"I'll see what I can do." How many times does the average detective say that in his working week? And "Leave it with me." They make "The cheque is in the post" sound like an extract from the Sermon on the Mount. I drove home with the weight of the case pressing on me like I was carrying a rucksack filled with wet cement. The joys of my encounter with Sophie had fled like sparrows away from a cat. And next morning I had to face her dad.
"Good weekend?" he asked as he breezed into my office.
"OK. And you?"
"Not bad. Tidied up the garden. Nearly rang to see if you fancied a walk on Sunday, but Shirley made me mow the lawn."
"Good for her."
"Did you watch the grand prix?"
"No. Who won?"
"Schumacher again. It was rubbish. But hey, guess what. Sophie rang last night. She sends her love. She's bringing this boyfriend fellow up next week so Shirl's in a right panic. You'll never guess what he's called."
"Um, no."
"Digby!"
"Digby?"
"That's what she said. Don't think she's having us on."
"It's a fine name. What have you on today?"
"Watching CCTV film, unless you have anything in mind. I was thinking that maybe we should have another visit to Dob Hall while the boss is away. Maybe talk to the desirable Sebastian or even Mrs Grainger, if she's there."
"What good would that do?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. Shake the bastards out of their complacency, do some stirring, something like that."
"We can't just go over and cause trouble. Carry on with the CCTV, please Dave, and tell Jeff to come in, will you?"
"Oh, OK." He lifted his bulk out of the chair and sloped off back into the main office.
He was right, though. This morning would be a good opportunity to talk to Sebastian while Sir Morton was away in Scotland, thrashing a defenceless ball round — what did he say? — the Old Course. I'm not a golfing man. Don't like the trousers. I presumed that St Andrews saved the New Course for major tournaments. We still needed a talk with sexy Sharon, too, Grainger's head of human resources, but she wouldn't be back until tomorrow.
And that thought made something click in my brain. Is it being so suspicious that makes me a good detective, or is it the dirty mind? I logged on to the Internet and clicked on Favorites, then Google. When I asked for St Andrews it came up with nearly half a million entries in a tenth of a second. The fourth one down was the chickadee I needed.
Hell's teeth! It cost Ј105 for a round of the Old Course; God knows what it would cost on the new one. Presumably that included a free set of clubs, but I wasn't certain. I wrote down the number, had a quick look round the site and logged off.
"I wonder if you could help me?" I said to the charming young lady with the voice as clear as a babbling burn who answered the phone. "A friend of mine was playing the Old Course in a pro-am competition over the weekend, for charity. He's tapped me for a contribution and I'm just making out a cheque, but I can't remember the name of the charity. I don't suppose you'd know, would you?" More lies, but sometimes it's necessary.
"The Old Course, did you say, sir?"
"That's what he told me."
"There was no pro-am competition on the Old Course this weekend. Friday until Sunday it was the Highland Malt tournament. What is your friend called?"
"Sir Morton Grainger." Now I was glad about the subterfuge. If word got to him that he was being asked after, he couldn't trace it back to me.»
"One moment, please…" I heard the mttle of a keyboard. "No, nobody of that name was playing. Is he a member here?"
"I don't know."
"Let's see then… No, I'm afraid we have no Mr Grainger, Sir Morton or otherwise. You must have made a mistake."
"It sounds like it. He probably said the Belfry. Thanks for try-ing."
"You're welcome."
So, I thought, Sir Morton tells pork pies. I clicked the cradle and fumbled one-handed for my diary. A breathless Rosie answered just as I was about to abandon the call.
"It's Charlie," I said. "Do you still have contact with any of your schoolfriends from back when… you know, when it happened?"
"No, none at all. We moved away, as I told you, but I was persona non grata in any case."
"Right. What was your school called?" I asked for the spelling and wrote it down. "And can you remember the names of any of your classmates?" Jeff Caton poked his head round the door while I was speaking and I gestured for him to take a seat. "That's fine, Rosie," I said. "Let me know if First Call contact you again, if you will."
She promised she would and I kicked my chair back away from the desk and rocked back on two legs. "That was a friend of mine called Rosie Barraclough," I told Jeff. "Thirty years ago her father signed a confession to strangling a thirteen-year-old girl and then hanged himself whilst in police custody. A TV company is making a documentary about the case, trying to prove he was fitted up, and Rosie, of course, would like to prove his innocence."
"First Call?"
"Mmm."
"They do true crime programmes on Channel 5, usually slanted to show what a bunch of incompetents we are."
"I think they're using her, spinning her a line. They've already conned her into signing a request for her father's exhumation, to obtain DNA samples and, of course, to make some moody TV. No doubt they'll do the exhumation at night and organise a rain machine and lots of dry ice. If I make it right with Mr Wood will you do some leg-work for me?"
"I'd love to, and it's got to be more interesting than poisoned corned beef. The question is, did he do it?"
"What do you think?"
"I'd say she's heading for a fall. If it were my father I'd settle for the uncertainty and believe what I wanted to believe."
"Me too, but maybe we can break that fall. If we only beat First Call to the truth it would be something."
"OK, where do I start?"
Contacts are a major resource for any policeman, both inside and outside the force. A phone call to some anonymous officer in another part of the country will be treated with civility and evoke promises of help, but he's a busy man and his superintendent has a bigger pull on his time than you have. But if you've had a pint together and are on first-names you can usually generate a little enthusiasm for your case. When I gave the talk at Bramshill I distinctly heard a Welsh accent to one of the questions. I found the course notes and thumbed through them. He was called Bryan Pinter, a DCI in Powys.
"Hello Bryan," I heard myself saying, three minutes later. "It's Charlie Priest. I met you at Bramshill last Thursday." He remembered me, he said, and had enjoyed the course. My talk had been most interesting. "I need a name," I told him. "I'm resurrecting a case from the seventies down in South Dyfed and want to talk to someone about it. Do you know anybody there who might help me?"
Ten minutes later it was: "Hello Derek. I've just been talking to Bryan Pinter… he sends his regards, by the way… yes, he's fine… and he suggests that you are the man I need to give me some help."»
I loaded things so that it sounded as ifl were trying to take the steam out of First Call's expose. If they were going to beat us around the head with a false confession perhaps we could hold our hands up to it before the show was broadcast and pre-empt their swaggering. I didn't say that the accused's daughter was a friend of mine and I wanted to prove his innocence even more that First Call did. Rosie was right: when the enemy is marching over the drawbridge with a mean look on his countenance there is a strong temptation to close ranks.
Dave came in. "I've got square eyes," he complained. "It's a waste of time."
"Any more cases reported?" I asked.
"No. Looks as if the worst is over. They've either died, moved or stopped doing it."
"Fair enough. So why don't you go to a couple of the stores and talk to the security people. I know that they've been told to contact us if they see anything suspicious, but you know what they're like. Have a word with them."
"If you want. I was still thinking that maybe we should talk to Sebastian and Mrs Grainger, while the cat's away."
"No," I said. "I'd rather you talked to security."
He gave me a hangdog look, said: "OK," and turned to leave.
"Close the door, please," I told him.
When he'd gone I picked up the phone and dialled. "Is that Sebastian?" I asked the voice that answered, certain that it was. "This is Detective Inspector Priest from Heckley CID. I'd like to come over and have a word with you, and also with Mrs Grainger, if she's available."
Sebastian met me at the door and suggested that I follow him. He picked up a tray laden with Thermos, cups and a plate of biscuits from a sideboard in the hallway and set off at a fair pace into the bowels of Dob Hall with me trotting obediently behind.
"Sir Morton's away playing golf, isn't he?" I called to his back.
"So I am led to understand," he replied.
"Does he play much golf?"
"A fair amount."
"I enjoy a round myself. Which club is he a member of?" The corridor we were following ended at a glass wall and beyond it was the leisure and office complex.
"I don't know. Mrs Grainger said she will see you by the pool."
"How long have you worked for the Graingers?"
"Eight years."
The white light of fluorescence replaced the gloom of the hall, ozone was in the air and pot plants stretched towards the high roof. It was all glass and aluminium and fabricated wooden beams. A figure in a black costume was doing an expert crawl down the length of the pool.
Sebastian placed the tray on a hardwood table and invited me to take a seat. "Coffee or orange juice, Sir?" he asked.
"Oh, um, coffee, please," I replied and he poured me a cup.
"Help yourself to biscuits, and Mrs Grainger will be with you in a moment."
He sasheyed away and stood at the end of the pool as the swimmer approached. When he caught her eye he gestured in my direction and she gave me a wave. Sebastian turned to leave and the swimmer pushed off and did two lengths without surfacing for air.
She climbed out of the pool, sleek as an otter, wrapped herself in a huge black and white striped robe and came over to meet me.
"Hi, I'm Debra Grainger," she said in an American accent, extending a hand.
I stood up, saying: "DI Charlie Priest." I wasn't sure whether to shake her hand or kiss it but settled for a shake. "You swim like a fish."
"Yeah, well, I've been swimming since berbre I could walk."
"Obviously not in this country."
"Ha! No. How's the coffee?"
"Fine. Just fine. Can I…?"
"It's OK, I'll help myself. Will you excuse me for a few seconds while I put on some clothes, then you can tell me what it's all about?"
I nodded my acquiescence and she carried her coffee away with her. I walked over to the glass side of the building and looked out. There'd been a mist earlier on but the sun had burned it away and the temperature was rising. At the other side of the valley the fell-side rose like a wall, still in the shade, with what I thought was Stoodley Pike projecting upwards from the highest point. Victorian Man's attempt to dominate the landscape. I looked at the cloudless sky and wanted to be out there.
"Admiring the view?" she called to me as she came back from the changing room.
I turned to face her. She was now wearing a jogging suit and trainers with her hair held back by a headband. I'd have said she was four or five inches taller than Grainger and a good twenty years younger.
"Yes," I said, truthfully.
"More coffee?"
"No, that was fine, thank you."
"Let's go where it's more comfortable."
We went through into the office part of the leisure and office complex and emerged in one of those offices you normally only see in the colour supplements, before the people have been allowed in. There were three workstations with flat screen VDUs, each with a fancy keyboard and mouse but not a cable in sight. The VDUs were off and nobody was working in there. In one corner there was an old-fashioned drawing board with wires and a setsquare, which I found strangely reassuring.
"I understand you designed all this," I said as we passed through.
"That's right. Like it?"
The glass wall was either tinted or it had dimmed to exclude the glare of the sun. The light level was bright and shadowless but I couldn't see any fittings.
"I'm not an expert, but it looks superb to me. Anybody would be delighted to work in these conditions."
"Why, thank you. That was the intention." Her office was adjoining. It was quite small, just a desk and a telephone, with two easy chairs. She beckoned me to sit down.
"I noticed the drawing board in the corner," I remarked. "Do you still hanker for the feel of a pencil?"
"Yes, I do. There was something therapeutic about standing at a board for hours at a time. Now we use it when we have work experience kids in. We show them how to draw an object in isometric and third angle projection and then let them loose on the computer, using CAD. They enjoy it."
"Did your company design the stores?" It was a leading question. The Grainger's stores had attracted wide criticism for being barren, depressing blots on the landscape. Hence most of the opposition to them.
She smiled. "No. We were invited to tender, but that's as far as marital loyalty got us. When it comes to financial matters Mort has a skin like a rhino. So, how can I help you, Inspector?"
"You're already helping me," I replied. "Frankly, we're making no progress with the case, are no nearer to discovering who is contaminating items, so I'm just collecting background information, familiarising myself with the situation. Only Grainger's stores appear to be involved so we're wondering if it's a grudge that someone holds against Sir Morton, or even yourself."
She looked suitably puzzled, said she couldn't think of anybody, but Mort was a businessman and although he tried not to, it was inevitable that he'd stepped on a few toes on his way up.
"Any names spring to mind?" I asked, but she shook her head. She rarely became involved with the business.
"How long have you been married?"
"Is that relevant, Inspector?"
"You're an attractive lady. Any old boyfriends still carrying a torch for you?"
"I see. Twelve years. Mort's been married before but his first wife did quite well for herself, married a judge and lived happily ever after."
"Any children?"
"Mort has a married son. He sees him occasionally, when he wants money."
"Ah yes," I said. "I've been told that his daughter-in-law sometimes works as a secret shopper for Sir Morton. Is that so?"
"No. Not officially. Mort wouldn't countenance such a thing. She uses the stores and then comes complaining to him about the service, or whatever. He ignores her, but politely."
"Actually," I began, "I've been told that you sometimes pose as a secret shopper. You wear a disguise and…"
She threw back her head and laughed. "Good God, Inspector, who have you been talking to?"
I smiled at her. "Anybody who'll give me the time of day."
"I shop at Grainger's. Is that a surprise? I wear normal, off-the-peg clothes. Do they expect me to shop in a cocktail dress?"
"OK, I'm convinced. I'll cross out secret shopper. Can you give me the son's address, please?"
"No problem."
"Thanks. I believe that Sir Morton is away playing golf somewhere."
"That's right, in Scotland."
"If you don't mind me being personal, how do you know he hasn't spent a weekend of passion in the arms of one of his checkout girls?"
"Because I know Mort, Inspector, and I can assure you that he'll find nothing with one of his checkout girls that he couldn't find at home, with interest. This whole thing is putting him under tremendous pressure, what with all the call-backs and the press constantly harassing him. He deserves his weekend away from it all."
It was a convincing reply, but she'd taken the question in her stride, almost as if expecting it. "When I said checkout girl," I explained, "I didn't necessarily mean literally. I was referring to the entire female sex."
"And my answer is the same, with interest."
"Right. And what about you? Any skeletons in your cupboards?"
"I love Mort, Inspector, and he loves me. We trust each other and neither of us is playing fast and loose with anyone else. All this has been a terrible strain on him and we'll both be grateful if you can find the perpetrator."
"OK. Thanks for being so frank with me, Mrs Grainger, and thanks for the coffee. I wonder if it will be possible for me to have a quick word with Sebastian?"
"Sebastian? No, Inspector. I'm afraid he's taken the rest of the day off."
The valley traps the heat and the temperature was rising. The forecasters had promised the hottest day of the summer and it wasn't letting them down. Heading through town I dived into a parking place and walked to the sandwich shop, my jacket slung over my shoulder. A woman in leggings and an FCUK T-shirt coming in the opposite direction put on an unexpected burst of speed to beat me through the door. She had a face like bag of potatoes and a perspiration problem. I felt like asking her why she had fuck emblazoned across her bosom, but she would only have whined that it stood for French Connection United Kingdom and accuse me of having a dirty mind.
Bollocks, I thought. It's just another nail in the coffin of civilization. Another tiny smidgeon of indecency to inure us against the collapse of public taste. Sex sells; selling makes money; money is God; amen. At that very moment some shit-brained graduate down in Soho or Docklands was no doubt wondering if the world was ready for an advertising campaign built around the English monarch who tried to stop the tide coming in — King Cnut. It was only a matter of time. I asked for a chicken tikka, in a soft roll, and followed the woman out into the sunshine.
So what did that make me? I turned my head and watched my reflection in the shop windows: package in one hand; jacket dangling from the other; long legs striding out. Charlie Priest, lawman. Two nights earlier I hadn't gone to bed with my goddaughter, hadn't made love to her, and I was glad. There'd be no awkward silences when we next met, no avoiding being left alone with each other and no embarrassed looks across the table when we all went out together. We wouldn't have to measure our words every time we spoke, to avoid imaginary or accidental innuendos. I gave myself a wink and almost collided with a bus stop.
I picked up the phone, put it down again, walked over to the window. The sunlight bounced off the station's windows and back-lit the building opposite. Down in the street people wandered about in skimpy tops and shorts. I can never understand how they change their clothes so quickly as soon as the sun comes out. I stared at the phone for a long moment, then picked it up and dialled.
How did Mrs Grainger know that Sebastian had taken the rest of the day off? Perhaps he was going to, but he could still have been lurking about somewhere. She was quite certain that he'd already gone. Didn't she want me to talk to him? Mr Wood answered the phone almost immediately.
"It's Charlie, Gilbert," I said. "I wouldn't mind taking the afternoon off."
"Fair enough," he replied. "Is it work or play?"
"A bit of both."
"No need to book it then." "Cheers."
And that invigorated me. The sun was shining, the outdoors beckoned and I had a free afternoon. I dialled another number. "Technical support," a voice confirmed. "It's DI Priest," I told it. "I want to borrow something."
At home I changed into shorts and boots and put a few items in a rucksack. An hour after speaking to Gilbert I was sitting in the pay-and-display car park in Hebden Bridge, trying to be patient as a young woman loaded two infants and all their paraphernalia into a VW Golf. She gave me a hesitant wave as she drove away and I claimed the spot.
I slung the gear over my shoulders and headed out of town, over the River Calder, the canal and the railway line. The signal was green and I like watching trains, but I'd a stiff walk ahead of me so I pressed on. A notice on a lamppost caught my eye, like the wanted poster I'd seen in Heckley, and further on I saw another. I crossed the road to read it. Claudius the cat had gone missing and its five-year-old owner was grieving. Small reward offered.
The slope starts almost immediately, giving you little time to raise your metabolism, and I was soon puffing. The shade of the trees that cling to the valley side was welcome, but it was the hottest part of the day and I could feel sweat trickling down my spine. Fat bees busied themselves amongst the Himalayan balsam that lined the road and a peacock butterfly flew ahead of me, its wings flickering with colour in the dappled sunshine. If you could see Stoodley Pike from Dob Hall, you didn't have to be Isaac Newton to know that you'd be able to see Dob Hall from Stoodley Pike. I'd been there plenty of times in the past, usually making a decent circular walk of it, but today I took the more direct route, straight up Pinnacle Lane. In ten minutes I'd left the last house behind and soon broke out of the shelter of the trees.
I'd borrowed a telescope from technical support. "What's it for?" I was asked.
"Um, watching someone."
"Is this an approved operation?"
"Off course it is."
"Right. Do you prefer straight or angled?"
"I haven't a clue. Something you just look through."
"We'll make it straight, then. Any idea what magnification?"
"You tell me."
"How far away are they?"
"About a mile, perhaps a little over."
"Daylight or darkness?"
"Daylight. This afternoon."
"Nice and bright then. OK, I'll fit the 40x eyepiece but put a 20x in with it in case you find that too difficult to hold. You'll need a tripod, too."
"Great. Any chance of someone bringing it over?"
So in my rucksack I had an Opticron 50mm telescope, as favoured by birdwatchers, and a Vivitar tripod was slung over my shoulder.
The track gains about five hundred feet in a quarter of a mile, which is a stiff climb. I'd brought a bottle of water but didn't need it just yet. The path levelled out and then it was a straight blast towards the summit.
It's hard to imagine the euphoria that swept the nation after Wellington's victory at Waterloo. It must have been like VE Day, the Falkland and Gulf War celebrations and the Millennium all swept into one great orgy of triumphalism. Honours were piled upon the man, and this part of the kingdom showed its gratitude by subscribing towards a monument, now known as Stoodley Pike. It fell down after forty years but they built another one and used a better concrete mix the second time. The hint of a breeze on the exposed moor was welcome, then it was another climb for the last half mile.
They picked a good spot for it, with views of the kingdom in all directions. To the west and east stretched the plains of Lancashire and York, their boundaries lost in the haze, while to the south the moors lay folded and rumpled all the way down into Derbyshire, like a duvet on an unmade bed. But I was interested in the opposite direction, across the Calder valley. It was in full sun, basking in the uncharacteristic heat wave, and I wondered if property prices depended on which side of the valley you were situated. A field down below was set out with jumps as if a gymkhana was expected, and traffic was stationary all the way into Todmorden.
There's a viewing gallery about twenty feet up the tower, accessed by a spiral staircase. For part of the way you are in total darkness, groping for the steps with your feet while trailing a guiding hand on the wall. The tripod slipped off my shoulder and nearly tripped me, but after a few seconds we were stepping out into the sunshine again. I walked round the gallery, taking in the view, but it wasn't much better than at ground level, and the balustrade was at an awkward height, so I felt my way back down the stairs and set up the telescope on a flat rock at the edge of the escarpment.
I scanned the far side of the valley with my binoculars but couldn't locate Dob Hall. Back to first principles. How did I get there this morning? Find the road, follow it along, turn right after the pub. Ah! There it was. I'd been underestimating the power of the binoculars, moving too far. The Hall was in a wooded area but the trees had been cleared from the front to open up the view. I wondered how they won permission for that, but was grateful at the same time. The front of the house was visible, with a lawn to one side and the garage block to the other. The office and leisure complex was at the rear, out of sight. I scanned around, looking for prominent landmarks, then turned to the telescope.
It was harder than I expected but eventually we mastered it and the Georgian facade of Dob Hall with its elegant entrance portico swam into view. There were two cars parked in front of the house and a single sun lounger sat on the lawn. Keeping one eye closed was irritating after a few minutes so I used the binoculars. I don't know what I expected or hoped to see. Sebastian prowling around the premises, proving Debra Grainger had lied? The woman herself skinny-dipping in the fish pond? I don't know, but it was a good excuse for an afternoon out of the office, and I'd settle for that.
I ate the chicken tikka sandwich and drank some of the water. A steady procession of walkers stopped at the Pike before giving me a friendly wave and moving on. They were mainly grey-haired couples, no doubt with matching anoraks stuffed in their 'sacks. I reminded myself that it was Monday afternoon but for them it was just another day. Perhaps there would be life outside the police force, after all.
I was doing a sweep with the bins when a movement caught my attention. A figure, no doubt Mrs Grainger, was spreading a towel on the sun lounger. She placed something on the little table that stood alongside, carefully tucked in the ends of the towel and arranged her elegant limbs to take advantage of the sun's rays. She was wearing a one-piece white swimsuit. I smiled to myself, wondered if what I was doing was perverted, and turned to the telescope.
It was a better view, much better, but at that magnification, even with a tripod, it's difficult holding the picture steady. And maybe my hand was shaking just a little. Somehow, it didn't seem real. It was like watching her on TV, starring in an Andy Warhol film where nothing happens for eight hours. I stood up, did a few stretching exercises and watched a train crawl down the valley towards Mytholmroyd, Halifax and the rest of the world.
I was back at the telescope, wondering whether to try the 20x eyepiece, when the action started. Mrs Grainger had turned over to cook her back when a pair of black-trousered legs appeared alongside her and their owner lowered a tray onto the little table. She turned her head away from him in an eloquent gesture, but he wasn't to be rebuffed. He stood looking at her for a few seconds, as if saying something, then sat next to her on the edge of the lounger and placed his hand in the small of her back. She leapt to her feet, snatching up the towel, and I knocked the telescope out of focus.
It must have been nearly a minute before I found the garden again, this time with the binoculars. Sebastian, if it was he, was stretched out on the sun bed, hands behind his head. He sat up, reached for something off the tray and appeared to down it in one gulp before resuming the horizontal position. Well, well, well, I thought. What was all that about?
He stayed there for another five minutes before storming off into the house. I packed the gear and set off back down the hill. There's a rather nice teashop in town, and a piece of apple pie, with cream and a pot of tea, would round off the perfect day just nicely.