"Apparently you have something called noble cause corruption," she said. "The producer told me that a signed statement could easily be faked, especially when otherwise you wouldn't have enough evidence. It was dictated by my father, the police claim, and written down by the investigating detective. Why would it be done like that when he was perfectly capable of writing it himself?"
"I don't know," I replied. "That's just how it was. Probably to save time because most of our clients have difficulty spelling MUFC." Normal procedure was to ask the suspect to sign the statement directly below the last line of writing, but many an old-time bobby wasn't averse to asking for a signature at the bottom of the page, then adding a few words of his own.
"There's fitting up," I told her, "and there's this thing called noble cause corruption. We know fitting up goes off because there have been cases of it proven in the West Midlands and in the Met, but I've been in the job a long time and I've never met a policeman who would willingly fit up an innocent person just to improve the clear-up figures. Noble cause corruption is slightly different. Let's say we've arrested someone for rape, or persistent burglary. You know he did it, he's done it before and he'll do it again, but the evidence is circumstantial and he's on legal aid and you're not allowed to reveal his previous convictions to the court. You want him off the streets, so there's a temptation to take steps to strengthen your case. It happens, I'm sure. I've no proof but I've had my suspicions once or twice." And Charlie Priest could lie for England, I reminded myself. "What I'm saying is… even if the statement is faked, it doesn't prove anything. It might help show that he was wrongly charged, but that's not the same as innocent. Do you know if the autopsy samples have been saved?"
"You mean the blood?"»
"Yes, the fingernail scrapings."
"Apparently they're stored in a lab in Chepstow."
"It's got to be the DNA, then. That's your only chance."
She thought about what I'd said, curled up in the easy chair, sitting on her feet. Wrongly charged or insufficient evidence wasn't good enough. We couldn't bring her father back from the dead and it hadn't occurred to her, until I spelt it out, that neither of these would clear his name.
"Where is your father buried," I asked.
She continued to stare at the carpet until my voice registered and she looked at me with a start. "Sorry…" she said. "What was that?"
"I was wondering if your father was buried in the village."
She shook her head. "No. The local vicar wouldn't allow it. Or maybe he daren't. Feelings were high. The day after Dad was arrested the first stone came through the window. After that we had police protection, if you could call it that. Eventually we moved into lodgings in Cardiff but the news leaked out wherever we went. After the inquest Mum contacted the vicar at Uley, in Gloucestershire, where they were married, and he allowed Dad to be buried there. We moved around a bit and eventually settled in Cromer. Things were better for a while, but they caught up with us."
"It must have been dreadful," I said. "Dreadful."
"Yes, it was."
I thanked her for the tea and hoped I hadn't resurrected too many bad feelings. She told me that they'd never been laid to rest and thanked me for the flowers. At the door she said: "You think he did it, don't you?"
I shook my head. "Someone did it, Rosie."
"It wasn't my father. If you'd ever met him you'd understand that."
I wanted to say that hundreds of paedophile vicars and priests and teachers and youth workers were able to indulge in their vile practices undetected because that was exactly what everybody said about them, but I didn't. Instead I gave her a bleak smile and turned to go.
"The producer said you'd close ranks, defend your own. Is that what you're doing, Charlie? Closing ranks."
I spun round to face her again and saw that she was close to tears. "I don't give a shit about closing ranks, Rosie," I declared. "If there's any way in which I can help you, I will. I just don't want you to be hurt any more."
"Will you? I'd desperately like to believe that."
"It's the truth, Rosie. I'll see what I can do."
Chapter Seven
"I'll see what I can do." How many times does the average detective say that in his working week? And "Leave it with me." They make "The cheque is in the post" sound like an extract from the Sermon on the Mount. I drove home with the weight of the case pressing on me like I was carrying a rucksack filled with wet cement. The joys of my encounter with Sophie had fled like sparrows away from a cat. And next morning I had to face her dad.
"Good weekend?" he asked as he breezed into my office.
"OK. And you?"
"Not bad. Tidied up the garden. Nearly rang to see if you fancied a walk on Sunday, but Shirley made me mow the lawn."
"Good for her."
"Did you watch the grand prix?"
"No. Who won?"
"Schumacher again. It was rubbish. But hey, guess what. Sophie rang last night. She sends her love. She's bringing this boyfriend fellow up next week so Shirl's in a right panic. You'll never guess what he's called."
"Um, no."
"Digby!"
"Digby?"
"That's what she said. Don't think she's having us on."
"It's a fine name. What have you on today?"
"Watching CCTV film, unless you have anything in mind. I was thinking that maybe we should have another visit to Dob Hall while the boss is away. Maybe talk to the desirable Sebastian or even Mrs Grainger, if she's there."
"What good would that do?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. Shake the bastards out of their complacency, do some stirring, something like that."
"We can't just go over and cause trouble. Carry on with the CCTV, please Dave, and tell Jeff to come in, will you?"
"Oh, OK." He lifted his bulk out of the chair and sloped off back into the main office.
He was right, though. This morning would be a good opportunity to talk to Sebastian while Sir Morton was away in Scotland, thrashing a defenceless ball round — what did he say? — the Old Course. I'm not a golfing man. Don't like the trousers. I presumed that St Andrews saved the New Course for major tournaments. We still needed a talk with sexy Sharon, too, Grainger's head of human resources, but she wouldn't be back until tomorrow.
And that thought made something click in my brain. Is it being so suspicious that makes me a good detective, or is it the dirty mind? I logged on to the Internet and clicked on Favorites, then Google. When I asked for St Andrews it came up with nearly half a million entries in a tenth of a second. The fourth one down was the chickadee I needed.
Hell's teeth! It cost Ј105 for a round of the Old Course; God knows what it would cost on the new one. Presumably that included a free set of clubs, but I wasn't certain. I wrote down the number, had a quick look round the site and logged off.
"I wonder if you could help me?" I said to the charming young lady with the voice as clear as a babbling burn who answered the phone. "A friend of mine was playing the Old Course in a pro-am competition over the weekend, for charity. He's tapped me for a contribution and I'm just making out a cheque, but I can't remember the name of the charity. I don't suppose you'd know, would you?" More lies, but sometimes it's necessary.
"The Old Course, did you say, sir?"
"That's what he told me."
"There was no pro-am competition on the Old Course this weekend. Friday until Sunday it was the Highland Malt tournament. What is your friend called?"
"Sir Morton Grainger." Now I was glad about the subterfuge. If word got to him that he was being asked after, he couldn't trace it back to me.»
"One moment, please…" I heard the mttle of a keyboard. "No, nobody of that name was playing. Is he a member here?"