Stuart Pawson - Limestone Cowboy

I cautioned her. If she insisted on telling me all the details without being cautioned the whizz-kid lawyer would pick it up and make trouble. "We'll take a statement from you at the station," I said. "Can you come with me, please?"

"Do I need anything?"

"No. Just the key to lock the door."

Driving through Hebden Bridge she turned and looked out of the window at my side of the car. "I hate this place," she said. "Can you believe that? It's such a beautiful place and I hate it. Do you know what the happiest day I've had was, for months and months?"

I shook my head, not wanting to hear, not interested.

"It was last Thursday. Morning coffee with you in that quaint little cafe, then sitting by the river watching the birds and talking. Simple gifts. I felt happier than I've done in a long while. I… I thought I'd found a friend."

If it was meant to make me feel good it didn't work. "If it's any consolation, Debra," I said, "I think Sir Morton is every kind of fool I've ever known."

But that didn't help, either.

The Assistant Chief Constable (Crime) was delighted, and when he's happy we're all happy. The troops who were out knocking on doors, studying CCTV footage or skulking round supermarkets were pulled in and told that the job was solved, they could have the weekend off. We were sitting round in the big office, drinking more coffee, when Gilbert came down to tell us of the ACC's pleasure at clearing up two high-profile cases in one week. He then immediately destroyed the euphoria by asking what we were doing about burglaries. Two cases, no matter how big or high-profile, didn't have much impact on our figures.

"Oh, we'll sort them out Monday morning," I assured him, reaching for another chocolate digestive.

"Before elevenses," Jeff added.

Mrs Grainger had made a full confession, in the presence of a solicitor, and was released on police bail on condition that she brought her passport in. When her case came to trial medical reports would be presented to the court by the best in the job, all the way from Harley Street. They'd clainvthat trying to poison half the population of Heckley was a plea for help after years of mental cruelty. We'd try for a section 18 assault — grievous bodily harm with intent — but settle for a section 47 actual bodily harm after her lawyers plea bargained. She'd probably get a community service order and a large fine, before fleeing back to the States and screwing Sir Morton for half his fortune.

Mrs Norcup was remanded to a safe institution while her state of mind was investigated, and a GBH charge would stay on her file. She'd be inside for a long time before being pronounced cured and released to whatever society had to offer her. Another dismal flat in the Project if she were lucky. Whether she'd ever see Rory again was in the hands of the gods and social services.

"How about a celebration curry?" somebody was suggesting.

It was a great idea, everyone agreed, and numbers were counted.

"I'll ring the Last Viceroy," Jeff said, "and tell them to expect us. Six o'clock?"

"You coming, Charlie?" Dave asked.

I'd intended ringing Rosie on the off-chance that she'd baked another chocolate cake, hoping for an invite round, but I'd been dodging Dave for the last fortnight. The heat was off, now, and I didn't see how I could refuse. "Yeah, fine," I said. "Six o'clock it is.

When it comes to curry I like them hot, but the following night I was seeing Rosie, taking her to the theatre, so I stayed with the mild ones. There were fifteen of us and the proprietor of the restaurant was overjoyed to have so much custom so early in the evening. Prodigious quantities of rice, naan bread, popadoms and samosas were consumed, washed down with Kingfisher beer. I stayed sober, not wanting to have to abandon my car and take a taxi home. When talk started of moving on to a club we older ones made our apologies and split.

The answerphone was bleeping as I opened the door and I pressed the play button with unseemly eagerness.

It was Rosie, just as I'd hoped: "It's Rosie, Charlie. Give me a ring, soon as you can. It doesn't matter how late." She sounded breathless.

Her number wasn't committed to my memory, yet, so I tried the 14713 shuffle and was rewarded with a ringing tone.

"Is that you, Charlie?"

"Yes. What's happened?"

"I've heard from First Call. The samples don't match. Dad is innocent. Isn't it wonderful?"

I said: "Wow! That's fantastic. Really fantastic. When did you learn this?"

"About six o'clock. I rang you at home and at the station but you weren't there."

"Did they say anything else?"

"No. I tried to ring the producer earlier in the afternoon but he'd taken the afternoon off. His secretary said she would try his home number. She came back to me and he'd told her that he'd seen the report from the lab and it said that the samples didn't match and my dad was in the clear. Oh, Charlie, I'm so excited. I wanted to tell someone but there was only you and you were out. I'm… I'm… I don't know, it's all a bit too much for me."

"I can't begin to imagine how you feel, Rosie, but I'm so pleased for you." I wanted to say something about all we had to do was prove it was the right grave, but I didn't. It seemed churlish to cast doubts on the results, and the church records had been quite specific.

"Are we still going to see A Midsummer Night's Dream tomorrow?" I asked, "or would you prefer some other celebration?"

"No," she replied, firmly. "The Dream will be perfect. It will be like picking up my life again, from where it left off. I've put a bottle of champagne that I've been saving in the fridge. We could have a little celebration here, after the show."

"That sounds a good idea," I agreed.

"Oh," she said. "I don't suppose you'd want to drink and drive, would you?"

"It's OK, there's always a taxi," I replied.

"That's an unnecessary expense, but… you could always sleep on my settee."

"Another good idea. Thanks, I'll pack my toothbrush."

The office was quiet Saturday morning, the troops having a well-earned weekend off, probably nursing hangovers. I called in as usual to tidy a few things and do any jobs that required more attention than I'm capable of giving during the hubbub of a normal day. I like being there in an empty office, surveying the blank screens and the heaps of papers, marvelling that order can come out of such chaos. It's my domain, and I feel a little tingle of pride when I survey it.

At nine o'clock exactly I rang the lab at Chepstow. He was in. "It's DI Priest," I said, "about the Glynis Williams case. Apparently First Call TV have had their samples profiled and it's good news. Can you confirm it, yet?"

"Haven't you received my report?" asked the scientist who'd extracted the DNA and done the tests.

"No. The mail hasn't arrived yet."

"Well, we've completed the profiles and I sent the results to your home address. I knew you wanted them ASAP and there was less likelihood of them being lost in the system."

"That was thoughtful of you. It'll probably be waiting for me when I go home. So what did you find?"

"Bad news, I'm afraid, Inspector, not good news."

Something churned in my stomach and I felt as if my legs had been kicked out from under me. "Bad news?" I echoed. A picture of Rosie flashed into my brain and I thought of how her happiness was about to be smashed.

"Yeah, that's what I said. You got the wrong man. The tests show that the blood from under the girl's fingernails didn't come from Abraham Barraclough."

My emotions were being blown around like a newspaper in a hurricane, plunging earthward one second only to be sent soaring a moment later. I let the words sink in and when I was certain of their meaning I yelled a silent "Yabadabadoo!" She'd done it. Rosie had done it. The scientist, I realised, had a different agenda to me. He was looking at the case from the inside, objectively and impartial. But now I was up there with the birds again, with one final obstacle before we could once and for all declare Rosie's dad innocent.