"He had the scratch marks. He was dead by the time we matched the blood group, but the coroner was happy."
"You took the confession, I believe."
"That's right."
"Were the words yours or his?"
"I… helped him. He just kept saying that he'd done it, didn't want to go into details. He saw her and wanted her, he said. She struggled and he suddenly realised what he was doing, but she was dead by then. She had blue knickers. Pale blue, not dark ones. Not navy blue like most of the other schoolgirls. He kept going on about them. That's about it."
"Was he right about the knickers?"
"Of course he was right about the knickers. Have you seen a picture of her?"
"Of Glynis? No I haven't."
"She was lovely. Lovely. Long blonde hair. A daughter any parent would be proud of, and that monster snuffed her out for his own gratification. What did you say your name was?"
"Charlie. Charlie Priest. Why didn't you let him write his own statement, he was an intelligent man?"
"Intelligent! You call that intelligent!"
"Tell me."
"He was a commie. Didn't you know that, Charlie? A commie bastard. Every dispute there was he was in the thick of it. Council meetings, championing all the down-and-outs; on the picket line with the miners the year before. Gave them cheap bread, he did. I'd have given them bullets, not bread. Shot them all, that's what they deserved, and what happened? They brought the government down, that's what. Democracy! You call that democracy!"
"When I said I wanted to talk to you," I began, "you said something about the others. What others?"
"Huh! Television people. They've written to me three times, asking me to contact them. The Post Office forwarded the letters here but I haven't replied. Why can't they let sleeping dogs lie?"
"That's why I'm here, Henry. I want to find out the truth before they do."
"You know the truth. It's staring you in the face. Abe Barraclough strangled poor little Glynis Williams and then hung himself in his cell. End of story."
"They're going to dig him up. Dig him up so they can compare his DNA with that found under Glynis's fingernails. That'll prove things one way or the other."
"Good!" he snapped, leaning forward as if about to rise from the chair. "Good! And then maybe them and you will leave me alone to die in peace."
I lifted my hands in a gesture that said I was happy with his reply, and sat back to enjoy the sun, hoping to lower his guard and encourage him to tell me more. I wasn't disappointed.
"Paedophiles," he ranted, after a few seconds. "That's what they are. Paedophiles. And all you all want to do is defend them. Who defends the poor kiddies? Tell me that. Who defends the victims?" I sat forward again and he grabbed my arm. "And asylum seekers," he rambled. "Bringing diseases with them. Aids and TB. Why do we let them in? They make a mess of their own countries and come here, and what do they do? Have loads of kids, draining the Health Service; try to make this place like the one they've left. So why do they come, all the Pakis and niggers? Because we're too soft, that's why. Send 'em all back, that's what we should do. Go into any town and what do you see? Beggars, making more than you and me ever did, sponging on society. Scum, that's what they are: scum."
I prised his fingers off my arm. "Is that what the vagrant in Swansea was, Henry? Was he scum, too?"
"He was…" He grabbed the stick and hi§ hands shook as he leaned on it. "He was… a parasite. Took our money under false pretences."
"What did you do? Give him a good kicking?"
"Natural causes, that's what the inquest decided. He died of natural causes."
"Oh, so you only pissed on his sleeping bag and let him freeze to death."
"He deserved everything he got."
"And you got early retirement on a full pension, on the grounds of ill health."
He nailed me with his rheumy eyes and said: "Aye, well, they got the date of that a bit wrong, didn't they?"
Major Warburton saw me and half rose from his chair as I strode through the lounge, but I just kept going. I'd had my fill of old soldiers for one day.
Pete Goodfellow was sitting at my desk when I arrived back at the nick, busy with my paperwork. My In basket was empty and he'd arranged everything into four neat piles.
"Wow, that looks efficient," I said as I walked into my office.
"Hi Chas," he replied, starting to rise from my chair. "Had a good day?"
"You stay there," I told him, sitting in the visitor's place, "and keep up the good work. I've been to see the investigating officer in the South Wales job."
"Learn anything?"
I told him all about my little talk with Henry Bernard Ratcliffe. When I finished Pete said: "So you think he'd be capable of fixing the confession."
"I think he'd be capable of fixing the confession, the evidence and the coroner, Pete. Even allowing for the state of his health he's a bundle of fun. What about you? Did you find anything for me?"
"Mmm," he replied, pushing a sheet from the telephone pad my way. "One of the names that Rosie gave you who was in the dead girl's class. Still lives in the village. There's a telephone number, too."
"Hey, that's great," I said. "I'll ring her tonight."
Dave returned from wherever he'd been and joined us. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt with little pictures of Abbott and Costello all over it and his nose and cheeks were the colour of tomato soup.
"Before I forget," he began, "the brass band's playing in a competition at Leeds Town Hall on Friday. Fancy coming along to support the boys?"
"Er, no Dave. Count me out, please," I replied.
"It's always a good night out."
"No, I've a few things to do."
"Pete's coming, aren't you?"
"Try stopping me," he said.
"I can't make it."
"Fair enough. So where've you been skiving off these last two days."
"Conducting investigations," I told him. "You look as if you've been sitting in a beer garden all day."
"Someone's got to keep their eye on the ball. I've been thinking about Sebastian at Dob Hall. We should have a talk to him. And Mrs Grainger. I have my suspicions about them."
"Ah," I replied, unable to disguise my unease. "Fact is, Dave, I had a word with her yesterday. You'd gone out but I decided you were right: we should talk to her while Sir Morton was away. I didn't catch Sebastian, though."
"Right," he said. "Right." But his expression was at odds with the words. He looked as if I'd eaten his last custard cream. I thanked Pete and he left us.
"Sit down," I told Dave, "and I'll fill you in."
When I finished he nodded knowingly and said: "So I'm right. All is not well there."
"That's the way it looks. "
"You reckon Sebastian tried it on with her?"
"Mmm."
"And you saw all this through the telescope?"
"Yep. And that's not all. There's a son and a daughter-in-law who live nearby. We ought to talk to them as soon as possible."
"Don't change the subject. You spent all yesterday afternoon up at Stoodley Pike spying on Mrs Grainger as she lay topless on a sunbed?"
"Not quite, she was wearing a one-piece costume."
"You're turning into a dirty old man, you know that?"
"You could be right. It was rather fun."
"Remind me to keep you away from my wife and daughter. Where do they live?"
"Who?"
"The son and daughter-in-law."
"Heptonstall."
"Let's go see them, then."
"I'm supposed to say that."
Three churches appears excessive in a village the size of Heptonstall, but the Victorian parish church was built to replace its 15th century predecessor after its roof was blown off. For some reason they left the old church standing, so you could argue that they only count as one. Mopping up any Nonconformists is the Methodist chapel, where John Wesley preached. Corduroy and worsted paid for them, blood, sweat and religious fervour did the rest. Sylvia Plath is buried in the churchyard.