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
