I sipped my tea and replaced the cup on the saucer. "I went to see a man called Henry Ratcliffe today,"-I began, when happy thoughts about times spent in sunnier climes had subsided. "He was the investigating officer."
"Where was this?" Rosie asked, suddenly concerned.
"Chester. He's in a nursing home in Chester, has some wasting disease. Motor neurone or something like that. I doubt if he has much longer to live, but he's quite lucid."
"The poor man."
"Mmm. I asked him what he remembered about the case, and… about… your father."
"Was he any help?"
"Not in the way he meant, Rosie. Even allowing for the huge chip on his shoulder brought about by his condition, he didn't come across as a very nice man. Your father's politics were anathema to him, and I wouldn't be surprised if that didn't cloud his judgement."
"You mean… he may have tampered with the statement?"
"I certainly wouldn't put it past him. He belonged to that school, and no mistake." But before her hopes were raised too far I went on: "However, this morning I received a copy of the statement. I haven't brought it because I thought it might upset you. It was written by Ratcliffe and allegedly signed by your father. It looks OK to me but we could try to check the signature. It's a long name and your dad signed it in full, so it would be difficult to forge. It doesn't look good, I'm afraid, Rosie."
She bit her lip and stayed silent, holding a long-cold cup against the crook of her shoulder. The nail polish on her toenails was chipped through walking about bare-footed, and as if reading my mind she drew her feet under her, out of sight. Outside, the streetlights came on up the hillside, although it was still early. Big clouds were building up and the tops were lost in them. Rosie rose from her chair and switched on a standard lamp to give the room some illumination.
When she was seated again she said: "So we'll have to wait for the DNA tests?"
"It looks like it."
I wanted to cross over to her and swamp her in an embrace, tell her that everything was just fine, that we could see things through together, but I couldn't. It wouldn't be true. Life is for the living, I wanted to say, and we owe it to ourselves to make the most of it. God knows, it's short enough. But she was locked in the past, with a dead father who she loved. Would I have been as determined to clear my father's name under similar circumstances? I had no idea.
"Last night," I said, "I talked to Mary Dunphy on the telephone."
Rosie came back from wherever. "Mary Dunphy?" she repeated.
"You knew her as Mary Evans."
"Mary Evans? You've spoken to Mary Evans?"
"Yes. She said you were the prettiest girl in the village, and the cleverest."
"Oh, I was, I was! So where is Mary living?"
"Still in the village. Presumably she married someone called Dunphy and stayed there."
"That would be Barry Dunphy. He was a few years older than us but I remember him because he played for the school rugby team. He was expected to go on to great things in rugby, but I never heard of him again."
"That happens to lots of promising young sportsmen," I said, shaking my head wistfully. "Good at school, but never making it in the big, wide, outside world. Did I ever tell you about my goal-keeping exploits?"
"I can hardly wait," she replied, a smile briefly lightening her expression.
"I'll save them for another time. Mary spoke quite affectionately about your father. Said he was the last person she would have thought of to have… you know. Until she heard about the confession."»
Talk of the rugby team had reminded rrfe of the last piece of news I had for her. "There's just one other thing," I said. "According to Mrs Dunphy, Glynis was what she described as 'an immoral person'."
"An immoral person? In what way?"
"Apparently she wasn't averse to going up the hillside with a gang of boys and giving them sexual favours. It happens in most villages, or so I'm led to believe."
"I didn't know that."
"There was no talk of it at the time?"
"No, but why should there have been?"
"No reason, except that if the case had gone to trial it could have made the difference between a charge of murder or one of manslaughter."
She sat silently, pondering on my words. I drained the dregs from my cup and stood up to leave. "I'll be on my way," I said. "I take it you haven't heard anything."
"No, nothing."
"Let me know if you do. Thanks for the tea and the cake."
"Thanks for coming, Charlie. I do appreciate it."
She walked to the door with me. As I stood with my hand on the handle I said:
"When this is over, Rosie, do you think we might spend some time together, get to know each other?"
She looked up at me and nodded. "Yes, I'd like that."
"Win or lose?"
"Mmm, win or lose."
"Good. And perhaps then we could catch up on all that travelling."
"That's something to look forward to."
"Secret of happiness," I said, "is having something to look forward to." I held her slim shoulders in my hands and gave her a kiss on the forehead. "And I've a lot to catch up on."
Rosie walked me to the gate and I admired her flowers. She grew roses but I failed to associate them with her name for a few seconds and made some fatuous comment. "I'm just a dumb detective," I said, giving myself a blow to the head.
"They're old varieties," she explained. "Like me."
As I opened my car door she said: "Charlie." I noticed the concern that had crept back into her voice and turned to her. "About Glynis," she continued. "What you said about her being an immoral person. It has no relevance now, has it?"
"No," I replied. "None at all."
"If it did," she went on, "if it were necessary for it to come out, I wouldn't want to continue. I'd drop the enquiry. Glynis's parents are probably still alive, and I wouldn't want to do anything to upset them more than is necessary. God knows, it will be upsetting enough for them just to resurrect it all again."
I nodded my agreement and pulled the car door shut. Rosie was prepared to go to great lengths to clear her father's name, but not if it meant destroying the living. Her words had moved me, and I decided that she was a very special lady, one I wanted in my life. And what she said was in line with the words of her father's statement: "I saw her and wanted her", not "she led me on." He was protecting the girl's reputation, as Rosie wanted to do. Like father, like daughter.
Which meant that the words in the confession were Abraham Barraclough's own words, not Detective Chief Inspector Henry Ratcliffe's.
Which meant that Abraham Barraclough was a murderer.
Thieves are opportunists, and the varying British climate throws up a variety of opportunities. In winter we dash out to the car on frosty mornings and leave the engine running while we breakfast. The local Jack-the-Lad materialises out of nowhere and makes off with it. In summer it's garden furniture and barbecues left out overnight, and burglaries through open windows. We were enjoying a hot spell and the sun-starved citizens of Heckley were desperately catching up with their Continental and Antipodean cousins. Garages and supermarkets were stockpiling charcoal like Armageddon was round the corner, and the latest price was being quoted in the financial news. A thriving black-market in it emerged, with inferior brands from the Far East undercutting the market leaders. Thieves of all persuasions were having a field day.
"Plenty to do?" I asked when I returned to the office after the morning prayer meeting, and everybody mumbled their assent.
"I've been asked about the gala again. Any thoughts on it?"
"Wrestling in a big bowl of Kellogg's Frosties," somebody suggested.
"Too late; the Girl Guides are doing that."
"Three-legged pole vaulting?"
"British Legion."
"How about self body-piercing for beginners?"