I spent the afternoon on the phone talking to contacts in other regions and divisions. It's called networking these days, when everything has to have a name so that someone can do a PhD in it. I just call it normal. Our press office agreed to ask YTV and the local radio stations to put out a 'check your neighbours' warning when they reported the Joe and Audrey story. About four o'clock the troops came wandering back in, dragging their feet.
"The doctor gave me a couple of minutes with them," Maggie told me as she pushed my door open with her hip and placed two mugs of tea on my desk.
"Thanks, you're a mind-reader," I said, throwing my pencil down and clearing a space for the drinks.
"I asked the obvious," she went on, sitting opposite me, 'but they were too shaken to be much use. Basically, it was a white van and there were two of them, carrying baseball bats and wearing masks. Near as I could find out it was about seven thirty, maybe a little later, and they stayed for a long time. The doctor made me leave it at that. He's a nice old dear. Joe, that is, not the doctor. Mrs. McLelland is still in shock."
"The famous white van," I said, nodding my head.
The door opened again and Dave came in, carrying two steaming mugs in his right hand. "Oh, you've got one," he said.
"Put it there," I said, moving the first one a few inches to one side.
Nigel Newley and Jeff Caton followed him in.
"Maggie's had a fruitful day," I told them when they were settled.
"Baseball bats and a white van, as expected. Any luck with the videos, Jeff?"
"Yep. White Transit going on to the M62 at precisely oh-eight-thirteen yesterday. Phoney number plate He spread a grainy ten-by-eight printout in front of me and laid two more alongside it. "This is from the second robbery, in East Yorkshire, and this one is after the Penistone Road job. Can't read the numbers, unfortunately."
Three white vans, coming towards the camera, an assortment of other vehicles around them. "You reckon it's the same one?" I said.
Jeff pointed with a pencil, leaning across my desk with Maggie alongside him. "Look at the similarities," he told us, 'apart from the obvious ones, like they're all white Transits. See the radio aerial.
It's on the driver's side, just behind him; not the normal position for a Transit. Usually they're just above the windscreen, one side or the other. The tax disc in the windscreen is halfway up the screen in all of them. It could have been higher, it could have been lower. And there's a mark at the top of the screen, there and there. Perhaps once upon a time there was a sun shield stuck across it with some lettering, and a piece got left behind."
"Sharon and Wayne?" someone suggested.
"Yeah, maybe," Jeff said, 'but it's the same van all right."
"Well, that narrows it down," Sparky declared.
"We don't know they did it," I warned. "Let's not jump in with both feet half cocked. Maybe this van is running up and down the motorway all day."
"It's a start, though."
"Oh, it's definitely a start, and we have a number to look for now. See if the whiz kids can enhance those other plates for us, Jeff. Even if they can't give us a definite number they might be able to confirm that it's similar. Anything else, anybody?"
Sparky shook his head. "Sorry, boss. Wasted day. The lack of information or even gossip must mean something, but I don't know what."
"Right. Nigel…" I began.
He jumped to his feet and snapped me a salute. "Yes sir!" He thinks he's being humorous.
"Circulate all our friends, will you, with what we've got. Especially Traffic. The next time that van turns a wheel I want to know about it."
"No problem."
"Good, in which case I suggest we all have an early night, for once.
Catch up on the gardening while the weather's good."
"Tea on the patio," Maggie enthused. "Heaven."
"Painting the mother-in-law's window frames," Dave muttered. "Hell on earth."
"Cricket practice," Nigel said. "Absolute bliss, if it goes well."
"Cricket practice!" I scoffed. "It's wider bats you lot need."
"Tell me something," Maggie said. "Where do these villains get their baseball bats from? Surely it would be much easier for them to use cricket bats?"
"Cricket bats!" Nigel spluttered, affronted. "They wouldn't use a cricket bat!"
Sparky said: "Somehow, a yob wielding a Stuart Surridge three-springer doesn't have the same menace, don't you think?"
In my PC Plod voice I said: "Did you notice anything unusual about him, sir?" and then, in an upper-crust accent: "Ye-es, Officer. His hands were too close together."
"I thought it was a sensible question," Maggie murmured, pretending to be hurt.
"It was, Maggie," I told her. "And the answer is: God knows."
"Perhaps their counterparts in America use cricket bats," Nigel suggested.
"Magnum see-mi-automatic cricket bats," Dave added.
"Let's go," I said, pushing my chair back from the desk. "This is getting silly."
"Did you, erring him?" Dave asked me.
"Who?"
"Keith Crosby."
"Oh, no. I thought I'd wait for him to ring again. We've enough on our plates without resurrecting ghosts."
"Keith Crosby? The disgraced MP?" Jeff asked.
"Not sure, but I imagine it's him."
"What does he want?"
"I don't know."
"He lives in Heckley, over near Dale Head."
"So I believe. We had dealings with him a long time ago, didn't we, Dave?"
"You can say that again," he replied.
"What did he do?" Nigel asked. He was from Berkshire, brought north by tales of streets paved with opportunity and warm-hearted women, and therefore unfamiliar with local folklore. He would also have been in short trousers at the time.
"Nothing," I told him. "He just happened to own this house in Leeds.
Chapeltown. It burned down. Arson. Seven people inside were burnt to death."
"Eight," Dave corrected. "Three women and five kids. It was a hostel for battered wives. First job Charlie and me ever worked together on, wasn't it, squire?"
"Mmm."
"That was a sunny day, too."
"I know. Somehow it made it worse."
"Did he start the fire himself?" Nigel asked.
"Crosby? No, it was never pinned to anyone. There was a big stink about it and he was forced to resign as an MR'
Maggie said: "He has an MBE now."
"That's right," I replied, remembering. "For his charity work. He started some sort of Samaritan organisation shortly afterwards.
Rehabilitated himself, I suppose."
"That's it, then," Nigel stated. "He wants a donation."
"Very probably," I agreed, standing up and unhooking my jacket. "C'mon, or we'll be here all night again." Sometimes I've just got to be firm with them.
Audrey and Joe McLelland were a pleasant old couple. She was still confined to bed when Maggie and I called to see them on Friday morning, but one of the nurses had found a wheelchair for Joe and he was parked alongside her. The bedside cabinet was covered in get-well cards and she was busy opening the pile that had arrived that morning. The woman in the next bed was fast asleep and snoring, her toothless mouth gaping like an oven door.
"A policeman and a police lady to see you. Aren't you lucky?" the nurse said by way of introduction, as if she were talking to two infants. "Now be sure not to let them tire you out."
"We won't," I told her, and she dashed off to her other duties.
Audrey and Joe said they were feeling better and expecting to be going home later that day. Maggie told them to stay where they were and be looked after, if they could. I left her with Audrey and wheeled Joe out of the ward and into the lift. We bought two teas from the snack bar in the entrance and had them outside, me sitting on a low wall alongside him. Several other people were doing the same; relatives in summer clothes, patients oddly at ease in dressing gowns and slippers.
"I used to buy paints in your shop," I told him. "And 6B pencils. I think you got them specially for me."
"We sold a few," he replied, uninterested.
He confirmed what we knew about the van, and the baseball bats. The one he was threatened with had red stripes around it, as if it were bound together with insulation tape. Other than that he had nothing further to add. They had a son who was living in America and a daughter in Kent. She'd be coming up some time today if her husband could have time off work to look after their children. They'd decided not to tell the son. "He's in computers," Joe told me, as if that explained why.
We needed to know what had been stolen but didn't want to drag them out of hospital before they were ready. It would take weeks, even years for them to get back to anything like normal, and the bad dreams would probably be with them forever, but they were already over the initial shock. Whether they would ever feel safe again in their own home was doubtful, but I knew they'd both prefer it to Heckley General. Joe was reasonably well, but he'd be hopeless at telling us what had gone from where. We needed the woman's touch. I spoke with the doctor and he agreed that they could both go home the next day.
In the previous robberies the villains had taken any handy silverware and jewellery, plus the victims' credit cards. In the eight or ten hours' grace that they allowed themselves they'd stung the accounts for increasing amounts that were now up to the 3,000 mark. First of all, armed with PIN numbers, they took the daily limit of 300 from each account. Then, after practising the signatures, they did a tour of travel agents and bought themselves several 250 tranches of pesetas or dollars.
After that, it was credit card purchases of tyres, aluminium wheels, TVs and VCRs; stuff they probably already had orders for. It was like winning first prize in a game show all you can stuff in your Transit before the shops shut.
We had photographs of one of them, the bright one, presumably, courtesy of the travel agents' CCTV cameras. He was burly and wore a hat and spectacles in a variety of styles. This time it had been a beanie hat and heavy rims. I turned my pad sideways and did a sketch of the crime scene, with Burglar Bill standing before the counter. If we measured the height of the camera from the ground, the height of the spot on the wall behind him level with his head, and the distance between the two, a bit of nifty geometry would give us his height. To the millimetre.
As soon as we had the McLellands' bank account numbers and their consent we'd be able to follow the latest trail of thievery and tot up the damage. We'd compare the route the thieves had taken with the previous ones and see what we could deduce from that. The net was closing on them, but too slowly. Lives were at risk. We needed a break. Don't we always.
Joe gave us the permission we needed and Maggie spent the afternoon on the phone, talking to the banks and travel agents. We knew from experience that it would take days for all the transactions to be processed, but we were under way. I studied the other files, looking for inspiration, and spoke with the SIOs for the jobs outside our patch. No eager young detective came leaping into the office asking for a job so I went to the travel agent where the photograph was taken and took the measurements myself. I filled them in on my sketch and found some sine tables in the back of an old diary. It took me nearly an hour, but eventually I had a figure. He was six feet two tall, and built like a haystack.
The phone was ringing as I arrived home. I charged into the hallway and gasped: "Priest," into it, my jacket half off and every door behind me wide open.
A female voice intoned something like. "Oh hello my name is Mindless Sally from Leaky Windows and we are doing a promotion in your area and require a show house for one of our conservatories all you have to do to receive a three million per cent discount is to agree for our photographer to take some pictures which we will use in our publicity material when would you like a representative to call to give you a no-obligation quotation?"
I said: "Pardon?"
"My name is…"
"No, love," I interrupted. "I, er, already have a conservatory, thank you." I didn't but it was unlikely she'd sue.
"Would you be interested in double-glazing?"
"Got it," I told her, this time with conviction.
"A patio door? We have a special offer at the moment where "No," I insisted. "I don't need anything like that, thank you. In fact, I'm moving next week."
"What about your new house?"
"I'm going abroad. Puerto Rico."
"OK. Sorry to have troubled you."
I replaced the phone and pulled my other arm out of its sleeve, muttering: "Then why did you?" to nobody in particular. She'd been the third this week. Six flies had come in through the open doors and were doing aerobatics around my kitchen. I found an aerosol of Doom under the sink and gave each of them enough to stun a Tetley's dray horse. With maximum prejudice, as the CIA say.
One minute earlier the next call would have dragged me out of the shower, and that would have meant big trouble for someone. I mean, like, BIG. As it was, I was dry but improperly dressed when I answered it.
"Sorry to bother you, Charlie," the desk sergeant said, 'but a bloke called Mr. Crosby has been on again. Asked me to ask you to call him.
Wouldn't say what it was about, just that he knew you from long ago."
"No trouble, Arthur," I replied. "You know as well as I do that the CID never sleeps. Give me the number." I wrote it down and said: "If we've met before it must be Keith Crosby. You remember him, don't you?"
"Our old MP? That was a long time ago. He got sacked, didn't he?"
"He resigned."
"I remember now. Wasn't he caught dipping his bread in someone else's gravy? Nowadays they're all at it. What does he want?"
"No, he wasn't, and I don't know what he wants. Have a quiet night."
"And you."
Keith Crosby wanted to meet me, to tell me a story. That's what he said after I'd rung his number and introduced myself. "I've seen your name in the paper several times, Mr. Priest," he continued, 'and I remembered you from all those years back. You impressed me. I thought then that you'd make a good policeman, and I was delighted to read of your successes."
"Sadly, not in the promotion race," I said.
"Ah, I suspect that has more to do with a lack of ambition, not any flaw in your ability," he replied. I was growing to like him. "You came to see me," he went on, 'twenty-three years ago, after the fire.
Do you remember?"
"Yes, I remember. I had a piece chewed off me by the DCI for interfering."
"I'm sorry to hear that. He was convinced that the real target for the arsonist was a brothel in the next street, Leopold Crescent. A group of girls had set up a co-operative, working for themselves instead of the local pimps. He assumed the pimps were fighting back."
"It's the sort of thing they'd do," I said. "It was the identical house, one street along."
"But you didn't really believe it, did you?"
"I didn't believe anything, Mr. Crosby. We gather evidence, see where it leads."
"You found apiece of chalk, remember? Someone had marked the house earlier, so that there would be no mistake. That's what you thought, isn't it?"
"It was a possibility."
"Will you see me, Mr. Priest? It's a long story, I'm afraid, but I desperately need to tell it to someone. Someone who might understand."
"I'll listen to what you have to say," I told him, 'but I can't promise any action. We just haven't the time or resources to resurrect ancient crimes, especially if there is little or no public benefit. Perhaps an injustice was done, which is unfortunate for you, but that's how it works. Sometimes, as you know, the bad guys win."
"But you'll listen, Mr. Priest? That's all I ask."
"I'll listen. I have a reputation for being a good listener. It usually hides my boredom."
"So when can I see you? Do you work Saturdays?"
"Yes, but I'm busy in the morning." Another sunny day off was slipping out of my grasp. "Tell you what," I said. "I'll lunch at the Bargee.
That's fairly near you, isn't it? I could eat about twelve, see you about half past. How does that sound?"
"It sounds fine, Mr. Priest, but do you object to me having lunch with you? They have a nice garden where we could eat and talk without fear of being overheard, if the weather stays fine."
"OK, Mr. Crosby. Tomorrow at twelve it is." I didn't know what I was letting myself in for, and it had been a long time ago, but the photograph in the paper of little Jasmine Turnbull had lived with me ever since, and I'd have gambled money that Sparky could have named the other seven victims. The inquiry had turned nothing up, and a couple of months later all CID's resources were concentrated on finding the person who was going round knocking street girls on the head with a ball-peen hammer.
All that talk about lunches had reminded me that I was hungry. I looked at the bottom number on my telephone pad and dialled it. A husky voice repeated the numbers and I said: "Hi, Jacquie, it's me.
I've managed to escape early. Don't suppose you'd like to watch me eat, would you?"
There was a condition. There's always a condition. Jacquie would watch me eat providing she had a similar piled-up plate in front of her. "I'll never be a rich man," I sighed and arranged to pick her up in fifteen minutes.
We went to the Eagle, up on the moors. It had been taken over by one of the big chains since my last visit and the menu read like a government specification. We had overdone eight-ounce (uncooked) steaks with French fries as dangerous as broken knitting needles, succulent garden peas that were so green they looked radioactive, all garnished with half a tomato cold and a sprig of parsley. What are you supposed to do with parsley? We entered into the spirit of the place by finishing off with Black Forest gateau and ten minutes in the bouncy castle.
"That was lovely," Jacquie said, looking up into my face and laughing as we walked across the car park.
"Telling fibs doesn't become you," I replied. "It was dreadful. Six months ago it was all home-cooked and they did the best apple pie in Christendom. Sorry, love, I'll let you choose next time."
"It was fine," she told me. "Don't worry about it. The alternative for me was washing my hair and phoning Mum."
"And this was preferable?"
"Of course it was. No dishes to do."
"Thanks. Get in."
Jacquie came into my life when I was as low as I've ever been. I'll never be able to tell her how good she was for me, for I'd only be able to do that by comparing her with someone else, which would be unkind.
She was eighteen years younger than me and had the kind of figure that ought to be included in the Highway Code. Watch out, deadly distraction ahead. Masses of wild fair hair framed a face that was full-lipped yet ingenuous, blue-eyed but smouldering. English Rose meets Sophia Loren. It was a potent combination. But… "Let's go for a drive," I suggested, starting the engine. "I need my spirits lifting after that." I took us on to the Tops, near Blackstone Edge, and parked with the nose of the car almost overhanging the drop into Lancashire. It's one of my favourite places, and Jacquie wasn't the first woman I'd shared it with. I sat with my arm extended across the back of her seat, my fingers running through her hair, and we talked about our days as the sun fell imperceptibly into Morcambe Bay. Jacquie owns a boutique, Annie's Frock Shop, in the new mall, and she told me about a difficult customer and the problems of ordering from the winter collections when the thermometer is in the eighties. I told her about the robbers and the ram-raiders.
"I knew you'd ring me tonight," she said, 'although you left it a bit late."
"I didn't know I could get away until the last thing," I replied.
"It was in my stars."
"Was it?"
"Yes. What did yours say?"
"That I'd buy a rabbit and fall off my bike," I replied.
"Don't mock them," she admonished, looking at me. After a few moments she declared: "Leo. I bet you're a Leo, aren't you?"
"How do you work that out?"
"By studying you. You pretend to be relaxed, asleep, but you're always in charge, watching. That's a Leo characteristic. You have a wisdom, a self-confidence, but it's easily damaged and just as easily restored."
"Yep, that's me," I said. "All it takes is a tickle behind my ears." I pulled her closer until her head was resting on my shoulder. Her perfume was so delicate I hadn't smelled it until now, and it hit me like a fix.
"You're soft and cuddly," she went on, 'but you have claws and you're not afraid to use them, if necessary."
"Only on nasty people," I said. "And never on you."
"So am I right?"
"Ssh," I said. "Watch the sun. Sometimes, just as it disappears, there's a flash of green light."
The last molten blob of orange spread sideways and vanished, leaving a void in the sky that the stars would soon fill. "How long does it take you to brush your hair?" I asked.
She turned her face towards me and said: "As long as I've got. Two minutes? Ten minutes? It doesn't make much difference."
"Doesn't it?"
She shook her head.
"I'd like to brush it for you," I told her, burying my fingers and raking them through it. "Two hundred times, and then another two hundred just for the hell of it."
"That would be nice," she replied, tilting her face upwards towards mine.
Her lips are everything I'd dreamed they'd be, are everything I remember. But lips are lips, promising all, then creating greater desires than the one they satiate. My free hand slipped around her waist and hers fell on to my forearm, halting its progress, like it always does. I buried my face in that hair, gritted my teeth and thought of England.
Maggie was sitting in my chair when I arrived at the nick Saturday morning. "Morning, crime buster I said as she moved into the visitor's place. "Is the kettle on?" It was, of course.
"I've rung the hospital," Maggie informed me. "They're sending them home first thing, meaning nine o'clock, so I'll meet them there. Are you coming?"
"Do you need me?"
"No. I can manage."
"OK. I want a word with Mr. Wood, if he comes in. We need to know exactly what's missing: values; photographs, if possible; any distinguishing marks; you know the sort of thing."
"It's going to be a really jolly morning," she sighed.
"Yeah, afraid so. To be honest, I think you'll be better on your own.
Look after them, Maggie, it's a tough time for them."
She finished her tea, looked at her watch and decided there were a few minutes to waste. "So, did you have a riotous Friday evening?" she asked.
"Went to the Eagle," I replied. "Don't bother going. It's a fun pub now."
"The Eagle up on the moors?"
"Mmm."
"They used to do decent grub."
"Not any more."
"That's a shame. Did you, um, go by yourself, or were you, um, accompanied?" Maggie takes a sisterly interest in my love life.
"I, er, did have a companion with me," I admitted.
"The radiographer?"
"No."
"The librarian?"
"She's not a librarian. I thought she was but she'd just gone in to see her best friend, who is the librarian. They were both behind the counter and when they saw me approaching they fought to decide who served me."
"And the librarian friend won?"
"No," I said with forced patience, "Jacquie won."
"Ah, it's Jacquie, is it? So what does Jacquie do?"
"She owns Annie's Frock Shop in the mall."
"Really?"
"Really."
"So she's a lady of independent means?"
"Let's just say she's doing better than I am."
"Great, Charlie. I hope it works out for you. Tell me, why don't they call it Jacquie's Frock Shop?"
"I don't know. Maybe it's like Alice's Restaurant."
Maggie looked puzzled, then said: "So what happened to the radiographer?"
"She saw through me," I replied.
I had an hour doing paperwork until I felt the need for another brew coming on and went upstairs to see Superintendent Wood. When we were settled behind our mugs and I'd brought him up to date on crime in a small Pennine town, I said: "What can you tell me about Keith Crosby?"
He took that first tentative sip to test the temperature and replied:
"Keith Crosby? Our old MP? Why, what's he done?"
"Nothing that I know of, but he wants to see me. Says it's important.
I thought you might have met him at one of your charity bashes, or the Freemasons."
"How many times," he sighed, 'do I have to tell you? It's the Rotary Club, not the Freemasons."
"It's all the same," I told him.
"No it's not."
"You all piss in the same pot…"
"No we don't." '… while standing on a chair, with one trouser leg rolled up."
"Do you want to know about Crosby or don't you?"
"Do you know him?"
"I've only met him briefly, but I know about him. He gets talked about."
"Ah, so you go for the gossip," I said.
Gilbert nodded in agreement. "You'd be surprised what I learn, Charlie, when tongues have been loosened by the Macallan."
I told him about me and Sparky being at the fire that caused Crosby's fall from grace. Gilbert hadn't known we were there. I was supposing that Crosby had some new evidence, and wanted to know as much as possible about him before we met.
"He remembers you from the fire?" Gilbert wondered.
"Yes."
"It was sad, I suppose," he went on. "Poor bloke had only been an MP for a couple of years. Achieved his life's ambition, then, splodge, it's taken from him. Word has it that he'd set up a love nest with a gorgeous black girl, but I doubt if it's true. Anyhow, it cost him his job."
"It was sad for the people burnt to death in the fire, Gilbert," I said. "Tell me how he's got to where he is now, if you can."
"Well," he began, 'you've heard of the Friends in Need organisation?"
"Yes. It was a forerunner of the Samaritans, wasn't it?"
"Not exactly. The Samaritans came first, I believe, but the Friends is slightly different. Crosby started it long before he became an MR It was a counselling service intended primarily for the student population, but the idea is that you call them long before you reach the suicide state. He must have got the idea when he was at university himself. From small beginnings it spread to other universities, and now it's targeted at specific professional groups, especially the ones with high suicide rates. Doctors, for example. The theory is that each client also becomes a counsellor, so you are accountable to each other, if you follow me."
"You mean, they'd introduce a doctor who was having problems to someone similar who'd pulled through, so they could counsel each other?"
"I think that's it. If you are responsible for someone else's well-being you are, hopefully, less likely to top yourself. I bet they had some really miserable phone calls, but we all enjoy a good moan, don't we? Anyway, he got an MBE for it, so somebody thinks it works.
After resigning from Parliament he threw himself into it, but I don't know if he still runs the show; he must be nearly seventy now."
"Where does he come from?"
"He's not English. Well, nationalised, not born here. Poland, Hungary or somewhere. I think he probably fled here with his parents during the war. When are you seeing him?"
I looked at my watch. "Twelve o'clock. I've stung him for lunch."
He was dressed differently but I easily recognised him. The politician's suit was replaced by fawn slacks and a crumpled linen jacket, and he wore a straw Panama hat. The face was long and aristocratic, as I remembered it, with a nose designed for looking down or sniffing claret. Our Man in Heckley. I rose as he glanced around the pub garden, and he lifted a hand in recognition and threaded his way between the plastic furniture.
"This is pleasant," I said as he seated himself next to me. The garden led down to the canal, and several narrow-boats were moored nearby. I fetched two pints of bitter while he composed his speech.
We sipped the froth off the tops of our glasses, and after licking his lips appreciatively he said: "I'm very grateful for you seeing me, Mr.
Priest. I know you're a busy man."
"We never close an unsolved case, Mr. Crosby," I replied.
"Right. I've been trying to decide where to start, not really knowing how much you already know…"
"First of all," I said, 'how about telling me how you came to own a run-down house in Chapeltown when you lived in your constituency, Heckley." If it was a love nest we'd better have it out in the open, then I could go home and mow the lawn.
He nodded, eager to explain. "I think it would be better for me to begin there," he replied. I turned my chair slightly towards him because the sun was slanting into my left eye. A dappled shadow from the hat's brim fell across the top half of his face and he gazed comfortably at me through watery blue eyes. I decided to buy a hat just like it.
"The house originally belonged to a lady I knew as Aunt Flossie," he told me. "She fostered me when I came to Leeds as a young teenager.
Adopted me, almost. We drifted apart as I began to find my feet, because she clung to the old ways she was orthodox Jewish while I threw myself into being everything English. She couldn't understand that, Mr. Priest, but I loved it here. England was like a dream come true for me."
"Where did you come from?" I asked.
"Germany. A town called Augsburg, in Bavaria."
A mosquito landed on the rim of my glass and another was irritating my neck. Al fresco has its problems. I wafted them away and took a sip.
"Go on," I invited.
"In 1975 she died and left me the house, as simple as that. I was the nearest thing to any family she had. We'd kept in touch, it wasn't a great surprise to me. I put the house up for sale but nobody was buying houses at the time, and a little later a woman came into my Saturday-morning surgery saying that she had to escape from her boyfriend. He beat her up regularly and she feared for the safety of her little girl."
"Jasmine Turnbull," I said.
He paused, mouth still open, then said: "That's right, Mr. Priest.
Jasmine Turnbull." He had a drink of his beer and I waited for him to continue. "Now," he said, 'it seems unbelievably naive of me, but at the time it was a perfectly natural arrangement. I owned a spare house, fully furnished, and Mrs. Turnbull, Jasmine's mother, needed somewhere to go, desperately. We agreed that she could live there for a couple of weeks, see if it was suitable, and start paying me a small rent when she was eligible for benefits. I was horrified when my agent told me how it would look if the papers got hold of it. Mind you," he said, with the first hint of a smile since he arrived, 'she was a beautiful girl. I think I might have been rather flattered by the accusations. To cut the story short, I had a word with Social Services and they moved another couple of battered wives in. That got me out of the frying pan, but…" He stopped, realising that his choice of phrase wasn't appropriate, and started again. "Because the place was now regarded as multiple occupancy, we were in breach of the fire regulations. We were arguing about who was responsible frankly, who paid when… when…" He reached for his glass and turned it in his fingers. '… when thirty-two Leopold Avenue burnt down," he said, very quietly, 'and eight lives were lost."
A waitress hovered nearby and when he finished speaking she asked if we'd like to see a menu. I shook my head and she went away. "And you had to resign as an MP," I said.
He nodded.
"And now you have some new evidence?"
He gave a little start, as if just waking, and said: "New evidence? Oh, I'm not sure."
"So what is it you want to tell me?"
He took a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his brow and neck with it. The forecasters had predicted the hottest day of the year and it was looking as if they were right. Three elderly women with pink arms protruding from flowery dresses stood debating where to sit and eventually arranged themselves around the next table. They looked like sisters.
"What do you know about John Joseph Fox?" Crosby asked.
Now it was my turn to be surprised. J. J. Fox was one of the top six entrepreneurs in the country, fighting it out with the others to be the next Murdoch or Rowland, but with half the population expecting him to be another Maxwell. He was a Flash Harry with the Midas touch, famous in the past for his golden Rolls Royces and platinum women, but nowadays courted by politicians of all persuasions because of his media interests. I shrugged my shoulders. "Just what I read in the papers,"
I said. "What's he got to do with it?"
"Do you know how he started in business?"
"Mmm. He claims to have begun with a barrow in the East End, doesn't he?"
"As you say, that's what he claims. There may be a kernel of truth in it. His real beginning was when he won a boxer in a poker game."
"A boxer?" I queried.
"A boxer, Mr. Priest. A heavyweight with a glass chin. That didn't matter; you just backed the other fellow. He moved with a violent crowd in London in the late forties, early fifties. He expanded rapidly, from second-hand cars sold from bomb sites to bingo and discotheques when the cinemas began to close. J. J. Fox became an expert at turning one man's failure into his success. It's a lesson he has exploited to the full over the years." He paused for a drink. The old ladies were leaning forward, studying menus, their heads bobbing about like cauliflowers in a cauldron. Crosby carefully placed his glass on the table and continued. "Unfortunately, as he expanded he attracted attention from the gangs that were becoming a feature of life in south London at the time. He wasn't really a criminal, just a struggling businessman who had to be flexible with the rules.
Ultimately he wanted to be part of the Establishment, not fighting it.
So he assessed the situation and decided to move north, lock, stock and barrel. Manchester, Liverpool and Leeds were sitting ducks for someone with his talents."
"He created the Reynard Organisation, didn't he?" I asked, trying to show off the little I knew about the man.
"That's right. He moved into the high streets, with a chain of boutiques; pop groups; music outlets; fast food. He had his finger on the pulse of the times and kept one step ahead of the trends. Now, as you know, he's big league. It's the FT100 and public utilities now, plus the two newspapers, if you can call them that, the football club and controlling shares in a television station. The Reynard bandwagon is unstoppable, and J. J. Fox runs it single-handed from a deck chair on a yacht somewhere in the Caribbean."
"He built the big new hotel in Leeds," I said.
"The Fox Borealis," Crosby stated. "And the office block across the river from it. Leeds is the fastest-growing financial centre outside London, Mr. Priest, and Fox has a slice of the action."
I knew it was, I'd read it in the papers often enough, but I didn't know what it meant. "So where is this leading us?" I asked.
Crosby deflated with an audible sigh, drumming his fingers on the table as he gathered his thoughts. "He hasn't changed," he began. "He still exploits other people's bad luck, but he manipulates their luck for them."
I thought I was beginning to see where he was leading me. "You mean insider dealing?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No, it's much more than that." He leaned forward, closer to me, and began to speak rapidly in a low voice. "Two years ago, Mr. Priest, there was a crash on the Northern and Borders Railway. One person was killed and it was put down to a signalling fault caused by vandalism. A month later two trainloads of commuters had narrow escapes when one train cut across the other. The passengers were hurled to the floor as then-train braked and some of them saw the other train go by. Five seconds earlier and it could have been the worst disaster in British railway history. Again it was blamed on vandalism and hundreds of passengers vowed they would never travel by N and B again. Share prices plunged from over five hundred pence, Mr.
Priest, to below four hundred. Guess who stepped in to rescue the business? That's right, J. J. Fox. They now stand at five-eighty pence. Not bad, eh? Seven years ago they were giving away shares in the Alpha Brig oilfield after borehole samples were analysed and the predictions made the whole thing look like a white elephant. J. J. Fox bought up every available share and blow me if it didn't turn out to be a software fault and the samples were promising after all. Everybody agrees that the water companies have a licence to print money, but last year was the driest on record and things looked dodgy for a while. When a technician put a decimal point in the wrong place and tipped a hundred times too much concentrated aluminium sulphate into the Tipley Valley supply, five thousand people were made ill. Tipley Water shares plummeted but this year they are predicting a record dividend. Guess who suddenly became a major shareholder? I could go on and on and on, Mr. Priest." He sat back and waited for a reaction.
I wasn't happy. The midges were bothering me, my beer was warm and I didn't like his story. I had no doubts that Fox was a crook, but so what? Everybody in his position must have done something mean and nasty as they fought their way up the heap. Nice people didn't make it because they couldn't do it. Well, that was my excuse. "So what's all this to do with the fire?" I asked.
"I'm sorry," he said, leaning forward. "I get carried away. It's all been bottled up inside me for so long. Back in 1975 Fox was just making his mark nationally. He'd been involved in several contracts with a certain company of planners working on town centre developments.
I'd been looking into his activities for a number of years, when I was in local government, and didn't like what I was seeing. I asked questions in the House about him, and wanted him to appear before a select committee to explain his apparent good fortune. Proving what I knew was difficult, as I'm sure you appreciate, and I couldn't voice my allegations outside the House, but I wanted his replies on record. The fire, like so many events, came at a very opportune moment for Mr.
Fox."
I wished that we had the power of parliamentary privilege to shelter behind, and said: "You're saying he started the fire to discredit you?"
"Not personally, Mr. Priest. He didn't start the fire personally. He has a network of recruits to do his dirty work for him, but he gave the orders. It's the only explanation. The technician with Tipley Water is currently on a Reynard management training scheme. The computer programmer with Alpha Brig escaped the sack and moved to a systems analyst post in the Reynard Organisation, until he died in an accident.
Fox looks after his friends, one way or another."
"Can you put all this in writing for me?" I asked. It's a simple enough theory. Someone pops in and gives you a lifetime's work, so you bounce it straight back at them by suggesting they put it all in writing. Often, you never hear from them again.
"It's all here," he said, delving into his inside pocket and producing a bundle of papers and envelopes.
Ah well, I thought, it was never much of a theory. I pointed at his empty glass. "Same again?"
"Oh, er, yes please."
I meandered to the bar and ordered a pint of orange juice for myself.
I'd tell him I'd ask around, do what I could, but I'd only be stalling him. Fox might be as guilty as hell, we might even prove it, but we'd never get near a conviction. His lawyers would tie us in knots, spin things out for years, cost the taxpayer a fortune and we'd be accused of wasting public money by pursuing a man who gave employment to thousands. He would be left whiter than white. Perhaps, they'd concede, some of his staff were over enthusiastic in their desire to see Reynard do well, but that was the unfortunate reverse side of loyalty… We were on a hiding to sod-all.
I placed his beer in front of him and sat down. The three ladies were poring over the menus again, their empty dinner plates in a considerate pile for the waitress to collect. The fence around the garden was lined with tubs of blooms, blazing with colour. Fat bees stumbled between them, overladen with pollen. "The flowers are gorgeous," I said, nodding in their direction.
"Geraniums," he told me, although I was already fairly sure of it.
"They bring back memories for me." He looked unhappy, his thoughts filled with oomph ah bands and lederhosen, and thanked me absent-mindedly for the beer. After a silence he said: "Did you see the television programme a few years ago about Fox's early life?"
"No."
"It was a harrowing account, Mr. Priest, even after making allowances for it being a Reynard production. It told of how the storm troopers came to arrest his parents a few days after the Kristallnacht, the Night of the Broken Glass. His name then was Johannes Josef Fuchs, he said, and his father was an outspoken lawyer, hated by the Nazis, and a Jew, of course. Young J. J. was bundled out of the back of the house with as much money as they had, plus a few items of jewellery, and told to find his way to France and then England. He was twelve years old.
He caught a train that he hoped would take him to Strasburg, but a party of Hitler Youth boarded it at the next station and began to torment him. Eventually they beat him up, stole everything he possessed and threw him off the train. He walked the one hundred and fifty kilometres to the border, being looked after by several people on the way, farmers mainly, some gypsies, and eventually made it into France and then on to Britain. When he was settled here he Anglicized his name and became the John Joseph Fox we all know so well."
I wasn't sure what the point of the story was. I'd been expecting a last attempt to win my sympathy, but this justified some aspects of Fox's character. "In a way," I said, 'it explains why Fox has turned out the way he has: determined to succeed; single-minded; responsible to no one. Experiences like that must be ingrained in your character for the rest of your life." I had a good long drink of my orange juice. After the warm beer it tasted good. "Tell me," I went on. "Why have you suddenly resurrected all this, after twenty-three years?
What's happened to bring it all back again? What do we know now that we didn't know before?" I had a feeling he was using me, and that's a feeling I don't like.
"This came last Tuesday," he said, extracting a crumpled envelope from the sheaf of papers. "I made you a photocopy."
I took the page he offered me and read it. There was a Welwyn Garden City address at the top and it went on:
Dear Mr. Crosby It is my sad duty to inform you that my older brother, Duncan Roberts, committed suicide four weeks ago. We found your address and telephone number among his papers and assume he had been in contact with the Friend's in Need society. May I take this opportunity to thank you for any help you may have offered Duncan, but unfortunately there was nothing anyone could do for him. Please accept this small cheque as a donation to help you in your good work. Yours sincerely, Andrew Roberts.
It was brief and to the point. Somebody was clearing up, doing their housework, after an untimely death in the family. You can excuse a surplus apostrophe in a situation like that.
"There was a cheque for twenty pounds with it," Crosby informed me.
"So who was Duncan Roberts?" I asked, laying the photocopy on the table. I was growing tired of riddles.
"Four weeks earlier," he explained, "I was on holiday in Ireland. When I returned the Friends informed me that a man had been trying to contact me. He phoned three times, sounding desperate, but would not talk to anyone else. The calls were traced to a phone box in south London. In the third and final call he said: "Tell him I did it. I started the fire, and I'm sorry." Then he hung up and there were no more calls. A few weeks later this letter arrives. It must be the same person, Mr. Priest. Duncan Roberts started the fire and it's been troubling his conscience all these years. I feel sure that it will be possible to link him to J. J. Fox."
He certainly knew how to string me along, and he hadn't finished yet.
My thoughts were a jumble of confusion. I wanted to help him, but what good could it do? Fox was an old man. We could hound him to his grave, but would we feel any better for it? Sometimes hatred keeps you going. Remove the object of the hatred and you've nothing left. Crosby had spent a lifetime pursuing J. J. Fox, for what? Because he bent the rules? Because, perhaps, some unknown people had died? It wasn't worth eating your heart and soul out for. Not even that.
Crosby read my mind and went for the jugular. He said: "I adopted the name Keith Crosby when I came to this country, Mr. Priest. Keith was an English pilot I met when I was hiding in France. Crosby was borrowed from Bing Crosby. I thought the name had a nice ring to it.
My real name, the one I used for the first twelve years of my life, was Johannes Josef Fuchs. I was that small boy on the train, attacked by the Hitler Youth. 1940 was the worst winter in living memory. I should have died, they expected me to die, but I didn't. I don't know what happened to my parents. I went into Parliament to fight people like J. J. Fox, Mr. Priest. Fox, whoever he was then, stole my clothes, my papers and my money, but most of all, Mr. Priest, he stole my identity.
Will you help me get it back, please?"
I watched his eyes blinking back the tears, unable to comprehend what they had seen when they were in the head of a child. All we can do is try. His beer was untouched and a ladybird was mounting an unsupported expedition across the tabletop. "What else have you there?" I asked, reaching for the bundle of papers.