Limestone Cowboy (15 page)

Julian scowled at her and flapped a hand in a what’s the point gesture.

“What baby?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s something and nothing.”

“Go on.”

“Well, when they married Dad told us he was going to be a father again. He was as chuffed as a peacock. We all were. It was a joy to see him. And then…
nothing
happened.”

“She lost it?”

“Or there never was one. A phantom pregnancy. She’s neurotic, so we wouldn’t put it past her to have imagined the whole thing.”

“But you’re not sure?”

“No.”

“Has your dad included you in his will, do you know?”

“No idea.”

“Are you bothered?”

“What will be… will be.” He grinned at the feeble pun.

“So the answer to my question is no, you don’t like her.”

“She’s trailer trash, Inspector. Trailer trash.”

I left the car in second gear and let it roll at its own speed down the hill, the steering wheel swinging from side to side as the tyres felt their way around the cobbles.

“Twats?” I suggested, looking across at Dave.

“They’d give twats a bad name. A pair of friggin’
zonkoes if you ask me. If they’re right in their heads I know where there’s a big house full.”

“I have to say, Dave, that you handled your
promotion
well.”

“I did, didn’t I,” he replied, beaming a smile at me. “But it’s not as easy as it looks.”

“They certainly did a fair assassination job on the other Mrs Grainger.”

“Your friend Debra? What did you think of her?”

“Who? Debra?”

“Mmm.”

“I thought she was rather nice. Talented, attractive, a good aura. I was impressed, could understand what the little man sees in her.”

“You’re a sucker for a pretty face.”

“I know. Do you think they might be behind the contaminations?”

“The fools on the hill? No, it’s not their style. They’d settle for sticking pins in a corn dolly.”

The paintbrush I dropped the evening before was ruined, and they’re not cheap. I found another and cut the thick skin off the top of the paint. After a few trials on a piece of scrap wood I started writing the words of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s most famous poem across the blue board. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…

It was laborious work and I soon tired of it, and started having doubts about the whole project. Maybe it wasn’t the great idea I’d thought it was. Never mind. I’d complete one to see if it worked, and if not I’d just have to copy a couple of Picasso’s. I wrote the words in
big looping letters, as if done by giant fountain pen, with plenty of circles and ovals for me to fill in with colour afterwards. Red, green and yellow.

When the board was covered in writing I stood back to assess the work. The blue was a little too dark, but might look better when the bright colours were on it. I’d underpaint them in white to make them brighter, and broaden the downstrokes of the letters. Athought struck me. The idea was that it would look as if
someone
had doodled carelessly all over a love letter, but if I drew a line down the middle of all the ovals and put a bit of fuzz at the top of them, they’d look like ladies’ whatsits. Front bottoms. Then the recipient of the letter wouldn’t appear careless about the sender, he’d be obsessed, with only one thing on his mind.

If I did the whole thing about ten feet square it could be a contender for the Turner prize. Then I thought about the previous winners and the prize money. It was only twenty thousand, and I didn’t need it that bad. Picasso was obsessed with ladies’ whatsits in his dotage. His late sketches were covered in them. It’s where artists go when they run out of ideas. Not just painters. Writers, sculptors, songwriters, the whole lot of them. I’d stick with my bright colours.

I carefully washed the brush and went into the house. I made myself a mug of tea, put stew and dumplings in the microwave and rang the number in South Wales that Pete had given me.

A man answered the phone.

“Oh, hello,” I said. “Sorry to disturb you. My name is Detective Inspector Priest from Heckley CID, up in Yorkshire, and I’d like to speak to Mrs Dunphy.”

“What’s it about?” he demanded.

“I believe she knew Glynis Williams, the girl who was…”

“Why don’t you fuck off and leave us alone!” he shouted at me and the line went dead.

The microwave pinged to say my meal was cooked, so I put it on number one to keep warm and rang the number again.

“What?” he snapped.

“Please listen to what I have to say, Mr Dunphy,” I said. “I’m a detective in Yorkshire and certain issues have arisen about the murder of Glynis Williams. I need to talk to your wife. Now I can either drive all the way down there and perhaps interview her at your local police station, or preferably we can sort things out on the telephone.”

“How do I know you’re what you say you are? They said they were from the police.”

“Who’s they?”

“Journalists. From the TV.”

“Is this recently?”

“Last week, and the week before.”

They’d tried to contact Ratcliffe and now they were after Mrs Dunphy. I was one step behind them all the time.

“Right,” I said. “Here’s what you do. Ring your local nick and ask them for the number of Heckley police
station
, in Yorkshire. I’m at home, so ask Heckley for DI Priest’s home number. I’ll have to ring them to tell them to release it to you. Then you ring me.”

“That’s OK, I believe you,” he replied. “The wife’s here. I’ll put her on. Sorry I swore at you.”

“I’ve heard worse. Thanks a lot.”

Mary Dunphy had the first decent Welsh accent I’d heard but it was attractive and she spoke clearly. I envisaged her in the big skirt and hat, with lace
petticoats
, playing the harp. Racial stereotypes. I could get the sack for that if the thought-police were watching. After the introductions I said: “How well did you know Glynis?”

“We were in the same class at school, and she lived just across the road.”

“Were you friends?”

“Not really. We had different interests, and she always seemed more grown up than the rest of us.”

“Was she a pretty girl?”

“Pretty? No, she wasn’t pretty. She was a big girl, tall and heavily built, but she wasn’t pretty.”

So much for Ratcliffe’s description of her. “Did you know the Barraclough family?” I asked.

“Oh yes. They lived just down from Glynis, on the corner. They had a bakery, so everybody knew them.”

“What was Mr Barraclough like?”

“He was a big man, with a bushy beard. We all thought he was nice, until… you know.”

“Did you see much of him?”

“Yes, he was about all the time. Always had a kind word or something funny to say. He was a Pied Piper sort of character. When you went to the shop he’d always try to find a broken gingerbread man to pop in with your order, that sort of thing. The kids used to
follow
him around.”

I couldn’t resist asking: “Did you know his daughter?”

“Rosie? Yes, I knew Rosie. She was younger than me. Cleverest girl in the school, and the prettiest. We envied her living in the bread shop, and having a dad like that. I often wonder what happened to her.”

“Was there ever any talk of Mr Barraclough
behaving
improperly towards any of your schoolfriends? Did you ever have any reasons to distrust him?”

“No, I never heard of anything like that, until…”

“Until what, Mrs Dunphy?”

“Well, until afterwards. Like I said, he was friendly with all the children. Nowadays, what with all you read in the papers, that makes you suspicious, doesn’t it?”

“I’m afraid it does, Mrs Dunphy. We live in a sad world. Did you believe it when they said he’d killed Glynis?”

“Well, he confessed, didn’t he? He wouldn’t have confessed if he hadn’t done it, would he?”

“I suppose not, but up to then, before he confessed, did you consider he might be the murderer?”

“No, he was the last man I’d have thought of.”

“Thank you. Is there anything else you can tell me that might be relevant?”

There was a long silence before she said: “No, I don’t think so,” but in the background I heard her
husband
say: “Tell him.”

“Tell me what?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“Go on,” I urged her. “Now you’ll have to tell me.”

“It’s just that… I don’t like speaking ill of the dead.”

I thought it was going to be some revelation about Abraham Barraclough so I braced myself for bad news and said: “It can’t hurt them now, Mrs Dunphy.”

“No, but it can hurt her family. They still live in the village.”

I heaved a silent sigh of relief. “Tell me what you know,” I said.

“Well, let’s just say that Glynis was what you might call an immoral person.”

“Immoral!” I heard her husband scoff in the
background
. “That’s putting it mildly!”

“Put him on,” I told her. There was a mumbled exchange of words and a scraping noise before his voice greeted me again.

“Tell me what you know about her, please,” I said.

“Well, Inspector, let’s just say that she did it for friends and she had no enemies. Glynis might have only been thirteen but she was a tart, and no mistake. The school had a rugby team, and when they did well she would reward them in her own special way. When they lost she commiserated with them. They didn’t mind, it was all the same to them.”

“Sex,” I said. “You’re talking about sex?”

“Well I’m not talking about her giving them a pep talk. I reckon every lad in South Dyfed lost his cherry to Glynis Evelyn Williams.”

I pondered on his words. In court, her reputation could have made the difference between a murder rap and manslaughter. “Have you spoken to the TV
people
at all?” I asked.

“No, I told them where to go.”

“I’d be grateful if you kept it that way.”

I thanked them and rang off. By rugby he no doubt meant the union code, so now I had fifteen possible suspects. The dumplings were done a treat but the tea
was cold so I switched the kettle on again. Knowing Glynis’s reputation, ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have claimed that she led them on, but what was it that Ratcliffe had said? “He saw her and wanted her,” that was it. And: “He suddenly realised what he was doing.” Nothing there about her leading him on, no blame laid on the girl, but were the words in the confession Barraclough’s words or Ratcliffe’s?

I didn’t know. Holy Mother of Mary, I didn’t have a clue.

The warm weather held and the office looked more like a holiday camp than a dedicated crime-fighting establishment. Shades and summer shirts were the order of the day. Dave came in and asked what I was doing so I told him all about the Abe Barraclough case. He’s my best mate and I don’t like having secrets from him. Well, not many.

“Blimey,” he said. “That’s a bummer.”

“You can say that again.”

“Well, it explains your odd behaviour. Last week you were all smiles, this week you’ve been like a wet Sunday in Filey.”

“Thanks. Any more tampering cases come to light?”

“No, but I’ve got a photo for you.” He dashed out and came back holding a still from a videotape. “Thought you might like this one for your collection, although you might not recognise her with her clothes on.”

It was taken from the CCTV cameras at the entrance of a supermarket and showed a tall woman in a long dark coat, wearing sunglasses and a headscarf. She
looked like a Hollywood star out shopping. Incognito, but not too incognito.

“Mrs Grainger?” I said.

“The security man at the Heckley store gave it to me. He thinks it’s her, in mystery shopper mode.”

“It looks like her, all right. Why the long coat? And gloves. Look, she’s wearing gloves.”

“It’s raining hard,” Dave explained. “Look behind her – someone’s closing an umbrella and the
pavement’s
shiny,”

“Mmm, I suppose so.” There was a number printed in the bottom left hand corner. “Is that the date?” I asked.

“Yeah. Third o’ May, 2.33 p.m.”

“Right, thanks. I’ll put it on my bedroom wall with all those I took of her with the zoom camera I
borrowed
from technical.”

“Otherwise,” Dave said, “it’s all gone off the boil. I think we should stir things up a bit.”

“Where do you suggest we start?”

“Well, we haven’t done anything about the
delightful
Sharon’s weekend of passion with Sir Morton, have we?”

“If that’s what it was.”

“It will ’ave been, believe me.”

“’Spect you’re right. I wonder if she calls him Sir Morton in bed?”

“Oh! Sir Morton!” Dave shrieked.

“Sounds like a song. Let’s go see her, then.” I stood up, tucked my shirt in and unhooked my jacket from behind the door.

Dave said: “Oh, before I forget. You’re invited to lunch on Sunday.”

“Super. I’ll look forward to that.” Dave’s wife, Shirley, cooks the best Yorkshire puddings east of the Appalachians.

“Yeah, Sophie’s coming up, bringing this boyfriend with her. It must be serious.”

“Sophie!” I exclaimed.

“Mmm. My daughter, your goddaughter,
remember
?”

“Yes. I meant, um, Sunday. I might not be able to make it on, um, Sunday.”

“Why not?”

“Er, Wales. I might go to South Wales with Rosie.”

“Fair enough, but the invite’s there. Bring Rosie along if you want.”

“Right. I’ll mention it to her.”

The telephone saved me from further
embarrassment
. I listened, replaced the receiver and hung my coat back on the door.

“Sharon’s off for this morning,” I said. “Gareth Adey’s in a meeting with the ACC and the knicker thief is waiting downstairs for an official reprimand. He wants me to do it, so I’ll see you later.”

He was twelve years old, sitting on a chair in the foyer with his feet not reaching the floor. Hair plastered down, grey trousers and a school blazer, fear oozing from his well-scrubbed pores. His father sat next to him.