Limestone Cowboy

by Stuart Pawson

  “What’s it about?” he demanded.

  “I believe she knew Glynis Williams, the girl who was…”

  “Why don’t you fuck off and leave us alone!” he shouted at me and the line went dead.

  The microwave pinged to say my meal was cooked, so I put it on number one to keep warm and rang the number again.

  “What?” he snapped.

  “Please listen to what I have to say, Mr Dunphy,” I said. “I’m a detective in Yorkshire and certain issues have arisen about the murder of Glynis Williams. I need to talk to your wife. Now I can either drive all the way down there and perhaps interview her at your local police station, or preferably we can sort things out on the telephone.”

  “How do I know you’re what you say you are? They said they were from the police.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “Journalists. From the TV.”

  “Is this recently?”

  “Last week, and the week before.”

  They’d tried to contact Ratcliffe and now they were after Mrs Dunphy. I was one step behind them all the time.

  “Right,” I said. “Here’s what you do. Ring your local nick and ask them for the number of Heckley police station, in Yorkshire. I’m at home, so ask Heckley for DI Priest’s home number. I’ll have to ring them to tell them to release it to you. Then you ring me.”

  “That’s OK, I believe you,” he replied. “The wife’s here. I’ll put her on. Sorry I swore at you.”

  “I’ve heard worse. Thanks a lot.”

  Mary Dunphy had the first decent Welsh accent I’d heard but it was attractive and she spoke clearly. I envisaged her in the big skirt and hat, with lace petticoats, playing the harp. Racial stereotypes. I could get the sack for that if the thought-police were watching. After the introductions I said: “How well did you know Glynis?”

  “We were in the same class at school, and she lived just across the road.”

  “Were you friends?”

  “Not really. We had different interests, and she always seemed more grown up than the rest of us.”

  “Was she a pretty girl?”

  “Pretty? No, she wasn’t pretty. She was a big girl, tall and heavily built, but she wasn’t pretty.”

  So much for Ratcliffe’s description of her. “Did you know the Barraclough family?” I asked.

  “Oh yes. They lived just down from Glynis, on the corner. They had a bakery, so everybody knew them.”

  “What was Mr Barraclough like?”

  “He was a big man, with a bushy beard. We all thought he was nice, until… you know.”

  “Did you see much of him?”

  “Yes, he was about all the time. Always had a kind word or something funny to say. He was a Pied Piper sort of character. When you went to the shop he’d always try to find a broken gingerbread man to pop in with your order, that sort of thing. The kids used to follow him around.”

  I couldn’t resist asking: “Did you know his daughter?”

  “Rosie? Yes, I knew Rosie. She was younger than me. Cleverest girl in the school, and the prettiest. We envied her living in the bread shop, and having a dad like that. I often wonder what happened to her.”

  “Was there ever any talk of Mr Barraclough behaving improperly towards any of your schoolfriends? Did you ever have any reasons to distrust him?”

  “No, I never heard of anything like that, until…”

  “Until what, Mrs Dunphy?”

  “Well, until afterwards. Like I said, he was friendly with all the children. Nowadays, what with all you read in the papers, that makes you suspicious, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid it does, Mrs Dunphy. We live in a sad world. Did you believe it when they said he’d killed Glynis?”

  “Well, he confessed, didn’t he? He wouldn’t have confessed if he hadn’t done it, would he?”

  “I suppose not, but up to then, before he confessed, did you consider he might be the murderer?”

  “No, he was the last man I’d have thought of.”

  “Thank you. Is there anything else you can tell me that might be relevant?”

  There was a long silence before she said: “No, I don’t think so,” but in the background I heard her husband say: “Tell him.”

  “Tell me what?” I asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know…”

  “Go on,” I urged her. “Now you’ll have to tell me.”

  “It’s just that… I don’t like speaking ill of the dead.”

  I thought it was going to be some revelation about Abraham Barraclough so I braced myself for bad news and said: “It can’t hurt them now, Mrs Dunphy.”

  “No, but it can hurt her family. They still live in the village.”

  I heaved a silent sigh of relief. “Tell me what you know,” I said.

  “Well, let’s just say that Glynis was what you might call an immoral person.”

  “Immoral!” I heard her husband scoff in the background. “That’s putting it mildly!”

  “Put him on,” I told her. There was a mumbled exchange of words and a scraping noise before his voice greeted me again.

  “Tell me what you know about her, please,” I said.

  “Well, Inspector, let’s just say that she did it for friends and she had no enemies. Glynis might have only been thirteen but she was a tart, and no mistake. The school had a rugby team, and when they did well she would reward them in her own special way. When they lost she commiserated with them. They didn’t mind, it was all the same to them.”

  “Sex,” I said. “You’re talking about sex?”

  “Well I’m not talking about her giving them a pep talk. I reckon every lad in South Dyfed lost his cherry to Glynis Evelyn Williams.”

  I pondered on his words. In court, her reputation could have made the difference between a murder rap and manslaughter. “Have you spoken to the TV people at all?” I asked.

  “No, I told them where to go.”

  “I’d be grateful if you kept it that way.”

  I thanked them and rang off. By rugby he no doubt meant the union code, so now I had fifteen possible suspects. The dumplings were done a treat but the tea was cold so I switched the kettle on again. Knowing Glynis’s reputation, ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have claimed that she led them on, but what was it that Ratcliffe had said? “He saw her and wanted her,” that was it. And: “He suddenly realised what he was doing.” Nothing there about her leading him on, no blame laid on the girl, but were the words in the confession Barraclough’s words or Ratcliffe’s?

  I didn’t know. Holy Mother of Mary, I didn’t have a clue.

  The warm weather held and the office looked more like a holiday camp than a dedicated crime-fighting establishment. Shades and summer shirts were the order of the day. Dave came in and asked what I was doing so I told him all about the Abe Barraclough case. He’s my best mate and I don’t like having secrets from him. Well, not many.

  “Blimey,” he said. “That’s a bummer.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “Well, it explains your odd behaviour. Last week you were all smiles, this week you’ve been like a wet Sunday in Filey.”

  “Thanks. Any more tampering cases come to light?”

  “No, but I’ve got a photo for you.” He dashed out and came back holding a still from a videotape. “Thought you might like this one for your collection, although you might not recognise her with her clothes on.”

  It was taken from the CCTV cameras at the entrance of a supermarket and showed a tall woman in a long dark coat, wearing sunglasses and a headscarf. She looked like a Hollywood star out shopping. Incognito, but not too incognito.

  “Mrs Grainger?” I said.

  “The security man at the Heckley store gave it to me. He thinks it’s her, in mystery shopper mode.”

  “It looks like her, all right. Why the long coat? And gloves. Look, she’s wearing gloves.”

  “It’s raining hard,” Dave explained. “Look behind her – someone’s clo
sing an umbrella and the pavement’s shiny,”

  “Mmm, I suppose so.” There was a number printed in the bottom left hand corner. “Is that the date?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Third o’ May, 2.33 p.m.”

  “Right, thanks. I’ll put it on my bedroom wall with all those I took of her with the zoom camera I borrowed from technical.”

  “Otherwise,” Dave said, “it’s all gone off the boil. I think we should stir things up a bit.”

  “Where do you suggest we start?”

  “Well, we haven’t done anything about the delightful Sharon’s weekend of passion with Sir Morton, have we?”

  “If that’s what it was.”

  “It will ’ave been, believe me.”

  “’Spect you’re right. I wonder if she calls him Sir Morton in bed?”

  “Oh! Sir Morton!” Dave shrieked.

  “Sounds like a song. Let’s go see her, then.” I stood up, tucked my shirt in and unhooked my jacket from behind the door.

  Dave said: “Oh, before I forget. You’re invited to lunch on Sunday.”

  “Super. I’ll look forward to that.” Dave’s wife, Shirley, cooks the best Yorkshire puddings east of the Appalachians.

  “Yeah, Sophie’s coming up, bringing this boyfriend with her. It must be serious.”

  “Sophie!” I exclaimed.

  “Mmm. My daughter, your goddaughter, remember?”

  “Yes. I meant, um, Sunday. I might not be able to make it on, um, Sunday.”

  “Why not?”

  “Er, Wales. I might go to South Wales with Rosie.”

  “Fair enough, but the invite’s there. Bring Rosie along if you want.”

  “Right. I’ll mention it to her.”

  The telephone saved me from further embarrassment. I listened, replaced the receiver and hung my coat back on the door.

  “Sharon’s off for this morning,” I said. “Gareth Adey’s in a meeting with the ACC and the knicker thief is waiting downstairs for an official reprimand. He wants me to do it, so I’ll see you later.”

  He was twelve years old, sitting on a chair in the foyer with his feet not reaching the floor. Hair plastered down, grey trousers and a school blazer, fear oozing from his well-scrubbed pores. His father sat next to him.

  “Interview room?” I said as I breezed past the front desk, and the sergeant flapped a hand in their general direction. Take any one, business is slack.

  “I’ve interviewed murderers in this room,” I said when we were seated, after the introductions, “and now I’ve had to drop an urgent case to talk to you.” The boy, Robin, glanced up at the tape recorder on the wall. “We’re not recording this talk,” I told him, “but I hope you’ll remember it.”

  “There was a meeting,” I went on, “to decide what to do with you. Six people who’d never met you, deciding on your future. How does that make you feel?”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “How do you think that makes your dad feel?”

  Another shrug. “Answer the Inspector,” his father told him.

  “Not very happy,” Robin admitted in a whisper.

  “That’s right. Not very happy. Disappointed. They decided to give you a reprimand. That means that you admit the offence and it doesn’t mean that you’ve got away with it. Do you understand?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  His dad nudged him. “Yes, Inspector.”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  “Good, so tell me. Robin, why were you stealing items of underwear from washing lines?”

  It was all a joke, a display of bravado. Several boys from school had dared each other to see who could collect the most. After a bit of probing it looked as if there was a hint of bullying behind it.

  “I don’t suppose you want to tell me the names of the other boys?” I said.

  He didn’t reply, gazing down at the table.

  “OK, in that case I won’t ask you. But let me tell you this: When there’s a serious crime the first thing we do is interview what we call the usual suspects. We have a register with all their names on. If your name is on that we can call on you any time we need to, day or night, for the rest of your life. An offence like this should warrant putting you on the list. Is that what you want?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Good. As you’re so young we’ve decided not to put you on it, this time. Now, how do you feel about apologising to the people you stole from?”

  He looked from me to his father and back to me again. The fear had turned to terror. Probation service run a scheme called the victim/offender unit, where certain selected villains are challenged to meet the people they stole from to apologise and offer reparation. I explained the scheme to Robin and his father and Robin reluctantly agreed to cooperate. I asked him to wait outside while I chatted to his dad.

  “I’ll have a word with probation,” I said, “to see if he’s suitable. With there being sexual overtones it might not be wise to disclose Robin’s identity.”

  “I don’t think sex comes into it,” his father said. “He doesn’t bother about girls at all. His testicles haven’t dropped yet.”

  “Fair enough, but I think we’ve given him something to think about.”

  “You certainly have. Does this mean he has a criminal record?”

  “No, a reprimand is what we used to call a caution but it’s not a conviction, although by accepting it he has admitted his guilt. We’ll have his name on file until he’s eighteen, but there’s no need for him to disclose it to any future employer. These other boys. Do you think you could ask him for their names, and let me know? I didn’t want to push him into a corner. Grassing up his friends and all that wouldn’t be good for his self-esteem, but telling you might not be such a big deal.”

  “No problem. And thanks again.”

  We left the room and I escorted them off the premises. Prompted by his father, Robin apologised and thanked me. “I don’t want to see you in here again,” I told him, “unless you’re wearing the uniform.”

  The office was empty when I went back upstairs, so I stuffed my wallet into my back pocket and went walk-about in town. Inspector Adey, resplendent in white shirt, short sleeved and with epaulettes, was coming out of the HMV shop, carrying one of their bags as I crossed the road. It must have been a short meeting with the ACC. I dashed across and into the shop. One cashier was standing idly behind his till.

  “That man who just left,” I said. “The policeman. He’s a colleague of mine. Don’t suppose you can tell me what he bought can you?”

  The youth grinned, happy to oblige. “Garth Brooks,” he replied. “The Chase.”

  “Country and western?”

  “Yeah, well. One man’s poison an’ all that.”

  “Thanks. Are you likely to have the music from Band of Brothers?”

  “Try Soundtracks, in the corner.”

  It was there, at £13.99, which I considered a rip-off. They’d made the music for the TV series, so from now on it was all profit. I’d liked the main theme but wasn’t sure about the rest of it, so I decided not to bother and went to the sandwich shop.

  *

  Back in the office everybody had materialised again and they’d set the telescope up on a desk, pointing out of the window. The troops were queuing up to take turns.

  “Hey, be careful with that, it belongs to technical services,” I said.

  Jeff Caton was at the helm. He let out a low whistle, saying: “Just grab an eyeful of that.”

  “What?” the next in line demanded.

  “Legal and General. You can see straight into their office. They’ve got flat screen monitors.”

  “Wow!” I exclaimed as he stood up to let a DC have a look.

  “Take a dekko at her in the middle window,” he advised.

  After some readjusting the DC complained: “She’s got her back to us.”

  “I know,” Jeff replied, “but can’t you just imagine her little skirt riding up her young thighs?”

  Somebod
y added: “And her tiny breasts thrusting against the thin material of her blouse.”

  Dave said: “And her knicker ’lastic cutting into her like a cheese wire.”

  “Perverts!” I shouted. “You’re all perverts!” and retreated into the sanctuary of my little office. The file from South Wales was on my desk. I looked through it then rang Rosie’s number.

  “How are you?” I asked when she answered.

  “Fine, Charlie. And you?”

  “I’m OK. Can I come over and see you tonight?”

  “Of course you can. Have you made any progress?”

  “I’d hardly call it progress but I’ve spoken to a couple of people. About eight-thirty?”

  “Mmm. Eight-thirty. I’ll bake you a cake.”

  “Did you know that Gareth was a country and western fan?” I asked Dave as we drove over to Grainger’s supermarket headquarters.

  “You’re joking.”

  “He bought a Garth Brooks CD in HMV this morning.”

  “Well, well. That should be worth something, one day. We still owe him for nabbing the knicker thief.”

  Sharon Brown saw us in her office, after telling her secretary – a gawky girl with a ring through her nose and shoes the size of paddle steamers – to take a break. She didn’t offer us coffee and sat behind her desk twiddling a pencil between her fingers. The jacket for her power suit was over the back of her chair and it was easy to see where the attraction lay for Sir Morton.

  “What’s company policy on shoplifters, Miss Brown?” I asked.

  “We prosecute them all,” she replied.

  “Without fear or favour.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Old ladies – and gentlemen, I suppose – sometimes become confused. Don’t you make any allowances for that?”

  “Those confused old ladies, Inspector, are usually wearing fur coats with big pockets, and it’s always a tin of best salmon they just happen to slip into one, never the tuna.”

  “Are you saying that there’s no such thing as Alzheimer’s, or senility?”

  “No, of course not, but it’s up to the court to decide that.”

  “It’s rather stressful for them, don’t you think, going to court for what is most likely the first time in their lives.”