Limestone Cowboy (11 page)

“Have you seen the confession?”

“No, not yet.”

I didn’t know what else to say. Rosie’s loyalty towards her father was only what I expected, but she was very young at the time, living a childhood that was close to perfection. I could imagine the scenario. Her father got himself into a situation with a girl from the village, a girl that he knew, and ended up with a dead body on his hands. We stand on our soapboxes and rail at the guilty party, then say a secret prayer that begins with the words: “There but for…” She was heading for more heartbreak, of that I was certain. All I could try to do was prepare her for it, ease the blow when it fell.

“Apparently you have something called noble cause corruption,” she said. “The producer told me that a signed statement could easily be faked,
especially
when otherwise you wouldn’t have enough
evidence
. It was dictated by my father, the police claim, and written down by the investigating detective. Why
would it be done like that when he was perfectly capable of writing it himself?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “That’s just how it was. Probably to save time because most of our clients have difficulty spelling MUFC.” Normal procedure was to ask the suspect to sign the statement directly below the last line of writing, but many an old-time bobby wasn’t averse to asking for a signature at the bottom of the page, then adding a few words of his own.

“There’s fitting up,” I told her, “and there’s this thing called noble cause corruption. We know fitting up goes off because there have been cases of it proven in the West Midlands and in the Met, but I’ve been in the job a long time and I’ve never met a policeman who would willingly fit up an innocent person just to improve the clear-up figures. Noble cause corruption is slightly different. Let’s say we’ve arrested someone for rape, or persistent burglary. You know he did it, he’s done it before and he’ll do it again, but the
evidence
is circumstantial and he’s on legal aid and you’re not allowed to reveal his previous convictions to the court. You want him off the streets, so there’s a temptation to take steps to strengthen your case. It happens, I’m sure. I’ve no proof but I’ve had my
suspicions
once or twice.” And Charlie Priest could lie for England, I reminded myself. “What I’m saying is… even if the statement is faked, it doesn’t prove
anything
. It might help show that he was wrongly charged, but that’s not the same as innocent. Do you know if the autopsy samples have been saved?”

“You mean the blood?”

“Yes, the fingernail scrapings.”

“Apparently they’re stored in a lab in Chepstow.”

“It’s got to be the DNA, then. That’s your only chance.”

She thought about what I’d said, curled up in the easy chair, sitting on her feet. Wrongly charged or insufficient evidence wasn’t good enough. We couldn’t bring her father back from the dead and it hadn’t occurred to her, until I spelt it out, that neither of these would clear his name.

“Where is your father buried,” I asked.

She continued to stare at the carpet until my voice registered and she looked at me with a start. “Sorry…” she said. “What was that?”

“I was wondering if your father was buried in the village.”

She shook her head. “No. The local vicar wouldn’t allow it. Or maybe he daren’t. Feelings were high. The day after Dad was arrested the first stone came through the window. After that we had police
protection
, if you could call it that. Eventually we moved into lodgings in Cardiff but the news leaked out wherever we went. After the inquest Mum contacted the vicar at Uley, in Gloucestershire, where they were married, and he allowed Dad to be buried there. We moved around a bit and eventually settled in Cromer. Things were better for a while, but they caught up with us.”

“It must have been dreadful,” I said. “Dreadful.”

“Yes, it was.”

I thanked her for the tea and hoped I hadn’t
resurrected
too many bad feelings. She told me that they’d never been laid to rest and thanked me for the flowers. At the door she said: “You think he did it, don’t you?”

I shook my head. “Someone did it, Rosie.”

“It wasn’t my father. If you’d ever met him you’d understand that.”

I wanted to say that hundreds of paedophile vicars and priests and teachers and youth workers were able to indulge in their vile practices undetected because that was exactly what everybody said about them, but I didn’t. Instead I gave her a bleak smile and turned to go.

“The producer said you’d close ranks, defend your own. Is that what you’re doing, Charlie? Closing ranks.”

I spun round to face her again and saw that she was close to tears. “I don’t give a shit about closing ranks, Rosie,” I declared. “If there’s any way in which I can help you, I will. I just don’t want you to be hurt any more.”

“Will you? I’d desperately like to believe that.”

“It’s the truth, Rosie. I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” How many times does the average detective say that in his working week? And “Leave it with me.” They make “The cheque is in the post” sound like an extract from the Sermon on the Mount. I drove home with the weight of the case
pressing
on me like I was carrying a rucksack filled with wet cement. The joys of my encounter with Sophie had fled like sparrows away from a cat. And next morning I had to face her dad.

“Good weekend?” he asked as he breezed into my office.

“OK. And you?”

“Not bad. Tidied up the garden. Nearly rang to see if you fancied a walk on Sunday, but Shirley made me mow the lawn.”

“Good for her.”

“Did you watch the grand prix?”

“No. Who won?”

“Schumacher again. It was rubbish. But hey, guess what. Sophie rang last night. She sends her love. She’s bringing this boyfriend fellow up next week so Shirl’s in a right panic. You’ll never guess what he’s called.”

“Um, no.”

“Digby!”

“Digby?”

“That’s what she said. Don’t think she’s having us on.”

“It’s a fine name. What have you on today?”

“Watching CCTV film, unless you have anything in mind. I was thinking that maybe we should have another visit to Dob Hall while the boss is away. Maybe talk to the desirable Sebastian or even Mrs Grainger, if she’s there.”

“What good would that do?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Shake the bastards out of their complacency, do some
stirring
, something like that.”

“We can’t just go over and cause trouble. Carry on with the CCTV, please Dave, and tell Jeff to come in, will you?”

“Oh, OK.” He lifted his bulk out of the chair and sloped off back into the main office.

He was right, though. This morning would be a good opportunity to talk to Sebastian while Sir Morton was away in Scotland, thrashing a defenceless ball round – what did he say? – the Old Course. I’m not a golfing man. Don’t like the trousers. I presumed that St Andrews saved the New Course for major
tournaments
. We still needed a talk with sexy Sharon, too, Grainger’s head of human resources, but she wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.

And that thought made something click in my brain. Is it being so suspicious that makes me a good detective, or is it the dirty mind? I logged on to the Internet and clicked on Favorites, then Google. When I asked for St Andrews it came up with nearly half a
million
entries in a tenth of a second. The fourth one down was the chickadee I needed.

Hell’s teeth! It cost £105 for a round of the Old Course; God knows what it would cost on the new
one. Presumably that included a free set of clubs, but I wasn’t certain. I wrote down the number, had a quick look round the site and logged off.

“I wonder if you could help me?” I said to the charming young lady with the voice as clear as a
babbling
burn who answered the phone. “A friend of mine was playing the Old Course in a pro-am competition over the weekend, for charity. He’s tapped me for a contribution and I’m just making out a cheque, but I can’t remember the name of the charity. I don’t
suppose
you’d know, would you?” More lies, but
sometimes
it’s necessary.

“The Old Course, did you say, sir?”

“That’s what he told me.”

“There was no pro-am competition on the Old Course this weekend. Friday until Sunday it was the Highland Malt tournament. What is your friend called?”

“Sir Morton Grainger.” Now I was glad about the subterfuge. If word got to him that he was being asked after, he couldn’t trace it back to me.

“One moment, please…” I heard the rattle of a
keyboard
. “No, nobody of that name was playing. Is he a member here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s see then… No, I’m afraid we have no Mr Grainger, Sir Morton or otherwise. You must have made a mistake.”

“It sounds like it. He probably said the Belfry. Thanks for trying.”

“You’re welcome.”

So, I thought, Sir Morton tells pork pies. I clicked the
cradle and fumbled one-handed for my diary. A breathless Rosie answered just as I was about to
abandon
the call.

“It’s Charlie,” I said. “Do you still have contact with any of your schoolfriends from back when… you know, when it happened?”

“No, none at all. We moved away, as I told you, but I was persona non grata in any case.”

“Right. What was your school called?” I asked for the spelling and wrote it down. “And can you
remember
the names of any of your classmates?” Jeff Caton poked his head round the door while I was speaking and I gestured for him to take a seat. “That’s fine, Rosie,” I said. “Let me know if First Call contact you again, if you will.”

She promised she would and I kicked my chair back away from the desk and rocked back on two legs. “That was a friend of mine called Rosie Barraclough,” I told Jeff. “Thirty years ago her father signed a
confession
to strangling a thirteen-year-old girl and then hanged himself whilst in police custody. A TV
company
is making a documentary about the case, trying to prove he was fitted up, and Rosie, of course, would like to prove his innocence.”

“First Call?”

“Mmm.”

“They do true crime programmes on Channel 5, usually slanted to show what a bunch of incompetents we are.” “I think they’re using her, spinning her a line. They’ve already conned her into signing a request for her father’s exhumation, to obtain DNA samples and,
of course, to make some moody TV. No doubt they’ll do the exhumation at night and organise a rain machine and lots of dry ice. If I make it right with Mr Wood will you do some leg-work for me?”

“I’d love to, and it’s got to be more interesting than poisoned corned beef. The question is, did he do it?”

“What do you think?”

“I’d say she’s heading for a fall. If it were my father I’d settle for the uncertainty and believe what I wanted to believe.”

“Me too, but maybe we can break that fall. If we only beat First Call to the truth it would be something.”

“OK, where do I start?”

Contacts are a major resource for any policeman, both inside and outside the force. A phone call to some anonymous officer in another part of the country will be treated with civility and evoke promises of help, but he’s a busy man and his superintendent has a bigger pull on his time than you have. But if you’ve had a pint together and are on first-names you can usually
generate
a little enthusiasm for your case. When I gave the talk at Bramshill I distinctly heard a Welsh accent to one of the questions. I found the course notes and thumbed through them. He was called Bryan Pinter, a DCI in Powys.

“Hello Bryan,” I heard myself saying, three minutes later. “It’s Charlie Priest. I met you at Bramshill last Thursday.” He remembered me, he said, and had enjoyed the course. My talk had been most interesting. “I need a name,” I told him. “I’m resurrecting a case
from the seventies down in South Dyfed and want to talk to someone about it. Do you know anybody there who might help me?”

Ten minutes later it was: “Hello Derek. I’ve just been talking to Bryan Pinter… he sends his regards, by the way… yes, he’s fine… and he suggests that you are the man I need to give me some help.”

I loaded things so that it sounded as if I were trying to take the steam out of First Call’s expose. If they were going to beat us around the head with a false
confession
perhaps we could hold our hands up to it before the show was broadcast and pre-empt their
swaggering
. I didn’t say that the accused’s daughter was a friend of mine and I wanted to prove his innocence even more that First Call did. Rosie was right: when the enemy is marching over the drawbridge with a mean look on his countenance there is a strong
temptation
to close ranks.

Dave came in. “I’ve got square eyes,” he
complained
. “It’s a waste of time.”

“Any more cases reported?” I asked.

“No. Looks as if the worst is over. They’ve either died, moved or stopped doing it.”

“Fair enough. So why don’t you go to a couple of the stores and talk to the security people. I know that they’ve been told to contact us if they see anything
suspicious
, but you know what they’re like. Have a word with them.”

“If you want. I was still thinking that maybe we should talk to Sebastian and Mrs Grainger, while the cat’s away.”

“No,” I said. “I’d rather you talked to security.”

He gave me a hangdog look, said: “OK,” and turned to leave.

“Close the door, please,” I told him.

When he’d gone I picked up the phone and dialled. “Is that Sebastian?” I asked the voice that answered, certain that it was. “This is Detective Inspector Priest from Heckley CID. I’d like to come over and have a word with you, and also with Mrs Grainger, if she’s available.”

Sebastian met me at the door and suggested that I
follow
him. He picked up a tray laden with Thermos, cups and a plate of biscuits from a sideboard in the hallway and set off at a fair pace into the bowels of Dob Hall with me trotting obediently behind.

“Sir Morton’s away playing golf, isn’t he?” I called to his back.

“So I am led to understand,” he replied.

“Does he play much golf?”

“A fair amount.”

“I enjoy a round myself. Which club is he a
member
of?” The corridor we were following ended at a glass wall and beyond it was the leisure and office complex.

“I don’t know. Mrs Grainger said she will see you by the pool.”

“How long have you worked for the Graingers?”

“Eight years.”

The white light of fluorescence replaced the gloom of the hall, ozone was in the air and pot plants stretched towards the high roof. It was all glass and aluminium and fabricated wooden beams. A figure in
a black costume was doing an expert crawl down the length of the pool.

Sebastian placed the tray on a hardwood table and invited me to take a seat. “Coffee or orange juice, Sir?” he asked.

“Oh, um, coffee, please,” I replied and he poured me a cup.

“Help yourself to biscuits, and Mrs Grainger will be with you in a moment.”

He sasheyed away and stood at the end of the pool as the swimmer approached. When he caught her eye he gestured in my direction and she gave me a wave. Sebastian turned to leave and the swimmer pushed off and did two lengths without surfacing for air.

She climbed out of the pool, sleek as an otter, wrapped herself in a huge black and white striped robe and came over to meet me.

“Hi, I’m Debra Grainger,” she said in an American accent, extending a hand.

I stood up, saying: “DI Charlie Priest.” I wasn’t sure whether to shake her hand or kiss it but settled for a shake. “You swim like a fish.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been swimming since before I could walk.”

“Obviously not in this country.”

“Ha! No. How’s the coffee?”

“Fine. Just fine. Can I…?”

“It’s OK, I’ll help myself. Will you excuse me for a few seconds while I put on some clothes, then you can tell me what it’s all about?”

I nodded my acquiescence and she carried her
coffee
away with her. I walked over to the glass side of the
building and looked out. There’d been a mist earlier on but the sun had burned it away and the temperature was rising. At the other side of the valley the fell-side rose like a wall, still in the shade, with what I thought was Stoodley Pike projecting upwards from the
highest
point. Victorian Man’s attempt to dominate the landscape. I looked at the cloudless sky and wanted to be out there.

“Admiring the view?” she called to me as she came back from the changing room.

I turned to face her. She was now wearing a jogging suit and trainers with her hair held back by a
headband
. I’d have said she was four or five inches taller than Grainger and a good twenty years younger.

“Yes,” I said, truthfully.

“More coffee?”

“No, that was fine, thank you.”

“Let’s go where it’s more comfortable.”

We went through into the office part of the leisure and office complex and emerged in one of those offices you normally only see in the colour supplements, before the people have been allowed in. There were three workstations with flat screen VDUs, each with a fancy keyboard and mouse but not a cable in sight. The VDUs were off and nobody was working in there. In one corner there was an old-fashioned drawing board with wires and a setsquare, which I found strangely reassuring.

“I understand you designed all this,” I said as we passed through.

“That’s right. Like it?”

The glass wall was either tinted or it had dimmed to
exclude the glare of the sun. The light level was bright and shadowless but I couldn’t see any fittings.

“I’m not an expert, but it looks superb to me. Anybody would be delighted to work in these
conditions
.”

“Why, thank you. That was the intention.” Her office was adjoining. It was quite small, just a desk and a telephone, with two easy chairs. She beckoned me to sit down.

“I noticed the drawing board in the corner,” I remarked. “Do you still hanker for the feel of a pencil?”

“Yes, I do. There was something therapeutic about standing at a board for hours at a time. Now we use it when we have work experience kids in. We show them how to draw an object in isometric and third angle
projection
and then let them loose on the computer, using CAD. They enjoy it.”

“Did your company design the stores?” It was a leading question. The Grainger’s stores had attracted wide criticism for being barren, depressing blots on the landscape. Hence most of the opposition to them.

She smiled. “No. We were invited to tender, but that’s as far as marital loyalty got us. When it comes to financial matters Mort has a skin like a rhino. So, how can I help you, Inspector?”