A steep cobbled lane leads up to the village, high on a windswept hill. The place had a renaissance in the Sixties, inspired by Plath and her husband, Ted Hughes, when it attracted a community of poets and painters, some good, most indifferent. After one winter most of them left.
"What are they called?" Dave asked as the road levelled and I eased off the accelerator.
"Julian and Abigail."
They lived in three wool-maker's cottages knocked into one, on the far side of the village. It was three stories high, with a row of windows all along the top floor to allow light into the rooms where the work was done. That's what the books say, but it could have been to save lifting blocks of Yorkshire stone all the way up there. Builders were a canny lot even in those days. We parked alongside an elderly Volvo 340 and Dave pressed the bell. The thud-thud-thud of a drum machine or a big engine shook the ground beneath our feet.
Abigail Grainger answered the door. She had black hair that reached halfway down her back and was wearing a tie-dyed kaftan and beads. For a moment I was back at art college, bottle of cider in my hand, asking if this was where the party was. Dave checked her identity and introduced us.
"Is Mr Grainger in?" he asked.
"Please come in," she said with a smile. "Yes, but he's busy for the moment." The noise was louder now, and had resolved into a dum dum da-dum, dum dum da-dum, dum dum da-dum, repeated endlessly. She led us into a white-walled sitting room with a bare wooden floor and Habitat furniture and invited us to take a seat. There was a large painting on the wall, consisting of a single smear of red paint on a white background. People knock abstract expressionism, but paintings like that are difficult to do. The best way is to put the canvas on the floor at the bottom of a tower and drop the paint on it from the top. The skill is in hitting the canvas. You get one go and there's no touching up. This one didn't quite work, because the artist had tried to improve the initial splash, and you can't do that.
"Can I ask what it's about, Inspector?" she asked, addressing Dave and speaking artificially loud to overcome the background noise.
He didn't correct her. "It's about the food contamination at the Grainger's stores," he told her. "Just routine enquiries. Can I ask what Mr Grainger does for a living?"
"I'd have thought that was obvious," she replied with another smile, wafting a hand through the air.
"He's a drummer, a musician?" Dave tried.
"A rhythmologist," she replied.
"A… rhythmologist?"
"Yes, otherwise known as a drum therapist. He has a client with him at the moment, but he'll soon be through. We're all held together by vibrations, Inspector. All matter can be reduced to a waveform. The seasons, menstrual cycles, lunar cycles, circadian rhythms, alpha and beta waves… when these get out of synch with each other the problems start. Drum therapy helps find the common harmonics and bring them back into synchronism. It's a wonderful technique."
The intensity of the noise had increased. Now it was dum dum DA-DUM, dum dum DA-DUM, dum dum DA-DUM and there appeared to be two drummers at work.
"I see," Dave lied.
I jumped in to the rescue and pointed at the painting. "Are you the artist, Mrs Grainger?"
"No," she replied, looking down and adjusting the kaftan over her knees. "I'm not so talented. I have a gift but it's a very small one."
"And what's that?"
"Auras, Constable," she replied, looking at me. "I see auras."
"I wouldn't call that a small gift."
"A gift, a curse, I'm never sure what it is."
We weren't sure either, so we kept quiet. Drum therapy and seeing auras can kill a conversation as surely as accountancy and fitting tyres.
Mrs Grainger fidgeted, smiled and looked slightly embarrassed. "Would you… would you like me to describe your auras?" she asked.
Now it was our turn to fidget and look embarrassed. "Um, yes, please, if it doesn't hurt," Dave replied.
"Or cost," I added.
"On the house," she laughed. "Well, as soon as I opened the door I saw it. Your auras are different, very different, but they blend together perfectly. It's what I was saying about vibrations. You are a team, and it shows." She turned to face me. "Your aura is largely blue," she said, "with some green transitions. You are the rock of the team. Some might describe you as a plodder, but that's what gets the work done. I'm being honest. You don't mind, do you?"
"Um, no," I told her.
"And you, Inspector," she went on, turning to Dave, "yours is much more complicated. I see oranges and yellows, the colours of inspiration and flair. You take the sideways view, see past the obvious and right into the heart of a problem. And into the hearts of people. Your intuition and the constable's dedication make you a formidable team."
Dave stretched forward to lean on his knees and stare down at the floor. When he looked up his face was a mask. "I'm impressed," he said through clenched teeth, nodding his approval. "I'm really impressed. You've got us to a T."
I stood up and wandered over to the window. As I was looking out, admiring the shadows on the cottage opposite and taking deep breaths, the drumming slopped and the relief reminded me of the time I had an abscess lanced. Behind me I heard Mrs Grainger ask if we'd like a glass of water. When she left the room I turned round and resumed my seat. Dave gave me a big, self-satisfied smile.
I pointed at the painting. "Tell her you like it," I whispered.
She came back carrying a tray with three tumblers of iced water. Dave was standing in front of the painting, about a foot from it.
"What do you think?" she asked, placing the tumblers on a low table.
"Hmm, I like it," Dave replied.
"Good. What do you like about it?"
"Oh, er, it's very, um, very, um, red," he repMed.
"You're so perceptive," she told him. "The artist — he's an old friend of ours — mixes his own colours. He says that's the reddest red in the world."
"Is it true," I asked, desperate to bring the conversation under control, "that you sometimes act as a secret shopper for Sir Morton?"
"No," she replied with a smile. "Who on earth told you that?"
"Oh, it just came out in conversation."
"I shop at Grainger's, of course I do, and sometimes I read the auras of the staff. If I see something I don't like I write to Morton and tell him, but that's all. Dishonesty, untrustworthi-ness, laziness, they all show in the aura, but he doesn't believe me."
Floorboards creaked somewhere and we heard voices. "That's Julian," Mrs Grainger said, standing up again. "I'll tell him you're here." When she returned we were both sipping our water.
"How's the water?"
"Very refreshing," I replied. "Just what we need on a day like this."
"We bring it from a spring we found, on Moss Crop hill. We think it's wonderful."
I gulped down the mouthful I'd taken and wondered about sheep excrement. "Have you had it tested?" I enquired.
"It has a good aura," she assured us. "If I've interpreted it properly there are lots of GFRs in it."
"GFRs?"
"Good free radicals. It's been in the ground for millions of years, so all the bad free radicals have been taken up. There's nothing in it to combine with the body's free radicals and oxidise them."
"That's good." I placed my tumbler on the table, nearly crashing it into Dave's as he did the same. Her husband and a thin man appeared outside the window, talking earnestly. They shook hands four-handed and Julian turned to come back in.
He was wearing jeans and a Save the Planet T-shirt with sweat patches under his arms and on his chest, as if he'd just finished a marathon. He was balding on top but his ponytail clung on in defiance of the passing years. I jumped up and did the introductions, properly, but his wife didn't appear to notice the switching of the ranks.