'Three pairs for ten pounds?'
'That's what it says in the window.'
'Whereabouts on the High Street?'
'Next to Jessup's.'
'That's a dry cleaner's, you dozy wazzock.'
'Is it? Oh, in that case I'm free. Sandwich in the pub?'
'Sounds like a good idea to me.'
Have a day off and the work piles up. Nobody thinks to come in and empty my In tray for me. I spent the rest of the day catching up, paying for my trip down to the Cotswolds. In the evening I fixed the pictures in their frames and stood them in the kitchen where I could study them while I ate my tea. I made a few minor adjustments where I'd left ragged edges and declared them finished. Final touch was my initials in the bottom corner.
'It suits you,' I told Maggie, next morning.
'Cut and blow dry,' she said. 'I was tempted to sting you for a full work over, complete with hair extensions and braiding, but common sense prevailed.'
'Good. Did you remember the corned beef?'
'Right here.' She placed the tin on my desk,
'Super.'
I dusted down my briefcase, put everything in it and looked in my notebook for a number. When I was through I said: 'It's Detective Inspector Priest here. I'd like to come and see you. Now.'
Debra Grainger opened the door before I could reach for the bell push. I thanked her for seeing me so early and she led me inside. We went into a drawing room I hadn't been in before, with uncomfortable wing-backed chairs covered in a tapestry material that you could have struck a match on. They sat upright in those days, spine straight and not touching the back of the chair. Give me a beanbag, any day. I sat down and refused a coffee.
'What's it about?' Debra asked.
'I think you've a good idea, Mrs Grainger,' I said.
'Is it about Mort?'
'Partly. What has he told you?'
'That he spent the night in a cell. Said he was asked to go to this farm. He didn't know what it was about. They held a dog fight. He said it was horrible but he couldn't get away. Then the police came and arrested everybody.'
'Do you believe him?'
'I don't know what to believe.'
She was wearing a blouse and skirt, with modest heels on her shoes and no tights. A thin chain with a crucifix hung round her neck but the rings had vanished from her fingers and she looked as if she hadn't had much sleep.
'Where is Sir Morton now?' I asked.
'He said he was going to London to have a word with his lawyer.'
'And Sebastian? Where's he today? I thought you didn't like being left alone with him.'
'I don't know where he is. He knows the score, so he's keeping a low profile. Is he behind all this?'
I shook my head. 'No. Sebastian comes out of it shining white. He had nothing to do with it. Just the same, I think you should insist on your husband moving him. It may not be possible to sack him, these days, but he could transfer him back to one of the branches.'
'That won't be necessary, Inspector.'
'Why's that?'
'I'm going home, back to the States, soon as I can arrange the flight. Then I'll have a word with my lawyers. My marriage is over, I want out of here.'
'That might not be possible,' I said.
'Why not?' She looked at me, alarmed by my words, and fidgeted with the cuffs of her blouse. She should have been puffing nervously on a cigarette or gulping at a large brandy and soda, but I suspected that she'd never done either.
'There are certain legal processes to be followed,' I told her. 'You'll have to stay here for a while.'
'Until when?' Disappointment filled her voice like she'd heard that the Easter Bunny had died.
'As long as it takes.'
An original oil painting hung on the wall over the fireplace, of girls in long skirts gathering cockles or mussels from the sea. I'd have swapped it for both my efforts. The sun came out briefly, lighting the room, then went behind a cloud again.
'You're leaving him?' I said.
'Yes.'
'Divorce?'
'Yes.'
'Because he went to a dog fight and spent the night in police custody?'
Her cheeks flushed and she plucked at her sleeve with those long fingernails as if something objectionable were sticking to it. 'This isn't easy for me,' she said.
'I know.'
'He's having an affair, isn't he?'
'Who with?' I asked, turning the question back at her.
'I can guess.' She jumped up, fetched a mobile phone from a drawer and pressed a pre-set button. 'Could I speak to Sharon Brown, please,' she said, then: 'Is she? Do you know when she'll be back? Thank you, I'll contact her then.'
She put the phone down. 'Ms Brown is on a course and won't be back until Monday. Guess when Mort will be back. Was she at this dog fight, Inspector?'
'Mmm.'
'Well, at least there'll have been one bitch there.' She jumped up again and strode over to the window, looking out, hiding her tears.
'I'm sorry,' I said, walking over to stand beside her.
'It's happened before, it's not your fault.'
'How long have you known?'
'About Sharon? A year or so. She was one of his brighter employees. He encouraged her, put her through college. It's a familiar story, Inspector, a tried and trusted formula. There were others before her, but nothing I could prove.'
A grey squirrel galloped across the lawn where I'd watched her sunbathing, sending a pair of collared doves flapping off, and in the distance I could see Stoodley Pike.
'Have you heard the expression 'trailer trash', Inspector?' she asked.
'Yes.'
'Well that's what we were, as my husband likes to remind me. My parents moved to Florida from Virginia when I was a baby, looking for a better life for them and me. They swapped one trailer park for another, but the winters were milder. Things didn't go well for them but they stayed together through thick and thin because that's what they believed in. That and in Jesus Christ. They didn't want me to marry Mort, said he was too old for me, that I wasn't sophisticated enough for him, but I wanted to escape from that life so I leapt at the opportunity. Now I've got to go back to them and admit that they were right, and it's not easy.'
I told her to come and sit down again, and she followed me. 'You can afford a good lawyer,' I said, 'and he's a wealthy man. You'll come out of it OK. You'll be able to build your parents that villa with the ocean view they've always dreamed of. I know it's not the best solution but it helps.'
'Look on the bright side?'
'That's right.'
'When will I be able to go home?'
'It's not that simple,' I said, reaching down for my briefcase which I'd left on the floor at the side of my chair. I removed a large manila envelope and extracted the photo of the woman in the long coat and gloves.
'Is this you, Mrs Grainger?' I asked.
