At five minutes to three Dave steered us into the imposing gateway of Dob Hall and spoke into the security system. A lone hot hatchback was standing outside them with a young female reporter from the Heckley Gazette dozing behind the wheel. She jerked awake as we stopped and climbed out of her car.
I wound my window down, shouting to her: "What time does the Gazette go to bed, love?"
"Anytime now. It's Inspector Priest, isn't it?"
"Never heard of him, but if you contact our press office you might just get a scoop."
She thanked me with a big smile and started to stab a number into her cell phone. If not a scoop at least she'd be up there with the tabloids when the news of the poisoned corned beef broke. The gates opened and we drove forward. The personal assistant met us at the front door and we were ushered into a side room, lined with books, and invited to sit down.
"Sir Morton will be down shortly," he told us. My idea of a personal assistant didn't run close to this one. He was about thirty and of a type that women find attractive, if you can believe the deodorant adverts: dark-haired and designer stubble. Yasser Arafat has a lot to answer for.
He turned to leave, but before he could I said: "I get the impression that Sir Morton is just passing through."
"Yes."
"It sounds a hectic schedule. Any idea where he's going or how long he will be away for?"
"I'm sure Sir Morton will be able to tell you that himself," he replied, scowling at me from beneath bushy eyebrows, and left.
"Good try," Dave said.
"The soul of discretion."
"Think he's gay?"
"It's possible. Is it relevant?"
"It's possible."
In the middle of the room was an antique table with a shine on it that took a hundred years of sore knuckles to produce, and on the table was a perspex box, keeping the dust off the model it held. I stood up and walked over to inspect it.
"It's this house, I think," I told Dave.
He came to join me. It was beautifully made, with delicate stonework and tall chimneys, and an ornate, tiled roof that must have taken hours to construct. Tiny-figures were grouped at the front around a model car and others were neatly parked nearby. Trees like the ones I'd seen on model railway layouts were dotted around the grounds, and at the back ancient met modern. There was a huge extension, bigger than the floor plan of the original building but only one storey high, with two more cars — a Rolls Royce and a little yellow coupe — parked outside. His and hers, at a guess. It was all metal and glass, one part being a swimming pool and the rest of it what looked like office space.
"Like it?" said voice behind us like the crack of a whip. We turned and introduced ourselves to Sir Morton Grainger, multimillionaire and supermarket supremo.
When we'd shaken hands I said: "Is it this place?"
"That's right," he replied. "My wife made the model to help; get the improvements past the planning people."
"Did it work?"
"Oh yes, it's all up and running. Been so for nearly five years."
He was about five feet seven tall and dressed in what I believe is called County: hacking jacket; fawn slacks; heather-mix shirt and woven tie. His hair was fair and crinkly and the broken veins on his cheeks indicated an outdoor man who enjoys a drop or two. A hunting man, at a guess, with a military background.
He gestured for us to sit down and I noticed that his brogues were shiny enough for him to shave by in the absence of a mirror, or perhaps use to signal a passing plane were he ever unfortunate enough to be shipwrecked. There's no substitute for breeding, I reluctantly admitted to myself, drawing my grubby footwear under the chair, out of sight.
"Thanks for seeing us, Sir Morton," I began, "and I apologise for you hearing about this business somewhat indirectly. We did try to contact you but you lead a busy life."
"The price of success, Inspector. Constantly trying to keep ahead of the game. Actually, I'm glad you're here. Any chance of you doing something about the press — they're camped outside the bloody gates?"
"There was just one there when we arrived," I told him, "and we've sent her on her way."
"Oh, that's good. Thank you. So how is the man who was poisoned?"
"He's recovering, but there's been another."
"Oh dear. It's a nasty business. Is he alright?"
"It's a woman, but we're told she'll recover. This time it appears to be a tin of corned beef that's caused the problem. I'm afraid you'll have to widen the scope of the call-back."
"Bloody hell! That's all we need. So how much nearer are you to catching the person responsible?"
"No nearer at all, but we'd like to ask you a few questions."
"Right. So fire away, but make it quick, I've a train to catch."
"Will do. First of all I'd like to say that all your managers have been very co-operative. These days, what with all the red tape, political correctness and civil rights that we are beset with, it would have been easy for any one of them to obstruct the enquiry, but they didn't and we're grateful. I believe you're just passing through."
"That's right. You're lucky to catch me. I'm on my way to play in a pro-am at St Andrew's. Charity do on the Old Course. Won't be back until Monday."
Golf, not hunting. Near enough, though. I said: "Sounds fun. In that case, as we won't be able to contact you, it would be helpful if you could issue an instruction to your managers to keep up with the co-operation."
"No problem, Inspector. I'll put Sebastian onto it straight away."
"Smashing. Thanks for that. Now, if we can ask you a few questions pertinent to the enquiry…"
He'd always tried to play fair, he told us, and as far as he knew had no business enemies. Some of the stores were built on greenfield sites and opposition, both locakand from organised groups, had been vocal, but the applications had gone through. Supermarkets were what people wanted. He hadn't cancelled any big contracts causing companies to go bust, and he'd received no threats or demands for money.
"You will," I told him, "but most will be from cranks, opportunists. It's important that any that arrive are sent straight to us with the minimum of handling."
He said that he understood and he would include that in the message to his managers. When he started looking at his watch we stood up to leave. We shook hands again and as he walked us to the door I said: "Your wife's an architect, I believe.",
"That's right. She's a partner in a practice."
"In London?"
"Head office is in London, but she works from home most of the time."
"Oh. Did she design the extension?" I tried to think of a grander word than extension, but couldn't.
"The leisure and office complex? That's right. With her own fair hands."
"She must be a clever lady.",.
"Yes, she is."
But there was no pride in his voice as he said it.
"So what do you think?" I asked as we drove out through the gate.
"He'satwat.",;
"Another one! But a rich twat, wouldn't you say?".,
"And that."
"With no enemies."
"If you believe that you'll stand for the drop o' York."
"He seemed concerned about the victims."
"The only thing he's concerned about is his profits."
"And his golf handicap?"
"Aye, and I bet he cheats at that."
"Is your ulcer playing up?"
"It could be. Did you ring her?"
"Who?"
"Who! Who do you think? Rosie."
"No, I didn't."
He snorted disdainfully and concentrated on driving. A woman was negotiating her way across the High Street with a baby buggy and Dave held up the traffic for her. She smiled a thank you and tipped buggy and youngster it contained violently backwards to mount the kerb. A Reward poster fastened to a lighting column caught my eye. I twisted in my seat as we accelerated away and saw that it was for a lost cat. Approaching the turn-off for the nick I said: "Have you got the address of that girl in your notebook? The one who was relocated by Robshaw. It was somewhere in the Sylvan Fields."