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.'
