Bridge had little to offer compared with wherever she came from and talking to me was a welcome diversion in her otherwise boring lifestyle. She crossed her ankles and produced a pair of shades from the bag she carried. On the water a mallard and her chicks saw us and headed our way like a battleship with escort, their wakes fanning out behind them. I reminded myself that I was working.
'Where did you meet Sir Morton?' I asked, making it sound like idle conversation rather than a police interview. I twisted round to face her, my elbow on the backrest of the bench.
'In Florida.' She laughed to herself at the memory.
Laughter is infectious and I smiled along with her, giving her time to explain.
'I was Miss Florida Oranges,' she said. 'My fifteen minutes of fame.'
'Miss Florida Oranges?' I echoed.
'Don't laugh. One poor girl was Miss Ohio Potatoes and there was a Miss Oklahoma Pork Bellies.'
Now I did laugh. 'You're kidding!'
'I jest not.'
'So who won the contest?'
'Who do you think?'
I bowed my head in contrition. 'Forgive me.'
'That's OK. When we were interviewed all the girls said they wanted to work with children and animals and for world peace. I said I wanted the money to pay my way through architects' school. Mort was there with a trade delegattbn from Britain. He sought me out and said that his company sometimes awarded scholarships to likely students. Would I be interested?'
'And you were.'
'You bet. He paid all my fees, which was a great relief. Part of the deal was that he'd want an update of my progress every time he came to the States.' She hesitated, before adding: 'Let's just say that his visits became more and more frequent.'
'And the rest is history.'
'That's right.' She smiled again. 'Except… when I got to know him better, I learned that mine is the only scholarship Grainger's have ever awarded.'
'That's a good story,' I said. 'And now you're a successful architect. Good for Sir Morton.'
A narrow boat cruised by and the crew gave us a friendly wave. Papillon, all the way from Selby. Real geraniums were growing from old watering cans along the roof and painted ones twisted and spiralled along the length of the boat. We watched it putter away, venturing west towards Todmorden, Rochdale and the badlands of Lancashire, trailing a smell of diesel fumes, fresh paint and frying sausages behind it.
'Not that successful,' Mrs Grainger admitted. 'We haven't had any worthwhile contracts and it looks as if the London partnership is collapsing. We're a company in name only, I'm afraid.'
'I'm sorry to hear that,' I said. 'I was very impressed with the office and leisure complex at Dob Hall.'
'Yes,' she sighed. 'That was to be our flagship, but there are problems with it. One corner has subsided a little causing cracks. It was supposed to be on bedrock but the builder miscalculated, and we have a problem with condensation in winter. I didn't realise that this part of the world is semi-Arctic.' She pronounced it see-my Arctic.
'I'm afraid so.'
'Mort says he'll find a job for me at a checkout.'
'Ha! I doubt if it will come to that.'
An old lady in a woolly cardigan, her spindly legs encased in thick tights in spite of the weather, was throwing bread to the ducks, which appeared by the dozen out of nowhere. It looked as if she fed them every day. The mallards with chicks shepherded them towards the floating food, ferociously chasing away any intruders. Instincts, I thought. Protecting the family from danger and outside interference. It's all there, in the genes.
'In the cafe,' I began, 'you were telling me about Sebastian. You had some sort of confrontation with him on Monday.'
'I didn't say that.'
'But you did, didn't you?'
'How do you know?'
'It's my job to know.'
'Have you spoken to him?'
'No.'
'So you're guessing?'
'Let's call it intuition, Mrs Grainger. I read body language, think about your answers.' She didn't look convinced. 'And,' I added, pointing at the sky, 'we have a big satellite in geo-sta-tionary orbit, twenty-thousand miles high, watching our every move. Do you want to tell me about it?'
She uncrossed her ankles, pulled her feet under the bench and sat on her hands. 'He — Sebastian — made a pass at me, that's all. He does normally take Monday off, like I said, but because he knew I was in the house on my own he stayed behind and tried his luck.'
'What happened?'
'It was in the afternoon, long after you'd gone. I was sunbathing, taking advantage of this beautiful weather. I thought Sebastian had gone too, that there was no one at home but me.
Suddenly he joined me, on the lawn, carrying a tray with two drinks on it. Said he thought I might be in need of one. He sat down alongside of me and poured sun cream on my back, whispering what he considers to be swee,fnothings. It wasn't very nice, Inspector. I'm not used to talk like that. I jumped up and went inside and that was that.'
Which was exactly what I'd seen, 'Will Sir Morton sack him?' I asked.
She shook her head.
'Will you tell him?'
'No. It's not the first time it's happened. He's threatened me before, said he could bring it all down, if he wanted. If… if… if I didn't, you know.'
'Grant him certain favours?' I suggested.
'Yes, that's it.'
'What did he mean by bringing it all down?'
'I don't know. I can only assume that he has some sort of hold over Mort. Don't get me wrong, Mort likes him, thinks he's wonderful, but I suspect Sebastian knows something that would discredit my husband, if necessary. Has some inside information that he could use as an insurance policy against being fired. I'm not a complete fool, Inspector. I know Mort can be ruthless when necessary, and he's not afraid of cutting corners to land a deal. He's bound to have enemies.'
Not to mention at least one mistress, I thought. The dark and voluptuous Sharon. A different type completely to brittle-blonde Debra Grainger.
'Can you think of any reason why Sebastian might be a suspect for contaminating the food?' I asked. 'What would be in it for him?'
'I don't know.'
'Do you think he'd be capable of doing it?'
'He's capable of doing anything.'
We walked back to her car and I thanked her for being so frank with me. 'I'm sorry to see you unhappy, Debra,' I said,
'but maybe when we get to the bottom of this, things will improve.' She thanked me for listening, wished me luck with the investigation and we shook hands.
In the evening I pressed on with the paintings, finishing the writing on both of them and starting to fill in the circles and ellipses with a white undercoat. I think when I paint. I think when I walk, too. I do a lot of thinking, more than I ought.
I couldn't help wondering about Mrs Grainger, uprooted from sunny Florida and transplanted in to Calderdale. We'd had three days of exceptional weather but soon — tomorrow in all probability — it would be back to the usual mixture. And in winter the breeze came straight off the Urals and cut like a bread knife. It was a pleasure talking to her. She was straightforward, hadn't tried to mislead me or conveniently forget things. She'd have a lot of time to
