She shook her head. 'No. The local vicar wouldn't allow it. Or maybe he daren't. Feelings were high. The day after Dad was arrested the first stone came through the window. After that we had police protection, if you could call it that. Eventually we moved into lodgings in Cardiff but the news leaked out wherever we went. After the inquest Mum contacted the vicar at Uley, in Gloucestershire, where they were married, and he allowed Dad to be buried there. We moved around a bit and eventually settled in Cromer. Things were better for a while, but they caught up with us.'
'It must have been dreadful,' I said. 'Dreadful.'
'Yes, it was.'
I thanked her for the tea and hoped I hadn't resurrected too many bad feelings. She told me that they'd never been laid to rest and thanked me for the flowers. At the door she said: 'You think he did it, don't you?'
I shook my head. 'Someone did it, Rosie.'
'It wasn't my father. If you'd ever met him you'd understand that.'
I wanted to say that hundreds of paedophile vicars and priests and teachers and youth workers were able to indulge in their vile practices undetected because that was exactly what everybody said about them, but I didn't. Instead I gave her a bleak smile and turned to go.
'The producer said you'd close ranks, defend your own. Is that what you're doing, Charlie? Closing ranks.'
I spun round to face her again and saw that she was close to tears. 'I don't give a shit about closing ranks, Rosie,' I declared. 'If there's any way in which I can help you, I will. I just don't want you to be hurt any more.'
'Will you? I'd desperately like to believe that.'
'It's the truth, Rosie. I'll see what I can do.'
Chapter Seven
'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
