It was back to being a small-town DI for a week. We had an average quota of muggings, fights and burglaries, and Gilbert asked me to go to his Chamber of Commerce meeting to talk about security cameras. In other words, to tell them that if they wanted them they'd have to pay for them. Highlight of the week was when the owner of a Toyota pickup caught a wheel clamper in the act and made a commendable attempt to force the clamp where most of us can only fantasise about. The Toyota owner appeared before the beak and the clamper appeared before a surgeon for some stitches. The good news was that they did his piles at the same time.
We were hanging fire with the Fox job. A lot was resting on my meeting with him. I talked to Tregellis a couple of times and we discussed possibilities. Fox employed Kingston but might deny knowing him personally. If they were buddies we'd concentrate on Kingston, suggesting that he might be involved with several crimes, including the fire, and encourage him to tell us what he knew about the man. If he said he didn't know him personally we'd switch tack. I'd bring Crosby into the conversation and tell Fox that we were looking into his ancestry, which was true. Tregellis had asked the War Crimes Bureau, which had extensive German-Jewish connections, to try to find any surviving relatives of a certain Johannes Josef Fuchs who fled Germany in 1940, aged about twelve. I'd asked Crosby to call in at his convenience and donate six hairs from his head, so we could do a DNA comparison with any relatives they located back in the Fatherland.
Maybe I'd ask Fox if he wanted to make a similar donation.
After that we'd talk to Kingston. We were flapping around in the dark, spreading shit and not knowing where it might land. We didn't even know if they talked to each other. The fallback plan was to arrest Fox and ask him some searching questions. We'd get no answers and have to release him, but there'd be leaks of information and the papers would sit up and take notice. Every one of them would put a specialist team on the Fox story and they'd turn up more dirt than we could dream about.
Thursday morning Piers rang me from his home. They'd landed at Heathrow three hours earlier and he'd just staggered in, jet-lagged and weary. I imagined him with a five o'clock shadow and his bow tie askew and wondered what they'd thought of him in Hillbilly Land.
"Have you brought Melissa back with you?" I asked.
"No, but she said she'll come," Piers replied. "Those photographs were crucial. At first she denied ever knowing Kingston, but with them we were able to convince her otherwise. When she realised that the crap was about to hit the fan in a big way, and we were willing to make a deal with her, she became more co-operative."
"What's she offering?"
"First of all let me tell you about where she lives. It's a shanty town of trailers, not unlike some of those places you see from the train in north Wales, except it's not raining all the time. She lives with an older man who is supposed to be some kind of revolutionary poet or something. They have ties with a ranch up in the hills, and spend a lot of time there. I think it's probably where their redneck friends hang out. They're into the gun culture in a big way, the place was bristling with them."
"Did you feel safe?" I asked. It sounded dodgy to me.
"Not really, Charlie," he replied. "Even though we had the deputy sheriff with us each time we visited them. They have some mean-looking neighbours."
"How well off is she?"
"Hard to say. Not very, at first glance, but they have plenty of possessions: the trailer, big Dodge pickup, huge television, freezer, air-conditioning, you name it. I'd say their main problem is cash flow. Melissa is having problems finding the money to have her teeth fixed."
"Her teeth?"
"That's right. This is the good bit. Their belief in self-sufficiency and disrespect for the establishment precludes having health insurance, it would appear, and Melissa is suffering from impacted wisdom teeth.
They're giving her a lot of trouble."
"Sounds painful. How does that help us?"
"Like this. Melissa IDs Kingston for us and signs a statement saying that he told her to mark the number on the house in Leeds and show Duncan Roberts which it was. She thought he was just visiting there, or something. She swears she knew nothing of any plan to burn it down."
"She's a lying little madam," I said.
"That's as may be," Piers replied. "Her story is that she was a nervous little student and Kingston was a charismatic lecturer. She was under his spell. Our side of the bargain is that we fly her to England with her boyfriend, house them for a week somewhere cheap but cheerful up near you, and arrange for her to have her teeth fixed. What do you think?"
I thought for a few seconds before replying, then said: "I think you've done well, Piers. That's about as much as you could possibly achieve, but it means she's getting away with murder. We only know about Leeds.
What happened, who did she recruit, in Durham or Manchester, California, Paris or wherever?"
"I understand your feelings," Piers told me, 'but I think it's the best we'll do. We don't know how she fits into the scheme of things; whether she was a leading light or a tiny cog; and you can't catch 'em all, Charlie."
America had done him good, loosened him up. He was calling me Charlie.
After a long silence he said: "There is one little titbit I've been saving. It might upset all our plans, but on the other hand, it could be useful. How does this sound?"
When he'd finished I said: "Right. I'm convinced; let's do it."
Piers went home and slept for fourteen hours. On Friday he briefed Tregellis, who had no objections, and on Monday he phoned Melissa and said we were trying to make an appointment for her to have her wisdom teeth fixed. That was my job. The appointment, that is, although I was quite willing to tackle the teeth myself, with the pliers from my little toolkit.
Over the weekend I tidied the garden, did some washing and took my shirts to the lady who irons them for me. She's a widow who lives a few doors away. Before her husband died he was the only friend I had in the street. The others don't like me because my dandelion seeds blow into their gardens. And I'm the law. I stroll round the cul-de-sac and pretend to look at then-tax discs, and as soon as I've passed they dash out to check them. We had home-made lemonade in her garden, with carrot cake, and I paid for it by making her laugh.
I bought three broad sheets on Sunday and scanned the business pages for news of Fox and Reynard. All of them told the story about him opening Reynard Tower, in Leeds, which would be the new seat of his insurance empire. The jobs, the spokesperson assured us, would be real ones.
Monday I gave Annette the job of negotiating with our contacts at Heckley General to see if they would be able to do Melissa's teeth at short notice. It would cost us, but a specialist said he could fit her in, after hours. In any other profession it's called moonlighting, using the boss's tackle, and would result in the sack. In the NHS it's normal practice. Can you imagine Kwik-Fit allowing their mechanics to fit exhausts to the cars of their private customers after five o'clock?
Not on your Nelly, Jose.
I had a long session with Nigel; questions and answers, role-playing.
He's good at stuff like that, and it was useful. We lunched at the Chinese and Nigel tested me on my knowledge of the Reynard Organisation. I scored ten out of ten, but I'd done some swotting.
Tregellis rang to wish me luck and Sparky poked his head round the door to say the same thing. I felt as if I was about to fight Mike Tyson. I emptied my in-tray and went home, slightly disappointed that there was no postcard of the Acropolis in there.
Tea was a tin of sardines, full of essential oils no, that's aroma therapy but they're good for you; followed by a piece of my neighbour's carrot cake that she'd insisted I bring home. I wondered what her apple pies were like. After that I found two big pieces of hardboard and painted them with white emulsion. The art exhibition was two weeks away and I was behind schedule. I did some sketches and by the time I went to bed I'd developed a couple of ideas.
I've interviewed people who've strangled wives, stabbed lovers, shot strangers, smothered babies. Some filled me with rage, others made me weep. All of them had a story, some redeeming feature, that reminded me of the old saw: There but for the grace of God… Well, nearly all of them. But Fox was different. He was from a mould that is rarely used, thank heaven. If what Crosby had told me was true, his goals in life were self-preservation and the accumulation of wealth and power.
Vast wealth. Monstrous power. The tools he used in the pursuit of these were murder and a cold indifference to the lives of anyone else.
He'd had fifty years to hone his skills, and tomorrow I was meeting him. One thing was certain; I wouldn't come away from that meeting much wiser than when I went in. But I'd know my quarry. I'd have seen him on his own patch, surrounded by his imperial guard of lawyers. I'd know what I was up against the next time we met, and I was sure there'd be a next time.
The weather changed through the night, as the forecasters had predicted. The summer was over. Flurries of rain rattled against the bedroom window like handfuls of gravel tossed by a lover. I sat up with a start. Perhaps it wasn't rain… but the sound of water running along the gutter told me it was. I sank back into my pillow and tried to sleep.
And then there was Kingston. If Fox was the Fuhrer, then Kingston was the head of his Gestapo. I was sure of it, but I had my own reasons for wanting Kingston. Private reasons.
I'd set the alarm to give me an hour's lie-in, but when it beeped into life I couldn't understand why I was late. Then I remembered; today was the day that Mr. Fox would snip the ribbon and create a thousand new jobs. And a city would be grateful and honour him. How many he'd lost that city over the past twenty years was incalculable. A thought struck me, as I lay in that never-never land when my stomach wants feeding but my legs refuse to swing out of bed. It was self-evident, but had completely eluded the last government. Every time a company streamlines itself by destroying a job, ten other businesses lose a customer. Not bad for seven on a Tuesday morning, I thought, and my legs kicked themselves from under the duvet and the day began.
I put on my charcoal suit and a blue tie with a pink stripe that added a dash of frivolity. I wouldn't take my briefcase, I decided, or even a notebook. We'd have a chat, man to man, nice and informal if I could see him for lawyers and I'd try to drop a little bombshell just before I left. Something to put them in a panic. I buffed my shoes with the soles of my socks and we were ready.
Traffic into Leeds at that time in the morning is like any normal big-city traffic. A great time to read War and Peace or study Mandarin. I timed my run so I'd just miss the nine o'clock peak, if there was such a thing, and hopefully arrive far too early. Perhaps I'd have time for a coffee in the restaurant. We were stop-going on the M621 when I thought I'd catch up on the mornings news. The M621 used to be the only motorway in the world that terminated at a set of traffic lights. Now it peters out in a forest of traffic cones, but it'll be good when it's finished. I pushed the power button and a familiar voice finished a story about natter jack toads. "Police in Yorkshire…" she continued.
"That's me!" I thought.
'… are trying to identify a man who threw himself off the Scammonden bridge over the M62."
He was, she told us, the umpteenth suicide there since the bridge was constructed. That'll be a great consolation to the relatives, I thought. A BMW in the fast lane decided he wanted my bit of the slow lane and cut across me. Fifty seconds later he'd done just the opposite. I braked and cursed him but he was too engrossed in his telephone conversation to notice.
"And a piece of late news has just been handed to me," she was saying.
"The businessman J.J. Fox, head of the Reynard Organisation, has been found dead in his hotel room in Leeds.
We'll let you have more on that as soon as we receive it."
I swung on to the hard shoulder and yanked the hand brake on, but she'd passed us over to the sports presenter, who was saying that our numero uno tennis player had lost in straight sets to a nine-year-old from Utah. "You should have strangled the little bastard," I hissed at the radio as I switched it off and reached for my phone.
I rang the nick and then Tregellis, but it was me breaking the news to them, so I decided the best place to be was at the Fox Borealis. I indicated right and an artic flashed me out.
The foyer of the hotel was filled with people standing in little hushed groups. There'd been a PC at the entrance, making a note of all visitors, which meant that the death was regarded as suspicious. He told me that Superintendent Isles was in charge and let me in. My old mate Les; that made it easier.
Another PC was guarding the lifts and two detectives were trying to organise the guests into a queue so they could take their names and then let them out to do their selling or conferencing or whatever it was that had brought them to this place on this day. Technicians and reporters in T-shirts and jeans, were wandering around with microphones and tape recorders, talking to anyone who looked as if they might be able to string two words together. A TV person with a big camera was speaking to head office on his mobile. "Can you get one of the body?" they'd be saying.
I introduced myself to the PC at the lift and told him I needed to see Mr. Isles. He explained that there was an express lift, for private use, that went straight up to the penthouse, on the fifteenth floor, where Mr. Isles was. However, that was out of bounds and only one of the other lifts was in use. I could go up in it but it only went to the fourteenth floor. I thanked him and he pressed the button.
I stepped out into a moderately large foyer with a blue and gold carpet and several easy chairs. Four figures turned to see who the newcomer was and Les Isles said: "Good God! What are you doing here?"
"Look in his diary," I replied. "I've an appointment to see Mr. Fox at ten o'clock."
"You were seeing Fox? What for?"
"To ask him some questions. Is it murder?"
"We don't know." He introduced me to the pathologist and a DI, telling them: "When Charlie appears, you know you have trouble."
"So what's happened?" I asked.
"Maid found him, 'bout six thirty," Les replied. "He's half on the floor, hanging from the bed head with a dressing gown cord round his neck. At first glance it's a sex game gone wrong, but that might be the intention. The SO COs and scientific are in there at the moment.
I want every fibre, every latent footprint on record. Nobody goes in without an Andy Pandy on. We should have a video in a few minutes.
Right, now you're up to speed, how about telling us why you're here."
I told them about the fire, Melissa, Kingston and the link with Fox, and left it at that. "I was hoping Fox might tell me something about Kingston," I said, 'seeing as he employed him."
A SOCO came down the stairs carrying a video cassette. He was wearing a white suit that completely enveloped him. Presumably Andy Pandy dressed in a similar manner. Only a nose protruded, beneath a pair of rimless spectacles. Les took the cassette and said: "Thank you, Carol.
"He was a she.
The DI was speaking on his radio. "The caravan's set up," he said as he switched off, 'but the BT engineer's still working on the phones."
"In that case find the manager and ask him if there's anywhere we can watch this," Les told him, waving the cassette. The DI made for the lift and the pathologist excused himself and followed.
When we were alone I said: "There's a lot more to this, Les. I'm seconded to the SFO and they're looking into Fox's affairs. I'll fill you in when we have the chance, but meanwhile I'd appreciate it if you could let me sit in on things."
He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I knew it. As soon as I saw you I knew it. You're bad news, Charlie, did anyone ever tell you?"
I grinned and said: "I know, but it makes death more interesting, doesn't it."
The manager switched the video on and told the DI which button to press on the remote control when the tape had run itself back to the beginning. He hovered until Les told him, very politely, that he'd have to leave. It might have been his office, with a huge mahogany desk, three-piece suite and Atkinson Grimshaw prints on the walls, but this was a murder inquiry and he'd have to go. I assumed they were prints, but you never know.
The SOCO had given us a wide-angle overall view of Fox's suite of rooms that constituted the penthouse. She'd panned around and wandered from room to room as if making a film for architects or interior designers.
The main room, presumably the one intended for his waking hours, had a glass wall with a view over the city, and outside was a bank of mirrors that could follow the sun and reflect it in. Furniture was sparse but luxurious, with lots of white fur, and a few antique pieces struck a discordant note.
After the grand tour the SOCO pulled back the lens and got down to the nitty-gritty. Fox's clothes were in an un hasty pile in a Queen Anne chair with a pair of striped boxer shorts on top. The huge bed was crumpled and the pillows had been pushed to one side. It was built in, with lights and speakers in the headboard and a bank of controls for things I could only wonder about. The man himself was half-kneeling, half-sitting on the floor near the top of the bed. His head was at an awkward angle and a cord led from his neck and was looped behind one of the hi-fi speakers. The cameraman zoomed in with ruthless disregard for taste or propriety. This was strictly after-the-watershed stuff.
Fox was naked apart from pyjama trousers, which were round his ankles.
His eyes were closed, and he looked reasonably peaceful, although a ribbon of saliva had run down his chin and chest. His winkie was relaxed, small and red, with a condom hanging off the end like an old sock. If that's safe sex, I thought, God save me from the dangerous sort.
An hour later we saw the real thing, just before he was hauled away for dissection. I didn't feel sorrow for him, not an ounce. Around his bed the pong of cheap perfume hung in the air like petrol fumes on a foggy morning, and that, as much as anything, convinced me what a sordid little man he was. Les still insisted we wore paper suits and bootees and we trudged from room to room, me concerned with the man's lifestyle, Les looking for anything that might throw some light on how he met his death.
A feature of the living room was a pond containing several large koi carp. As we approached they rose to the surface and followed us with their bulging eyes.
"They need feeding," the DI stated.
"So do I," Les told him.
In another room I found a bank of televisions, six of them, all glowing silently, their screens alight with columns of names and numbers. They were showing stock market prices from all around the world: the Dow Jones, Hang Seng, Nikkei; plus exchange rates and commodity prices. If that's what it took to become rich, I'd rather not bother.
"Look at this, boss," I heard the DI say, and wandered out to see what he'd found. He was holding a fishing rod, about four feet long, complete with reel, line and hook.
"Where was that?" Les asked.
"Under there," the DI replied, pointing to a window seat. "It lifts up. I was looking for some fish food for them."
"That's one way of doing your fishing," Les said. "Beats standing out in the rain for hours."
I went back to Heckley and did some typing. Les promised to keep me informed about the post-mortem and I arranged to see him in the morning with a synopsis of Fox's affairs. He rang me late that evening, just after I'd stood under the shower.
"Cause of death was asphyxia by strangulation," he said, bypassing the normal formalities. "Time, about eleven p.m."
"Foul play?" I wondered.
"Difficult to tell. We've told the press that it looks like a sexual experiment that went tragically wrong. He was over twice the driving limit with alcohol and there were traces of coke on the bedside table.
Haven't got the results of the blood test yet. What did you say that character was called who worked for Fox?"
"Kingston," I replied. "Nick Kingston. Why?"
"I thought so. Because an NJ.W. Kingston was booked in the Fox Borealis for Monday night, but his bed wasn't slept in."
"That sounds like my man," I said.
"One other guest is unaccounted for," Les continued. "A young lady called Danielle La Petite also booked in for Monday night only. Her room was number 1403, Kingston's was 1405, next door. Both rooms were booked on Reynard's account, so there were no bills to pay."
"Danielle La Petite I said, 'sounds like a hooker."
"She does, doesn't she? We're checking her out."
"Les…" I began.
"I know what you're going to say," he replied.
"What?"
"You want to talk to Kingston."
"So how about it?"
"See me in the morning, as planned, and we'll discuss it then."
"Fair enough, and thanks for ringing."
"There's one other small point you might find interesting," he said before I replaced the phone. "Guess what Fox's last meal was?"
"No idea."
"Sushi."
"Sushi? Raw fish?"
"That's right. With oysters. About nine o'clock the chef went up to his room and prepared a freshly-caught carp for Mr. Fox and his guest.
She was a tall and beautiful half-caste girl. The chef is Japanese, and his English is rather basic. He said she was dressed like a prostitute."
"Yuck," I said.
Superintendent Isles was happy for me to interview Kingston. I knew the man, was intimate with the story, and could put my mileage expenses on the SFO's account. One of his own detectives would have been limited to the usual did-anyone-see-you-there questions; I could try to get under his guard. I rang him in Kendal from Les's office.
"It's DI Priest from Heckley CID," I said. "I came to see you a fortnight ago."
"I remember, Inspector. The Carlos Castaneda man."
"That's me. First of all, I suppose you have heard the bad news about J.J. Fox?"
"Yes, just caught it on the radio. What a tragedy."
"We've just been going through the guest list at the Fox Borealis where he died," I told him, 'and have noticed that there is a N.J.W. Kingston on it, with your address. Were you at the Fox Borealis on Monday night, sir?"
"Well, yes, as a matter of fact I was, Inspector. I had a meeting with J.J. that evening. I do consultancy work for the Reynard Organisation: psychometric testing of job applicants; motivational lectures to senior management; that sort of thing. He wanted to discuss some ideas he had. I assure you he was fit and in good spirits when I left him."
Les was listening on another phone. He pulled a nice-work-if-you-can-get-it face and nodded for me to carry on.
"In that case, Mr. Kingston," I continued, 'we will need a statement from you and some samples, with your permission, so we can identify you amongst any others we find. Elimination purposes, as we say. I'd like to drive over now and see you at Kendal police station, if that's all right."
"Of course, Inspector. Anything to help, anything at all. Can I ask, though, why you are on this? I thought you were with HeckleyCID."
"I am, sir," I told him, improvising like a non-swimmer in the deep end. "But I also work for something called SCOG; Serious Crimes Operations Group. We all get roped in when something like this happens."
He put on a good show of sounding incredulous. "Serious crime? Crime?
You mean… you mean… it wasn't natural causes? Are you saying he was m-m-murdered?"
"We're not sure," I told him. "It was probably an unfortunate accident, but we have to treat it as a suspicious death, and with him being such an important person we're giving it all we've got. You know what the papers will say if we're negligent. I'll set off now and ring you from Kendal nick at about…" I looked at my watch, '… about twelve thirty, eh?"
"Fine, Inspector. I'll wait for your call."
"Just one other thing, sir," I said. "Could you please wear the same shoes you were wearing on Monday night?"
We replaced our phones and Les said: "Well done. He had it all off pat; he was expecting someone to ring him. Do you want a coffee before you go?"
"No thanks," I said. "I'll be stopping for a pee all the way."
The A65 leads through the Dales and on to Kendal, Windermere and the Lake District. Long stretches of it are single carriage way and queues of slow-moving traffic are the norm. Lorries bring limestone from Settle and hurtle back at breakneck speed where conditions allow.
They're no problem. It's the coaches and caravans and mothers taking the kids to school in the next village with the Range Rover stuck in first gear that cause the hold-ups. I hate the road. The only consolation is that although thousands of tourists head this way, thousands more are deterred. I did the eighty miles in two and a half hours and rang Kingston. He was with us in fifteen minutes.
I explained to him more fully why we wanted samples of his DNA, and he enthusiastically allowed the police surgeon to extract six hairs, by the roots. That's where the DNA lives. I boasted expansively about ESFLA, electronic footprint lifting apparatus, or something like that, that enables us to track a culprit across a carpet, and he happily surrendered his shoes to the force photographer. He admitted that he'd been in Fox's room, so he had nothing to hide.
I took him into an interview room but didn't bother with the tape. I wanted it to be nice and informal; he was among, if not friends, a bunch of half-witted coppers who didn't know their batons from their buttons. He told me that Fox had asked to see him about some ideas he was having. "As I said on the phone, Inspector," he continued, "I analyse information from tests about the suitability of staff members.
Management staff, that is. It's not regular work, about two hundred hours per year. I also devise the tests. J.J. is was a great believer in a scientific approach to staff selection and promotion. He puts great store by loyalty. That and competence were the attributes my tests were designed to highlight. Lately, though, he'd become paranoid. He was considering placing bugs in places where staff congregated, so he could see what they were saying about him behind his back. That's what he wanted to discuss with me. It would be my job to listen to the tapes and report directly to him. I discouraged him, of course. Said that just because someone might say something disparaging it didn't mean they were disloyal. We all go over the mark in private, I said. I think I talked him out of it."
"What time did you leave him?" I asked.
"About eight o'clock. I had a workout in the gym and came home."
"You didn't stay in your room overnight?"
"No, Inspector, I prefer my own bed." He gave a little smile and I thought of the delightful Francesca.
After a long silence I said: "Did you see anything of a dark girl who was staying in the room next to yours? She's called Danielle La Petite He heaved a giant sigh, leaned heavily on the table between us and drummed his fingertips on the top of his head. It was a gesture he'd seen on How to be a Psychologist videos, when the patient runs out of patience and is considering whether to slot the doctor. He'd obviously practised it. "I might as well tell you," he said, looking up at me, his face a study of embarrassed guilt.
"You'll find out, one way or another." I sat back and waited for the revelation.
"Danielle is J.J."s mistress," he began. "She's a dancer with a Manchester theatre group called Zambesi. I met her off the eighteen fifty-two train and took her to the hotel. JJ. trusts me, you see. We had a drink in the cocktail lounge, and I came home."
"Did you find Danielle for Fox?" I asked, avoiding the word procure.
"I introduced them, if that's what you mean," he replied, almost offended.
"Was she a student of yours?"
"What if she had been, Inspector? She was the same as lots of others like her; expectations way above their intellects. Thick as two short planks and wanted to be a doctor. She's a good dancer and good in bed;
I encouraged her to develop what talents she possessed. JJ. pays her a thousand pounds a night and she enjoys her work. Where else could she earn money like that?"
"And what was your cut?" I asked.
"I didn't take a penny off her. J.J. paid me well, extremely well, and …" He shrugged and smiled.
"And what?"
"Like I said, she was a good dancer and good in bed, and nobody misses a coconut off a fruit stall, do they? J.J. liked her to put on a show for him and I was the warm-up act. I didn't need any money from him.
Shagging the boss's ladyfriend just before he does has a certain appeal all of its own, don't you think, Inspector?"
"I wouldn't know," I said.
Going home it was the M6, M61 and M62 all the way and I never dropped under ninety. If a traffic car had followed me I'd have given him the secret signal that says: "I'm a cop in a hurry," and he'd have dropped back. You just switch your hazard lights on for three flashes and dab your brakes, that's all. Try it some time. The local chip pie opens at teatime on Wednesdays, so I had them again. They were all right, but nowhere as good as the ones Shirley had cooked for us. By six o'clock I'd washed my plate, made a pot of tea and the full evening stretched before me.
I laid a blank piece of hardboard on the drive and started flicking blue enamel on it, a la Jackson Pollock. It's a lot harder than it looks, and time-consuming. It doesn't start to work until the entire field is thickly covered in splashes and squiggles and spots and dribbles. This would give the exhibition judges something to think about, and might even make the Gazette. I'd have to think of a name for it, and for its partner, when I'd finished the pair of them. I reached for my tea and found it had gone cold.
I was taking the lid off the red when a sound behind me caused me to turn. Young Daniel, Dave's son, was freewheeling his mountain bike through my gateway, closely followed by his dad on a lady's pink model with a basket on the handlebars. Dave was wearing a Heart Appeal T-shirt and jogging bottoms.
"Hi, Charlie," Daniel greeted me. "Whatya doing?" He saw the painting and went: "Wow! It's fantastic!"
Dave dismounted, saying: "It's Uncle Charlie to you, young man," for the thousandth time, followed by: "Good God, it looks like a bag of maggots."
I knocked the lid back into place and stretched upright, my vertebrae creaking in protest. "Visitors!" I exclaimed. "This is a pleasant surprise. Let's have a drink."
"Can I have a go on your computer, please, Uncle Charlie?"
Daniel asked. "I think Dad wants to talk cop talk."
"Sure," I replied. "C'mon, I'll set you up." I left him with a glass of LA lager and lime, zapping aliens, and carried two cans of real beer and two glasses out into the garden, where Dave had made himself comfortable on the seat.
The cans went psssss! as we broke the seals. Dave said: "It's just two small messages. First of all Les Isles rang to say that Danielle La Petite is a torn from Salford, and she hasn't turned up yet. Aged twenty-two, several convictions for soliciting. But the big news is from Tregellis. He rang just before five to say that Melissa is on her way, with her boyfriend. They arrive in Manchester at nine a.m. tomorrow, and can you arrange for someone to meet them?"
"Brilliant," I said. "It's all coming together." I looked at my watch. "I ought to ring Tregellis," I said, 'tell him about today."
"He said to tell you not to bother," Dave replied. "He's out tonight; it'll do in the morning."
"Good."
Dave took a long sip, held the glass to the light and turned it in his fingers. A blackbird landed on the fence, looked affronted by our presence in his garden and took off again. High above us a jumbo jet filled with holiday makers did a course-correction, leaving a bent trail across the sky. The sun glinted under its wing as it levelled out.
"There is one other thing," Dave said.
"What's that?" I asked.
He shuffled and crossed his ankles. "You remember Peter Mark Handley?"
"The games master who touched up little girls?"
"He did more than touch them up, but not any more. He's dead. Monday night he jumped off Scammonden bridge."
"Oh God," I said.
"He didn't leave a note or anything. He should have appeared before the magistrates that morning, but he didn't. They issued a warrant. He wasn't identified until this afternoon."
"We drove him to that," I said. "Or I did. And I caused Fox's death, too. I put pressure on him and Kingston. Kingston probably killed him to silence him, thanks to me. Judge, jury and executioner, all in one.
Sometimes I hate this job, Dave. When we're old, do you think we'll be able to sleep at nights?"
"You're talking soft," he replied. "Handley was a pervert and Fox a monster. We'll never know how evil he was. They were both all right when they were picking the fruits, but when it came to paying the bill they didn't like it. We're the law, Charlie. We just catch them. If they can't hack it, it's their fault. What is it they say? "If you can't do the time, don't do the crime." '"If you deserve it, serve it." Handley's wife didn't deserve it. She seemed a pleasant enough person, and loyal to him. Now she's a widow."
"And how many little girls will never trust a man again? How many of them has he left damaged? Don't waste your regrets on either of them, Charlie, save them for more deserving causes. God knows, there's plenty."
I fetched two more beers and left another LA with Daniel. He was playing Battle Chess against the computer. The sun had fallen behind next door's roof but it was still a warm evening. A flock of swallows were diving and swirling like tea leaves used to, before they invented tea bags I topped up both our glasses from one can. The first vapour trail had been dispersed by the Jetstream, but another plane was following the same course, pumping millions of cubic feet of burnt hydrocarbons into the ozone layer. Seven miles above us two or three hundred rat-tempered passengers were wrestling with seat backs and folding tables, or standing in embarrassed queues for the toilets.
Bring back airships, that's my opinion.
Dave took a sip, sighed, and balanced his glass on the uneven top of the wall round my little rockery. He sat on his hands and kicked his feet up and down. "You remember when we were going to Bridlington?" he said, when he was good and ready.
"Mmm."
"Remember what we were talking about."
"Percy Shaw?"
"After that."
"Rhubarb crumble?"
"You don't make it easy for me, do you?"
"I'm sorry, Dave," I said, 'but I haven't a clue what you're on about."
"Nigel asked why I hadn't made sergeant."
"Oh, that."
"Yes, that. Have you ever wondered why?"
"Once or twice, but not lately. You could have walked it if you' dwanted. With a bit of effort you could have made inspector, and you'd have been a good one. I just assumed that you were happy as a DC and didn't want to spoil things. You had a family to consider. There's plenty of others feel the same way."
"I am happy, but there's more to it than that."
"Is there?" I wasn't going to ask. He'd tell me, if that was what he was leading to.
"I had a revelation."
"A revelation? You found God?"
"No, I found my limitations. That day, at the fire."
"Leopold Avenue?"
"That's right. When I saw her at the window, little Jasmine Turnbull, I knew I had no chance of saving her. But the alternative was worse.
Just standing there, watching, until the fire or the smoke got her. I could never have lived with myself if I hadn't tried. Halfway up that first staircase I was in trouble. I was going to grab one more breath and press on, but you tackled me and dragged me out. I'd never have made it; I knew that. For a while, I wondered if you did what you did because you hadn't the bottle to go after her. But not for long. I soon realised that if it had been the other way round, if I'd been the sergeant and you the PC, there'd have been ten deaths in that fire, not eight. And we'd have missed all this." He waved a hand at the garden.
"So," he concluded, "I suppose you could say I'm not cut out for authority."
"Now you're talking soft," I said. "How many times has a situation like that risen since then? None."
"But it might, tomorrow."
"And you'd do what was necessary."
"Well, it's too late now."
I shared the fourth can between us. "There's more in the fridge…" I hinted.
"Better not. What's the limit for riding a bike while in charge of a minor?"
"No idea. Cheers."
"Cheers."
It was good beer. The froth clung to the side of the glass, all the way down. That's how you tell a good pint. It's nothing to do with the taste. The widget was the greatest scientific breakthrough since Archimedes invented the overflow.
"I saw the pictures," I said.
Dave licked the froth off his top lip and said: "What pictures?"
"The ones in Kingston's loo, that you didn't want me to see."
"Oh, those pictures."
"That's right. By Mrs. Holmes. She knew him better than she pretended, don't you think?"
"You can't say that. They might have been a Christmas present or anything. Maybe Melissa bought them off her and gave them to him.
There's a thousand possible explanations."
"I suppose so," I admitted, but I knew different. It had all started at that party to watch the Apollo 13 mission on television. Kingston had been awful to Melissa, Janet had told us, and chased another girl.
She'd been that other girl, as sure as Satan made female Morris dancers. Why should Melissa have all the fun? she'd thought, and Melissa had reacted by taking a tilt at Mo, which was what Kingston had intended all along. I'd been to a few parties like that myself. Then it was back to the bed sit and the Leonard Cohen records.
"It was a long time ago," Dave said. "She was young. We all make mistakes."
Daniel came out of the open doorway, saying: "I've logged off, Uncle Charlie. Thanks for letting me play on it. We ought to be off, Dad, before it gets dark."
"Kids," Dave muttered to me, standing up. "Who'd have 'em?"
I watched them pedal away in an impromptu race, and thought: I would.