"Women's Institute, but you've obviously given it some thought so thanks for your efforts."
Dave followed me into my office. "Changed your mind about the brass band concert?" he asked.
"Er, no Dave. Sorry, but I've something on."
"I hope this Rosie isn't going to ruin a beautiful friendship."
"Oh, I doubt it, Dave."
"Any news about the exhumation?"
"No, nothing."
"So what about dinner on Sunday?"
I pulled a face. "I'm sorry, Dave, but it's a bit awkward."
He turned to leave. "OK, no problem. If my wife's Yorkshires aren't good enough for you, so be it. Not the mention my kids' disappointment."
I watched him slouch into the big office and collect his jacket. We'd been through a lot together since we first met at a house fire in Leeds. He says I saved his life. I doubted it, but he'd saved
L
my reputation on a score of occasions since. Right then I felt as if I'd rather cut off my leg with a chainsaw before I'd hurt the big gorilla. Him and Rosie, too, but for one of them it was looking inevitable.
Sebastian answered the phone when I rang Dob Hall, but it wasn't him I wanted to talk to. It might have been useful but I wasn't in the mood and I prefer a pretty face. He put me through to Mrs Grainger.
"I'm afraid I have a hairdressing appointment in Hebden Bridge for ten o'clock, Inspector," she replied, after I'd introduced myself and asked to see her. "I could fit you in after that. What's it about?"
"Oh, just a general chat. We're not making much headway. How about morning coffee in one of the teashops?"
"That sounds delightful."
"I'll pick you up at the hairdressers. What are they called?"
Her hair was much blonder when dry, and she wore it almost down to her shoulders and flicked up at the ends. Sandals, Bermuda shorts and a sequined T-shirt completed the ensemble. It was a familiar look: CNN newsreader or astronaut's wife. I stood to one side as we entered the teashop, held her chair for her as she sat down, showed her the menu.
"Just coffee," she said.
"Is it up to standard?" I asked, when she'd tasted it.
"It's fine."
"Are the Press still bothering you?"
"It's died down. Just the occasional phone call. They're not camped outside the gate anymore."
"Last Monday," I began, "when I spoke to you, you told me that Sebastian had taken the rest of the day off. I don't think he did."
"Have you talked to him?" she asked, but I didn't answer.
The little cafe was above a gift shop and the sun was streaming in through the window, casting patches of bright colour on the tablecloths. I sat opposite her with my hands on the table, feeling the sun's heat on the back of them.
After a silence she said: "He normally has "Monday off. I just assumed he'd gone."
"How do you get on with Sebastian?"
"Get on with him? He's an employee of my husband's, that's all."
"Do you like him?"
"Like him?"
"I didn't mean in an affectionate way. Are you happy to have him around? He lives in, doesn't he?"
"It's a big house, Inspector. I don't normally see much of him."
"Which is how you prefer it."
"Yes." After a pause she went on: "Credit where it's due, I suppose. Sebastian has done well dealing with the Press at the gate. That took a lot of the pressure off Mort."
I was walking on unstable ground. I could hardly admit that I'd spent Monday afternoon spying on her through a 40x telescope. I said: "I detect a feeling of… disquiet when you talk about Sebastian. As if something about him makes you feel uneasy." Her hand was on the table, the tips of her fingers almost touching mine. It was an elegant hand, its length emphasised by nail extensions; an essential fashion accessory for many American women. I'd noticed that the hairdressing salon offered them as an extra service and suspected that Mrs Grainger was their main client.
She suddenly withdrew it and sat upright. "You're very perceptive," she admitted. "I don't like him. I've spoken to my husband about him but he says that Sebastian does a good job, claims he is indispensable."
"What's Sebastian's surname?" I asked.
"Brown. He's Sebastian Brown."
"Was there a scene between the two of you on Monday, after I left? Some unpleasantness?"
Two women in flowery dresses came panting up the stairs and after a discussion decided to sit at the table next to ours, near the window, making further revelations impossible. We exchanged smiles and the usual pleasantries about the weather. I went to pay our bill and followed Mrs Grainger down the stairs. I know, I know, the man is supposed to go first, but it never feels right to me.
"Let's have a look at the canal," I said when we were outside. We crossed the road and the river and walked along the tow-path a short way until we found a bench to sit on near where the tourist boats tie up. Mrs Grainger appeared happy to stay with me. She wasn't showing any reluctance to be interrogated. I suspected that Hebden Bridge had little to offer compared with wherever she came from and talking to me was a welcome diversion in her otherwise boring lifestyle. She crossed her ankles and produced a pair of shades from the bag she carried. On the water a mallard and her chicks saw us and headed our way like a battleship with escort, their wakes fanning out behind them. I reminded myself that I was working.
"Where did you meet Sir Morton?" I asked, making it sound like idle conversation rather than a police interview. I twisted round to face her, my elbow on the backrest of the bench.
"In Florida." She laughed to herself at the memory.
Laughter is infectious and I smiled along with her, giving her time to explain.
"I was Miss Florida Oranges," she said. "My fifteen minutes of fame."
"Miss Florida Oranges?" I echoed.
"Don't laugh. One poor girl was Miss Ohio Potatoes and there was a Miss Oklahoma Pork Bellies."
Now I did laugh. "You're kidding!"
"I jest not."
"So who won the contest?"
"Who do you think?"
I bowed my head in contrition. "Forgive me."
"That's OK. When we were interviewed all the girls said they wanted to work with children and animals and for world peace. I said I wanted the money to pay my way through architects' school. Mort was there with a trade delegattbn from Britain. He sought me out and said that his company sometimes awarded scholarships to likely students. Would I be interested?"
"And you were."
"You bet. He paid all my fees, which was a great relief. Part of the deal was that he'd want an update of my progress every time he came to the States." She hesitated, before adding: "Let's just say that his visits became more and more frequent."
"And the rest is history."
"That's right." She smiled again. "Except… when I got to know him better, I learned that mine is the only scholarship Grainger's have ever awarded."
"That's a good story," I said. "And now you're a successful architect. Good for Sir Morton."
A narrow boat cruised by and the crew gave us a friendly wave. Papillon, all the way from Selby. Real geraniums were growing from old watering cans along the roof and painted ones twisted and spiralled along the length of the boat. We watched it putter away, venturing west towards Todmorden, Rochdale and the badlands of Lancashire, trailing a smell of diesel fumes, fresh paint and frying sausages behind it.
"Not that successful," Mrs Grainger admitted. "We haven't had any worthwhile contracts and it looks as if the London partnership is collapsing. We're a company in name only, I'm afraid."
"I'm sorry to hear that," I said. "I was very impressed with the office and leisure complex at Dob Hall."
"Yes," she sighed. "That was to be our flagship, but there are problems with it. One corner has subsided a little causing cracks. It was supposed to be on bedrock but the builder miscalculated, and we have a problem with condensation in winter. I didn't realise that this part of the world is semi-Arctic." She pronounced it see-my Arctic.