Limestone Cowboy (12 page)

“You’re already helping me,” I replied. “Frankly, we’re making no progress with the case, are no nearer to discovering who is contaminating items, so I’m just
collecting
background information, familiarising myself with the situation. Only Grainger’s stores appear to be involved so we’re wondering if it’s a grudge that
someone
holds against Sir Morton, or even yourself.”

She looked suitably puzzled, said she couldn’t think of anybody, but Mort was a businessman and although he tried not to, it was inevitable that he’d stepped on a few toes on his way up.

“Any names spring to mind?” I asked, but she shook her head. She rarely became involved with the business.

“How long have you been married?”

“Is that relevant, Inspector?”

“You’re an attractive lady. Any old boyfriends still carrying a torch for you?”

“I see. Twelve years. Mort’s been married before but his first wife did quite well for herself, married a judge and lived happily ever after.”

“Any children?”

“Mort has a married son. He sees him occasionally, when he wants money.”

“Ah yes,” I said. “I’ve been told that his
daughter-in
-law sometimes works as a secret shopper for Sir Morton. Is that so?”

“No. Not officially. Mort wouldn’t countenance such a thing. She uses the stores and then comes
complaining
to him about the service, or whatever. He ignores her, but politely.”

“Actually,” I began, “I’ve been told that you
sometimes
pose as a secret shopper. You wear a disguise and…”

She threw back her head and laughed. “Good God, Inspector, who have you been talking to?”

I smiled at her. “Anybody who’ll give me the time of day.”

“I shop at Grainger’s. Is that a surprise? I wear
normal, off-the-peg clothes. Do they expect me to shop in a cocktail dress?”

“OK, I’m convinced. I’ll cross out secret shopper. Can you give me the son’s address, please?”

“No problem.”

“Thanks. I believe that Sir Morton is away playing golf somewhere.”

“That’s right, in Scotland.”

“If you don’t mind me being personal, how do you know he hasn’t spent a weekend of passion in the arms of one of his checkout girls?”

“Because I know Mort, Inspector, and I can assure you that he’ll find nothing with one of his checkout girls that he couldn’t find at home, with interest. This whole thing is putting him under tremendous pressure, what with all the call-backs and the press constantly
harassing
him. He deserves his weekend away from it all.”

It was a convincing reply, but she’d taken the
question
in her stride, almost as if expecting it. “When I said checkout girl,” I explained, “I didn’t necessarily mean literally. I was referring to the entire female sex.”

“And my answer is the same, with interest.”

“Right. And what about you? Any skeletons in your cupboards?”

“I love Mort, Inspector, and he loves me. We trust each other and neither of us is playing fast and loose with anyone else. All this has been a terrible strain on him and we’ll both be grateful if you can find the
perpetrator
.”

“OK. Thanks for being so frank with me, Mrs Grainger, and thanks for the coffee. I wonder if it will be possible for me to have a quick word with Sebastian?”

“Sebastian? No, Inspector. I’m afraid he’s taken the rest of the day off.”

The valley traps the heat and the temperature was
rising
. The forecasters had promised the hottest day of the summer and it wasn’t letting them down. Heading through town I dived into a parking place and walked to the sandwich shop, my jacket slung over my
shoulder
. A woman in leggings and an FCUK T-shirt coming in the opposite direction put on an unexpected burst of speed to beat me through the door. She had a face like bag of potatoes and a perspiration problem. I felt like asking her why she had fuck emblazoned across her bosom, but she would only have whined that it stood for French Connection United Kingdom and accuse me of having a dirty mind.

Bollocks, I thought. It’s just another nail in the coffin of civilization. Another tiny smidgeon of indecency to inure us against the collapse of public taste. Sex sells; selling makes money; money is God; amen. At that very moment some shit-brained graduate down in Soho or Docklands was no doubt wondering if the world was ready for an advertising campaign built around the English monarch who tried to stop the tide coming in – King Cnut. It was only a matter of time. I asked for a chicken tikka, in a soft roll, and followed the woman out into the sunshine.

So what did that make me? I turned my head and watched my reflection in the shop windows: package in one hand; jacket dangling from the other; long legs striding out. Charlie Priest, lawman. Two nights
earlier
I hadn’t gone to bed with my goddaughter, hadn’t
made love to her, and I was glad. There’d be no awkward silences when we next met, no avoiding being left alone with each other and no embarrassed looks across the table when we all went out together. We wouldn’t have to measure our words every time we spoke, to avoid imaginary or accidental innuendos. I gave myself a wink and almost collided with a bus stop.

I picked up the phone, put it down again, walked over to the window. The sunlight bounced off the station’s windows and back-lit the building opposite. Down in the street people wandered about in skimpy tops and shorts. I can never understand how they change their clothes so quickly as soon as the sun comes out. I stared at the phone for a long moment, then picked it up and dialled.

How did Mrs Grainger know that Sebastian had taken the rest of the day off? Perhaps he was going to, but he could still have been lurking about somewhere. She was quite certain that he’d already gone. Didn’t she want me to talk to him? Mr Wood answered the phone almost immediately.

“It’s Charlie, Gilbert,” I said. “I wouldn’t mind
taking
the afternoon off.”

“Fair enough,” he replied. “Is it work or play?”

“A bit of both.”

“No need to book it then.”

“Cheers.”

And that invigorated me. The sun was shining, the outdoors beckoned and I had a free afternoon. I dialled another number.

“Technical support,” a voice confirmed.

“It’s DI Priest,” I told it. “I want to borrow
something
.”

At home I changed into shorts and boots and put a few items in a rucksack. An hour after speaking to Gilbert I was sitting in the pay-and-display car park in Hebden Bridge, trying to be patient as a young woman loaded two infants and all their paraphernalia into a VW Golf. She gave me a hesitant wave as she drove away and I claimed the spot.

I slung the gear over my shoulders and headed out of town, over the River Calder, the canal and the
railway
line. The signal was green and I like watching trains, but I’d a stiff walk ahead of me so I pressed on. A notice on a lamppost caught my eye, like the wanted poster I’d seen in Heckley, and further on I saw
another
. I crossed the road to read it. Claudius the cat had gone missing and its five-year-old owner was
grieving
. Small reward offered.

The slope starts almost immediately, giving you
little
time to raise your metabolism, and I was soon
puffing
. The shade of the trees that cling to the valley side was welcome, but it was the hottest part of the day and I could feel sweat trickling down my spine. Fat bees busied themselves amongst the Himalayan balsam that lined the road and a peacock butterfly flew ahead of me, its wings flickering with colour in the dappled sunshine. If you could see Stoodley Pike from Dob Hall, you didn’t have to be Isaac Newton to know that you’d be able to see Dob Hall from Stoodley Pike. I’d been there plenty of times in the past, usually making a
decent circular walk of it, but today I took the more direct route, straight up Pinnacle Lane. In ten minutes I’d left the last house behind and soon broke out of the shelter of the trees.

I’d borrowed a telescope from technical support. “What’s it for?” I was asked.

“Um, watching someone.”

“Is this an approved operation?”

“Off course it is.”

“Right. Do you prefer straight or angled?”

“I haven’t a clue. Something you just look through.”

“We’ll make it straight, then. Any idea what
magnification
?”

“You tell me.”

“How far away are they?”

“About a mile, perhaps a little over.”

“Daylight or darkness?”

“Daylight. This afternoon.”

“Nice and bright then. OK, I’ll fit the 40x eyepiece but put a 20x in with it in case you find that too
difficult
to hold. You’ll need a tripod, too.”

“Great. Any chance of someone bringing it over?”

So in my rucksack I had an Opticron 50mm
telescope
, as favoured by birdwatchers, and a Vivitar
tripod
was slung over my shoulder.

The track gains about five hundred feet in a quarter of a mile, which is a stiff climb. I’d brought a bottle of water but didn’t need it just yet. The path levelled out and then it was a straight blast towards the summit.

It’s hard to imagine the euphoria that swept the nation after Wellington’s victory at Waterloo. It must have been like VE Day, the Falkland and Gulf War
celebrations and the Millennium all swept into one great orgy of triumphalism. Honours were piled upon the man, and this part of the kingdom showed its
gratitude
by subscribing towards a monument, now known as Stoodley Pike. It fell down after forty years but they built another one and used a better concrete mix the second time. The hint of a breeze on the exposed moor was welcome, then it was another climb for the last half mile.

They picked a good spot for it, with views of the kingdom in all directions. To the west and east stretched the plains of Lancashire and York, their boundaries lost in the haze, while to the south the moors lay folded and rumpled all the way down into Derbyshire, like a duvet on an unmade bed. But I was interested in the opposite direction, across the Calder valley. It was in full sun, basking in the
uncharacteristic
heat wave, and I wondered if property prices depended on which side of the valley you were
situated
. Afield down below was set out with jumps as if a gymkhana was expected, and traffic was stationary all the way into Todmorden.

There’s a viewing gallery about twenty feet up the tower, accessed by a spiral staircase. For part of the way you are in total darkness, groping for the steps with your feet while trailing a guiding hand on the wall. The tripod slipped off my shoulder and nearly tripped me, but after a few seconds we were stepping out into the sunshine again. I walked round the gallery, taking in the view, but it wasn’t much better than at ground level, and the balustrade was at an awkward height, so I felt my way back down the
stairs and set up the telescope on a flat rock at the edge of the escarpment.

I scanned the far side of the valley with my
binoculars
but couldn’t locate Dob Hall. Back to first
principles
. How did I get there this morning? Find the road, follow it along, turn right after the pub. Ah! There it was. I’d been underestimating the power of the
binoculars
, moving too far. The Hall was in a wooded area but the trees had been cleared from the front to open up the view. I wondered how they won permission for that, but was grateful at the same time. The front of the house was visible, with a lawn to one side and the garage block to the other. The office and leisure
complex
was at the rear, out of sight. I scanned around, looking for prominent landmarks, then turned to the telescope.

It was harder than I expected but eventually we mastered it and the Georgian facade of Dob Hall with its elegant entrance portico swam into view. There were two cars parked in front of the house and a single sun lounger sat on the lawn. Keeping one eye closed was irritating after a few minutes so I used the
binoculars
. I don’t know what I expected or hoped to see. Sebastian prowling around the premises, proving Debra Grainger had lied? The woman herself
skinny-dipping
in the fish pond? I don’t know, but it was a good excuse for an afternoon out of the office, and I’d settle for that.

I ate the chicken tikka sandwich and drank some of the water. A steady procession of walkers stopped at the Pike before giving me a friendly wave and moving on. They were mainly grey-haired couples, no doubt
with matching anoraks stuffed in their ’sacks. I reminded myself that it was Monday afternoon but for them it was just another day. Perhaps there would be life outside the police force, after all.

I was doing a sweep with the bins when a
movement
caught my attention. A figure, no doubt Mrs Grainger, was spreading a towel on the sun lounger. She placed something on the little table that stood alongside, carefully tucked in the ends of the towel and arranged her elegant limbs to take advantage of the sun’s rays. She was wearing a one-piece white swimsuit. I smiled to myself, wondered if what I was doing was perverted, and turned to the telescope.

It was a better view, much better, but at that
magnification
, even with a tripod, it’s difficult holding the picture steady. And maybe my hand was shaking just a little. Somehow, it didn’t seem real. It was like
watching
her on TV, starring in an Andy Warhol film where nothing happens for eight hours. I stood up, did a few stretching exercises and watched a train crawl down the valley towards Mytholmroyd, Halifax and the rest of the world.

I was back at the telescope, wondering whether to try the 20x eyepiece, when the action started. Mrs Grainger had turned over to cook her back when a pair of black-trousered legs appeared alongside her and their owner lowered a tray onto the little table. She turned her head away from him in an eloquent
gesture
, but he wasn’t to be rebuffed. He stood looking at her for a few seconds, as if saying something, then sat next to her on the edge of the lounger and placed his hand in the small of her back. She leapt to her feet,
snatching up the towel, and I knocked the telescope out of focus.