Limestone Cowboy dcp-9

by Stuart Pawson

  "Hello, Henry," I said, pulling a plastic chair nearer to him. "I'm DI Charlie Priest, from Heckley, and I'd like to ask you a few questions."

  "You and the others," he replied, not offering a handshake.

  I didn't know what he meant but filed the comment for later use. I nodded towards his legs, saying: "I'm sorry to see you like this, Henry, it must be hard for you."

  "Aye, well…" His voice was clear, with a touch of gravel in it.

  "I want to talk to you about a job you did in South Wales, back in seventy-three."

  "Glynis Evelyn Williams. That's who you mean, isn't it?"

  "That's right. Questions are being asked about the result. How well do you remember it?"

  "There's nothing wrong with my memory. Abraham Barraclough did it and when I stand in front of St Peter — which won't be long, now — and he asks me what I did with my life I'll tell him that I'm the one who nailed Barraclough. He'd've got life, been out now, if he hadn't hung himself. Good riddance, I say."

  "He had scratch marks on his neck, I believe."

  "He had, and his blood group matched. Group B, eight percent of the population. And then there was the confession."

  "Were any pictures taken of the scratches?"

  "No. Why did we need pictures? And they'd nearly faded away by the time we caught him."

  "Did the pathologist look at them?"

  "Not that I know of."

  "How did you catch him?"»

  "He gave himself up. We were taking" Islood samples of everybody in the village and he knew the net was tightening, so he walked into the station and said he'd done it."

  "And you believed him? Every murder attracts nutters who confess."

  "He had the scratch marks. He was dead by the time we matched the blood group, but the coroner was happy."

  "You took the confession, I believe."

  "That's right."

  "Were the words yours or his?"

  "I… helped him. He just kept saying that he'd done it, didn't want to go into details. He saw her and wanted her, he said. She struggled and he suddenly realised what he was doing, but she was dead by then. She had blue knickers. Pale blue, not dark ones. Not navy blue like most of the other schoolgirls. He kept going on about them. That's about it."

  "Was he right about the knickers?"

  "Of course he was right about the knickers. Have you seen a picture of her?"

  "Of Glynis? No I haven't."

  "She was lovely. Lovely. Long blonde hair. A daughter any parent would be proud of, and that monster snuffed her out for his own gratification. What did you say your name was?"

  "Charlie. Charlie Priest. Why didn't you let him write his own statement, he was an intelligent man?"

  "Intelligent! You call that intelligent!"

  "Tell me."

  "He was a commie. Didn't you know that, Charlie? A commie bastard. Every dispute there was he was in the thick of it. Council meetings, championing all the down-and-outs; on the picket line with the miners the year before. Gave them cheap bread, he did. I'd have given them bullets, not bread. Shot them all, that's what they deserved, and what happened? They brought the government down, that's what. Democracy! You call that democracy!"

  "When I said I wanted to talk to you," I began, "you said something about the others. What others?"

  "Huh! Television people. They've written to me three times, asking me to contact them. The Post Office forwarded the letters here but I haven't replied. Why can't they let sleeping dogs lie?"

  "That's why I'm here, Henry. I want to find out the truth before they do."

  "You know the truth. It's staring you in the face. Abe Barraclough strangled poor little Glynis Williams and then hung himself in his cell. End of story."

  "They're going to dig him up. Dig him up so they can compare his DNA with that found under Glynis's fingernails. That'll prove things one way or the other."

  "Good!" he snapped, leaning forward as if about to rise from the chair. "Good! And then maybe them and you will leave me alone to die in peace."

  I lifted my hands in a gesture that said I was happy with his reply, and sat back to enjoy the sun, hoping to lower his guard and encourage him to tell me more. I wasn't disappointed.

  "Paedophiles," he ranted, after a few seconds. "That's what they are. Paedophiles. And all you all want to do is defend them. Who defends the poor kiddies? Tell me that. Who defends the victims?" I sat forward again and he grabbed my arm. "And asylum seekers," he rambled. "Bringing diseases with them. Aids and TB. Why do we let them in? They make a mess of their own countries and come here, and what do they do? Have loads of kids, draining the Health Service; try to make this place like the one they've left. So why do they come, all the Pakis and niggers? Because we're too soft, that's why. Send 'em all back, that's what we should do. Go into any town and what do you see? Beggars, making more than you and me ever did, sponging on society. Scum, that's what they are: scum."

  I prised his fingers off my arm. "Is that what the vagrant in Swansea was, Henry? Was he scum, too?"

  "He was…" He grabbed the stick and hi§ hands shook as he leaned on it. "He was… a parasite. Took our money under false pretences."

  "What did you do? Give him a good kicking?"

  "Natural causes, that's what the inquest decided. He died of natural causes."

  "Oh, so you only pissed on his sleeping bag and let him freeze to death."

  "He deserved everything he got."

  "And you got early retirement on a full pension, on the grounds of ill health."

  He nailed me with his rheumy eyes and said: "Aye, well, they got the date of that a bit wrong, didn't they?"

  Major Warburton saw me and half rose from his chair as I strode through the lounge, but I just kept going. I'd had my fill of old soldiers for one day.

  Pete Goodfellow was sitting at my desk when I arrived back at the nick, busy with my paperwork. My In basket was empty and he'd arranged everything into four neat piles.

  "Wow, that looks efficient," I said as I walked into my office.

  "Hi Chas," he replied, starting to rise from my chair. "Had a good day?"

  "You stay there," I told him, sitting in the visitor's place, "and keep up the good work. I've been to see the investigating officer in the South Wales job."

  "Learn anything?"

  I told him all about my little talk with Henry Bernard Ratcliffe. When I finished Pete said: "So you think he'd be capable of fixing the confession."

  "I think he'd be capable of fixing the confession, the evidence and the coroner, Pete. Even allowing for the state of his health he's a bundle of fun. What about you? Did you find anything for me?"

  "Mmm," he replied, pushing a sheet from the telephone pad my way. "One of the names that Rosie gave you who was in the dead girl's class. Still lives in the village. There's a telephone number, too."

  "Hey, that's great," I said. "I'll ring her tonight."

  Dave returned from wherever he'd been and joined us. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt with little pictures of Abbott and Costello all over it and his nose and cheeks were the colour of tomato soup.

  "Before I forget," he began, "the brass band's playing in a competition at Leeds Town Hall on Friday. Fancy coming along to support the boys?"

  "Er, no Dave. Count me out, please," I replied.

  "It's always a good night out."

  "No, I've a few things to do."

  "Pete's coming, aren't you?"

  "Try stopping me," he said.

  "I can't make it."

  "Fair enough. So where've you been skiving off these last two days."

  "Conducting investigations," I told him. "You look as if you've been sitting in a beer garden all day."

  "Someone's got to keep their eye on the ball. I've been thinking about Sebastian at Dob Hall. We should have a talk to him. And Mrs Grainger. I have my suspicions about them."

  "Ah," I replied, unable to disguise my unease. "Fact is, Dave, I had a word with her yester
day. You'd gone out but I decided you were right: we should talk to her while Sir Morton was away. I didn't catch Sebastian, though."

  "Right," he said. "Right." But his expression was at odds with the words. He looked as if I'd eaten his last custard cream. I thanked Pete and he left us.

  "Sit down," I told Dave, "and I'll fill you in."

  When I finished he nodded knowingly and said: "So I'm right. All is not well there."

  "That's the way it looks. "

  "You reckon Sebastian tried it on with her?"

  "Mmm."

  "And you saw all this through the telescope?"

  "Yep. And that's not all. There's a son and a daughter-in-law who live nearby. We ought to talk to them as soon as possible."

  "Don't change the subject. You spent all yesterday afternoon up at Stoodley Pike spying on Mrs Grainger as she lay topless on a sunbed?"

  "Not quite, she was wearing a one-piece costume."

  "You're turning into a dirty old man, you know that?"

  "You could be right. It was rather fun."

  "Remind me to keep you away from my wife and daughter. Where do they live?"

  "Who?"

  "The son and daughter-in-law."

  "Heptonstall."

  "Let's go see them, then."

  "I'm supposed to say that."

  Three churches appears excessive in a village the size of Heptonstall, but the Victorian parish church was built to replace its 15th century predecessor after its roof was blown off. For some reason they left the old church standing, so you could argue that they only count as one. Mopping up any Nonconformists is the Methodist chapel, where John Wesley preached. Corduroy and worsted paid for them, blood, sweat and religious fervour did the rest. Sylvia Plath is buried in the churchyard.

  A steep cobbled lane leads up to the village, high on a windswept hill. The place had a renaissance in the Sixties, inspired by Plath and her husband, Ted Hughes, when it attracted a community of poets and painters, some good, most indifferent. After one winter most of them left.

  "What are they called?" Dave asked as the road levelled and I eased off the accelerator.

  "Julian and Abigail."

  They lived in three wool-maker's cottages knocked into one, on the far side of the village. It was three stories high, with a row of windows all along the top floor to allow light into the rooms where the work was done. That's what the books say, but it could have been to save lifting blocks of Yorkshire stone all the way up there. Builders were a canny lot even in those days. We parked alongside an elderly Volvo 340 and Dave pressed the bell. The thud-thud-thud of a drum machine or a big engine shook the ground beneath our feet.

  Abigail Grainger answered the door. She had black hair that reached halfway down her back and was wearing a tie-dyed kaftan and beads. For a moment I was back at art college, bottle of cider in my hand, asking if this was where the party was. Dave checked her identity and introduced us.

  "Is Mr Grainger in?" he asked.

  "Please come in," she said with a smile. "Yes, but he's busy for the moment." The noise was louder now, and had resolved into a dum dum da-dum, dum dum da-dum, dum dum da-dum, repeated endlessly. She led us into a white-walled sitting room with a bare wooden floor and Habitat furniture and invited us to take a seat. There was a large painting on the wall, consisting of a single smear of red paint on a white background. People knock abstract expressionism, but paintings like that are difficult to do. The best way is to put the canvas on the floor at the bottom of a tower and drop the paint on it from the top. The skill is in hitting the canvas. You get one go and there's no touching up. This one didn't quite work, because the artist had tried to improve the initial splash, and you can't do that.

  "Can I ask what it's about, Inspector?" she asked, addressing Dave and speaking artificially loud to overcome the background noise.

  He didn't correct her. "It's about the food contamination at the Grainger's stores," he told her. "Just routine enquiries. Can I ask what Mr Grainger does for a living?"

  "I'd have thought that was obvious," she replied with another smile, wafting a hand through the air.

  "He's a drummer, a musician?" Dave tried.

  "A rhythmologist," she replied.

  "A… rhythmologist?"

  "Yes, otherwise known as a drum therapist. He has a client with him at the moment, but he'll soon be through. We're all held together by vibrations, Inspector. All matter can be reduced to a waveform. The seasons, menstrual cycles, lunar cycles, circadian rhythms, alpha and beta waves… when these get out of synch with each other the problems start. Drum therapy helps find the common harmonics and bring them back into synchronism. It's a wonderful technique."

  The intensity of the noise had increased. Now it was dum dum DA-DUM, dum dum DA-DUM, dum dum DA-DUM and there appeared to be two drummers at work.

  "I see," Dave lied.

  I jumped in to the rescue and pointed at the painting. "Are you the artist, Mrs Grainger?"

  "No," she replied, looking down and adjusting the kaftan over her knees. "I'm not so talented. I have a gift but it's a very small one."

  "And what's that?"

  "Auras, Constable," she replied, looking at me. "I see auras."

  "I wouldn't call that a small gift."

  "A gift, a curse, I'm never sure what it is."

  We weren't sure either, so we kept quiet. Drum therapy and seeing auras can kill a conversation as surely as accountancy and fitting tyres.

  Mrs Grainger fidgeted, smiled and looked slightly embarrassed. "Would you… would you like me to describe your auras?" she asked.

  Now it was our turn to fidget and look embarrassed. "Um, yes, please, if it doesn't hurt," Dave replied.

  "Or cost," I added.

  "On the house," she laughed. "Well, as soon as I opened the door I saw it. Your auras are different, very different, but they blend together perfectly. It's what I was saying about vibrations. You are a team, and it shows." She turned to face me. "Your aura is largely blue," she said, "with some green transitions. You are the rock of the team. Some might describe you as a plodder, but that's what gets the work done. I'm being honest. You don't mind, do you?"

  "Um, no," I told her.

  "And you, Inspector," she went on, turning to Dave, "yours is much more complicated. I see oranges and yellows, the colours of inspiration and flair. You take the sideways view, see past the obvious and right into the heart of a problem. And into the hearts of people. Your intuition and the constable's dedication make you a formidable team."

  Dave stretched forward to lean on his knees and stare down at the floor. When he looked up his face was a mask. "I'm impressed," he said through clenched teeth, nodding his approval. "I'm really impressed. You've got us to a T."

  I stood up and wandered over to the window. As I was looking out, admiring the shadows on the cottage opposite and taking deep breaths, the drumming slopped and the relief reminded me of the time I had an abscess lanced. Behind me I heard Mrs Grainger ask if we'd like a glass of water. When she left the room I turned round and resumed my seat. Dave gave me a big, self-satisfied smile.

  I pointed at the painting. "Tell her you like it," I whispered.

  She came back carrying a tray with three tumblers of iced water. Dave was standing in front of the painting, about a foot from it.

  "What do you think?" she asked, placing the tumblers on a low table.

  "Hmm, I like it," Dave replied.

  "Good. What do you like about it?"

  "Oh, er, it's very, um, very, um, red," he repMed.

  "You're so perceptive," she told him. "The artist — he's an old friend of ours — mixes his own colours. He says that's the reddest red in the world."

  "Is it true," I asked, desperate to bring the conversation under control, "that you sometimes act as a secret shopper for Sir Morton?"

  "No," she replied with a smile. "Who on earth told you that?"

  "Oh, it just came out in conversation."

  "I shop at Grain
ger's, of course I do, and sometimes I read the auras of the staff. If I see something I don't like I write to Morton and tell him, but that's all. Dishonesty, untrustworthi-ness, laziness, they all show in the aura, but he doesn't believe me."

  Floorboards creaked somewhere and we heard voices. "That's Julian," Mrs Grainger said, standing up again. "I'll tell him you're here." When she returned we were both sipping our water.

  "How's the water?"

  "Very refreshing," I replied. "Just what we need on a day like this."

  "We bring it from a spring we found, on Moss Crop hill. We think it's wonderful."

  I gulped down the mouthful I'd taken and wondered about sheep excrement. "Have you had it tested?" I enquired.

  "It has a good aura," she assured us. "If I've interpreted it properly there are lots of GFRs in it."

  "GFRs?"

  "Good free radicals. It's been in the ground for millions of years, so all the bad free radicals have been taken up. There's nothing in it to combine with the body's free radicals and oxidise them."

  "That's good." I placed my tumbler on the table, nearly crashing it into Dave's as he did the same. Her husband and a thin man appeared outside the window, talking earnestly. They shook hands four-handed and Julian turned to come back in.

  He was wearing jeans and a Save the Planet T-shirt with sweat patches under his arms and on his chest, as if he'd just finished a marathon. He was balding on top but his ponytail clung on in defiance of the passing years. I jumped up and did the introductions, properly, but his wife didn't appear to notice the switching of the ranks.

  He turned to her for a moment, his face alive with as much fervour as the people who once thronged the churches along the road. "What did you think?" he asked her.

  "It was wild," she assured him. "You were really emping. I could feel it."

  "We were, weren't we? I think we'll move on to the tom-toms next session." He turned to us. "Sorry about that, Inspector. Just discussing my last client. Has Abi told you what I do?"

  "Yes, she has," I replied. "And all about our auras."

  "Ha ha! She's very gifted. I keep telling her that she should exploit it more, but she won't listen. Now, how can I help you?"