'At Mrs Stalin's? I remember.' Dave had been a PC and I was a rookie sergeant.
'Well, there was this youth lived next door. Had a car with a straight-through exhaust. An Avenger or an Allegro, some rubbish like that. A Morris Ital, I think that was it. Anyway, every morning at eleven minutes past seven he'd slam the door and rev the engine like he was starting a grand prix, ruining my beauty sleep, especially if I'd just come off nights.'
'That sounds like Chapeltown,' Dave said.
'So, this fine sunny morning I was coming down Roundhay Road on my bike at the end of the shift when I saw this great big cooking apple lying in the gutter. I stopped and picked it up. It was the biggest, greenest, shiniest apple I'd ever seen. I got off my bike at Mrs Stalin's and I was wondering what to do with the apple. It was a cooker, but not big enough to make a pie with. And then I saw Laddo's car, and knew that in exactly thirty-one minutes he'd be revving the damned thing enough to wake the dead. And me. So I jumped over the fence and stuffed the apple up his exhaust pipe.'
Dave chuckled and gave me a disbelieving look. 'What 'appened.'
'Nothing. I fell asleep and never heard a thing, and next morning the car was as noisy as ever.'
'So why are you confessing after all these years?'
'You asked me why the person tampering with the tins had turned to poison. Because he wasn't getting any feedback from his other activities, that's why. He planted the tins with the dye, at great personal risk, but never heard anything more about them. It was one big anti-climax, so he upped the ante. Now he's in the papers, reading about his handiwork. For months it was eating my heart out not knowing what happened to that apple. My next stunt was going to be a bomb wired to his ignition but fortunately my promotion came through first.'
'You sneaky so-and-so. Sir Morton this afternoon?'
'Yep.'
'Am I invited?'
'You bet.'
Dob Hall was built by a merchant adventurer who made his fortune out of wool in the eighteenth century, according to the local history society. Less charitable authorities suggested that slaves, guns and opium may have made a contribution to the family's wealth. Sir Morton's father, also a Sir Morton, had switched from blanket manufacturing into the grocery business when he realised that the duvet would do to blanket sales what the steam engine did to sail-making. When a shrinking army caused his lucrative military contracts to dry up he opened his first supermarket.
Originally the family had been called Grossbach, but the great-grandfather changed this to Grainger at a time when a foreign-sounding name was not good for a family business. The Saxe Coburg Gothas became the Windsors for similar reasons.
I knew all this because I'd asked Pete Goodfellow to do some research, and his findings were neatly typed and left on my desk. He'd resumed his normal duties, looking for the knicker thief and following up on burglaries, so I scrawled a message on the bottom of the sheet and placed it back on his desk. I put: That's great, Pete. It looks as if Sir M. inherited the family business. See if you can discover any disgruntled siblings hovering in the wings.
At five minutes to three Dave steered us into the imposing gateway of Dob Hall and spoke into the security system. A lone hot hatchback was standing outside them with a young female reporter from the Heckley Gazette dozing behind the wheel. She jerked awake as we stopped and climbed out of her car.
I wound my window down, shouting to her: 'What time does the Gazette go to bed, love?'
'Anytime now. It's Inspector Priest, isn't it?'
'Never heard of him, but if you contact our press office you might just get a scoop.'
She thanked me with a big smile and started to stab a number into her cell phone. If not a scoop at least she'd be up there with the tabloids when the news of the poisoned corned beef broke. The gates opened and we drove forward. The personal assistant met us at the front door and we were ushered into a side room, lined with books, and invited to sit down.
'Sir Morton will be down shortly,' he told us. My idea of a personal assistant didn't run close to this one. He was about thirty and of a type that women find attractive, if you can believe the deodorant adverts: dark-haired and designer stubble. Yasser Arafat has a lot to answer for.
He turned to leave, but before he could I said: 'I get the impression that Sir Morton is just passing through.'
'Yes.'
'It sounds a hectic schedule. Any idea where he's going or how long he will be away for?'
'I'm sure Sir Morton will be able to tell you that himself,' he replied, scowling at me from beneath bushy eyebrows, and left.
'Good try,' Dave said.
'The soul of discretion.'
'Think he's gay?'
'It's possible. Is it relevant?'
'It's possible.'
In the middle of the room was an antique table with a shine on it that took a hundred years of sore knuckles to produce, and on the table was a perspex box, keeping the dust off the model it held. I stood up and walked over to inspect it.
'It's this house, I think,' I told Dave.
He came to join me. It was beautifully made, with delicate stonework and tall chimneys, and an ornate, tiled roof that must have taken hours to construct. Tiny-figures were grouped at the front around a model car and others were neatly parked nearby. Trees like the ones I'd seen on model railway layouts were dotted around the grounds, and at the back ancient met modern. There was a huge extension, bigger than the floor plan of the original building but only one storey high, with two more cars — a Rolls Royce and a little yellow coupe — parked outside. His and hers, at a guess. It was all metal and glass, one part being a swimming pool and the rest of it what looked like office space.
'Like it?' said voice behind us like the crack of a whip. We turned and introduced ourselves to Sir Morton Grainger, multimillionaire and supermarket supremo.
When we'd shaken hands I said: 'Is it this place?'
'That's right,' he replied. 'My wife made the model to help; get the improvements past the planning people.'
'Did it work?'
'Oh yes, it's all up and running. Been so for nearly five years.'
He was about five feet seven tall and dressed in what I believe is called County: hacking jacket; fawn slacks; heather-mix shirt and woven tie. His hair was fair and crinkly and the broken veins on his cheeks indicated an outdoor man who enjoys a drop or two. A hunting man, at a guess, with a military background.
He gestured for us to sit down and I noticed that his brogues were shiny enough for him to shave by in the absence of a mirror, or perhaps use to signal a passing plane were he ever unfortunate enough to be shipwrecked. There's no substitute for breeding, I reluctantly admitted to myself, drawing my grubby footwear under the chair, out of sight.
'Thanks for seeing us, Sir Morton,' I began, 'and I apologise for you hearing about this business somewhat indirectly. We did try to contact you but you lead a busy life.'
'The price of success, Inspector. Constantly trying to keep ahead of the game. Actually, I'm glad you're here. Any chance of you doing something about the press — they're camped outside the bloody gates?'
'There was just one there when we arrived,' I told him, 'and we've sent her on her way.'
'Oh, that's good. Thank you. So how is the man who was poisoned?'
'He's recovering, but there's been another.'
'Oh dear. It's a nasty business. Is he alright?'
'It's a woman, but we're told she'll recover. This time it appears to be a tin of corned beef that's caused the problem. I'm afraid you'll have to widen the scope of the call-back.'
'Bloody hell! That's all we need. So how much nearer are you to catching the person responsible?'
'No nearer at all, but we'd like to ask you a few questions.'
'Right. So fire away, but make it quick, I've a train to catch.'
