'They're old varieties,' she explained. 'Like me.'
As I opened my car door she said: 'Charlie.' I noticed the concern that had crept back into her voice and turned to her. 'About Glynis,' she continued. 'What you said about her being an immoral person. It has no relevance now, has it?'
'No,' I replied. 'None at all.'
'If it did,' she went on, 'if it were necessary for it to come out, I wouldn't want to continue. I'd drop the enquiry. Glynis's parents are probably still alive, and I wouldn't want to do anything to upset them more than is necessary. God knows, it will be upsetting enough for them just to resurrect it all again.'
I nodded my agreement and pulled the car door shut. Rosie was prepared to go to great lengths to clear her father's name, but not if it meant destroying the living. Her words had moved me, and I decided that she was a very special lady, one I wanted in my life. And what she said was in line with the words of her father's statement: 'I saw her and wanted her', not 'she led me on.' He was protecting the girl's reputation, as Rosie wanted to do. Like father, like daughter.
Which meant that the words in the confession were Abraham Barraclough's own words, not Detective Chief Inspector Henry Ratcliffe's.
Which meant that Abraham Barraclough was a murderer.
Thieves are opportunists, and the varying British climate throws up a variety of opportunities. In winter we dash out to the car on frosty mornings and leave the engine running while we breakfast. The local Jack-the-Lad materialises out of nowhere and makes off with it. In summer it's garden furniture and barbecues left out overnight, and burglaries through open windows. We were enjoying a hot spell and the sun-starved citizens of Heckley were desperately catching up with their Continental and Antipodean cousins. Garages and supermarkets were stockpiling charcoal like Armageddon was round the corner, and the latest price was being quoted in the financial news. A thriving black-market in it emerged, with inferior brands from the Far East undercutting the market leaders. Thieves of all persuasions were having a field day.
'Plenty to do?' I asked when I returned to the office after the morning prayer meeting, and everybody mumbled their assent.
'I've been asked about the gala again. Any thoughts on it?'
'Wrestling in a big bowl of Kellogg's Frosties,' somebody suggested.
'Too late; the Girl Guides are doing that.'
'Three-legged pole vaulting?'
'British Legion.'
'How about self body-piercing for beginners?'
'Women's Institute, but you've obviously given it some thought so thanks for your efforts.'
Dave followed me into my office. 'Changed your mind about the brass band concert?' he asked.
'Er, no Dave. Sorry, but I've something on.'
'I hope this Rosie isn't going to ruin a beautiful friendship.'
'Oh, I doubt it, Dave.'
'Any news about the exhumation?'
'No, nothing.'
'So what about dinner on Sunday?'
I pulled a face. 'I'm sorry, Dave, but it's a bit awkward.'
He turned to leave. 'OK, no problem. If my wife's Yorkshires aren't good enough for you, so be it. Not the mention my kids' disappointment.'
I watched him slouch into the big office and collect his jacket. We'd been through a lot together since we first met at a house fire in Leeds. He says I saved his life. I doubted it, but he'd saved
L
my reputation on a score of occasions since. Right then I felt as if I'd rather cut off my leg with a chainsaw before I'd hurt the big gorilla. Him and Rosie, too, but for one of them it was looking inevitable.
Sebastian answered the phone when I rang Dob Hall, but it wasn't him I wanted to talk to. It might have been useful but I wasn't in the mood and I prefer a pretty face. He put me through to Mrs Grainger.
'I'm afraid I have a hairdressing appointment in Hebden Bridge for ten o'clock, Inspector,' she replied, after I'd introduced myself and asked to see her. 'I could fit you in after that. What's it about?'
'Oh, just a general chat. We're not making much headway. How about morning coffee in one of the teashops?'
'That sounds delightful.'
'I'll pick you up at the hairdressers. What are they called?'
Her hair was much blonder when dry, and she wore it almost down to her shoulders and flicked up at the ends. Sandals, Bermuda shorts and a sequined T-shirt completed the ensemble. It was a familiar look: CNN newsreader or astronaut's wife. I stood to one side as we entered the teashop, held her chair for her as she sat down, showed her the menu.
'Just coffee,' she said.
'Is it up to standard?' I asked, when she'd tasted it.
'It's fine.'
'Are the Press still bothering you?'
'It's died down. Just the occasional phone call. They're not camped outside the gate anymore.'
'Last Monday,' I began, 'when I spoke to you, you told me that Sebastian had taken the rest of the day off. I don't think he did.'
'Have you talked to him?' she asked, but I didn't answer.
The little cafe was above a gift shop and the sun was streaming in through the window, casting patches of bright colour on the tablecloths. I sat opposite her with my hands on the table, feeling the sun's heat on the back of them.
After a silence she said: 'He normally has 'Monday off. I just assumed he'd gone.'
'How do you get on with Sebastian?'
'Get on with him? He's an employee of my husband's, that's all.'
'Do you like him?'
'Like him?'
'I didn't mean in an affectionate way. Are you happy to have him around? He lives in, doesn't he?'
'It's a big house, Inspector. I don't normally see much of him.'
'Which is how you prefer it.'
'Yes.' After a pause she went on: 'Credit where it's due, I suppose. Sebastian has done well dealing with the Press at the gate. That took a lot of the pressure off Mort.'
I was walking on unstable ground. I could hardly admit that I'd spent Monday afternoon spying on her through a 40x telescope. I said: 'I detect a feeling of… disquiet when you talk about Sebastian. As if something about him makes you feel uneasy.' Her hand was on the table, the tips of her fingers almost touching mine. It was an elegant hand, its length emphasised by nail extensions; an essential fashion accessory for many American women. I'd noticed that the hairdressing salon offered them as an extra service and suspected that Mrs Grainger was their main client.
She suddenly withdrew it and sat upright. 'You're very perceptive,' she admitted. 'I don't like him. I've spoken to my husband about him but he says that Sebastian does a good job, claims he is indispensable.'
'What's Sebastian's surname?' I asked.
'Brown. He's Sebastian Brown.'
'Was there a scene between the two of you on Monday, after I left? Some unpleasantness?'
Two women in flowery dresses came panting up the stairs and after a discussion decided to sit at the table next to ours, near the window, making further revelations impossible. We exchanged smiles and the usual pleasantries about the weather. I went to pay our bill and followed Mrs Grainger down the stairs. I know, I know, the man is supposed to go first, but it never feels right to me.
'Let's have a look at the canal,' I said when we were outside. We crossed the road and the river and walked along the tow-path a short way until we found a bench to sit on near where the tourist boats tie up. Mrs Grainger appeared happy to stay with me. She wasn't showing any reluctance to be interrogated. I suspected that Hebden
