Limestone Cowboy by Stuart Pawson Read Free Book Online Page A

a sea front, but as I’d never been to Cap Ferrat I didn’t recognise the place. The message read:
    Dear Uncle Charles,
    Having a great time here in Cap Ferrat. Lots of old people but it’s really nice. You’d like it.
    Love
    Sophie.
    The world was ganging up on me, reminding me of my mortality, but I didn’t mind. I smiled, pleased that she’d thought of me, and leaned the card against the telephone.
    The beef in red wine that I’d bought earlier in Marks and Spencers needed twenty-five minutes in the oven; the vegetables only five minutes in the microwave. I set the oven to 190, switched it on and retrieved Rosie’s telephone number from my pocket diary. She answered her phone just as I was beginning to wonder if she was in.
    “Hello, Rosie,” I said. “It’s Charlie Priest, as in Roman Catholic.”
    “Oh, hello Charlie. How are you?”
    “Fine. Top of the world. And you?”
    “Not bad.”
    Hardly the enthusiastic response I’d been hoping for, but I plunged onwards: “Are we still on for tomorrownight? Mr Ho at the Bamboo Curtain is a friend of mine and I can guarantee something special.”
    “Um, no, Charlie. I’m sorry but I can’t make it.”
    “Oh, that’s a disappointment,” I told her. “I’d been really looking forward to seeing you. Shall we make it some other time?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    “Well I can’t make up your mind for you.”
    “I know. I apologise for being so wet. I have something to sort out, Charlie. I come with baggage. I’m sorry but maybe we should just leave it.”
    “At our age, Rosie, we’d’ve had sad lives if we didn’t have any baggage. The secret is to keep it hidden, most of the time. Mine’s in the loft, with a dustsheet over it. I don’t look at it very often.”
    “You’re lucky – mine won’t go away.”
    “Maybe you should talk about it.”
    “No, I don’t think so.”
    “OK,” I said. “Let’s leave it, but the offer’s still open. Write my number down in case you change your mind.”
    I placed Sophie’s card back in prime position, leaning against the phone, and returned to the kitchen. The little red light on the oven was still illuminated so I switched it off. I put the steak in red wine and the vegetables back in the fridge and made myself a mug of tea. I couldn’t believe that the hesitant, apologetic woman I’d just spoken to was the same confident, humorous teacher of geology that I’d come to know, if only slightly, over the last twelve Wednesday evenings. Perhaps she’d given me the Misses Eakins’ number as a huge joke, or maybe there are two Rosie Barracloughshiding inside that trim figure. I don’t know, I’m only a cop.
     
    “It’s a report of a post mortem that the RSPCA have done on a dog.”
    “A dog?” I reached forward and took the proffered sheet from Mr Wood’s hand.
    “That’s right.”
    “The RSPCA?”
    “That’s what I said.”
    “Why has the RSPCA done a post mortem on a dog?”
    “Well, Charlie, presumably because they wanted to know how it died. That’s the usual reason for having a PM.”
    I scanned the two sheets of A4, not understanding most of the terminology but the gist of it coming through loud and clear. The poor creature had died an unpleasant death. I skipped the gory bits and jumped to the conclusions. It didn’t mention dog-fighting but the stated that the wounds had been caused by more than one other animal, and there were signs of human intervention: namely the crude stitching of some earlier injuries.
    “There are some vicious bastards about,” I said, handing the report to Gareth Adey.
    “Hanging’s too good for them, if you ask me,” Gilbert stated. He’s a Labrador man.
    Gareth placed the report back on Gilbert’s desk, saying: “I’ll ask the community liaison officer to ask around. It could be gypsies, travellers. There’s a new bunch of them down on the Triangle.”
    “For God’s sake don’t upset them, Gareth, or they’ll start quoting Europe at us.