arisen about the murder of Glynis Williams. I need to talk to your wife. Now I can either drive all the way down there and perhaps interview her at your local police station, or preferably we can sort things out on the telephone.'
'How do I know you're what you say you are? They said they were from the police.'
'Who's they?'
'Journalists. From the TV.'
'Is this recently?'
'Last week, and the week before.'
They'd tried to contact Ratcliffe and now they were after Mrs Dunphy. I was one step behind them all the time.
'Right,' I said. 'Here's what you do. Ring your local nick and ask them for the number of Heckley police station, in Yorkshire. I'm at home, so ask Heckley for DI Priest's home number. I'll have to ring them to tell them to release it to you. Then you ring me.'
'That's OK, I believe you,' he replied. 'The wife's here. I'll put her on. Sorry I swore at you.'
'I've heard worse. Thanks a lot.'
Mary Dunphy had the first decent Welsh accent I'd heard but it was attractive and she spoke clearly. I envisaged her in the big skirt and hat, with lace petticoats, playing the harp. Racial stereotypes. I could get the sack for that if the thought-police were watching. After the introductions I said: 'How well did you know Glynis?'
'We were in the same class at school, and she lived just across the road.'
'Were you friends?'
'Not really. We had different interests, and she always seemed more grown up than the rest of us.'
'Was she a pretty girl?'
'Pretty? No, she wasn't pretty. She was a big girl, tall and heavily built, but she wasn't pretty.'
So much for Ratcliffe's description of her. 'Did you know the Barraclough family?' I asked.
'Oh yes. They lived just down from Glynis, on the corner. They had a bakery, so everybody knew them.'
'What was Mr Barraclough like?'
'He was a big man, with a bushy beard. We all thought he was nice, until… you know.'
'Did you see much of him?'
'Yes, he was about all the time. Always had a kind word or something funny to say. He was a Pied Piper sort of character. When you went to the shop he'd always try to find a broken gingerbread man to pop in with your order, that sort of thing. The kids used to follow him around.'
I couldn't resist asking: 'Did you know his daughter?'
'Rosie? Yes, I knew Rosie. She was younger than me. Cleverest girl in the school, and the prettiest. We envied her living in the bread shop, and having a dad like that. I often wonder what happened to her.'
'Was there ever any talk of Mr Barraclough behaving improperly towards any of your schoolfriends? Did you ever have any reasons to distrust him?'
'No, I never heard of anything like that, until…'
'Until what, Mrs Dunphy?'
'Well, until afterwards. Like I said, he was friendly with all the children. Nowadays, what with all you read in the papers, that makes you suspicious, doesn't it?'
'I'm afraid it does, Mrs Dunphy. We live in a sad world. Did you believe it when they said he'd killed Glynis?'
'Well, he confessed, didn't he? He wouldn't have confessed if he hadn't done it, would he?'
'I suppose not, but up to then, before he confessed, did you consider he might be the murderer?'
'No, he was the last man I'd have thought of.'
'Thank you. Is there anything else you can tell me that might be relevant?'
There was a long silence before she said: 'No, I don't think so,' but in the background I heard her husband say: 'Tell him.'
'Tell me what?' I asked.
'Oh, I don't know…'
'Go on,' I urged her. 'Now you'll have to tell me.'
'It's just that… I don't like speaking ill of the dead.'
I thought it was going to be some revelation about Abraham Barraclough so I braced myself for bad news and said: 'It can't hurt them now, Mrs Dunphy.'
'No, but it can hurt her family. They still live in the village.'
I heaved a silent sigh of relief. 'Tell me what you know,' I said.
'Well, let's just say that Glynis was what you might call an immoral person.'
'Immoral!' I heard her husband scoff in the background. 'That's putting it mildly!'
'Put him on,' I told her. There was a mumbled exchange of words and a scraping noise before his voice greeted me again.
'Tell me what you know about her, please,' I said.
'Well, Inspector, let's just say that she did it for friends and she had no enemies. Glynis might have only been thirteen but she was a tart, and no mistake. The school had a rugby team, and when they did well she would reward them in her own special way. When they lost she commiserated with them. They didn't mind, it was all the same to them.'
'Sex,' I said. 'You're talking about sex?'
'Well I'm not talking about her giving them a pep talk. I reckon every lad in South Dyfed lost his cherry to Glynis Evelyn Williams.'
I pondered on his words. In court, her reputation could have made the difference between a murder rap and manslaughter. 'Have you spoken to the TV people at all?' I asked.
'No, I told them where to go.'
'I'd be grateful if you kept it that way.'
I thanked them and rang off. By rugby he no doubt meant the union code, so now I had fifteen possible suspects. The dumplings were done a treat but the tea was cold so I switched the kettle on again. Knowing Glynis's reputation, ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have claimed that she led them on, but what was it that Ratcliffe had said? 'He saw her and wanted her,' that was it. And: 'He suddenly realised what he was doing.' Nothing there about her leading him on, no blame laid on the girl, but were the words in the confession Barraclough's words or Ratcliffe's?
I didn't know. Holy Mother of Mary, I didn't have a clue.
The warm weather held and the office looked more like a holiday camp than a dedicated crime-fighting establishment. Shades and summer shirts were the order of the day. Dave came in and asked what I was doing so I told him all about the Abe Barraclough case. He's my best mate and I don't like having secrets from him. Well, not many.
'Blimey,' he said. 'That's a bummer.'
'You can say that again.'
'Well, it explains your odd behaviour. Last week you were all smiles, this week you've been like a wet Sunday in Filey.'
'Thanks. Any more tampering cases come to light?'
'No, but I've got a photo for you.' He dashed out and came back holding a still from a videotape. 'Thought you might like this one for your collection, although you might not recognise her with her clothes on.'
It was taken from the CCTV cameras at the entrance of a supermarket and showed a tall woman in a long dark coat, wearing sunglasses and a headscarf. She looked like a Hollywood star out shopping. Incognito, but not too incognito.
'Mrs Grainger?' I said.
'The security man at the Heckley store gave it to me. He thinks it's her, in mystery shopper mode.'
'It looks like her, all right. Why the long coat? And gloves. Look, she's wearing gloves.'
'It's raining hard,' Dave explained. 'Lbok behind her — someone's closing an umbrella and the pavement's shiny,'
