Stuart Pawson - Limestone Cowboy

"Do you take sugar these days?" Maggie asked.

I turned around and held the door for her as she manoeuvred in, holding two more coffees. "I don't mind," I replied.

"What'll happen to her?" Maggie asked, when she was seated again.

"I don't know. Little Rory's going into care. Dave thinks the department should adopt him."

"Hey, that's a brilliant idea."

I found a KitKat in my drawer and broke it into two. "There's this woman," I said, munching on my half of the biscuit. "She's all alone in a house and has nobody to talk to all day. No neighbours, no friends. Her relationship, if you can call it that, is on the rocks and she's reached the end of her tether, so she decides to do something about it. She damages the person she says she loves. Does it make sense, Maggie? Why would a woman do something like that?"

"Who can say? When you're in an emotional state there's no knowing what the human mind can rationalise. People do things like that to attract attention to themselves. They have bleak, loveless lives. Abject poverty with no possible way out of it, never any treats, never the centre of attention. It must grind away at you, a life like that."

"But it's not the sole prerogative of the poor, Maggie. It happens to rich people, too."

"I know, and that's more difficult to explain. But you can still be well off and have a loveless life, be downtrodden. And poverty's relative, isn't it? Most of us realise that our lives are in our own hands, we can do something about them, but some people don't see that, or they're trapped. They make a cry for help. Slash their wrists, take an overdose. You've seen it often enough, Charlie."

"That's true, but money helps, doesn't it?"

"Usually, but not always. And I draw the line at damaging the baby. That's cowardly, unforgivable, in my opinion."

"The baby?"

"Young Rory."

"Oh yes, young Rory. No, Maggie, I'm not talking about Mrs Norcup. I'm not talking about her at all."

"Sorry, Chas, but you've lost me."

"How do you feel about having your hair done, in the firm's time, on expenses?"

"Now you've really lost me."

I collected the frames, tried them for size on the unfinished pictures and painted them white. It was looking promising. I filled in the loops of the letters in bright colours and gave some of them ears and tails, so they looked like owls, cats, mice and Mr Smileys. Typical doodles. I was enjoying myself. If I could have started again I'd have made the writing even larger, with only five or six well-selected words covering the board, but I was happy with the first attempt.

Rosie rang to say she was home, and I told her that I'd ordered the tickets for A Midsummer Night's Dream. It's not my favourite Shakespeare, but I'd survive.

"Have you ordered your outfit for the gala?" she asked.

"What outfit?"

"Your Wyatt Earp outfit."

"That outfit. There'll be enough hoots of derision when they see my pictures," I told her, "without me dressing up like a clown."

I was tempted. Long coat, big hat, cowboy boots and moustache. It'd be good for a laugh and Gareth would be green with envy. But there are some temptations I can resist, and this was another of them.

Thursday morning I read the transcript of the interview with Mrs Norcup. Rory was the result of a brief fling with a married man she met when he was working on the bypass, who had gone AWOL when the Child Support Agency tried to serve him with a summons. The original Mr Norcup left her when they were both eighteen, after the inquest that recorded the death of their daughter as a cot death.

Dave poked his head round the door. "What're you doing for lunch, Sunshine?" he asked.

"Urn, going shopping," I replied.

"Shopping? You?"

"Yeah. There's a shop on the High Street advertising trousers at three pairs for ten pounds. Sounds a bargain to me so I thought I'd have a look, see what they're like."

"Three pairs for ten pounds?"

"That's what it says in the window."

"Whereabouts on the High Street?"

"Next to Jessup's."

"That's a dry cleaner's, you dozy wazzock."

"Is it? Oh, in that case I'm free. Sandwich in the pub?"

"Sounds like a good idea to me."

Have a day off and the work piles up. Nobody thinks to come in and empty my In tray for me. I spent the rest of the day catching up, paying for my trip down to the Cotswolds. In the evening I fixed the pictures in their frames and stood them in the kitchen where I could study them while I ate my tea. I made a few minor adjustments where I'd left ragged edges and declared them finished. Final touch was my initials in the bottom corner.

"It suits you," I told Maggie, next morning.

"Cut and blow dry," she said. "I was tempted to sting you for a full work over, complete with hair extensions and braiding, but common sense prevailed."

"Good. Did you remember the corned beef?"

"Right here." She placed the tin on my desk,

"Super."

I dusted down my briefcase, put everything in it and looked in my notebook for a number. When I was through I said: "It's Detective Inspector Priest here. I'd like to come and see you. Now."

Debra Grainger opened the door before I could reach for the bell push. I thanked her for seeing me so early and she led me inside. We went into a drawing room I hadn't been in before, with uncomfortable wing-backed chairs covered in a tapestry material that you could have struck a match on. They sat upright in those days, spine straight and not touching the back of the chair. Give me a beanbag, any day. I sat down and refused a coffee.

"What's it about?" Debra asked.

"I think you've a good idea, Mrs Grainger," I said.

"Is it about Mort?"

"Partly. What has he told you?"

"That he spent the night in a cell. Said he was asked to go to this farm. He didn't know what it was about. They held a dog fight. He said it was horrible but he couldn't get away. Then the police came and arrested everybody."

"Do you believe him?"

"I don't know what to believe."

She was wearing a blouse and skirt, with modest heels on her shoes and no tights. A thin chain with a crucifix hung round her neck but the rings had vanished from her fingers and she looked as if she hadn't had much sleep.

"Where is Sir Morton now?" I asked.

"He said he was going to London to have a word with his lawyer."

"And Sebastian? Where's he today? I thought you didn't like being left alone with him."

"I don't know where he is. He knows the score, so he's keeping a low profile. Is he behind all this?"

I shook my head. "No. Sebastian comes out of it shining white. He had nothing to do with it. Just the same, I think you should insist on your husband moving him. It may not be possible to sack him, these days, but he could transfer him back to one of the branches."

"That won't be necessary, Inspector."

"Why's that?"

"I'm going home, back to the States, soon as I can arrange the flight. Then I'll have a word with my lawyers. My marriage is over, I want out of here."

"That might not be possible," I said.

"Why not?" She looked at me, alarmed by my words, and fidgeted with the cuffs of her blouse. She should have been puffing nervously on a cigarette or gulping at a large brandy and soda, but I suspected that she'd never done either.

"There are certain legal processes to be followed," I told her. "You'll have to stay here for a while."

"Until when?" Disappointment filled her voice like she'd heard that the Easter Bunny had died.

"As long as it takes."

An original oil painting hung on the wall over the fireplace, of girls in long skirts gathering cockles or mussels from the sea. I'd have swapped it for both my efforts. The sun came out briefly, lighting the room, then went behind a cloud again.