Stuart Pawson - Limestone Cowboy

"Thank you for coming down, Charlie," she said. "I was really pleased to see you. The vicar, Duncan, is very nice, but he's still, you know, a caring professional."

"Did you hold a service?"

"Yes. They had the coffin back by ten a.m. The grave was filled in again before I knew anything about it. There were just the three of us, including the vicar's wife, then they left me alone for a while. I said my goodbyes, Charlie. Now all we have to do is wait for the DNA results."

"Have they said how long it will be?"

"No. As soon as possible, that's all. What about you?"

"No. They can do it in a day, if necessary, but they charge extra. They're always busy, and this isn't an active enquiry, so it will be low priority, but they'll do their best."

We chatted for a while and I remembered an advert I'd seen in the Events column of the Gazette.

"Did you ever get to play the part of Mustard Seed?" I asked.

"Mustard Seed? No, I had to drop out."

"It just happens that A Midsummer Night's Dream is on at the Leeds Playhouse this week. It's the RSC. How do you feel about going to see it on Saturday, if I can get the tickets?"

"This Saturday?"

"Mmm." I was worried about the memories it might revive. People are irrational about some things; they look for something to blame. If Shakespeare had never written that particular play Rosie would not have stayed on at school on the fateful day, therefore her father might still be alive.

She was silent for a while, before saying: "I'd love to, Charlie. It will be wonderful, a real treat, and I need a treat. But what about the gala? Isn't that this weekend?"

"Sunday," I replied. "No problem."

"Have you finished the paintings?"

"Not quite. I'll have to spend some time on them. Hey, listen to this: the uniformed branch always have a display at the gala, and this year they were hoping to do something different. We tried to convince them that they'd look good all dressed up as cowboys, but they've refused."

"I think that's a great idea. You could go as Wyatt Earp, Charlie. You'd look splendid in a frock coat."

"Noway."

"Oh, go on!"

"Noway."

"Spoilsport."

"Thanks for ringing, Rosie. You've brightened my day, and it's good to hear you sounding happier."

"Well, things are moving, aren't they?"

They were, but I wasn't sure in which direction. "I'll try for those tickets," I said.

I slept well. I didn't expect to, but I fell straight into a contented sleep and was deep in the arms of Morpheus when the alarm woke me, early Wednesday morning. Had I been deep in the arms of Goldie Hawn I would have hurled it through the window, but it was only sleep and it had rained through the night, the sky was clear again and Charlie Priest was ready to raise hell amongst the thieves and robbers of Heckley.

He wasn't ready for what was waiting for him.

"There's been another," Dave announced as I strode into the office.

"So I've just been told. Any details?"

"A baby. Swallowed some glass from a tin of baby food. That's all I've heard."

"And he's in the General?"

"Oh, yeah. And that."

"Look on the bright side, Dave," I said. "It's not Ebola. They'll be giving us a parking place down there soon. C'mon, let's go."

The doctor in charge came to meet us at the front desk and took us up to the paediatrics ward. He was black, with delicate hands and a soft, almost inaudible voice.

"The child was brought in yesterday evening," he explained as we exited the lift, "bleeding from a cut inside his lower lip. His mother said she found pieces of broken glass in a tin of baby food she fed him with and that she found blood in his nappy. We've X-rayed him but small pieces of glass don't show up very well."

"How serious is it?"

"Hard to say. Small pieces in his stomach will make him feel unwell, but in themselves they need not be dangerous." He stopped, his hand on the door handle. "Have you ever seen a goat eating leaves off a thorn bush, Inspector?"

"No," I admitted, stooping to hear him, hoping I hadn't misunderstood.

His face split into a grin. "Neither have I, but they do it without hurting themselves, even though their mouth parts are extremely soft. Babies' mouths and digestive tracts are similar. Ingesting broken glass is not to be recommended but it should not cause any damage if the pieces are small enough, and it should pass through relatively harmlessly. Powdered glass is not considered a problem. Bigger pieces may cause damage, of course, and we will analyse his stools for blood. Otherwise we just wait and see."

"There's been a spate of contaminated food at supermarkets," I told him. "No doubt you've read about it in the papers. It's what started the Ebola scare. We thought it had subsided, but evidently not."

He pushed the door open. "I'm afraid this was something more complicated than contaminated food. I'll show you."

Rory Norcup was asleep in an oversize cot, wearing only a disposable nappy and an adhesive strip that underlined his bottom lip. He kicked his legs and waved his arms as if deep in a disturbing dream. Sadly for him, it wasn't a dream.

"He's thirty-one weeks old, but has the weight of a baby half that age. There is also evidence of bruising on his arms, as if he has been gripped tightly, plus some old bruising on his back. He was clean when he came in but he has a severe nappy dermatitis, as if it was rarely changed."

"Where's his mother?" I asked.

"She brought him in and sat with him most of the night, but we sent her home not long ago."

"How was she?"

"Distraught with grief and concern for her poor baby." He paused between each word, implying that they meant exactly the opposite of what they said.

"You think she had something to do with it?"

"Almost certainly. Take a look at his face."

We peered at him, his eyes screwed shut, his expression contorted as he fought with demons that he had no name for.

"He's not the bonniest baby I've ever seen," Dave said, "but he's not Down's Syndrome, is he?"

"No, he's not a Down's baby."

"Alcohol whatsit?" I suggested.

"That's right, Inspector. FAS — foetal alcohol syndrome, caused by his mother drinking whilst pregnant."

"How serious is that?" Dave asked.

"It's a setback," the doctor replied, "but it can be overcome with a caring, nourishing upbringing."

"Which he won't get."

"Not with his present mother."

"You reckon she was trying to get rid of him?"

"No, she loves him, she says, but she's inadequate, has as many problems as he has, so she uses him to alleviate her own difficulties."

Dave leaned over the cot's high side and started making noises. "Hi, Rory," he whispered. "We haven't given you the best start in life, have we?" He reached in and covered the child's legs with the cellular blanket that he'd kicked off.

"I know what you're getting at, Doc," I said, "but my brain's not working. Tell me its name."

"Munchausen syndrome by proxy. She damages the child to win sympathy for herself. I've come across it before."

"That's a serious accusation."

"I know, and Munchausen mothers are plausible liars. They appear to be overly protective of their children, take great interest in their treatment and become familiar with medical procedures. It's not always to win admiration as a wonderful mother — sometimes they do it to strike up a relationship with medical staff and impress them with their concern. I'd say Mrs Norcup is a classical example."

"Have you seen her before?"

"Yes. Rory was in about a month ago, with an undiagnosed rash on his back."

"And you think she caused it?"

"It cleared up in two days with minimum treatment. She stayed by his bedside throughout."