"I'm afraid so."
"Mort says he'll find a job for me at a checkout."
"Ha! I doubt if it will come to that."
An old lady in a woolly cardigan, her spindly legs encased in thick tights in spite of the weather, was throwing bread to the ducks, which appeared by the dozen out of nowhere. It looked as if she fed them every day. The mallards with chicks shepherded them towards the floating food, ferociously chasing away any intruders. Instincts, I thought. Protecting the family from danger and outside interference. It's all there, in the genes.
"In the cafe," I began, "you were telling me about Sebastian. You had some sort of confrontation with him on Monday."
"I didn't say that."
"But you did, didn't you?"
"How do you know?"
"It's my job to know."
"Have you spoken to him?"
"No."
"So you're guessing?"
"Let's call it intuition, Mrs Grainger. I read body language, think about your answers." She didn't look convinced. "And," I added, pointing at the sky, "we have a big satellite in geo-sta-tionary orbit, twenty-thousand miles high, watching our every move. Do you want to tell me about it?"
She uncrossed her ankles, pulled her feet under the bench and sat on her hands. "He — Sebastian — made a pass at me, that's all. He does normally take Monday off, like I said, but because he knew I was in the house on my own he stayed behind and tried his luck."
"What happened?"
"It was in the afternoon, long after you'd gone. I was sunbathing, taking advantage of this beautiful weather. I thought Sebastian had gone too, that there was no one at home but me.
Suddenly he joined me, on the lawn, carrying a tray with two drinks on it. Said he thought I might be in need of one. He sat down alongside of me and poured sun cream on my back, whispering what he considers to be swee,fnothings. It wasn't very nice, Inspector. I'm not used to talk like that. I jumped up and went inside and that was that."
Which was exactly what I'd seen, "Will Sir Morton sack him?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"Will you tell him?"
"No. It's not the first time it's happened. He's threatened me before, said he could bring it all down, if he wanted. If… if… if I didn't, you know."
"Grant him certain favours?" I suggested.
"Yes, that's it."
"What did he mean by bringing it all down?"
"I don't know. I can only assume that he has some sort of hold over Mort. Don't get me wrong, Mort likes him, thinks he's wonderful, but I suspect Sebastian knows something that would discredit my husband, if necessary. Has some inside information that he could use as an insurance policy against being fired. I'm not a complete fool, Inspector. I know Mort can be ruthless when necessary, and he's not afraid of cutting corners to land a deal. He's bound to have enemies."
Not to mention at least one mistress, I thought. The dark and voluptuous Sharon. A different type completely to brittle-blonde Debra Grainger.
"Can you think of any reason why Sebastian might be a suspect for contaminating the food?" I asked. "What would be in it for him?"
"I don't know."
"Do you think he'd be capable of doing it?"
"He's capable of doing anything."
We walked back to her car and I thanked her for being so frank with me. "I'm sorry to see you unhappy, Debra," I said,
"but maybe when we get to the bottom of this, things will improve." She thanked me for listening, wished me luck with the investigation and we shook hands.
In the evening I pressed on with the paintings, finishing the writing on both of them and starting to fill in the circles and ellipses with a white undercoat. I think when I paint. I think when I walk, too. I do a lot of thinking, more than I ought.
I couldn't help wondering about Mrs Grainger, uprooted from sunny Florida and transplanted in to Calderdale. We'd had three days of exceptional weather but soon — tomorrow in all probability — it would be back to the usual mixture. And in winter the breeze came straight off the Urals and cut like a bread knife. It was a pleasure talking to her. She was straightforward, hadn't tried to mislead me or conveniently forget things. She'd have a lot of time to think, too, living all alone in that big house while her high-flying husband entertained his mistress. All alone, that is, except for the sinister Sebastian — the Heathcliffe of Dob Hall — skulking around, watching her every movement, dreaming his dreams and making his plans. But why would Sebastian want to contaminate the food and bring disrepute on Grainger's? It didn't make sense. And when Mrs Grainger said that she wasn't a complete fool had I detected a sudden vehemence in her voice? Was it a tacit admission that she knew of a darker side to her husband and that she was aware of his philanderings?
"Job for you," I said, when I saw Dave next morning. "See what you can dig up on Sebastian Brown."
His eyebrows shot up. "Is that what he's called — Brown?"
"According to Mrs Grainger."
"Is he related to the desirable Sharon?"
Now it was my turn to express surprise. "I don't know. I hadn't made the connection. That's something else for you to find out."
"Can I talk to them?"
"If you want."
"And Mrs Grainger?"
"Um, no. I've already spoken to her."»
"I see," he said.
"No you don't," I replied. "It's just that I thought a personal, more… suave approach might be appropriate with, um, Debra."
He gave me a sideways look that spoke volumes, all of them fiction. "What about Sunday lunch?" he asked. "Changed your mind, yet?"
I shook my head. "Sorry, Dave, can't make it."
He went on his way and I made myself a coffee before having a look at the paperwork on my desk. Pete Goodfellow had made it all look neat but hadn't done much to reduce the amount. I was wondering whether to concentrate on the budget, the staff development reports, the crime figures or the guidelines for dealing with suspected illegal immigrants when the phone rang. It was the father of Robin, the boy I'd cautioned.
"You asked me for some names, Inspector," he said.
"That's right. Did you have any luck?"
"Yes. I had a heart-to-heart talk with Robin. He's a good boy, Inspector."
"I believe you. We're all allowed the odd indiscretion when we're young. The reprimand is not the end of the world, it won't impede his progress through life."
He told me two names and I wrote them down.
"We'll have a look at them," I said, "and if there's any more thieving we'll talk to them. If Robin doesn't tell anyone about the reprimand they'll never know where we got their names from."
"I think he's learned his lesson."
"I'd say so." And he has caring parents, I thought. Most of the kids that come in are accompanied by their mothers, who see the whole process as an irritation and can't get out of the station fast enough.
"There's just one other thing," he was saying, hesitantly.
"What's that?" I asked.
"Have you seen yesterday's Gazette?"
"No, I haven't had time to look at it."
"The headline story is about dog fighting. Organised dog fighting."
"Oh, good," I replied. "We'd asked them to publish something and make an appeal for help. What can you tell me?"
"It's Robin again. He says there was this boy at school, last term, called Damian. He was a bit backward, apparently, shouldn't have been at the comprehensive. Mixed ability classes and all that. Robin says he never spoke to him directly but heard this from other boys. He was always on about a dog he owned that could fight better than anybody else's. Threatening to set it on to people. Then one day he simply announced that it had been killed but he was getting another."
"Hmm, that does sound interesting," I said. "Did Robin tell you his surname?"