think, too, living all alone in that big house while her high-flying husband entertained his mistress. All alone, that is, except for the sinister Sebastian — the Heathcliffe of Dob Hall — skulking around, watching her every movement, dreaming his dreams and making his plans. But why would Sebastian want to contaminate the food and bring disrepute on Grainger's? It didn't make sense. And when Mrs Grainger said that she wasn't a complete fool had I detected a sudden vehemence in her voice? Was it a tacit admission that she knew of a darker side to her husband and that she was aware of his philanderings?
'Job for you,' I said, when I saw Dave next morning. 'See what you can dig up on Sebastian Brown.'
His eyebrows shot up. 'Is that what he's called — Brown?'
'According to Mrs Grainger.'
'Is he related to the desirable Sharon?'
Now it was my turn to express surprise. 'I don't know. I hadn't made the connection. That's something else for you to find out.'
'Can I talk to them?'
'If you want.'
'And Mrs Grainger?'
'Um, no. I've already spoken to her.'»
'I see,' he said.
'No you don't,' I replied. 'It's just that I thought a personal, more… suave approach might be appropriate with, um, Debra.'
He gave me a sideways look that spoke volumes, all of them fiction. 'What about Sunday lunch?' he asked. 'Changed your mind, yet?'
I shook my head. 'Sorry, Dave, can't make it.'
He went on his way and I made myself a coffee before having a look at the paperwork on my desk. Pete Goodfellow had made it all look neat but hadn't done much to reduce the amount. I was wondering whether to concentrate on the budget, the staff development reports, the crime figures or the guidelines for dealing with suspected illegal immigrants when the phone rang. It was the father of Robin, the boy I'd cautioned.
'You asked me for some names, Inspector,' he said.
'That's right. Did you have any luck?'
'Yes. I had a heart-to-heart talk with Robin. He's a good boy, Inspector.'
'I believe you. We're all allowed the odd indiscretion when we're young. The reprimand is not the end of the world, it won't impede his progress through life.'
He told me two names and I wrote them down.
'We'll have a look at them,' I said, 'and if there's any more thieving we'll talk to them. If Robin doesn't tell anyone about the reprimand they'll never know where we got their names from.'
'I think he's learned his lesson.'
'I'd say so.' And he has caring parents, I thought. Most of the kids that come in are accompanied by their mothers, who see the whole process as an irritation and can't get out of the station fast enough.
'There's just one other thing,' he was saying, hesitantly.
'What's that?' I asked.
'Have you seen yesterday's Gazette?'
'No, I haven't had time to look at it.'
'The headline story is about dog fighting. Organised dog fighting.'
'Oh, good,' I replied. 'We'd asked them to publish something and make an appeal for help. What can you tell me?'
'It's Robin again. He says there was this boy at school, last term, called Damian. He was a bit backward, apparently, shouldn't have been at the comprehensive. Mixed ability classes and all that. Robin says he never spoke to him directly but heard this from other boys. He was always on about a dog he owned that could fight better than anybody else's. Threatening to set it on to people. Then one day he simply announced that it had been killed but he was getting another.'
'Hmm, that does sound interesting,' I said. 'Did Robin tell you his surname?'
It's always the same. You spend weeks gathering disparate pieces of evidence, hoping that one day they will arrange themselves into some sort of order, like the stars in a galaxy, and when it happens you get this feeling that starts in your toes and gradually creeps upwards until your whole body is tingling.
'Yes,' he replied, 'he's called Brown, Damian Brown.'
Chapter Ten
The problem with High Clough farm was that it was on the highest piece of ground for miles, so there was nowhere we could set up an observation post. The comprehensive school headmaster was hiking in the Dolomites, but we'd sweet-talked the school secretary into letting us have a look at the records. Damian Brown lived at High Clough farm, and the secretary wasn't at all surprised that he was in trouble. Anything else she could have done to put him away for a long time was ours for the asking. We drove back and forth on the lane that went near the farm and eventually decided on an unofficial lay-by used as a rubbish dump by the fairies. It's easy to blame townies for coming into the country to dispose of the odd three-piece suite, but they don't leave the weedkiller drums and fertilizer bags.
'You can see the end of the track that leads to the farm,' Dave said.
'And a transit parked here won't attract attention,' I added.
X-ray 99, our helicopter, was making slow passes over the moor, about a mile away, as if on a search. It worked its way towards the farm and as it passed over we heard the frantic barking of dogs over the thrum of the chopper's blades. It banked away, the sun flashing off its sides, to resume its search on the other side. After a minute or two stooging around for the sake of credibility it turned and sped off towards its base near Wakefield.
'When will the photos be ready?' Dave asked.
'They've promised them for this afternoon.'
The Browns were a big, extended family, Dave had discovered, and Sebastian and Sharon were tenuous relatives. One branch still lived in the style of travellers, even if they were permanently settled on a council site; another had abandoned the old ways a couple of generations ago and lived in a more conventional manner. This side of the family was fully integrated with local society. Two were solicitors, some owned small businesses and a few had criminal records, including Sebastian. He'd done three months for credit card fraud. High Clough farm was the home of the latest member to come under our scrutiny: Damian.
'So Sharon was happy to talk to you?' I said.
'She came round after a few minutes. I think she's proud of her romantic gypsy origins.'
'Except they're not gypsies, they're tinkers,' I said.
'Gypsies, tinkers, Romanies, travellers, they're all the same, nowadays.'
'Whatever, she managed to break away from it and get an education.'
'That's true.' We both knew that illiteracy was a very useful characteristic for some people when trying to negotiate their way past modern living's more oppressive obstacles, like income tax returns, court warrants and job applications.
'Did you ask if they ever had family get-togethers?'
'Yeah, weddings mainly. She said they had great parties.'
'I bet. C'mon, let's go.'
The pictures showed High Clough farm to be a tumbledown dump, falling apart after years of neglect. If it hadn't been for the Land Rover Defender parked outside we'd have thought the place was derelict. Hill farmers have been encouraged to diversify to stay solvent, and, like so many of them in this part of the world, High Clough had diversified into rusting farm machinery and old tyres. Mr Wood came down to the CID office and we all poured over the pictures.
'You reckon this is where they hold the dog fights, do you?' he asked.
