Here was what Sykes called a reliable witness. Her story made sense. She had noticed the man’s agitation, and discovered something of his plans. Where she did not remember something, the name of the golf club and the Panamanian with an interest in mining, she did not invent.

“Mrs. Espinosa, you have been extremely helpful. Thank you very much. May I ask where you are staying?”

“We have rented a house here in Moortown.” She gave him the address. “We shall be here until the end of the tournament, and then we go back to Southampton.” She sighed. “I wouldn’t have missed this trip for the world.”

She and Sykes had continued speaking quietly. Two men and a woman sat down at the next table. One of the men was talking in a loud voice, that upper-class-everyone-listen-to-me voice that made Sykes want to charge him with gross showing off and extreme poshness.

“Just one more thing, Mrs. Espinosa.”

“Sure.”

“How did Mr. Aspinall speak?”

“Well, like you. English.”

“Really like me?” Sykes tried to think of a sentence that might give an indication of regional origins. Nothing came immediately to mind. He tilted his head towards the nearby table. “Like me, or like the man with the big mouth?”

“Oh like you, certainly like you. I am only just beginning to get the hang of this accents business. Of course we have accents in the States but I am not sure they carry quite the same connotations as they do here.”

“Mr. Aspinall was a northerner?”

“I have my ear in now, since arriving in Moortown, and I would say he was a northerner. I would also say, just so you know, that he was what I call one of life’s good guys.”

And in that moment, Sykes lost a little bit of his heart to her. Of course, being a true Yorkshireman, he could think of nothing more expansive to say except, “Thank you, Mrs. Espinosa.” After a pause, he added, “It has been a pleasure to meet you.”

She would never know just how big a compliment that was.

He set off back to Headingley, feeling like a man driving a car fitted with eagle’s wings.

Chapter 32

Chapter Thirty-Two

Sykes was never sure just what Mrs. Shackleton’s arrangement was with certain people. She carried sway with librarians, including Mr. Duffield at the local paper and the entire staff of the Leeds Library. He had at first wondered whether bottles of Scotch changed hands at Christmas, or the occasional crisp new five pound note. Recently, he had come to realise it was neither of those things. It was Mrs. Shackleton’s natural charm and grace.

Without her, Sykes would simply have to do his best.