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Derek Johnstone from South Dyfed rang me that evening, one second after I'd dipped a number six squirrel hair brush into a tin of black enamel. I dropped the brush and raced into the house to answer the phone.
"Sorry to ring you at home, Charlie," he began, "but I'm taking tomorrow off."
"A great idea, Derek," I said. "Wouldn't mind taking advantage of this weather myself."
"Well, actually, it's for my aunt's funeral."
"Oh, I am sorry."
"That's all right. She was ninety-one and would insist on riding her bike."
"Oh. Right."
"I've managed to have a look at the files for the case you mentioned and I've put some of the relevant stuff in the post. Frankly, Charlie, it all looks cut and dried. At least on the face of it. Witnesses saw Abraham Barraclough following the girl, the blood group matched, he had scratch marks on his neck and he made a full confession."
Abraham Barraclough. That was the first time I'd heard his name, and Rosie had evidently reverted to her maiden name after her divorce. Good for her. I said: "Witnesses. Who saw him?"
"Several adults and children. There's a bit of a headland between the village and the school. The road and footpath follow the coastline round it, but some of the kids take a shortcut over the hill. The girl — Glynis Evelyn Williams — was seen to take the shortcut, and Abraham Barraclough was seen outside the school, hanging around. Later, they found her body up there."
I knew about the blood under Glynis's fingernails, presumably causing the scratch marks. It sounded like the clincher. I wasn't prepared for this interview, didn't know which way to take it.
"You said: 'Cut and dried, on the face of it.' What did you mean by that?"
"Ah!" he replied. "That's one small blot on the landscape. I thought you might like to talk to the investigating officer who took the statement, one Chief Inspector Henry Bernard Ratcliffe, so I looked him up."
"Goon."
"Apparently he was pensioned off on, um, ill health about two years after this case."
The way he pronounced the words gave them added meaning. "You mean it wasn't ill health?" I said.
"This was back in seventy-six, Charlie, when ill health was a convenient way of sidelining somebody with minimum fuss."
"So what did he do?"
"Not sure. I've mentioned it to a couple of the lads who were around then and they think he was involved in the death of a vagrant in Swansea. Apparently he had rather strong views on things and didn't care where he aired them."
"That's interesting, Derek, I'm very grateful for all the trouble you've taken. Is this Henry Bernard Ratcliffe still alive, do you know?"
"Pensions will tell you that."
"So they will. You're a treasure."
He lived at Crest View, Tarporley Road, Chester, I learned next morning when our pensions department rang me back. I bit my lip, dithered awhile and dialled the number.
"Matron," came the reply. Not what I'd expected.
"Oh, er, good morning," I blustered. "My name is, er, Priest and I'm trying to locate an old colleague. I was given this number but was expecting it to be his home."
"It may very well be," Matron replied. "This is the Crest View Hospice. What is your colleague's name?"
"Ratcliffe. Henry Bernard Ratcliffe."
"Yes, we do have Mr Ratcliffe staying with us. Do you want me to try to find him for you?"
"Um, not for the moment, please. Can-you tell me what's wrong with him?"
"No, Mr Priest. I'm not at liberty to discuss a patient's medical details."
"Of course not," I agreed in my most understanding tone. "I shouldn't have asked. Fact is, Matron, I'm a police officer, as was Mr Ratcliffe, and some questions have arisen about one of his cases. Would it be possible for me to come and discuss it with him?" I struggled to find the correct expression for having all his marbles and settled for: "Will he know what I'm talking about?"
"Oh yes, Mr Priest. Chief Inspector Ratcliffe has all his mental faculties. It's his body that's letting him down. I'm sure he'll be delighted to see an old colleague."
I wasn't so sure, but three hours and seventy-eight miles later I was turning the two handles on the door of Crest View Hospice. They put two handles on the door to stop the inmates escaping. When I haven't the wit to get round that one I'd rather be out of it. Unless… unless the idea is that if you take both hands off the Zimmer frame you fall to the floor. I shuddered and pushed the door open.
It was an old building, probably built in the thirties, but the inside was shiny-clean and smelled of furniture polish and boiling vegetables. It was nearly lunchtime and one or two patients were already seated at a long table that I could see through an open door. I knocked on the Matron's door, also open, and she looked up and smiled.
"Mr Ratcliffe is sitting outside," she told me after the introductions. "I told him he had a visitor coming." She led me through a lounge dotted with easy chairs, mostly unoccupied, and down a short corridor. An impossibly tall, thin man coming the opposite way stood to one side and snapped me an impeccable military salute. He was wearing a red beret with a feather cockade in the front. I smiled and gave him a rather sloppy one back, like President Reagan used to.
"Major Warburton," Matron explained as we walked along.
The husk of what had once been Detective Chief Inspector Ratcliffe was hunched in a wheelchair in the corner of a courtyard, catching the sun. Matron pointed to him and then left me, as if she didn't want to be there, but I suppose she had work to do. He was wearing a shirt buttoned to the neck, a straw trilby and grey trousers that hung over his bony knees. A walking stick leaned against one of them.
"Hello, Henry," I said, pulling a plastic chair nearer to him. "I'm DI Charlie Priest, from Heckley, and I'd like to ask you a few questions."
"You and the others," he replied, not offering a handshake.
I didn't know what he meant but filed the comment for later use. I nodded towards his legs, saying: "I'm sorry to see you like this, Henry, it must be hard for you."
"Aye, well…" His voice was clear, with a touch of gravel in it.
"I want to talk to you about a job you did in South Wales, back in seventy-three."
"Glynis Evelyn Williams. That's who you mean, isn't it?"
"That's right. Questions are being asked about the result. How well do you remember it?"
"There's nothing wrong with my memory. Abraham Barraclough did it and when I stand in front of St Peter — which won't be long, now — and he asks me what I did with my life I'll tell him that I'm the one who nailed Barraclough. He'd've got life, been out now, if he hadn't hung himself. Good riddance, I say."
"He had scratch marks on his neck, I believe."
"He had, and his blood group matched. Group B, eight percent of the population. And then there was the confession."
"Were any pictures taken of the scratches?"
"No. Why did we need pictures? And they'd nearly faded away by the time we caught him."
"Did the pathologist look at them?"
"Not that I know of."
"How did you catch him?"»
"He gave himself up. We were taking" Islood samples of everybody in the village and he knew the net was tightening, so he walked into the station and said he'd done it."
"And you believed him? Every murder attracts nutters who confess."
"He had the scratch marks. He was dead by the time we matched the blood group, but the coroner was happy."
"You took the confession, I believe."
"That's right."
"Were the words yours or his?"
"I… helped him. He just kept saying that he'd done it, didn't want to go into details. He saw her and wanted her, he said. She struggled and he suddenly realised what he was doing, but she was dead by then. She had blue knickers. Pale blue, not dark ones. Not navy blue like most of the other schoolgirls. He kept going on about them. That's about it."
"Was he right about the knickers?"
"Of course he was right about the knickers. Have you seen a picture of her?"
"Of Glynis? No I haven't."
"She was lovely. Lovely. Long blonde hair. A daughter any parent would be proud of, and that monster snuffed her out for his own gratification. What did you say your name was?"
"Charlie. Charlie Priest. Why didn't you let him write his own statement, he was an intelligent man?"
"Intelligent! You call that intelligent!"
"Tell me."
"He was a commie. Didn't you know that, Charlie? A commie bastard. Every dispute there was he was in the thick of it. Council meetings, championing all the down-and-outs; on the picket line with the miners the year before. Gave them cheap bread, he did. I'd have given them bullets, not bread. Shot them all, that's what they deserved, and what happened? They brought the government down, that's what. Democracy! You call that democracy!"
"When I said I wanted to talk to you," I began, "you said something about the others. What others?"
"Huh! Television people. They've written to me three times, asking me to contact them. The Post Office forwarded the letters here but I haven't replied. Why can't they let sleeping dogs lie?"
"That's why I'm here, Henry. I want to find out the truth before they do."
"You know the truth. It's staring you in the face. Abe Barraclough strangled poor little Glynis Williams and then hung himself in his cell. End of story."
"They're going to dig him up. Dig him up so they can compare his DNA with that found under Glynis's fingernails. That'll prove things one way or the other."
"Good!" he snapped, leaning forward as if about to rise from the chair. "Good! And then maybe them and you will leave me alone to die in peace."
I lifted my hands in a gesture that said I was happy with his reply, and sat back to enjoy the sun, hoping to lower his guard and encourage him to tell me more. I wasn't disappointed.
"Paedophiles," he ranted, after a few seconds. "That's what they are. Paedophiles. And all you all want to do is defend them. Who defends the poor kiddies? Tell me that. Who defends the victims?" I sat forward again and he grabbed my arm. "And asylum seekers," he rambled. "Bringing diseases with them. Aids and TB. Why do we let them in? They make a mess of their own countries and come here, and what do they do? Have loads of kids, draining the Health Service; try to make this place like the one they've left. So why do they come, all the Pakis and niggers? Because we're too soft, that's why. Send 'em all back, that's what we should do. Go into any town and what do you see? Beggars, making more than you and me ever did, sponging on society. Scum, that's what they are: scum."
I prised his fingers off my arm. "Is that what the vagrant in Swansea was, Henry? Was he scum, too?"
"He was…" He grabbed the stick and hi§ hands shook as he leaned on it. "He was… a parasite. Took our money under false pretences."
"What did you do? Give him a good kicking?"
"Natural causes, that's what the inquest decided. He died of natural causes."
"Oh, so you only pissed on his sleeping bag and let him freeze to death."
"He deserved everything he got."
"And you got early retirement on a full pension, on the grounds of ill health."
He nailed me with his rheumy eyes and said: "Aye, well, they got the date of that a bit wrong, didn't they?"
Major Warburton saw me and half rose from his chair as I strode through the lounge, but I just kept going. I'd had my fill of old soldiers for one day.
Pete Goodfellow was sitting at my desk when I arrived back at the nick, busy with my paperwork. My In basket was empty and he'd arranged everything into four neat piles.
"Wow, that looks efficient," I said as I walked into my office.
"Hi Chas," he replied, starting to rise from my chair. "Had a good day?"
"You stay there," I told him, sitting in the visitor's place, "and keep up the good work. I've been to see the investigating officer in the South Wales job."
"Learn anything?"
I told him all about my little talk with Henry Bernard Ratcliffe. When I finished Pete said: "So you think he'd be capable of fixing the confession."
"I think he'd be capable of fixing the confession, the evidence and the coroner, Pete. Even allowing for the state of his health he's a bundle of fun. What about you? Did you find anything for me?"
"Mmm," he replied, pushing a sheet from the telephone pad my way. "One of the names that Rosie gave you who was in the dead girl's class. Still lives in the village. There's a telephone number, too."
"Hey, that's great," I said. "I'll ring her tonight."
Dave returned from wherever he'd been and joined us. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt with little pictures of Abbott and Costello all over it and his nose and cheeks were the colour of tomato soup.
"Before I forget," he began, "the brass band's playing in a competition at Leeds Town Hall on Friday. Fancy coming along to support the boys?"
"Er, no Dave. Count me out, please," I replied.
"It's always a good night out."
"No, I've a few things to do."
"Pete's coming, aren't you?"
"Try stopping me," he said.
"I can't make it."
"Fair enough. So where've you been skiving off these last two days."
"Conducting investigations," I told him. "You look as if you've been sitting in a beer garden all day."
"Someone's got to keep their eye on the ball. I've been thinking about Sebastian at Dob Hall. We should have a talk to him. And Mrs Grainger. I have my suspicions about them."
"Ah," I replied, unable to disguise my unease. "Fact is, Dave, I had a word with her yesterday. You'd gone out but I decided you were right: we should talk to her while Sir Morton was away. I didn't catch Sebastian, though."
"Right," he said. "Right." But his expression was at odds with the words. He looked as if I'd eaten his last custard cream. I thanked Pete and he left us.
"Sit down," I told Dave, "and I'll fill you in."
When I finished he nodded knowingly and said: "So I'm right. All is not well there."
"That's the way it looks. "
"You reckon Sebastian tried it on with her?"
"Mmm."
"And you saw all this through the telescope?"
"Yep. And that's not all. There's a son and a daughter-in-law who live nearby. We ought to talk to them as soon as possible."
"Don't change the subject. You spent all yesterday afternoon up at Stoodley Pike spying on Mrs Grainger as she lay topless on a sunbed?"
"Not quite, she was wearing a one-piece costume."
"You're turning into a dirty old man, you know that?"
"You could be right. It was rather fun."
"Remind me to keep you away from my wife and daughter. Where do they live?"
"Who?"
"The son and daughter-in-law."
"Heptonstall."
"Let's go see them, then."
"I'm supposed to say that."
Three churches appears excessive in a village the size of Heptonstall, but the Victorian parish church was built to replace its 15th century predecessor after its roof was blown off. For some reason they left the old church standing, so you could argue that they only count as one. Mopping up any Nonconformists is the Methodist chapel, where John Wesley preached. Corduroy and worsted paid for them, blood, sweat and religious fervour did the rest. Sylvia Plath is buried in the churchyard.
A steep cobbled lane leads up to the village, high on a windswept hill. The place had a renaissance in the Sixties, inspired by Plath and her husband, Ted Hughes, when it attracted a community of poets and painters, some good, most indifferent. After one winter most of them left.
"What are they called?" Dave asked as the road levelled and I eased off the accelerator.
"Julian and Abigail."
They lived in three wool-maker's cottages knocked into one, on the far side of the village. It was three stories high, with a row of windows all along the top floor to allow light into the rooms where the work was done. That's what the books say, but it could have been to save lifting blocks of Yorkshire stone all the way up there. Builders were a canny lot even in those days. We parked alongside an elderly Volvo 340 and Dave pressed the bell. The thud-thud-thud of a drum machine or a big engine shook the ground beneath our feet.
Abigail Grainger answered the door. She had black hair that reached halfway down her back and was wearing a tie-dyed kaftan and beads. For a moment I was back at art college, bottle of cider in my hand, asking if this was where the party was. Dave checked her identity and introduced us.
"Is Mr Grainger in?" he asked.
"Please come in," she said with a smile. "Yes, but he's busy for the moment." The noise was louder now, and had resolved into a dum dum da-dum, dum dum da-dum, dum dum da-dum, repeated endlessly. She led us into a white-walled sitting room with a bare wooden floor and Habitat furniture and invited us to take a seat. There was a large painting on the wall, consisting of a single smear of red paint on a white background. People knock abstract expressionism, but paintings like that are difficult to do. The best way is to put the canvas on the floor at the bottom of a tower and drop the paint on it from the top. The skill is in hitting the canvas. You get one go and there's no touching up. This one didn't quite work, because the artist had tried to improve the initial splash, and you can't do that.
"Can I ask what it's about, Inspector?" she asked, addressing Dave and speaking artificially loud to overcome the background noise.
He didn't correct her. "It's about the food contamination at the Grainger's stores," he told her. "Just routine enquiries. Can I ask what Mr Grainger does for a living?"
"I'd have thought that was obvious," she replied with another smile, wafting a hand through the air.
"He's a drummer, a musician?" Dave tried.
"A rhythmologist," she replied.
"A… rhythmologist?"
"Yes, otherwise known as a drum therapist. He has a client with him at the moment, but he'll soon be through. We're all held together by vibrations, Inspector. All matter can be reduced to a waveform. The seasons, menstrual cycles, lunar cycles, circadian rhythms, alpha and beta waves… when these get out of synch with each other the problems start. Drum therapy helps find the common harmonics and bring them back into synchronism. It's a wonderful technique."
The intensity of the noise had increased. Now it was dum dum DA-DUM, dum dum DA-DUM, dum dum DA-DUM and there appeared to be two drummers at work.
"I see," Dave lied.
I jumped in to the rescue and pointed at the painting. "Are you the artist, Mrs Grainger?"
"No," she replied, looking down and adjusting the kaftan over her knees. "I'm not so talented. I have a gift but it's a very small one."
"And what's that?"
"Auras, Constable," she replied, looking at me. "I see auras."
"I wouldn't call that a small gift."
"A gift, a curse, I'm never sure what it is."
We weren't sure either, so we kept quiet. Drum therapy and seeing auras can kill a conversation as surely as accountancy and fitting tyres.
Mrs Grainger fidgeted, smiled and looked slightly embarrassed. "Would you… would you like me to describe your auras?" she asked.
Now it was our turn to fidget and look embarrassed. "Um, yes, please, if it doesn't hurt," Dave replied.
"Or cost," I added.
"On the house," she laughed. "Well, as soon as I opened the door I saw it. Your auras are different, very different, but they blend together perfectly. It's what I was saying about vibrations. You are a team, and it shows." She turned to face me. "Your aura is largely blue," she said, "with some green transitions. You are the rock of the team. Some might describe you as a plodder, but that's what gets the work done. I'm being honest. You don't mind, do you?"
"Um, no," I told her.
"And you, Inspector," she went on, turning to Dave, "yours is much more complicated. I see oranges and yellows, the colours of inspiration and flair. You take the sideways view, see past the obvious and right into the heart of a problem. And into the hearts of people. Your intuition and the constable's dedication make you a formidable team."
Dave stretched forward to lean on his knees and stare down at the floor. When he looked up his face was a mask. "I'm impressed," he said through clenched teeth, nodding his approval. "I'm really impressed. You've got us to a T."
I stood up and wandered over to the window. As I was looking out, admiring the shadows on the cottage opposite and taking deep breaths, the drumming slopped and the relief reminded me of the time I had an abscess lanced. Behind me I heard Mrs Grainger ask if we'd like a glass of water. When she left the room I turned round and resumed my seat. Dave gave me a big, self-satisfied smile.
I pointed at the painting. "Tell her you like it," I whispered.
She came back carrying a tray with three tumblers of iced water. Dave was standing in front of the painting, about a foot from it.
"What do you think?" she asked, placing the tumblers on a low table.
"Hmm, I like it," Dave replied.
"Good. What do you like about it?"
"Oh, er, it's very, um, very, um, red," he repMed.
"You're so perceptive," she told him. "The artist — he's an old friend of ours — mixes his own colours. He says that's the reddest red in the world."
"Is it true," I asked, desperate to bring the conversation under control, "that you sometimes act as a secret shopper for Sir Morton?"
"No," she replied with a smile. "Who on earth told you that?"
"Oh, it just came out in conversation."
"I shop at Grainger's, of course I do, and sometimes I read the auras of the staff. If I see something I don't like I write to Morton and tell him, but that's all. Dishonesty, untrustworthi-ness, laziness, they all show in the aura, but he doesn't believe me."
Floorboards creaked somewhere and we heard voices. "That's Julian," Mrs Grainger said, standing up again. "I'll tell him you're here." When she returned we were both sipping our water.
"How's the water?"
"Very refreshing," I replied. "Just what we need on a day like this."
"We bring it from a spring we found, on Moss Crop hill. We think it's wonderful."
I gulped down the mouthful I'd taken and wondered about sheep excrement. "Have you had it tested?" I enquired.
"It has a good aura," she assured us. "If I've interpreted it properly there are lots of GFRs in it."
"GFRs?"
"Good free radicals. It's been in the ground for millions of years, so all the bad free radicals have been taken up. There's nothing in it to combine with the body's free radicals and oxidise them."
"That's good." I placed my tumbler on the table, nearly crashing it into Dave's as he did the same. Her husband and a thin man appeared outside the window, talking earnestly. They shook hands four-handed and Julian turned to come back in.
He was wearing jeans and a Save the Planet T-shirt with sweat patches under his arms and on his chest, as if he'd just finished a marathon. He was balding on top but his ponytail clung on in defiance of the passing years. I jumped up and did the introductions, properly, but his wife didn't appear to notice the switching of the ranks.
He turned to her for a moment, his face alive with as much fervour as the people who once thronged the churches along the road. "What did you think?" he asked her.
"It was wild," she assured him. "You were really emping. I could feel it."
"We were, weren't we? I think we'll move on to the tom-toms next session." He turned to us. "Sorry about that, Inspector. Just discussing my last client. Has Abi told you what I do?"
"Yes, she has," I replied. "And all about our auras."
"Ha ha! She's very gifted. I keep telling her that she should exploit it more, but she won't listen. Now, how can I help you?"
I told him why we were there and asked him if he had any ideas about who might be contaminating the food. What did he know about Sir Morton's business dealings and had he heard of any grudges or threats against his father?
Julian Grainger shook his head and looked puzzled. He agreed that his dad must have trod on a few toes over the years, but basically he was a decent man and always tried to do the right thing.
"I'm interested in ethical trading, Inspector," he told us, "and I've had many a long discussion with Dad about it. He always listens and tries to take on board what I say. It isn't always possible because if he doesn't make a profit he goes out of business, and that doesn't help anybody, but he does what he can. We're getting him there, slowly, aren't we, Abi?"
Abi nodded enthusiastically. I suspected she emptied the swing bin with equal enthusiasm. After reading its aura, of course.
"How would you describe your relationship with Sir Morton?"
He grimaced before answering and took a drink from the glass of water he'd brought in with him. "OK, I'll be honest, Inspector. We don't always see eye to eye. We've had our differences. I'm a disappointment to him, I suppose. Can't see the Queen ever telling me to rise, Sir Julian, can you?" — Abigail giggled at this — "but blood's thicker than water, isn't it? and at the end of the day we're always there for each other."
"Are you financially dependant on him?"
"No. He bought this place for us and we regard it as a wedding present. It's worth a bit now, but we got it for peanuts. He's given us the odd interest-free loan, but I cost him a lot less than most sons who have a stinking rich dad, I'm sure of that." He paused, then said: "Am I a suspect, Inspector?"
"Everybody's a suspect," I admitted, glad that he'd asked. It cleared the air, made it easier to ask personal questions, such as: "How do you get on with your stepmother?"
"Debra? OK, I suppose. How does anybody get on with a stepmother who is only four years older than they are?"
"How often do you see her?"
"Her birthday, Dad's birthday, Abi's birthday, my birthday and Christmas. We all go out for a meal and it's all very civilized. Plus I might pop in, once or twice a year if I'm passing. That's it."
"Why doesn't she use her title? She's Lady Grainger, isn't she?"
"She claims it's because she's a republican, but it's really because it makes her anonymous. My mother, Dad's first wife, is Lady Alice Grainger. Being a mere Lady Grainger doesn't appeal to her. It's inverted snobbery."
"Do you like her?"
"She's dad's trophy wife. Miss Florida Oranges. If he's happy, I'm happy for him."
"I asked if you like her?"
He looked uncomfortable, opening his mouth to speak then deciding not to. Eventually he said: "I was nineteen when Dad first brought her home. At university. I came home for a few days but Dad had to go away on business, which left us alone together in the house. Miss Florida Oranges did the calculations and decided that a rich man's son four years her junior might be a more attractive proposition than the rich man himself who was twenty-two years her senior. She wasn't my type and I'd just met Abigail. I stuck around for three days then hotfooted it back to Nottingham, fast as I could. Next thing I knew Dad had married her in America."
I looked across at Abigail who appeared to have lost her enthusiasm as she was reminded of the three missing days. Julian hadn't hotfooted it back to her quite as quickly as she would have liked.
"Tell him about the baby," she said, her mouth a thin line.
Julian scowled at her and flapped a hand in a what's the point gesture.
"What baby?" I asked.
"Oh, it's something and nothing."
"Goon."
"Well, when they married Dad told us he was going to be a father again. He was as chuffed as a peacock. We all were. It was a joy to see him. And then… nothing happened."
"She lost it?"
"Or there never was one. A phantom pregnancy. She's neurotic, so we wouldn't put it past her to have imagined the whole thing."
"But you're not sure?"
"No."
"Has your dad included you in his will, do you know?"
"No idea."
"Are you bothered?"
"What will be… will be." He grinned at the feeble pun. "So the answer to my question is no, you don't like her."
"She's trailer trash, Inspector. Trailer trash.'"
I left the car in second gear and let it roll at its own speed down the hill, the steering wheel swinging from side to side as the tyres felt their way around the cobbles.
"Twats?" I suggested, looking across at Dave.
"They'd give twats a bad name. A pair of friggin' zonkoes if you ask me. If they're right in their heads I know where there's a big house full."
"I have to say, Dave, that you handled your promotion well."
"I did, didn't I," he replied, beaming a smile at me. "But it's not as easy as it looks."
"They certainly did a fair assassination job on the other Mrs Grainger."
"Your friend Debra? What did you think of her?"
"Who? Debra?"
"Mmm."
"I thought she was rather nice. Talented, attractive, a good aura. I was impressed, could understand what the little man sees in her."
"You're a sucker for a pretty face."
"I know. Do you think they might be behind the contaminations?"
"The fools on the hill? No, it's not their style. They'd settle for sticking pins in a corn dolly."
The paintbrush I dropped the evening before was ruined, and they're not cheap. I found another and cut the thick skin off the top of the paint. After a few trials on a piece of scrap wood I started writing the words of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's most famous poem across the blue board. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…
It was laborious work and I soon tired of it, and started hav- ing doubts about the whole project. Maybe it wasn't the great idea I'd thought it was. Never mind. I'd complete one to see if it worked, and if not I'd just have to copy a couple of Picasso's. I wrote the words in big looping letters, as if done by giant fountain pen, with plenty of circles and ovals for me to fill in with colour afterwards. Red, green and yellow.
When the board was covered in writing I stood back to assess the work. The blue was a little too dark, but might look better when the bright colours were on it. I'd underpaint them in white to make them brighter, and broaden the downstrokes of the letters. A thought struck me. The idea was that it would look as if someone had doodled carelessly all over a love letter, but if I drew a line down the middle of all the ovals and put a bit of fuzz at the top of them, they'd look like ladies' whatsits. Front bottoms. Then the recipient of the letter wouldn't appear careless about the sender, he'd be obsessed, with only one thing on his mind.
If I did the whole thing about ten feet square it could be a contender for the Turner prize. Then I thought about the previous winners and the prize money. It was only twenty thousand, and I didn't need it that bad. Picasso was obsessed with ladies' whatsits in his dotage. His late sketches were covered in them. It's where artists go when they run out of ideas. Not just painters. Writers, sculptors, songwriters, the whole lot of them. I'd stick with my bright colours.
I carefully washed the brush and went into the house. I made myself a mug of tea, put stew and dumplings in the microwave and rang the number in South Wales that Pete had given me.
A man answered the phone.
"Oh, hello," I said. "Sorry to disturb you. My name is Detective Inspector Priest from Heckley CID, up in Yorkshire, and I'd like to speak to Mrs Dunphy."
"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. "Lbok behind her — someone's closing 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 of fender 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 walkabout 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 Ј13.99, 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 ouf 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?"
Somebody added: "And her tiny breasts thrusting against the thin material of her blouse."
Dave said: "And her knicker Tastic 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."
"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.