Limestone Cowboy

by Stuart Pawson

  “How long have you known?”

  “About Sharon? A year or so. She was one of his brighter employees. He encouraged her, put her through college. It’s a familiar story, Inspector, a tried and trusted formula. There were others before her, but nothing I could prove.”

  A grey squirrel galloped across the lawn where I’d watched her sunbathing, sending a pair of collared doves flapping off, and in the distance I could see Stoodley Pike.

  “Have you heard the expression ‘trailer trash’, Inspector?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well that’s what we were, as my husband likes to remind me. My parents moved to Florida from Virginia when I was a baby, looking for a better life for them and me. They swapped one trailer park for another, but the winters were milder. Things didn’t go well for them but they stayed together through thick and thin because that’s what they believed in. That and in Jesus Christ. They didn’t want me to marry Mort, said he was too old for me, that I wasn’t sophisticated enough for him, but I wanted to escape from that life so I leapt at the opportunity. Now I’ve got to go back to them and admit that they were right, and it’s not easy.”

  I told her to come and sit down again, and she followed me. “You can afford a good lawyer,” I said, “and he’s a wealthy man. You’ll come out of it OK. You’ll be able to build your parents that villa with the ocean view they’ve always dreamed of. I know it’s not the best solution but it helps.”

  “Look on the bright side?”

  “That’s right.”

  “When will I be able to go home?”

  “It’s not that simple,” I said, reaching down for my briefcase which I’d left on the floor at the side of my chair. I removed a large manila envelope and extracted the photo of the woman in the long coat and gloves.

  “Is this you, Mrs Grainger?” I asked.

  She studied it for much longer than necessary, weighing the implications of her reply.

  “It… could be,” she decided upon, eventually.

  “Is it or isn’t it?”

  “I think it is.”

  “Do you still have that coat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I see it, please?”

  “The coat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “To prove to myself that it’s you in the picture.”

  “I’ll fetch it.” She stood up and left the room. I was wondering if I should have followed her, how it would look if she hurled herself from an upstairs window while I was sitting there twiddling my toes, when she returned with the coat over her arm. I took it from her and held it up by the shoulders.

  It was a navy blue Burberry, lightweight, with an expensive feel to it, and exactly like the one in the photo. I delved into a pocket and found a leather glove. Its partner was in the other pocket. That saved me having to ask to see the gloves.

  “I was worried about these,” I said, flapping the gloves at her. “I didn’t think you’d be able to wear them over your nail extensions, so we made enquiries with your hairdresser. Apparently you had short nails up to last week.”

  “What’s all this about, Inspector?”

  “I think you have a good idea, but I’ll show you.” I reached into the briefcase again and retrieved the tin of corned beef. “This is a tin of corned beef exactly like the one that poisoned Maureen Wall, nearly three weeks ago. Somebody had pierced the tin, and the others that were found, with something small and sharp, like a drawing pin.” I produced one from my briefcase. “Let’s see if it works,” I said.

  It was awkward, holding the tin steady while trying to balance the pin under my thumb with the point against the hard metal. When it was stable I placed my other thumb over the first one and squeezed. The thumbnail turned pink with the pressure until, without a sound, the pin penetrated the steel and slid effortlessly into the meat.

  “There,” I said. “Nothing to it.”

  “I don’t know what all this has to do with me,” she said, but her expression told a different story.

  “You’re a practical person, Mrs Grainger,” I told her. “I’m told you made the model of the office and leisure complex with your own hands. You know how to use tools, have access to them, no doubt know all about soldering and super glue and saturated solutions. I think it was you that contaminated all the food at Grainger’s superstore.”

  She was staring down at her hands and I noticed that one of her nail extensions had become detached. She tried to press it back in place. “It’s absurd,” she declared. “Why would I do such a thing?”

  “To hurt your husband,” I suggested. “You’d had as much as you could take and this was revenge for all his philandering.” She stayed silent, as I expected, so I threw her the lifeline: “Or perhaps you did it to save your marriage. You saw it as a way to win Sir Morton’s affection back by giving him your full support and understanding during these difficult times? If the Press were hounding him everywhere he turned perhaps he’d spend more time at home instead of gallivanting off every weekend? Or maybe you thought that by putting pressure on the company you’d create stress between him and his staff, in other words, between him and Sharon Brown. You tell me.”

  “You haven’t any evidence. None at all.”

  The gloves were on the arm of my chair. “That’s true,” I conceded, “and you saw how fiddly it was holding the pin against the tin. Doing that whilst at the shelves might attract attention; might be picked up by the CCTV cameras. But if you put the pin inside your glove, poking out of the thump, it would look perfectly natural to pick up a tin, appear to read the label and then replace it, after piercing it with the drawing pin. That’s what you did, Mrs Grainger.”

  She shook her head but was unable to speak.

  “And if we look at your gloves,” I continued, “I suspect we’ll find a neat little hole in the thumb of the right hand one.”

  “You’re very clever.”

  “It’s what I’m paid for.”

  “You’re right, I did it to save my marriage,” she said, her voice a whisper.

  “I don’t think you should say any more,” I told her, “until you have a solicitor present. I’ll have to ask you to come to the station with me.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Not unless you refuse to come.”

  “Will I go to jail?”

  “Two people nearly died. You put hundreds of lives at risk, scared half the population out of their wits and wasted thousands of hours of police time. If a child or someone frail had eaten that corned beef this might have been a murder enquiry. You could go to jail, but no doubt you will have a very good lawyer in your corner.”

  “I didn’t want to hurt anybody. It’s just that nothing happened.”

  I interrupted her – “I’d prefer you not to say anything until we’re at the station,” – but she ignored me.

  “I pierced the corned beef and some tins of fruit, but nobody noticed. I wanted them to go bad, that’s all, but nothing happened. So then I used the dye, but it was covered up by the store. Next I used the rat poison. It tastes horrible. I tried it. I didn’t think anybody would actually eat the stuff.”

  I cautioned her. If she insisted on telling me all the details without being cautioned the whizz-kid lawyer would pick it up and make trouble. “We’ll take a statement from you at the station,” I said. “Can you come with me, please?”

  “Do I need anything?”

  “No. Just the key to lock the door.”

  Driving through Hebden Bridge she turned and looked out of the window at my side of the car. “I hate this place,” she said. “Can you believe that? It’s such a beautiful place and I hate it. Do you know what the happiest day I’ve had was, for months and months?”

  I shook my head, not wanting to hear, not interested.

  “It was last Thursday. Morning coffee with you in that quaint little café, then sitting by the river watching the birds and talking. Simple gifts. I felt happier than I’ve d
one in a long while. I… I thought I’d found a friend.”

  If it was meant to make me feel good it didn’t work. “If it’s any consolation, Debra,” I said, “I think Sir Morton is every kind of fool I’ve ever known.”

  But that didn’t help, either.

  The Assistant Chief Constable (Crime) was delighted, and when he’s happy we’re all happy. The troops who were out knocking on doors, studying CCTV footage or skulking round supermarkets were pulled in and told that the job was solved, they could have the weekend off. We were sitting round in the big office, drinking more coffee, when Gilbert came down to tell us of the ACC’s pleasure at clearing up two high-profile cases in one week. He then immediately destroyed the euphoria by asking what we were doing about burglaries. Two cases, no matter how big or high-profile, didn’t have much impact on our figures.

  “Oh, we’ll sort them out Monday morning,” I assured him, reaching for another chocolate digestive.

  “Before elevenses,” Jeff added.

  Mrs Grainger had made a full confession, in the presence of a solicitor, and was released on police bail on condition that she brought her passport in. When her case came to trial medical reports would be presented to the court by the best in the job, all the way from Harley Street. They’d claim that trying to poison half the population of Heckley was a plea for help after years of mental cruelty. We’d try for a section 18 assault – grievous bodily harm with intent – but settle for a section 47 actual bodily harm after her lawyers plea bargained. She’d probably get a community service order and a large fine, before fleeing back to the States and screwing Sir Morton for half his fortune.

  Mrs Norcup was remanded to a safe institution while her state of mind was investigated, and a GBH charge would stay on her file. She’d be inside for a long time before being pronounced cured and released to whatever society had to offer her. Another dismal flat in the Project if she were lucky. Whether she’d ever see Rory again was in the hands of the gods and social services.

  “How about a celebration curry?” somebody was suggesting.

  It was a great idea, everyone agreed, and numbers were counted.

  “I’ll ring the Last Viceroy,” Jeff said, “and tell them to expect us. Six o’clock?”

  “You coming, Charlie?” Dave asked.

  I’d intended ringing Rosie on the off-chance that she’d baked another chocolate cake, hoping for an invite round, but I’d been dodging Dave for the last fortnight. The heat was off, now, and I didn’t see how I could refuse. “Yeah, fine,” I said. “Six o’clock it is.”

  When it comes to curry I like them hot, but the following night I was seeing Rosie, taking her to the theatre, so I stayed with the mild ones. There were fifteen of us and the proprietor of the restaurant was overjoyed to have so much custom so early in the evening. Prodigious quantities of rice, naan bread, popadoms and samosas were consumed, washed down with Kingfisher beer. I stayed sober, not wanting to have to abandon my car and take a taxi home. When talk started of moving on to a club we older ones made our apologies and split.

  The answerphone was bleeping as I opened the door and I pressed the play button with unseemly eagerness.

  It was Rosie, just as I’d hoped: “It’s Rosie, Charlie. Give me a ring, soon as you can. It doesn’t matter how late.” She sounded breathless.

  Her number wasn’t committed to my memory, yet, so I tried the 14713 shuffle and was rewarded with a ringing tone.

  “Is that you, Charlie?”

  “Yes. What’s happened?”

  “I’ve heard from First Call. The samples don’t match. Dad is innocent. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  I said: “Wow! That’s fantastic. Really fantastic. When did you learn this?”

  “About six o’clock. I rang you at home and at the station but you weren’t there.”

  “Did they say anything else?”

  “No. I tried to ring the producer earlier in the afternoon but he’d taken the afternoon off. His secretary said she would try his home number. She came back to me and he’d told her that he’d seen the report from the lab and it said that the samples didn’t match and my dad was in the clear. Oh, Charlie, I’m so excited. I wanted to tell someone but there was only you and you were out. I’m… I’m… I don’t know, it’s all a bit too much for me.”

  “I can’t begin to imagine how you feel, Rosie, but I’m so pleased for you.” I wanted to say something about all we had to do was prove it was the right grave, but I didn’t. It seemed churlish to cast doubts on the results, and the church records had been quite specific.

  “Are we still going to see A Midsummer Night’s Dream tomorrow?” I asked, “or would you prefer some other celebration?”

  “No,” she replied, firmly. “The Dream will be perfect. It will be like picking up my life again, from where it left off. I’ve put a bottle of champagne that I’ve been saving in the fridge. We could have a little celebration here, after the show.”

  “That sounds a good idea,” I agreed.

  “Oh,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’d want to drink and drive, would you?”

  “It’s OK, there’s always a taxi,” I replied.

  “That’s an unnecessary expense, but… you could always sleep on my settee.”

  “Another good idea. Thanks, I’ll pack my toothbrush.”

  The office was quiet Saturday morning, the troops having a well-earned weekend off, probably nursing hangovers. I called in as usual to tidy a few things and do any jobs that required more attention than I’m capable of giving during the hubbub of a normal day. I like being there in an empty office, surveying the blank screens and the heaps of papers, marvelling that order can come out of such chaos. It’s my domain, and I feel a little tingle of pride when I survey it.

  At nine o’clock exactly I rang the lab at Chepstow. He was in. “It’s DI Priest,” I said, “about the Glynis Williams case. Apparently First Call TV have had their samples profiled and it’s good news. Can you confirm it, yet?”

  “Haven’t you received my report?” asked the scientist who’d extracted the DNA and done the tests.

  “No. The mail hasn’t arrived yet.”

  “Well, we’ve completed the profiles and I sent the results to your home address. I knew you wanted them ASAP and there was less likelihood of them being lost in the system.”

  “That was thoughtful of you. It’ll probably be waiting for me when I go home. So what did you find?”

  “Bad news, I’m afraid, Inspector, not good news.”

  Something churned in my stomach and I felt as if my legs had been kicked out from under me. “Bad news?” I echoed. A picture of Rosie flashed into my brain and I thought of how her happiness was about to be smashed.

  “Yeah, that’s what I said. You got the wrong man. The tests show that the blood from under the girl’s fingernails didn’t come from Abraham Barraclough.”

  My emotions were being blown around like a newspaper in a hurricane, plunging earthward one second only to be sent soaring a moment later. I let the words sink in and when I was certain of their meaning I yelled a silent “Yabadabadoo!” She’d done it. Rosie had done it. The scientist, I realised, had a different agenda to me. He was looking at the case from the inside, objectively and impartial. But now I was up there with the birds again, with one final obstacle before we could once and for all declare Rosie’s dad innocent.

  “Oh, I see,” I said. “And what about the grave? Have you verified that it was the right grave?”

  “Oh, yes, we got the right grave, no doubt at all about that.”

  Hallelujah.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I dashed home, not content with the verbal report. I wanted to see it written down, neatly typed in appropriate language. Only then would I believe it.

  My job is to catch criminals. Juries determine who is guilty, parliament decides on the penalties, judges apply them, prison officers carry them out. I just catch them. All the rest has nothing to do with me. A jobsworth, that
’s what I am; just another jobsworth.

  Yesterday I came within an ace of handing Debra Grainger her gloves and telling her to take more care of them. Walking away. But then I remembered Mrs Norcup, banged up in some smelly secure ward with nothing to walk away from, no one to give her a break, so I did my job and left things to the courts.

  And now this. The envelope was lying on the mat when I opened the door. I ripped it open and unfolded the single sheet of paper. I read it and re-read it, standing in the doorway. Then I read the conclusions again, looking for the weasel words or double negatives or a misplaced not, but there was nothing there. What it said was what it meant, and that was exactly what the cocky young scientist had told me on the phone. I re-folded the sheet, ran my thumbnail down the folds until they were as sharp as a blade and replaced it in the envelope. I pulled the door shut and walked back to the car.

  I don’t know why I came all the way up here. I had to go somewhere, get in the car and drive, and this was where it started. I parked at the end of the track and ducked under the barrier. The grass was longer and browner and the trees looked heavier, more sinister. Bethesda quarry is wedge-shaped, like a piece from a cake laid on its side, and a track made by a big-wheeled vehicle runs down one edge all the way to the bottom. Two burnt out cars stand at the top of the slope, slowly returning to nature. The body shells have disintegrated but the oil-covered engines are resisting change. They might last out for five or ten years, even twenty or a hundred, but in this temple to evolution that was nothing.

  Long time ago I heard a definition of eternity. Imagine a rock a thousand miles high. Once every thousand years a bird lands on the rock, wipes its beak on it and flies off. When the bird had worn the rock away, that will be the first second of the dawn of eternity.

  The sky was heavy with clouds the colour of ditch-water except for one patch of blue off to the south, almost perfectly rectangular in shape and edged in silver. If you painted a sky like that people would tell you it looked wrong. Rosie had said that these rocks were laid down three hundred million years ago. The bird had hardly started its work.