Limestone Cowboy

by Stuart Pawson

  “That’s their problem.”

  I turned to Dave. “A girl called Rebecca Smith worked for Grainger’s, here at this store, Miss Brown,” he began. “She left under a bit of a cloud. We thought you had a policy of retraining and redeploying people who didn’t immediately settle in.”

  “We have,” she replied. “Dismissal is absolutely a last resort.”

  “What about bullying? Where does that come in the Grainger’s management development programme?”

  “If we were aware of any bullying we would take steps to deal with the causes of it.”

  “You didn’t in this case.”

  “I wasn’t aware of it.”

  “Miss Smith has been advised to sue for constructive dismissal.”

  Sharon Brown rotated the pencil between her fingers, glanced up at the clock and shuffled in her chair. “That will be between her and our solicitors. I’m not familiar with the case.”

  “But you must accept some responsibility.”

  “I’m not familiar with the case.”

  I cleared my throat and asked: “Where were you last Saturday evening?”

  She switched her gaze from Dave to me. A lock of dark hair fell across her spectacles and she brushed it away.

  “Last Saturday,” I reminded her.

  “I…went away for the weekend.”

  “Where to?”

  “I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”

  Back to Dave. “How long have you been shagging the boss?” he asked.

  Miss Brown dropped the pencil and jerked her head to face him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Right,” he said. “We’ll start at the beginning. There are birds, and there are bees. And there are little birds and little bees. Shagging is what the big birds and bees do to get little birds and bees.”

  “What about Mr Robshaw, the manager here?” I asked. “Are you having an affair with him?”

  She turned to me again, throwing her head back and laughing in an exaggerated manner, relieved to be on safer ground. “Tim Robshaw!” she scoffed. “He should be so lucky.”

  Dave came straight in with: “So it’s just Sir Morton?”

  She retrieved the pencil and carefully placed it on the blotter on her desk, exactly parallel with the edge. She stared down at it and readjusted its position, but we could see that her face had turned colour under the makeup and her lips were moving silently, as if she were chewing something unpalatable.

  “We know that Sir Morton didn’t go to Scotland,” I said.

  “So where did you spend the weekend?” Dave added.

  “Paris,” she whispered. “I went to Paris.”

  “With Sir Morton?”

  She didn’t reply and we didn’t press her, content to see the devastation on her face, like some mediaeval merchant who’d just learned that his ship laden with bullion had sunk to the bottom of the ocean.

  Chapter Nine

  Rosie baked me a chocolate cake. “It’s a pity you didn’t come earlier,” she said. “It’s a lovely evening. I’ve been sitting outside.”

  “I wanted to spend an hour on my paintings,” I explained. “You can only do so much at a time, then you have to wait until the paint dries.”

  I didn’t mention the long phone call I’d received from Cambridge. “How did it go?” I demanded as soon as I realised who it was.

  “I’m engaged, Uncle Charles,” Sophie told me, her delight evident in her voice.

  “Oh, I’m so pleased, Sophie. I’m so pleased. I told you it would be all right. You told Digby about… you know?”

  “About the baby? Yes, he’s delighted. He was a bit shocked at first, thought he’d let me down, but he soon came round.”

  “And you’re engaged?”

  “Unofficially, yes.”

  “A big ring?”

  “Not yet. I’m not bothered about one.”

  “Congratulations, Sophie,” I said. “I hope you’re deliriously happy. I think you will be. Meanwhile, I’ll just have to take this pair of tickets to Antarctica back to the travel agent.”

  “Uncle Charles…”

  “Mmm.”

  “About Saturday. Thanks for looking after me. I’m glad I came to you, and I’m glad… well, I’m just glad.”

  And so was I. My feelings had been mixed, just a little, but Sophie wasn’t reduced to just another notch on my bed head, and that made me happy. We were still friends, something that lovers often can’t say.

  “Listen,” I said. “I’m invited to lunch on Sunday but I’m scared stiff that Digby will say something to indicate we’d met before.”

  “I never thought of that,” Sophie told me. “I suppose we could call to see you first, on Saturday on our way home.”

  “That would help,” I agreed, “but I’ll still skip lunch, if you don’t mind.”

  “I was hoping for some moral support.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  Rosie was offering more tea. I nodded and pushed my cup and saucer across the table. “Nice cake,” I said. “My favourite.”

  “I should have invited you for a meal,” she said. “It was thoughtless of me.”

  “Nonsense. Chocolate cake is a treat-and-a-half.”

  “Have another piece.”

  “Well, just a small one.”

  Rosie told me about her day. She’d spent it stripping varnish from a pine bookcase she’d bought, and preparing visual aids for when school started again.

  “Geography or geology?” I asked.

  “Geog. The changing face of Eastern Europe. What with all the asylum seekers and upstart countries that nobody had heard of five years ago, suddenly everybody wants to know what’s where. Good old boring geography is flavour of the month. Well, not quite, but mild interest has been aroused.”

  I smiled at her words. “Have you travelled much?” I asked.

  “Not for a while, but I used to, when I could afford it. I had a couple of nasty experiences and it put me off. It can be difficult for an unaccompanied woman. You attract unwelcome attention.”

  “I can imagine. Where’s your favourite place?”

  “Florence,” she replied, dreamily. “No doubt about it. I spent a month there one summer, and I was in heaven.”

  “What? No unwelcome attention?”

  “It’s not always unwelcome,” she replied with a laugh. “Have you been to Florence?”

  “Long time ago, when I was a student. Otherwise, I haven’t done much travelling. It’s something I regret.”

  I sipped my tea and replaced the cup on the saucer. “I went to see a man called Henry Ratcliffe today,” I began, when happy thoughts about times spent in sunnier climes had subsided. “He was the investigating officer.”

  “Where was this?” Rosie asked, suddenly concerned.

  “Chester. He’s in a nursing home in Chester, has some wasting disease. Motor neurone or something like that. I doubt if he has much longer to live, but he’s quite lucid.”

  “The poor man.”

  “Mmm. I asked him what he remembered about the case, and… about… your father.”

  “Was he any help?”

  “Not in the way he meant, Rosie. Even allowing for the huge chip on his shoulder brought about by his condition, he didn’t come across as a very nice man. Your father’s politics were anathema to him, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that didn’t cloud his judgement.”

  “You mean… he may have tampered with the statement?”

  “I certainly wouldn’t put it past him. He belonged to that school, and no mistake.” But before her hopes were raised too far I went on: “However, this morning I received a copy of the statement. I haven’t brought it because I thought it might upset you. It was written by Ratcliffe and allegedly signed by your father. It looks OK to me but we could try to check the signature. It’s a long name and your dad signed it in full, so it would be difficult to forge. It doesn’t look good, I’m afraid, Rosie.”

  She bit her lip and s
tayed silent, holding a long-cold cup against the crook of her shoulder. The nail polish on her toenails was chipped through walking about bare-footed, and as if reading my mind she drew her feet under her, out of sight. Outside, the streetlights came on up the hillside, although it was still early. Big clouds were building up and the tops were lost in them. Rosie rose from her chair and switched on a standard lamp to give the room some illumination.

  When she was seated again she said: “So we’ll have to wait for the DNA tests?”

  “It looks like it.”

  I wanted to cross over to her and swamp her in an embrace, tell her that everything was just fine, that we could see things through together, but I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be true. Life is for the living, I wanted to say, and we owe it to ourselves to make the most of it. God knows, it’s short enough. But she was locked in the past, with a dead father who she loved. Would I have been as determined to clear my father’s name under similar circumstances? I had no idea.

  “Last night,” I said, “I talked to Mary Dunphy on the telephone.”

  Rosie came back from wherever. “Mary Dunphy?” she repeated.

  “You knew her as Mary Evans.”

  “Mary Evans? You’ve spoken to Mary Evans?”

  “Yes. She said you were the prettiest girl in the village, and the cleverest.”

  “Oh, I was, I was! So where is Mary living?”

  “Still in the village. Presumably she married someone called Dunphy and stayed there.”

  “That would be Barry Dunphy. He was a few years older than us but I remember him because he played for the school rugby team. He was expected to go on to great things in rugby, but I never heard of him again.”

  “That happens to lots of promising young sportsmen,” I said, shaking my head wistfully. “Good at school, but never making it in the big, wide, outside world. Did I ever tell you about my goal-keeping exploits?”

  “I can hardly wait,” she replied, a smile briefly lightening her expression.

  “I’ll save them for another time. Mary spoke quite affectionately about your father. Said he was the last person she would have thought of to have… you know. Until she heard about the confession.”

  Talk of the rugby team had reminded me of the last piece of news I had for her. “There’s just one other thing,” I said. “According to Mrs Dunphy, Glynis was what she described as ‘an immoral person’.”

  “An immoral person? In what way?”

  “Apparently she wasn’t averse to going up the hillside with a gang of boys and giving them sexual favours. It happens in most villages, or so I’m led to believe.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “There was no talk of it at the time?”

  “No, but why should there have been?”

  “No reason, except that if the case had gone to trial it could have made the difference between a charge of murder or one of manslaughter.”

  She sat silently, pondering on my words. I drained the dregs from my cup and stood up to leave. “I’ll be on my way,” I said. “I take it you haven’t heard anything.”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Let me know if you do. Thanks for the tea and the cake.”

  “Thanks for coming, Charlie. I do appreciate it.”

  She walked to the door with me. As I stood with my hand on the handle I said:

  “When this is over, Rosie, do you think we might spend some time together, get to know each other?”

  She looked up at me and nodded. “Yes, I’d like that.”

  “Win or lose?”

  “Mmm, win or lose.”

  “Good. And perhaps then we could catch up on all that travelling.”

  “That’s something to look forward to.”

  “Secret of happiness,” I said, “is having something to look forward to.” I held her slim shoulders in my hands and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “And I’ve a lot to catch up on.”

  Rosie walked me to the gate and I admired her flowers. She grew roses but I failed to associate them with her name for a few seconds and made some fatuous comment. “I’m just a dumb detective,” I said, giving myself a blow to the head.

  “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 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 usef
ul 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 café 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.”