A fat man was standing there, bent over. His trousers were round his ankles, copious shorts enveloped his knees and his arse was as big and white as the harvest moon I was expecting to see later. Arthur was standing in front of the man and a PC was kneeling behind him, applying black ink to that backside with one of the little rollers that the fingerprint boys use. Arthur's jaw dropped as the door crashed open and the PC's eyes bulged like gob stoppers The man's resigned expression didn't change he was already as low as he could go. We stared at each other for an eternity until I said: "My office," to Arthur and turned on my heel.
I pulled my big diary from the drawer and opened it at today. I wrote:
See Nick Kingston in Patterdale car park at midnight. Climbing Helvellyn. It was just in case. As I put it back I saw my handcuffs there. I picked them up, weighed them in my hands, and slipped one end down the back of my trousers. Like I said, just in case.
Arthur came in, looking contrite. "What the fuck are you playing at, Arthur?" I demanded.
He shuffled about from one foot to the other. We have a good, casual relationship, but he knew that I was the boss and could only allow so much. "He, er, he was caught, earlier this evening," he said. "Act of gross indecency."
"Like what?"
"Buggery. Shit-stabbing. He was stuck up a youth in the Park Avenue toilets. Probably underage."
"Where's the youth?"
"He ran away."
"But Fatso didn't make it."
"No."
"So what were you doing?"
He heaved a big sigh and said: "We just added a line to the PACE conditions. We told him that in cases of indecency between males we have to take an anal print as well as fingerprints. That's what you caught us doing."
"Jeeesus Chris tV I hissed. "You know, don't you, that if he complains they'll hang you from the town hall clock by your bollocks? And not just you; all of us."
"His sort are not in the habit of complaining, Mr. Priest."
"He might. And cut out the Mr. Priest. Let him go, Arthur. Clean him up and let him go."
"Right, Chas. Thanks. What shall we do with the print?"
"Destroy it. No, leave it on my desk. No, destroy it." I opened the door and turned the light out.
"Shall we destroy the others?"
"The othersV I exploded. "How long has this been going on?"
"Since PACE came out," he replied. "We've quite a collection."
I shook my head in disbelief, but couldn't help laughing. "Better hang on to them," I spluttered. "You never know, this might be pioneering research."
At the bottom of the stairs I said: "I want something from Gareth Adey's office." The CS gas canister was still in his drawer. They're quite tiny for an aerosol, about the size of a tube of mints. It wasn't noticeable in the pocket of my anorak.
Then it was just a matter of a two-hour blast towards the setting sun and the Lake District, the heater blowing cold because I was overdressed, and the cuffs reassuringly sticking into the base of my spine.
Helvellyn, at just over three thousand feet, is the third highest mountain in England. Imagine you are in bed, with your knees drawn up and the duvet draped over them. That's what it looks like. The top is flat and unimpressive compared with its cousins like Scafell and Skiddaw, and the far side slopes gently down to Thirlmere. At this side it drops a clear thousand feet to Red Tarn, but there's no dramatic cliff top that you can peer over. It's just a gradual steepening of gradient until you are beyond the point of no return. In winter, when fresh snow lies on frozen, that point can come horrifyingly early. In summer, it's a pussycat. From Patterdale there are two approaches to the summit: Swirral Edge, up your right knee, which is a steep and narrow path; or Striding Edge, up your left, which is a jagged spine of rock like an iguana's backbone.
Kingston was leaning on the boot of the BMW when I swung into the car park. "Hello, Charlie," he greeted me. "Glad you could make it."
"Where's Francesca?" I asked without ceremony.
"Oh, she decided not to come. She doesn't like me wandering about on my own, but as soon as I told her I'd be in your capable hands she said she'd prefer to have an early night. We're having a dinner party tomorrow, so it will be a busy day for her."
"Right," I said. "Just the two of us." I poured a coffee and sipped it.
"I'm not bothering with a 'sack," Kingston said. "The weather is settled. Just stick a Mars bar or something in your pocket."
"Good idea," I told him. "I always feel that we carry too much anyway."
"Excess baggage, Charlie, in more ways than one. Travel light, like a warrior; free, fluid and unpredictable."
"Let's go," I said. I wasn't in the mood for philosophical discussions.
It's a two-mile walk-in, then you have to decide which path to take.
Normal practice is to go up one and down the other. Common sense said up Swirral and down Striding Edge, when dawn would be breaking, but at the fork Kingston veered to the left.
"Striding Edge?" I said. "Is that wise?"
"We'll be OK," he assured me. I wasn't convinced. He walked fast, and I was stumbling along behind him, blindly placing my feet in black patches that might have been potholes or shadows, for all I could see.
That's when I started worrying. Kingston was lots of things that I despised, but he could withstand cold and fire and was probably convinced that he had supernatural gifts. Some murderers, the real nutters, believe that when they kill someone their own life is enriched, their powers are enhanced. They are endowed with all the qualities of the victim. Like I said, I started worrying.
I'd intended staying behind him, but didn't have any choice. He clambered on to the rocks at the start of the Edge and waited for me.
"OK?" he asked as I caught up with him.
"Just puffing a bit," I said. "You set a brisk pace."
"This bit's slow going; you'll soon get your breath back."
He could see in the dark. He was soon fifty yards ahead, striding from boulder to boulder with all the confidence of a mountain goat. I measured each step, feeling for solid ground before I transferred my weight, and fell still further behind. When it came to walking, I was out of my class. If I fell it wouldn't be far, it's too rough for that, but on these rocks eight feet could kill you, no problem. This was for crazies.
I made it to the end. The last bit is the worst; a ten-foot step, with a narrow foothold halfway down. He was waiting for me. I sat on my backside and groped for the ledge with my feet. He extended his hand and I took it, gripping it in a butcher's hold. I stepped off, landed on firm ground and said: "Cheers." He turned and started on the final climb to the top.
It was just a steep slog from then on, levelling off as we reached the summit plateau. The sky was hazy, with no stars visible. A breeze blew from the north, and as it came over the brow it condensed into clouds above us. I wondered if he'd been lying about the forecast, and the moon.
He slowed and I caught up, but stayed about three yards behind him.
There's a cairn marking the top, and a wall to give some shelter.
Kingston moved to his right, approaching the wall in a curve, which struck me as curious.
Our feet crunched and scraped on the ground, and although we didn't speak our progress was noisy. When we were ten yards from the wall a figure rose and stepped out into the open. He was tall and gangly, and a rucksack hung from his hand.
"Hello, DJ," I said. "Come to watch the moonrise with us?"
He reached into the bag and produced what looked like two short walking sticks. They were bent at one end, sharpened into chisel points and wrought from steel. In the tool catalogues they are called wrecking bars, but they are universally known as jemmies. Kingston reached out and DJ handed one to him, bent end first so it would be difficult to pull it from his grasp. They're a formidable weapon. One blow and I'd be down. It didn't have to be the head. An arm, shoulder, knee or foot, it was all the same. They separated, shepherding me towards the slope that went on and on, all the way down to Red Tarn.
"You won't be watching the moonrise, Priest," Kingston said.
I walked backwards, glancing from one to the other. The breeze was on my right cheek, flapping the collar of my jacket against my ear. "This is a surprise," I shouted above it. They didn't answer, just moved towards me in slow steps.
"So how did you two meet?" I tried. The book says keep them talking.
It wasn't a bestseller. "It's a reasonable question," I argued. "How did you meet?"
"You wouldn't understand," Kingston replied.
"Try me."
"DJ found me."
"Found you?"
"Yes. Something brought him to Lancaster and I saw his name on the list of the new students."
"What were you doing?" I demanded. "Trawling for likely candidates you could corrupt?" The slope was growing steeper and I was aware of a big black nothingness behind me.
"I said you wouldn't understand."
"A coincidence," I said. "You were looking for girls with fancy names and you came across Duncan Roberts. It rang a bell, so you looked him up. That's it, isn't it?"
"There are no coincidences in this life, Priest. We make our own destinies. Fate brought DJ to me because he understands that there is more to our lives than the average person can see. He was looking for something, a way to take control. Like I said, he found me."
I turned to DJ. "Hear that?" I yelled at him. "You're listening to the words of a madman; a raving lunatic' DJ raised the jemmy. The slope was so steep I had to twist my feet sideways to stand up. "His half-baked ideas killed your uncle, DJ," I went on. "He hooked him somehow, sex and alcohol at a guess, then used him to do his dirty work. What's he supplying you with, DJ? Coke?
Heroin, and a nice bit of stuff that's thrown herself at you? She wasn't called Danielle, was she? Sex, drugs and promises of wealth and power. Is that it?"
"Danielle?" DJ said. "He knows Danielle?"
"Don't listen to him," Kingston argued. "He's a cop. He's been spying on you."
"Danielle's vanished," I shouted. "She worked for Kingston and we think he's killed her, like he killed your uncle."
"I never met DJ's uncle," Kingston shouted.
"Your girlfriend did. Melissa. She picked him out as a likely candidate, and between you you destroyed him."
"He's lying, DJ," Kingston protested. "Duncan was a good person. He'd have been all right if they hadn't hounded him to his death, always keeping him down, moving him on, never giving him a chance. The pigs killed your uncle, DJ. He killed him. We're doing this for him.
Remember that."
I couldn't go any further and the wind was still on the side of my face. Duncan was holding the jemmy by the bent end, resting it on the palm of his other hand. I took a side-step up the hill towards him, and he raised his arm.
Maybe I could afford to take one blow. I felt in my pocket for the CS canister and turned it in my fingers, groping for the flat side of the button. If I whipped it out and pressed, and it squirted up my sleeve, I'd be in big trouble. DJ hesitated, the jemmy still aloft, ready to strike. Kingston, to my left, kept coming nearer and lower, slowly moving downwind, where I wanted him.
I pulled the aerosol from my pocket, took four quick steps towards DJ and ducked. I heard the jemmy hiss through the air and felt it thud into my back as I let fly at Kingston with the CS. He screamed and clutched his face, his weapon falling to the ground. DJ had swung himself off-balance and he stumbled to his knees, dropping the jemmy as he scrabbled to stop himself going over the edge. I'd fallen too, but was facing uphill and was soon back up. DJ recovered but he saw Kingston's agony, didn't understand what had happened and jumped away from me. I pointed the CS at him but he was upwind and I'd have got the lot if I'd pressed the button. The threat was enough and he turned and fled. I chased him for about thirty yards, but the gradient and the years were against me. He vanished, crashing and stumbling, into the darkness. I walked back to Kingston and picked up both jemmies, holding them around the middle.
He was on his knees, rubbing his eyes, and he called me a bastard. I gave him another short burst, at close range, just for the hell of it, and he rolled over, screaming like a pig on a spear. I handcuffed him and walked about twenty yards up the hill. I sat down with my arms around my knees and watched and waited. The moon came up, mysterious and majestic, bigger than I'd ever seen it, with Ullswater like a silver boomerang in the valley. He hadn't been lying about the moon.
When the sobbing subsided I grabbed a handful of Gore-Tex and hoisted him to his feet. "Walk!" I ordered. He stumbled a few feet and sank to his knees. I yanked him up again and kicked him. "Walk!" I yelled. "Walk! Walk! Walk!"
We made slow progress. When dawn broke, bright and new, we were only halfway along Swirral Edge. Kingston fell to the ground and said he could go no further. I grabbed him by the hair and stuffed the end of the CS canister into his left nostril. "Get this," I hissed at him.
"You can either walk out of here or you can be carried. But if I have to carry you the first thing I'll do is empty this up your friggin' nose. So get up on your feet and walkV After that we made better progress. On the bridle path leading into Patterdale a group of walkers approached us. They were all fairly elderly, out to enjoy a day on the fells. As we reached them Kingston turned to one, his shackled wrists held forward in an appeal for help.
I grabbed his arm and steered him past them with a communal: "Good morning." They all turned to watch us go by, mumbling their greetings, not believing their eyes. This was the Lake District, after all. When we were past them the first one to recover her senses called: "What's he done?" after us.
"Dropped a crisp packet," I muttered without looking back.
The cars were still there. I found my mobile in my rucksack and dialled 999. It was the only number I could remember. Fifteen minutes later a Cumbria Constabulary Vauxhall Astra pulled into the car park and two PCs with bum fluff on their chins climbed out with a battle-weary, what's-this-all-about air.
I showed them my ID. "DI Priest, Heckley CID," I said. "I want him taking to Kendal nick." I pushed Kingston back against their car and wished Sparky could have heard this next bit. "Nicholas James William Kingston," I began. "I'm arresting you for the murder of Jasmine Turnbull. You need not say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned…" I couldn't be bothered. "Oh, take him to Kendal," I said. "I'll see you there."
"But we're from Keswick," one of the PCs protested.
"If you lose your way, ask," I said. I took a towel from my car boot and dried my face and blew my nose on it. That CS gas gets everywhere.
I doubted if we'd run Kingston for little Jasmine, but we'd done our best for her. Found her some justice at last.
The jemmies went to have prints taken from them and I went for breakfast in their canteen. I was having my second tea when the DI that I'd dealt with before came in and joined me. "We've just had a report," he said, 'of a casualty on Striding Edge. Male, early twenties, with a broken leg. Anything to do with you?"
"Good," I replied. "Good. My cup run neth over. He's called Duncan J. Roberts and I want a statement from him."
"Patterdale rescue team are on their way," the DI told me, 'and the Air Sea Rescue helicopter's standing by. He'll be in hospital in half an hour."
We agreed that he'd interview DJ, if possible, before the morphine wore off. I suggested that the threat of an attempted murder charge might further loosen his tongue. Kingston was making a full and frank statement, we'd tell him, and blaming everybody but himself. Meanwhile, I'd try the same thing with Kingston.
DJ fell for it, Kingston didn't. He couldn't remember Melissa, didn't know anything about 32 Leopold Avenue, and stuck to his story about Fox. We brought Francesca in for questioning and searched the house.
Thoroughly, this time.
In the garage we found a rubber dingy. Not a super-duper neoprene job with a wooden floor and mountings for an outboard, like we might have expected. This was a cheapo plastic one, bright yellow, like you see on garage fore courts for parents to cast their offspring adrift in.
But Kingston had no children. It was deflated, and pools of water were trapped in the folds, so we took a sample and sent it for analysis.
Apart from that and a couple of grams of coke, we didn't find much else. I rang Les Isles and told him of my adventures. He said: "I'm coming over."
It was ten o'clock in the evening when I arrived home, sustained for the drive by adrenalin and canteen tea. I cleaned my teeth, switched the alarm off and crashed out for ten hours.
"Where've you been?" Dave demanded when I wandered into the office, clean-shaven and crisp-shirted, carrying a Marks and Spark's prawn sandwich for brunch. I told him all about it. My back hurt where DJ had whomped me, and my left arm was stiff. I could have had the bruises photographed as evidence, and filed a report, but I didn't bother. Screwing DJ wasn't on my agenda.
I did the paperwork and rang Tregellis. It's always easier to do things that way round, then the decks are clear if you are landed with another job. He was delighted, and had some news for me, too.
"Graham's been doing the rounds with the video you sent us," he told me. "He's shown it to three people who were at that charity bash at Newbury, and they all ID-ed Kingston as the man who accompanied Mary Perigo."
"Rodger-with-a-d Wakefield," I said.
"That's right. The case is building up nicely. Melissa's fingered him for the fire, you say this DJ character is spilling the beans on him, he's had a go at you and now we can link him with Mary Perigo. It's looking good."
"But it's all circumstantial," I said. "He'll spend his time in prison writing books about the injustice he's suffered, about the conspiracy against him because the Establishment regards him as a danger to their way of life. I want him nailing, bang to rights."
"Circumstantial evidence can be overwhelming, Charlie," Tregellis replied. "I'll settle for that."
"I suppose so."
"When does Melissa go back?"
"Tomorrow."
"Shame about the wedding. Piers said he couldn't believe his ears when she agreed to come over. Now that she's married they'll have to let her back in."
"I know, but she was stringing us along, acting innocent, all the way.
She's got away with it."
"Win a few, lose a few, Charlie. Don't take it personally."
"I'll try not to."
After that it was Les Isles again. "Thought you'd still be in bed, Charlie," he said.
"Dangerous places, beds," I replied. "People die in them."
"Thought you'd like to know the good news and the bad news about the dinghy. The water was tap water. He'd either used it in the bath or hosed it off, so we can't tell anything from that. But we know where the dinghy came from, and when. Kendal have traced it to a filling station in Windermere. The girl there knows Kingston by sight; he buys a lot of petrol and can't resist flirting with her. She recognised him as the man who bought it a week last Sunday, which was just before Fox died."
"Start dragging the lakes, Les," I said. "He dumped Danielle's body from it. He used her to set Fox up, and now he's silenced her. He's a hard man and a midnight swim would be nothing to him. She'd have to be weighted, so he'd need some assistance to keep her afloat until they were over deep water. She's in one of them somewhere, I'm sure of it."
"And he couldn't abandon the dinghy because he knew we might find it and trace it back to him."
"Like you have done. Exactly."
"The frogmen are out, and we've asked our amateur friends to help. You know what they're like; bloody bunch of enthusiastic ghouls. They'll find her."
I put the phone down. Tregellis was right. We might not go to court with anything that could be called forensic, but overwhelming circumstantial evidence was just as damning. I could imagine the phrase rolling off the judge's tongue, and the jury sitting a little straighter as that word overwhelming helped them come to terms with the thought of locking a man away for the rest of his life. Just the same, a little more evidence would be useful. Wanting to find the body of a young girl made me feel uneasy. "I hope she's not dead," I said to myself. "I truly hope and pray that she's not dead. But if she is, I hope we find the body."
Nigel came for me after work, with Dave already in his car, and we went for a few bevvies in one of the pubs high on the moors. These days you can have an animated conversation in one with little fear of being overheard. Cheap booze from the Continent keeps the punters at home, sipping Australian lager from the can and watching Australian soaps on TV until the blue kangaroos coming down the chimney tell them they've had enough. The landlord blinked with surprise at the sudden influx of trade and tried to remember the prices.
The inquiry had fizzled out, that was the problem. Fox was dead, Kingston was in custody and Melissa was going home. We'd never know the full extent of their evil. Crosby had met the War Crimes people and told them all his early memories, right down to the colour of his grandma's cat. If it were proved that he was the original Johannes Josef Fuchs it would give us a good insight into Fox's character and the papers would go into a feeding frenzy at his expense. And that was about it.
"Where's Annette?" I asked, after a good long sip of proper beer.
"Out on a date," Nigel replied, glumly.
"Oh. Do we know who with?"
"He sells computers."
"That could be anything from Bill Gates's chief executive to behind the checkout at Computers-R-Us."
"He rings her on his mobile."
"Sounds a right prat," I pronounced. "Doesn't he, Dave?"
Dave was studying a miner's lamp hanging in a little niche. "Er, sorry?" he mumbled.
"I said he sounds a right prat."
"Who?"
"Oh, go back to sleep. Just leave your wallet handy."
"I was thinking."
"Well, no wonder you're tired."
"She's got away with it, hasn't she?" he said.
"Annette?"
"No! Melissa."
"Got away with what?"
"I don't know, but she has."
I said: "It's normal to be reasonably specific about the offence before we put someone before a judge and send them to jail. Juries take a dim view if we just say that we don't know what they've done, but they must have done something."
"Listen," he began. "Mrs. Holmes painted a bleak picture of Melissa.
Said she was capable of anything. So did the black lawyer you met…"
"Mo," I interrupted.
"Him. And look how awful she was with her parents. For God's sake, she drove her mother to her death. Then there's her friendship with Kingston. She's admitted that she was at Leopold Avenue with him, and that was six years after they met. Six years! What were they up to in between? She and Kingston were partners, equal partners, I'm sure of it. She's as bad as him, maybe worse." He underlined his words by picking up his glass and draining it. "And she's got off, scot-free."
He plonked the glass down on the formica table to indicate that he'd said his piece.
I looked at Nigel and he gave me a brief shrug of the shoulders, as if to say: "He's been like this all day. What more can we do?"
I went to the bar for refills. "Quiet tonight," I said to the landlord.
"It'll liven up later," he replied.
Dream on, I thought. A blackboard behind the bar said that Friday was quiz night, with free beer for the winners. Free beer for the losers would have stood a better chance.
I carefully placed the glasses on the beer mats and sat down. They both took sips and offered the customary salutation. "We needed Melissa's evidence, Dave," I began. "Without her we'd never have got off the ground. We're not prosecuting Kingston for all the crimes he might have committed for Fox, we're doing him for the ones he committed to cover his tracks. Without Melissa we couldn't have linked him to the fire, or to Duncan."
"She still gets away with it," he complained.
"We tried," I said. "We thought she'd be refused readmission to the States. That would have hurt her, but she was one step ahead of us."
"She's mixing with some crazy people over there," Nigel said. "There's a good chance one of them will shoot her, one day."
"That's something to look forward to," Dave agreed. He pushed his glass a few inches across the table and wiped condensation from it with a thumb. "I'm sorry, Charlie," he said. "You've done brilliantly, and I sound ungrateful. It's just that… I wish we could have got Melissa. It doesn't feel finished. Tomorrow she'll be back with her hillbilly friends, and…" He lifted his glass and left it at that.
And live happily ever after?
"I know how you feel," I told him, raising mine to join him in a drink.
"And why. I was at the fire too, remember. We've only done half of the job, but something tells me we haven't heard the last of Melissa Youngman."
"Slade," Nigel said. "Melissa Slade."
"Don't remind me," I hissed at him across the top of my glass.
I had the beginnings of a hangover, which wasn't a surprise. It was a cool, dull morning, and showers were promised, which didn't mean a thing. It might rain all day in Heckley and be fine in Halifax, or it could be vice versa. Either way, the weatherman would claim a success.
A familiar little Nissan Micra with fat tyres pulled out in front of me and the sight of it raised my spirits. It swung a left and so did I.
Then a right, into the station car park, and I pulled up alongside it.
"Morning, Annette," I said. "You're bright and early."
"A lot to do, boss," she replied, 'if you want me to deliver you-know-who to the airport."
"If you don't mind," I replied, holding the door open for her. "Then they're off our hands. You don't have to talk to them."
"Thank goodness for that. What's the latest from the Lake District?"
I was telling her about the dinghy and the divers as we climbed the stairs. Halfway up we had to stop to one side to avoid the desk sergeant on his way down. "Ah, Charlie," he said. "Just left another message on your desk."
"Another?"
"There was one already there."
"And I was hoping for a quiet day," I complained.
"I'll fill the kettle," Annette said as we entered the outer office.
"Let's see what these messages are," I suggested. "Maybe they've found something."
Two official message forms were on my desk, held down by my empty coffee mug. Someone was determined I'd find them. On the top one the spaces for From, To and Time were all ignored. It read: Body found.
Looks like her. PM this afternoon. L. Isles. I passed it to Annette and read the one underneath.
I read it again, then folded it and put it in my pocket. Spots of rain were falling against the window.
"That was quick," Annette was saying, offering the first note back to me.
"It was, wasn't it? What time did you say their plane left?"
"Two thirty, but they have to be there at eleven thirty."
"Don't you worry about it, Annette," I told her. "I'll take them to the airport."
"But I don't mind," she protested.
I raised my hands, palms towards her. "If you don't want to take them, that's OK," I insisted. "Never let it be said that I'm not considerate towards my staff." She went to make the tea and I rang Les.
"Wast Water, is it?" he said.
"Obvious choice," I replied. "It's the deepest lake in the country.
She's not the first to be dumped in there."
"So I'm told. The amateurs found her. They said she was on a shelf, and if he'd taken her another twenty yards out she'd have gone down three hundred feet. Five house bricks were strung on a piece of what might be climbing rope and tied round her waist. They've gone for examination. They must have come from somewhere. Do you want to sit in on the PM? I've bet my sergeant a fiver that her last meal was sushi."
"Thanks all the same, but much as I'd like to, I'll decline, if you don't mind." PMs on sinkers are not pleasant. "Apart from which," I continued, "I've said I'll take Melissa to the airport."
"They're going back today, are they?"
"Mm'
"Shame about the wedding."
"Isn't it just? Give me a ring, will you, please, Les, as soon as you have something."
"Will do."
After that we'd have a big meeting with Tregellis and the prosecution service to prepare the case against Kingston. That was something to look forward to. If I allowed an hour to Manchester airport I'd have to pick Melissa up at about ten thirty. Call it ten to be on the safe side. I went up to the top floor to tell Gilbert as much as he needed to know.
They were waiting for me, eager to be back in the Land of the Free, where the streets have no pavements, and you have to carry your driving licence with you and a disapproving look given to a skateboarding youth can end in gunfire. I pressed the lever to unlock the boot and Slade lifted it open. I got out and walked round the back but he didn't need any help. He wouldn't have received any, but he didn't need it. They were wearing the same outfits they arrived in, which was reasonable enough, you need to be comfortable when faced with a long plane ride, and she was made up like a Kikuyu warrior. They both climbed in the back. I could see the edge of his face in my rearview mirror, but she squeezed into the corner, out of sight.
I thought about taking them the scenic route, but decided not to. The M62 was quicker and that's all I was interested in. Cruising at seventy in the middle lane, I tilted my head to see him better and asked: "You been to England before, Slade?"
He glanced at me in the mirror and replied: "Nope. First and last visit, God willing."
"You don't sound impressed."
"You god dit
"What didn't you like?"
"The beer's like warmed-up hoss piss, the beefburgers rot your brain, you've never heard of air-conditioning and the women're ugly."
I had to chuckle. Well, I did ask. "Melissa's not ugly," I said.
"There's an English rose lurking underneath all that muck she covers herself with."
"Just fucking drive, Priest," she snapped. "We gave you what you wanted, now get us out of this dump."
I stretched my neck but she was ducked down and I couldn't see her.
What I didn't know was that she was holding one of the blades from the little feminine razor that she shaves her temples with, and was systematically slashing my back seat with it. I discovered that three days later, when I found the razor blade she'd thoughtfully left embedded in the upholstery. I wish I'd known; it would have helped me make a decision.
Meanwhile, the hangover had gone and I was feeling almost light-headed.
"We arrested Kingston yesterday," I said.
"Congratulations."
"Thought you'd like to know."
"You were wrong."
"Oh, and Mo Dlamini asks to be remembered to you." He'd prefer to forget all about her, but I was in a mischievous mood.
There was a silence, then she said: "Mo?"
"Mm'
"You've talked to Mo? About me?"
"That's right."
"What did he say?"
"I wouldn't dream of repeating it."
"Who else have you spoken to?"
"Just about everybody you went to school and university with. Everybody remembered you. Maybe it was the purple hair."
After another pause she said: "Did you speak to Janet? Janet Wilson?"
"Er, I'm not sure," I lied.
"It was her, wasn't it?" she declared. "She put you on to me, the two-faced cow. She tried to come between me and Nick, but it didn't work. She was just another notch on his bedpost, and she's hated me ever since."
I'd asked for that. I was in the outside lane and traffic was bunching up on my left. A big blue sign flashed by before I noticed it, and I said: "I think this is ours." I squeezed across into the slow lane behind a minibus loaded with suitcases and didn't speak again until we were lifting theirs out of the boot.
It could have been different. She might have said: "Look, Priest, I don't like you and you don't like me, and that will never change. I admit I've done some bad things in the past, things you'd never believe, but it's all behind me now. This is a new start for me, and I'm going to make the best of it." That's what she might have said, but she didn't. She was arrogant, unrepentant and vindictive, all the way. And the decision I had to make was that much easier for it.
I parked in the short stay and Slade found a trolley for their luggage.
"We can manage from here," he said. "We've done airports before."
"I'll see you aboard," I told him. "That's my orders."
"Just obeying orders, hey, Priest," she said. "Always do as you're told, do you?"
"It makes for an easier life," I replied.
"Do you know what the best bit was?" she went on. "Do you know what made this trip worthwhile? I'll tell you. It was the look on your face when you learned that we were married. I'll cherish that for a long time."
I shrugged my shoulders. "Win a few, lose a few," I said. "It's just a job; we don't take it personally."
"Ah, but you do, Priest, don't you?" she asserted. "Well, tough shit."
I followed them at a polite distance through checking-in and into the departure lounge. He had a beefburger and coffee, she sipped a mineral water. All those brains, I thought, all that talent, and the intelligence of a wood louse I found a seat and watched people for a small eternity.
The Air 2000 charter flight we'd squeezed them on was called through into the boarding area and I showed my ID to the immigration officer and followed the crowd. I stood with my arms folded as the seat numbers were announced and watched groups of tourists rush to be first on, as if their bit of the plane would take off before the rest of it.
They were a cross-section of working-class Britons and their offspring, off for a fortnight of fast food and fun. Football shirts were the dress of the day, with a good smattering of back-to-front baseball caps. And these were the dads. They carried surfboards, deflated li-los, raster-blasters to annoy the neighbours and rolled-up windbreaks. Windbreaks. I almost wished I were going with them.
An indecipherable announcement was made and Melissa and Slade rose to their feet, hoisting hand luggage on to their shoulders. Melissa saw me and couldn't resist coming over. "Just thought I'd tell you," she said, 'that it hasn't been a pleasure knowing you. Goodbye, Priest. I hope all cops die in pain."
"Au revoir, Melissa," I replied.
"It may be a small comfort to you," she went on, 'to know that seven hours crushed in a plane with all these ghastly people is my idea of hell, but it's worth it to escape from this dump. You're paying the fare, after all."
"Oh, it's a large comfort," I told her.
She went back to Slade and put her arm around his waists. He put his across her shoulders and they moved towards the girl at the desk and showed her their boarding passes. She gave them a well-used smile and they stepped into the gangway.
I moved across so I could watch them follow the file down the boarding tunnel. They stood behind a little knot of passengers until it was their turn. The hostess looked at the seat numbers on their cards and pointed, and they vanished from view. Ten minutes later the plane door was closed and the gangway pulled back. I turned and made my way up to the observation area.
It's a curious mixture of bracing fresh air and kerosene fumes up there. There's a theory that enthusiasts for old cars and aeroplanes and other things mechanical are really addicted to hydrocarbon vapour.
I don't believe it. There's a romance in watching the big jets surrounded by the service vehicles, like worker ants around the queen.
They replenish it with fuel, evacuate the waste and restock the kitchen with four hundred meals: two hundred of them chicken; one hundred and ninety-nine beef; and a vegan for the Hindu in row six. One by one they move away until the queen stands alone. A tiny figure with headphones makes a hand signal and you see the pilot return it. That's the bit I like best; the romance of travel captured in a single wave.
The engine note rises to deafening and she edges backwards.
I elbowed a youth with a thousand-millimetre lens to one side and leaned over the rail. Strange vehicles, each designed for one specific task, were scurrying back and forth haphazardly, yellow lights flashing. The BA 767, next stop Miami, followed one of them at a snail's pace out on to the expanse of concrete. I watched it creep towards the far end of the runway and vanish from sight. Five minutes later it reappeared, gathering speed. They were on their way. Hear the mighty engines roar… The engines, on full power, were a distant rumble as it lifted off, climbed on stubby wings and banked into the clouds. See the silver wing on high… I looked at my watch. They were bang on time.
"You again," the immigration officer said as I entered his office.
"You'll be asking for a job here next."
"I couldn't stand the excitement. Do you mind if I make another telephone call, please? It's to America, I'm afraid."
"Business, I presume."
"No, I want to tell my mother-in-law that it's twins."
"That's all right then. Help yourself." He pointed to a vacant desk.
"Thanks."
I pulled the second message from my inside pocket and dialled the number I'd written on it. I'd no need to. I could have screwed the sheet of paper into a ball and tossed it into a bin, and that would have been the end of it. But I dialled the number. This time the message form had been fully completed. It was from FBI Agent Kaprowski and addressed to me. It read: Reference Jade Slade, aka Wcs Wesson, born Norman J. Lynch. Married in 1979 at Dade County, Florida. Not divorced, wife still alive, two children. Has gone through two more marriage ceremonies since then, in 1989 and 1993. Both partners still alive, no divorces, several children. Marriage to Melissa Youngman therefore bigamous and invalid. Hang in there. Mike.
"I'd like to speak to Agent Kaprowski," I said to the telephonist who answered. After a delay I was told that he was in a meeting. I know all about meetings.
"I'm Detective Inspector Priest," I told someone else, 'and I'm speaking from England. It's important and I'd appreciate it if you could get him to a phone."
They found him. "Hi, Charlie," he said. "Didya get my message?"
"I certainly did, Mike, and I've just seen her take off. I hadn't the heart to break the news to her myself. She'll land in Miami at about four thirty your time."
"Righty-ho. I'll have a word with immigration and they'll put her straight back on board. Seems a waste of a return ticket."
"Not a bit of it," I assured him. "If anybody grumbles I'll pay for it myself. If they just happen to take a video of her face when they tell her, I'd appreciate a copy."
"Ha! I like your style, Charlie. I'll see what they can do. Listen, I've been asking around and we've had a few queries raised over here about J.J. Fox's business methods. Any chance of letting us have a copy of the file?"
"No problem. I'll sort something out and put it in the post."
"That'd be great. Unless you wanted to bring it in person. We could easily fix you with accommodation."
"That sounds inviting," I said. "I might take you up on it." I could go jogging in the woods, and take pot-shots of cardboard effigies of Al Capone as they popped up, and practise my diving roll. Maybe not, but I would like to visit Arlington, to pay my respects to JFK. I'd think about it.
I drove home the scenic way, which was a mistake. It's a twisty road and my shoulder started aching. I saw a chemist's in Tintwistle and bought some paracetemol. They did the trick. There's a country-and-western song called "I'm Just an Okie from Muskogee' that's a satire on redneck values. The Committee to Re-elect President Reagan didn't recognise it as a piss-take and adopted it as their official campaign song. So a Texan singer songwriter called Kinky Friedman penned an alternative version, worded so that there could be no mistake this time. It's called "I'm Just an Ass-hole from El Paso', and that's the only line I know, but I sang it continuously, all the way back to Heckley. Most of the time it was silently, in my head, but occasionally out loud, and I launched into the full Pavarotti once in a while.
Sparky was holding court when I arrived back at the office, telling a story about this chap who died and went to hell. "So he sat there with the sewage over his ankles, and they dealt him a hand of cards, and he thought: This isn't too bad, I can bear this for the rest of eternity.
But just then the door opened and the Devil walked in. "Right lads," he said. "Tea break's over for this century. Back up on your heads."
"Hi, boss," he greeted me as I sat down with them. "We were just discussing the possible effects of European union on sentencing policy."
"Great," I said. "And what have you decided?"
"We're agin' it. Did you see her off OK?"
"You bet." They were all drinking coffee, but there were no spare cups. I took Kaprowski's message from my pocket and handed it to him.
"Read that while I fetch my mug," I said.
It was on my desk, where I'd left it, and laid alongside was a roll of big sheets of cartridge paper that I didn't recognise. I slid the rubber band off and spread them across my desk. The top one was a symmetrical blur of black ink, with a white line, an axis, down the centre. It was the anal print, and there were three similar ones. They reminded me of Rorschach images, which was disturbing. I rolled them up again and went back into the main office.
Annette took the mug from me and I said: "Thanks, love."
Dave had passed the message to Nigel. "Does that mean… she's not an American?" he asked.
"That's right."
"So they won't let her back in?"
"No way. Immigration have been tipped off to watch out for her."
"So what'll she do?"
"I don't know. Either spend the rest of her life in Arrivals at Miami airport or fly somewhere else. Back here, I assume. She won't be having grits and pancakes for breakfast with the Waltons, that's for sure."
"That's fantastic!" Nigel exclaimed, passing the note on.
"Bloody'ell!" Dave added.
The DC reading the note said: "Some of us don't know what all this is about. You've been a bit secretive lately, boss, if you don't mind me saying."
I held my hands up to show contrition. "For which I apologise," I told him. "It was all a bit sensitive and we wanted to keep it out of the papers. Tell you what. It's been a good week, first the burglars, then this. How about a full team night out, Friday?"
There was a mumble of approval. "Chinky and the social club," someone suggested.
"I reckon the firm should pay," Nigel said. "There ought to be at least some commendations in this for you and Jeff."
"Oh, I haven't room on my wall for another commendation," I told him.
"And I'd like to say," Jeff began, 'that any commendation given to me is only because I'm the figurehead. It will really belong to all of you."
"Golly, how kind," they muttered.
The phone in my office was ringing. I rose to my feet but the DC grabbed his own phone and said, "I'll pick it up, Charlie." He tapped in the appropriate number and listened. "Heckley CID," he said. His eyes widened and he smiled. "Yes, he's here. I'll put him on." He covered the mouthpiece and hissed: "This is it! The Chief Constable's secretary wants a word with you. Commendations here we come!"
I took the phone from him, composed myself and said: "DI Priest," in my most authoritative voice.
"Hello, Inspector Priest," a husky female replied. "This is Miss Yates, secretary to the Chief Constable."
"Hello, Rita," I boomed into the mouthpiece. "Long time no see." Rita goes through chief constables like Eurostar goes through the Chunnel.
"How can I help you?" The others were hanging on my words.
"I'm just preparing the agenda for the next Serious Crime Operations Group meeting," she told me, 'and I've noticed that at the last one, item eighteen, you offered to look into unsolved crimes going back thirty years. Shall I put you down for a presentation at the next meeting?"
I took a deep breath, puffed my cheeks and exhaled with a poof ff like a beach ball deflating. "Er, no," I stated.
"What would you like me to put?"
"Nothing. Can't you just forget it?"
"No, Inspector. I'm afraid that's not possible."
"Well, just say… say I'm working on it. Nothing to report at this stage."
"I'll have to put it on the agenda, and you can tell the meeting yourself. Will that be all right?"
"If you say so." She rang off and I handed the phone across the desk, my displeasure apparent for all to see. They stared, blank-faced, waiting for a pronouncement. It broke my heart to disappoint them all.
"That's it, lads," I said. "Tea break's over. Back up on your heads."