Limestone Cowboy

by Stuart Pawson

  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 towpath 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 delegation 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 café,” 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-stationary 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 sweet nothings. 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.”

  “Hmm, that does sound interesting,” I said. “Did Robin tell you his surname?”

  It’s always the same. You spend weeks gathering disparate pieces of evidence, hoping that one day they will arrange themselves into some sort of order, like the stars in a galaxy, and when it happens you get this feeling that starts in your toes and gradually creeps upwards until your whole body is tingling.

  “Yes,” he replied, “he’s called Brown, Damian Brown.”

  Chapter Ten

  The problem with High Clough farm was that it was on the highest piece of ground for miles, so there was nowhere we could set up an observation post. The comprehensive school headmaster was hiking in the Dolomites, but we’d sweet-talked the school secretary into letting us have a look at the records. Damian Brown lived at High Clough farm, and the secretary wasn’t at all surprised that he was in trouble. Anything else she could have done to put him away for a long time was ours for the asking. We drove back and forth on the lane that went near the farm and eventually decided on an unofficial lay-by used as a rubbish dump by the fairies. It’s easy to blame townies for coming into the country to dispose of the odd three-piece suite, but they don’t leave the weedkiller drums and fertilizer bags.

  “You can see the end of the track that leads to the farm,” Dave said.

  “And a transit parked here won’t attract attention,” I added.

  X-ray 99, our helicopter, was making slow passes over the moor, about a mile away, as if on a search. It worked its way towards the farm and as it passed over we heard the frantic barking of dogs over the thrum of the chopper’s blades. It banked away, the sun flashing off its sides, to resume its search on the other side. After a minute or two stooging around for the sake of credibility it turned and sped off towards its base near Wakefield.

  “When will the photos be ready?” Dave asked.

  “They’ve promised them for this afternoon.”

  The Browns were a big, extended family, Dave had discovered, and Sebastian and Sharon were tenuous relatives. One branch still lived in the style of travellers, even if they were permanently settled on a council site; another had abandoned the old ways a couple of generations ago and lived in a more conventional manner. This side of the family was fully integrated with local society. Two were solicitors, some owned small businesses and a few had criminal records, including Sebastian. He’d done three months for credit card fraud. High Clough farm was the home of the latest member to come under our scrutiny: Damian.

  “So Sharon was happy to talk to you?” I said.

  “She came round after a few minutes. I think she’s proud of her romantic gypsy origins.”

  “Except they’re not gypsies, they’re tinkers,” I said.

  “Gypsies, tinkers, Romanies, travellers, they’re all the same, nowadays.”

  “Whatever, she managed to break away from it and get an education.”

  “That’s true.” We both knew that illiteracy was a very useful characteristic for some people when trying to negotiate their way past modern living’s more oppressive obstacles, like income tax returns, court warrants and job applications.

  “Did you as
k if they ever had family get-togethers?”

  “Yeah, weddings mainly. She said they had great parties.”

  “I bet. C’mon, let’s go.”

  *

  The pictures showed High Clough farm to be a tumbledown dump, falling apart after years of neglect. If it hadn’t been for the Land Rover Defender parked outside we’d have thought the place was derelict. Hill farmers have been encouraged to diversify to stay solvent, and, like so many of them in this part of the world, High Clough had diversified into rusting farm machinery and old tyres. Mr Wood came down to the CID office and we all poured over the pictures.

  “You reckon this is where they hold the dog fights, do you?” he asked.

  “No. I think they’re involved, but whether they stage the fights I don’t know.”

  “It would be the ideal place,” Dave said.

  Jeff Caton was peering at the photos through a big magnifying glass. “There’s a chicken run,” he said, “on the paved area in front of the house.”

  “It’s a farm,” I told him. “They keep a few chickens.”

  “There’s a big chicken run next to the barn. With real chickens. You can see them. I reckon this other one is where the dogs fight.”

  “Outside?” I wondered aloud.

  “Why not, especially this weather?”

  “No reason. I’d just assumed it was an indoor sport.”

  “The idle boasts of a retarded boy and a chicken run outside the front door are not enough for a search warrant,” Gilbert said, “but we might manage twenty-four hour surveillance.”

  I thought about it. “No need for twenty-four hours,” I said. “Not if they hold the fights in daylight. And I don’t suppose they have them in the early morning. Ten till ten should cover it.”

  “Look at this,” Jeff said, and we all turned to him. The chopper had taken pictures as it approached the farm, from a fairly low angle, and others as it passed directly overhead. We’d concentrated on the overhead ones, to study the layout of the buildings, but now Jeff was looking at one of the oblique views.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s some cages, four of them,” he said, “down the side of the barn. If you look carefully you can see that whatever are in the middle two are looking at the chopper.” He passed me the magnifying glass.