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
