It was hard to feel excited about so prosaic a building, but it did mark a real step forward in her journey. ‘That’s quite something, Alan. Seeing it still standing.’ If he wanted to, Tony could make this journey and send his imagination travelling through time. Somehow, she thought he might give it a miss. ‘So what have you got to tell me about Blythe’s and its owner?’
‘Shall we repair to the public house?’
‘With great pleasure,’ Carol said, wondering why she was starting to sound as if she too inhabited TV Yorkshire.
The Weaver’s Shuttle huddled down a lane near an old Victorian mill that had been converted into apartments. The pub had avoided a makeover, its exposed stone walls and low beams stubbornly enclosing an old-fashioned bar where couples sat and talked quietly, old men played dominoes and a group of middle-aged women were having a very decorous darts match. The barman nodded to Miles as they walked in. ‘Evening, Alan. The usual, is it?’ Reaching for a half-pint glass and a wooden pump handle.
‘Indeed, landlord. What can I get you, young lady?’ Miles removed his cap, revealing a gleaming bald dome fringed with steel-grey curls.
‘Let me, Alan.’ Carol smiled. ‘I’m thinking of a dry white wine,’ she said, doubting whether the wine would come up to the class of the real ales whose badges were lined up on hand pumps along the bar.
‘I’ve got a South African Sauvignon Blanc or a Pinot Grigio open tonight,’ the barman said. ‘Or I’ve a Chilean Chardonnay cold.’
‘I’ll try a glass of the sauvignon,’ she said, realising how ready she was for a drink. It had been a while since she’d gone this late in the day before having her first glass. Maybe she really was getting past the point where alcohol had been the one reliably bright element in her days. Something else that might please Tony.
When it came, the wine was cold and vivid with the smell of grass and the taste of gooseberry. Alan Miles was watching her attentively as she took her first mouthful. He chuckled. There was no other word for it, Carol thought. ‘Not what you expected,’ he said.
‘So little in life is,’ she said, surprised at her candour.
‘When you say it like that . . . well, that’s a pity, Miss Jordan,’ he said. ‘But enough of us. You want to know about Blythe’s. Eddie Blythe was nearly a local lad, grew up down the road in Sowerby Bridge. A bright lad, by all accounts. He went to the technical college in Huddersfield and showed a lot of aptitude in the field of metallurgy. Whether it was by chance or design, he happened on a new process for coating metals that was very useful in the field of medical instruments. Scalpels and forceps and the like, as I understand it. He patented his bright idea and set up the factory to manufacture his products. He was doing very well, apparently. And then suddenly, in the spring of 1964, he sold up, lock, stock and barrel, to some steel firm in Sheffield. Within weeks, they’d moved production to Sheffield. They took the key workers with them. Paid their removal costs and everything.’ He paused and supped some of his glass of mild.
‘That seems very generous,’ Carol said.
‘Supposedly it was part of the deal Eddie Blythe made.’ He took a slim envelope out of his inside pocket. ‘Here’s a photocopy of a newspaper article.’ He passed it to her.
‘Local firm sold,’ the headline read. The few paragraphs said little more than Miles had already related. But there was a photograph across two columns. The caption read, ‘Mr E.A. Blythe (L) shakes hands on the deal with Mr J. Kessock (R) of Rivelin Fabrications.’ She squinted at the photograph, strangely moved. There was, she thought, a look of Tony in the set of his shoulders, the angle of his head, the shape of his face. She took out a pen and scribbled down the date of the article.
‘He left town after he sold up,’ Miles said. ‘I couldn’t find anybody that knew him personally, so I don’t know what lay behind him getting rid of the business and leaving town. You might want to check out the archives of the Triple H.’
‘The Triple H?’
‘Sorry. I’m forgetting you’re not from round here. The
‘Thanks for the suggestion. I’ll take a look when I get back.’ If nothing else, she might find a better version of the photocopy Miles was folding up and replacing in its envelope. ‘You’ve been very helpful,’ she said.
He made a self-deprecating face. ‘Nowt you couldn’t have found out for yourself.’
‘Maybe. But it would have taken me a lot longer. Believe me, I’m always grateful to people who save me time.’
‘It’ll be a hard job, yours,’ he said. ‘Hard enough for a man, but you women are always having to prove yourselves, eh, lass?’
Her smile was wintry. ‘No kidding.’
‘So, has this helped you with your cold case?’ he asked, his glance shrewd.
‘It’s been very instructive.’ Carol finished her drink. ‘Can I give you a lift anywhere?’
Miles shook his head. ‘I’m only five minutes down the road. Good luck with your investigation. I hope, like the Mounties, you get your man.’
She shook her head, wondering where Tony was and what he was doing. ‘I’m afraid it might be too late for that. That’s the trouble with cold cases. Sometimes the people involved are beyond our reach.’
Nobody ever volunteered for the last ID. No matter how many times you asked people to put a name to their dead, it still felt like shit. Every CID team had its own rules of engagement. Some left it to the Family Liaison Officer; some SIOs always insisted on doing it themselves. In Carol Jordan’s MIT, the same rule applied to this as to everything else - the person best equipped for the task was the designated officer. And so it was that Paula dealt with more than her fair share.
Given that she was stuck with it, she always preferred to carry out the job alone. That way she didn’t have to concern herself with anyone but the grieving person who was going to have to confront a lifeless body and decide
