! She’s very gifted. I keep telling her that she should exploit it more, but she won’t listen. Now, how can I help you?”

  I told him why we were there and asked him if he had any ideas about who might be contaminating the food. What did he know about Sir Morton’s business dealings and had he heard of any grudges or threats against his father?

  Julian Grainger shook his head and looked puzzled. He agreed that his dad must have trod on a few toes over the years, but basically he was a decent man and always tried to do the right thing.

  “I’m interested in ethical trading, Inspector,” he told us, “and I’ve had many a long discussion with Dad about it. He always listens and tries to take on board what I say. It isn’t always possible because if he doesn’t make a profit he goes out of business, and that doesn’t help anybody, but he does what he can. We’re getting him there, slowly, aren’t we, Abi?”

  Abi nodded enthusiastically. I suspected she emptied the swing bin with equal enthusiasm. After reading its aura, of course.

  “How would you describe your relationship with Sir Morton?”

  He grimaced before answering and took a drink from the glass of water he’d brought in with him. “OK, I’ll be honest, Inspector. We don’t always see eye to eye. We’ve had our differences. I’m a disappointment to him, I suppose. Can’t see the Queen ever telling me to rise, Sir Julian, can you?” – Abigail giggled at this – “but blood’s thicker than water, isn’t it? and at the end of the day we’re always there for each other.”

  “Are you financially dependant on him?”

  “No. He bought this place for us and we regard it as a wedding present. It’s worth a bit now, but we got it for peanuts. He’s given us the odd interest-free loan, but I cost him a lot less than most sons who have a stinking rich dad, I’m sure of that.” He paused, then said: “Am I a suspect, Inspector?”

  “Everybody’s a suspect,” I admitted, glad that he’d asked. It cleared the air, made it easier to ask personal questions, such as: “How do you get on with your stepmother?”

  “Debra? OK, I suppose. How does anybody get on with a stepmother who is only four years older than they are?”

  “How often do you see her?”

  “Her birthday, Dad’s birthday, Abi’s birthday, my birthday and Christmas. We all go out for a meal and it’s all very civilized. Plus I might pop in, once or twice a year if I’m passing. That’s it.”

  “Why doesn’t she use her title? She’s Lady Grainger, isn’t she?”

  “She claims it’s because she’s a republican, but it’s really because it makes her anonymous. My mother, Dad’s first wife, is Lady Alice Grainger. Being a mere Lady Grainger doesn’t appeal to her. It’s inverted snobbery.”

  “Do you like her?”

  “She’s dad’s trophy wife. Miss Florida Oranges. If he’s happy, I’m happy for him.”

  “I asked if you like her?”

  He looked uncomfortable, opening his mouth to speak then deciding not to. Eventually he said: “I was nineteen when Dad first brought her home. At university. I came home for a few days but Dad had to go away on business, which left us alone together in the house. Miss Florida Oranges did the calculations and decided that a rich man’s son four years her junior might be a more attractive proposition than the rich man himself who was twenty-two years her senior. She wasn’t my type and I’d just met Abigail. I stuck around for three days then hotfooted it back to Nottingham, fast as I could. Next thing I knew Dad had married her in America.”

  I looked across at Abigail who appeared to have lost her enthusiasm as she was reminded of the three missing days. Julian hadn’t hotfooted it back to her quite as quickly as she would have liked.

  “Tell him about the baby,” she said, her mouth a thin line.

  Julian scowled at her and flapped a hand in a what’s the point gesture.

  “What baby?” I asked.

  “Oh, it’s something and nothing.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, when they married Dad told us he was going to be a father again. He was as chuffed as a peacock. We all were. It was a joy to see him. And then… nothing happened.”

  “She lost it?”

  “Or there never was one. A phantom pregnancy. She’s neurotic, so we wouldn’t put it past her to have imagined the whole thing.”

  “But you’re not sure?”

  “No.”

  “Has your dad included you in his will, do you know?”

  “No idea.”

  “Are you bothered?”

  “What will be… will be.” He grinned at the feeble pun.

  “So the answer to my question is no, you don’t like her.”

  “She’s trailer trash, Inspector. Trailer trash.”

  I left the car in second gear and let it roll at its own speed down the hill, the steering wheel swinging from side to side as the tyres felt their way around the cobbles.

  “Twats?” I suggested, looking across at Dave.

  “They’d give twats a bad name. A pair of friggin’ zonkoes if you ask me. If they’re right in their heads I know where there’s a big house full.”

  “I have to say, Dave, that you handled your promotion well.”

  “I did, didn’t I,” he replied, beaming a smile at me. “But it’s not as easy as it looks.”

  “They certainly did a fair assassination job on the other Mrs Grainger.”

  “Your friend Debra? What did you think of her?”

  “Who? Debra?”

  “Mmm.”

  “I thought she was rather nice. Talented, attractive, a good aura. I was impressed, could understand what the little man sees in her.”

  “You’re a sucker for a pretty face.”

  “I know. Do you think they might be b
ehind the contaminations?”

  “The fools on the hill? No, it’s not their style. They’d settle for sticking pins in a corn dolly.”

  The paintbrush I dropped the evening before was ruined, and they’re not cheap. I found another and cut the thick skin off the top of the paint. After a few trials on a piece of scrap wood I started writing the words of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s most famous poem across the blue board. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…

  It was laborious work and I soon tired of it, and started having doubts about the whole project. Maybe it wasn’t the great idea I’d thought it was. Never mind. I’d complete one to see if it worked, and if not I’d just have to copy a couple of Picasso’s. I wrote the words in big looping letters, as if done by giant fountain pen, with plenty of circles and ovals for me to fill in with colour afterwards. Red, green and yellow.

  When the board was covered in writing I stood back to assess the work. The blue was a little too dark, but might look better when the bright colours were on it. I’d underpaint them in white to make them brighter, and broaden the downstrokes of the letters. Athought struck me. The idea was that it would look as if someone had doodled carelessly all over a love letter, but if I drew a line down the middle of all the ovals and put a bit of fuzz at the top of them, they’d look like ladies’ whatsits. Front bottoms. Then the recipient of the letter wouldn’t appear careless about the sender, he’d be obsessed, with only one thing on his mind.

  If I did the whole thing about ten feet square it could be a contender for the Turner prize. Then I thought about the previous winners and the prize money. It was only twenty thousand, and I didn’t need it that bad. Picasso was obsessed with ladies’ whatsits in his dotage. His late sketches were covered in them. It’s where artists go when they run out of ideas. Not just painters. Writers, sculptors, songwriters, the whole lot of them. I’d stick with my bright colours.

  I carefully washed the brush and went into the house. I made myself a mug of tea, put stew and dumplings in the microwave and rang the number in South Wales that Pete had given me.

  A man answered the phone.

  “Oh, hello,” I said. “Sorry to disturb you. My name is Detective Inspector Priest from Heckley CID, up in Yorkshire, and I’d like to speak to Mrs Dunphy.”