I put the phone to my ear and nodded to Annette Brown, our swish new DC. She was seated in my office where I could see her through the window. We'd set up a telephone conference on the internals, with Dave, Nigel, Jeff and myself all listening in the big office.
Annette picked up my phone and dialled the Kendal number. After three rings a man said: "Hello." It's difficult to form an impression from just hello.
"Is that Mr. Kingston?" Annette asked in her best little-girl voice.
"It might be," he replied.
"Oh, hello, Mr. Kingston," she went on. "This is Janine from ABC Windows. We're doing a promotion in Kendal at the moment, with fifty per cent off, and are looking for a show home in your area. Would you be…"
"What did you say your name was?" he interrupted.
"Er, Janine, Mr. Kingston."
"And do you have a boyfriend, Janine?"
"Er, yes."
"So in that case why don't you piss off home and get him to give you a good stiff seeing-to." CLICK!
The four of us in the outer office buried our heads in our arms and shook with laughter. When I looked up Annette was standing there, blushing. "That was short and sweet," she said bravely.
It wasn't politically correct, but I couldn't resist it. I flapped a hand towards the door and said: "Well, off you go then."
It was Friday and he was at home. I didn't want to wait until Monday, but we were supposed to be having a team meeting in the afternoon. Dave knew as much as I did about this case but we were both a week behind with the burglaries, although it was obvious that there had been nothing new to report. I decided to dash up to Kendal to try to catch Kingston at home while they held the meeting without me. Dave and I discussed tactics and at just after eleven I filled the car with petrol and pointed it towards Cumbria, formerly Westmorland, aka the Lake District.
First stop was Kendal nick. I had a long talk with my opposite number, who I'd never met before, and told him the minimum I could. He realised I wasn't being too forthcoming but had the good sense to know that I probably had my reasons and didn't ask too many questions. The main thing was that he offered his co-operation and gave me directions to Kingston's house.
Somebody once said that schizophrenics build castles in the air, psychopaths live in them and psychiatrists collect the rent. OK, so he was a psychologist, but he was doing very nicely. The house was the end one of three that a farmer had built in one of his fields in the middle of nowhere. How he'd obtained planning permission was probably a story in itself, but the proof was here in the security gates, the five- or six-bed roomed mansion and the sweeping views towards the mountains. I pressed the button and wondered what happened next.
There was a click and a hum and the big gates swung open. They were black with gold arrowheads and Prince of Wales feathers. I looked one way, then the other, and strode off up to the block-paved drive. I'd once had a quote to have mine done like this, but had thought 4,000 excessive and opted for tarmac again. Kingston's drive was about twenty times as long as mine. Loopy Lucille from Draughty Windows could have earned herself a holiday in Benidorm with the commission on this. When I reached the door I paused for breath and rang the bell.
It definitely wasn't the cleaning lady who opened the door almost immediately, her mouth already forming words which she cut off when she saw me. "Oh!" she exclaimed, with what might have been a touch of disappointment. "I, er, I'm sorry, I, er, thought you were the man from Wineways."
She was about average height but that was the only thing about her that was average. Ash-blonde hair down to her shoulders and curves like Monza, fast and sweeping, demanding your full attention. She was under thirty, at a guess, and wearing a navy-blue pullover with a white blouse and jodhpurs. This was trophy wife incarnate. I took it all in with a trained policeman's sweeping glance, from the Hermes scarf at her throat right down to the gleaming riding boots with two spots of mud on the left and three on the right. She'd been out for a canter.
"No," I said, offering my ID. "I'm the man from the CID. Detective Inspector Priest. I was wondering if I could have a word with Mr.
Kingston."
She quickly regained her composure and realised I really was just another tradesman. "Mr. Kingston?" she echoed, as if I'd asked for an audience with Barbra Streisand. I was two steps down from her so she had the advantage, whichever way you looked at it.
"Is he in?" I wondered.
"What's it about?" she demanded. "He's very busy."
"Are you… Mrs. Kingston?" I risked. I suppose she could have been his daughter.
"Yes, I am."
"Could you please tell him it's about a little matter that I'm sure he can clear up. I won't keep him more than a few minutes."
"Well, actually, he's not in the house. I think you'll find him in the belvedere."
"The Belvedere?" I queried. Where the hell was the Belvedere?
"Yes. He does his reading there."
"Can you give me directions, please?"
She stepped down to my level and pointed to the corner of the house.
"At the bottom of the garden," she told me. "I'll tell him you're coming."
I wandered down the side of the house feeling bemused. He had a pub at the bottom of the garden? Wow! Wait till I told Sparky! There was a BMW M3 convertible in one of the garages and a short hike away I saw a large summerhouse flanked by ornamental trees. As I approached it Kingston came to the door and held it open for me, for which I was mightily grateful. This, presumably, was the belvedere, and they had a telephone line to it.
They also had electricity and the security system coupled up. It was a double-glazed mahogany construction shaped like an old thru penny bit, with a raised deck running all the way around it.
"Good afternoon, Inspector," Kingston greeted me. "My wife forewarned me of your approach."
I entered, then waited for him to pass me because there was more than one room. He pushed a door open and said: "In here, please."
It was every grown-up small boy's dream. Windows on three sides gave a view of the hills, as if from a ship's bridge. Behind me, the wall was lined with bookcases and framed old Ordnance Survey maps. "What a gorgeous view," I stated.
"Mmm, it is," he agreed. "Goat Fell. We try to walk over it three times a week."
"Both of you?"
"Of course. Just the thing to raise your, er, spirits."
"It's beautiful. I envy you."
"Do you know the Lake District at all?" he asked.
"Yes, I've done most of it," I boasted.
"Really? Good for you."
Leaning in a corner I noticed a high-powered air gun with a telescopic sight, and one of the windows was wide open. "Shooting?" I asked, nodding towards the gun.
"Squirrels," he replied. "Grey ones, of course. Bloody menace they are." Thirty yards away, hanging from a branch, were several bird-feeders filled with peanuts.
"Sit down, Inspector," he invited, 'and tell me how I can help you.
Francesca didn't catch your name…"
"Priest," I told him, settling into a studded leather chair that matched the captain's he pulled out for himself. "From Heckley CID. I believe you were a lecturer at Essex University back in 1969."
"Good God!" he exclaimed, throwing his head back and guffawing. "I knew I should have paid that parking ticket! You've taken your time, Inspector, if you don't mind me saying so."
I didn't mind at all. My day would come. In some ways he was a bit like me. Tallish, skinny, with all his own hair worn a little too long. The years had treated us differently, though. My features have been etched by alternating stress and laughter into an attractive pattern of wrinkles and laugh-lines. Well, I think so. He'd grown flabby-cheeked and dew lapped from a dangerous combination of dissolute living and half-hearted exercise. He wasn't wearing well, in spite of his efforts.
I aid: "You lectured in psychology, sir, I believe."
"That's right, Inspector. You are to be commended for your diligence;
I can see you've done your homework."
"Can I ask… why psychology?" There was no table between us and I carefully watched his reactions. He might have the book learning, but my knowledge of human behaviour was honed on the streets and in the interview rooms, with some of the toughest nutters and craftiest crooks in society.
He smiled and shrugged, saying: "I've never been asked that before, Inspector. Is it part of your enquiry?" i' "No," I replied. "I just wondered how a person goes from school into a subject like that. It's not as if it was on the curriculum in those days is it?"
"No, I suppose you're right." He thought for a few seconds, then said:
"Girls.";
"Girls?" I repeated.
"Mmm. Girls. I'm a Freudian, Inspector. I think I went into psychology because: a) I would meet lots of girls, and b) I'd learn how to deal with them after I'd met them. Does that answer your question?"
"Did it live up to expectations?"
He bit his lower lip and nodded his head, very slowly. "I think I can safely say that it did. It bloody well did. After all," he continued, 'we're talking about Essex in the sixties. What more could a man want?
What was it that poet said? Sexual intercourse was invented in 1962, or whenever?"
"Philip Larkin," I told him. "It was 1963, after the something-something and the Beatles' first LP."
"That was it. Bloody wonderful time, it was. Did you go to university, Inspector?"
"Art college, about the same time."
"Well then, you'll know all about it, eh?"
"Can you remember any names from that period?" I asked.
He pulled his feet in, just for a moment, then relaxed again.
"Students, you mean?" he queried.
"Mm'
His right hand brushed his nose. "No, 'fraid not," he replied.
"None at all?"
He did an impression of a thinking man before shaking his head.
"I have a list of names," I told him, taking my notebook from |y jacket pocket and opening it. "I'm supposed to ask if you volunteer any, and if you can't I've to prompt you with a few. Is that OK?" "Fire away, Inspector."
"Right." I glanced down at the notebook. "Have you ever known a girl called… let me see… Melissa Youngman?"
His hand went to his mouth in a pensive gesture and he said: "No."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
I put a cross next to carrots on last week's shopping list. "How about Janet Wilson?"
This time there was no reaction. "No."
"Mo… Dlamini, would it be?"
He pulled his feet under the chair and said: "No."
"You never heard of any of them?"
"No." He relaxed, stretching his legs again, and said: "I'm sorry, Inspector, but it was a long time ago, and to be honest, sometimes I couldn't remember their names the next morning. Are you allowed to tell me what it's all about? It must be serious after all these years."
"Something about a fire, I believe, in an area of Leeds called Chapeltown. It's the red-light district. A witness has recently made a death-bed statement that has led us to this woman called Youngman, but we can't find her. One of my chiefs has decided I haven't enough to do already and has given me the job of looking into her background and associates. We've got to look as if we're doing something, I suppose. I'm told that she went to Essex University and one of her classmates thought she'd had an affair with a psychology lecturer. That led me to you. Believe me, Mr. Kingston, I've enough on my plate that happened last week, never mind twenty-three years ago.
I suspect that it's to do with drugs, it usually is, but nobody tells me anything." I closed my notebook and asked if there'd been much drug-taking at Essex.
It was there, he told me, for those who took the trouble to look for it. And if you were at a party the odd reefer might be passed round.
He'd dabbled, of course who hadn't? but only with pot. Nowadays he didn't know what made young people tick. He sympathised with the dilemma the police and the government were in. Legalisation wasn't the answer; that would just make a fortune for the tobacco companies.
Perhaps the new Drugs Tsar would make a difference? I stifled a smile.
We call him Twinkle, as in Twinkle, twinkle, little Tsar.
"Well," I said, 'if you've never heard of her or the others I don't think I need trouble you any longer. Thanks for your time, sir."
"Not at all," he replied. "I'm only sorry I couldn't be of more assistance."
I stood up as if to take my leave and glanced around. "Is this where you do your studying?" I asked.
"Yes. This is my little den."
I turned towards the bookcase. "May I look?"
"Of course."
They were the sort of books that are referred to by the names of the authors rather than title. Get out your Weber, Umlaut and Schnorkel rather than your The Perceived Differences Between Alternative Analytical Approaches to Clinical Investigations of Stress-Induced Syndromes in Western and Oriental Societies. They made Stone's Justices Manual sound kid's play. I let my eyes flick over them, not paying much attention, until a familiar title caught my eye.
"Read one!" I announced triumphantly, pointing to Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, which had been a cult read book in the seventies.
"Ah, the Pirsig," he said. "Did you enjoy it?"
"Mmm. Dabbled with Zen for a while afterwards. And caught up on my Plato."
"Really?"
Further along I saw some more I had read. I was definitely down among the beer-drinkers now. "And these," I told him. "The Carlos Castanedas."
"I'm impressed, Inspector," he replied. "What did you think of them?"
We had something in common. I decided to milk it for every drop. "I thought they were interesting," I told him. "Only last week I was walking in the Dales when the weather changed. I could feel it coming, long before it reached me. It was probably only a temperature drop, or the wind rustling the heather, but I thought of Castaneda and wondered about it. And I always look for a power spot before I sit down to eat my sandwiches."
"Ah! Don't we all, but we are only looking for somewhere free from sheep droppings, eh, Inspector?"
"No, I think there's more to it than that."
"You've surprised me," he said. "You're obviously a man with a great sense of the spiritual. You said you'd walked most of the hills in the Lake District, I believe?"
"Several times, over the years," I replied.
"Have you ever done any at night?"
"No, not really. Camped out near Sprinkling Tarn a couple of times in my youth. That's all."
"Well, I recommend you try it. The spirits are abroad after dark, Inspector. Late evening is a very special time. For a man with a soul it's a wonderful experience up there. Power is everywhere, believe me."
"Isn't it dangerous?"
"Only for he that cannot see."
"I'll have to try it some time. Thanks for your time, Mr. Kingston."
I walked to the door and he followed me out.
"I'll take you through the house," he said. We wandered down the path, making small talk, and entered through a back door inside a smallish porch filled with flowers I couldn't name. "Darling!" he called when we were inside.
Francesca appeared and Kingston said: "The inspector's leaving, dear. I wasn't able to help him, unfortunately." He introduced us and we shook hands.
"Perhaps you'll stay for a coffee next time, Inspector," she said.
Only if you make the offer first, I thought. We were in a passage, quite gloomy, that ran through the house. There were original watercolours of Lakes views on the walls, and in an alcove I noticed a display cabinet filled with cameras.
"Who's the photographer?" I asked, although I knew the answer.
"Oh, I used to dabble," Kingston replied.
There was a full range, from ancient folding jobs with bellows, levers and spirit levels, right up to a Nikon with a complete set of lenses.
He hadn't bothered with the latest electronic devices which did everything for you except choose the subject. Smack in the middle, with the others arranged round it, was the famous single lens reflex Hasselblad.
"I'd hardly call it dabbling," I said, 'if you used one of those."
He smiled with pride and agreed that he had been quite keen.
"I've never seen one before," I admitted, adding: "Neil Armstrong left one on the moon, you know."
"Too heavy to bring back, Inspector," Kingston replied. "The cost was negligible compared with the rocks that replaced it. A cool million dollars an ounce, they said, to transport anything there and back."
We parted like old mates and I strolled off down the drive. I had a moment of panic when I remembered the gates, but they'd opened them for me.
He was a liar, I was sure of that. He'd recognised the three names I'd mentioned. Salesmen are supposed to be suckers for a so-called bargain, and it looked as if something similar applied to psychologists. I'd been right not to forewarn him of my visit. That would have given him time to rehearse his answers and his body language. Taken off guard, he scored none out of ten.
I'd enjoyed the Carlos Castaneda books. The main character is a Mexican sorcerer who does wonderful things while blasted out of his mind on peyote. They're full of wisdom and insights, but otherwise total claptrap. Mind you, I really do look for that special spot, what he called a place of power, before I sit down to eat my sandwiches.
I went back to Kendal nick to give an informal report to my opposite number, in case I needed any favours from him, and drove back to Heckley. The meeting was over when I arrived, but Sparky was still hanging around. I was writing my thoughts down when he came in with two mugs of tea.
"He sounds a right charmer," he concluded after I'd told him all about it.
"He is. What happened here? Anything I need to know?"
"Just one small item. There's nothing new on the burglaries, so you can forget about them. Except, of course, that it's a month since the last one, so they're due again. Jeff's alerted everyone. Graham rang, from London. He said that the FBI have located Melissa, and we can have her any time we want. Apparently she's over there on a non-immigrant visa, and has overstayed her welcome by several years."
"That's useful to know. Have they talked to her?"
"No, and they won't unless we ask them. She's living in a trailer park just outside a town called Oak Ridge, in Tennessee. Graham thinks he should go over to have a word with her."
"That might be a good idea," I said. "Do you fancy going with him?"
He shook his head. "Nah, let him have all the glory."
We pushed our chairs back. I put my feet on the desk and Dave balanced his on the edge of the waste-paper bin. "First drink I've had since the one this morning," I said.
He looked at me and told me: "You'll be giving yourself an ulcer."
"Through not drinking tea?"
"Through not eating regularly; not looking after yourself. What are you doing this weekend?"
"Haven't thought about it," I replied. "Do some catching up. Sleep, cleaning, gardening and the car, for starters."
"Do you fancy going off somewhere?"
"No. I've too much to do."
After a long silence he said: "You still miss her, don't you?"
I put my mug down and replied: "Who, Annabelle?" in my best see-if-I-care voice. She dumped me three months ago, after five years, and yes, I did miss her. Like a bird would miss its wings.
"Mmm."
"I suppose so. Does it show?"
"Yep. You've become a miserable sod."
"I'm sorry. I thought I'd covered it up fairly well."
"I've known you a long time."
"That's true."
He finished his tea and said: "How about having a day's fishing some time. It's years since we've been."
"You mean, like, there's plenty of fish in the sea? Is that it?"
"I didn't say that," he protested, grinning.
"But that was the train of thought. I'd have socked you if you had."
"Bridlington, next weekend. We could take Nigel. We could all go."
I nodded my approval. "It might be fun," I replied. "We could bring a cod back for Gilbert, show him a proper fish."
We talked about the case for half an hour and went home. We had lots of hearsay evidence but nothing substantial. Nothing forensic that would link Kingston with the fires or even with Melissa. If he denied ever knowing her there was little we could do to show otherwise.
Witnesses might identify him as Rodger Wakefield, but in isolation that was worthless. In the absence of a rock-solid link we would have to build up a formidable amount of circumstantial evidence to show he was the man who did Fox's dirty work. We might not be able to pin anything on Fox himself, but we'd disgrace him. We'd have to settle for that, but it was going to be a long haul. I decided that a talk with Mr. Big himself might be a good idea.
Three o'clock in the morning; the thunder and lightning woke me. I dozed until eight and had a leisurely breakfast while watching the rain flatten the peonies in the garden. At nine I strode into the police station to see what the mailman had brought.
"It'll wash the cricket out," the desk sergeant grumbled after I'd said my good morning.
"Well, paint a door and watch it dry," I suggested.
I read the night 'tec's report and the mail, but there was nothing worthwhile. I tried the SFO, to have a word with Graham about going to America, but they don't work weekends. I didn't bother with his home number. At ten I rang Janet Holmes in York.
"It's Charlie Priest, Mrs. Holmes," I began. "Inspector Priest. I came to see you on Wednesday."
"Hello, Mr. Priest," she answered, sounding quite pleased. "This is a surprise. Was there something else you wanted to know?"
How about dinner one evening, for a start, I thought, but I decided not to rush it. "Not exactly," I told her, 'but on Thursday I was speaking to a friend of yours. Mo Dlamini. He asked me to give you his number."
"Mo? That's wonderful. I'll write it down."
I dictated the number then told her that we'd have to hold on to the photographs she'd loaned us, but I could send her copies if she was worried about losing them.
"Oh, keep them, Inspector," she said. "I've had to let go of a lot more than a few old snapshots lately. I, er, would like to know what happens, though. I don't suppose you're allowed to discuss it with a civilian, are you?"
"Not on the telephone," I replied, smiling to myself. "And not until after it's been to court, which could take years."
"Oh, what a pity," she replied.
"On the other hand," I said, "I've been on lots of other cases which have been to court and I'm perfectly free to discuss."
"What are you trying to say, Inspector?" she asked, with a laugh in her voice.
"I'm trying to say, Mrs. Holmes," I began, 'that we are both grown up and on our own, and I would like to take you out to dinner one evening, if you'd be so kind as to accompany me."
"I'd be delighted. You're very kind. Does your sergeant go everywhere with you?"
"Er, no, not everywhere. In fact, I wasn't thinking of bringing him along. Do you mind?"
"Not at all, Inspector. I'm afraid there is one small snag, though."
There always is. Usually it weighs seventeen stone and plays rugby union. I invited her to tell me all about him "On Monday I'm going to Greece for two weeks. Nothing exciting, I'm afraid. I'm accompanying my mother and a friend of hers, just to make sure they stay out of trouble. I don't want my inheritance going to someone called Popodopolopodis." She laughed again.
"That's all right," I said. "I'm a patient man. Have a good time and I'll give you a ring in a fortnight or so."
"I'll look forward to that. Thank you."
Dumdy-dumdy-dumdy-dum. I put the phone down and sat back.
Dumdy-dumdy-dum. She was a very pleasant lady, I thought.
Dumdy-dumdy-dumdy-dum. And intelligent, too. Dumdy-dumdy-doo. I put the stuff on my desk in neat piles and went home.
The Reynard Organisation headquarters are in London's Docklands, in spite of what the people of Leeds are led to believe. The new office block would be one of Fox's satellites, and the thousand new jobs he promised would be young girls with telephone receivers glued to their ears, working round the clock.
Monday morning I asked Graham to investigate how I could get to see the man.
He rang me back just before lunch. "The office block in Leeds is called Reynard Tower," he told me, 'and Fox himself is coming over to cut the ribbon. He's on a run with the government at the moment, probably trying to ingratiate himself for a knighthood. Having sacked about a quarter of a million workers in the last twenty years these thousand jobs are his way of proving that we have turned the corner and are now in a leaner, fitter Britain. Opening day is two weeks tomorrow, so that's your best chance to see him while he's in Yorkshire."
"How do I make an appointment?"
"Ring his diary secretary at the Docklands HQ. Then follow instructions."
"Thanks, Graham. You've been a big help. Are you serious about going to America?"
"Oh!" he exclaimed. "I could be. I definitely could be. What do you think?"
"I think you should," I told him. "I get the impression that Melissa and Kingston didn't part on friendly terms. Maybe she'd enlarge upon that. Or do a deal, who knows?"
"Their politics are poles apart. He's a militant capitalist and she sounds like an anarchist. Then there's the sex thing; a woman scorned and all that. You could be right."
"Think about it. Have a word with Piers and Mr. Tregellis. Tell them that I think someone should go over there and stir things up." I'm a great believer in stirring things up.
"I'll do that, Charlie. Thanks. Thanks."
I dialled the number he'd given me and a very polite female told me that I was through to Reynard London.
"I'm trying to fix an appointment with JJ. Fox," I told her. "Could you please put me through to his diary secretary?"
"What name is it, please?"
"Priest'
"Mr. Priest?"
"As in Roman Catholic'
"I beg your pardon?"
"Sorry. Nothing."
"I'm putting you through."
It was Pachelbel's Canon in D. I hate Pachelbel's Canon in D, especially when it's played on a twenty-quid Yamaha organ. Fortunately I had only to endure two bars, which is all you need hear to know the work intimately, when another female sang: "Secretaries; how can I help you?"
"I'd like to make an appointment to see Mr. Fox when he comes to Yorkshire in a fortnight. Can you put me through to his diary secretary, please?"
"Mr. Fox? We don't have a Mr. Fox."
"J.J. Fox, love. He owns the company."
"Oh, that Mr. Fox."
After that it was personnel, then head of secretariat, with bursts of Pachelbel in between. By the time I reached the legal department I'd decided that a hatchet downsizing of his own administrative staff might be a good idea and that Pachelbel should have been burned at the stake.
"Did you say Detective Inspector Priest?" one of his tame solicitors asked me after I'd been shunted around the legal department.
"Yes. From Heckley CID."
"And what's it about?"
"Before I answer that," I said, 'tell me this: do you have the authority to make an appointment for me to see Mr. Fox?"
"Yes, I do. Subject to his approval, of course."
"Right then, listen up. It's about murder. I want to ask Mr. Fox a few simple questions, and one way or another I shall ask them. It might be easier and less embarrassing for all concerned if you could make an appointment for me to see him on his territory, then I won't have to insist on seeing him on mine. Do I make myself understood?"
"I'll ring you back, Inspector."
Phew! I'd enjoyed that last bit. It's not too often I get to tell a lawyer the facts of life. No doubt if and when I saw Fox he'd be surrounded by them and they'd have a conference about everything from whether to say good morning right through to having milk or sugar in their coffees. I'd learn absolutely nothing, but I'd have them worried, and that's worth a lot.
He kept his word. At four o' clock he confirmed that Fox would be opening the Reynard Tower in a fortnight. He'd arrive at the Fox Borealis Monday afternoon and stay for one night. Tuesday morning he was having a power breakfast with the Lord Mayor of Leeds and other dignitaries, and would see me at ten, before his next appointment at half past. I said my thank yous, like I'd been brought up to do, and wrote it in my diary, with a fluorescent marker-pen circle around it.
We were on our way!
I'd been neglecting Keith Crosby, so I rang him from home, after chicken pie and new potatoes. I didn't give him any details or names, but assured him I was working full-time on the case and the Serious Fraud people were interested and involved. He thanked me profusely.
After that I finished most of the painting that I'd started on Thursday night. Every summer the police put on a gala in the park to raise money for the children's ward of the General. The dogs and the horses show what they can do, and we stage a mock bank raid, with flashing lights and cars skidding on the grass. One of the stands is for paintings by cops or their families. Most of them are of the Dales, some amateurish, some extremely skilled, but all slavish to the scene as viewed. The PC who has organised the show for the last ten years brought me a wad of entry forms for the troops and I told him to put me down for a couple of paintings. If I could knock up a couple of big abstracts I'd enter them, just for the notoriety. Anything for a laugh, that's yours truly. And Janet would be back by then; perhaps she'd come with me.
When I saw Kingston he'd talked about walking in the dark, and the more I thought about it the more it appealed to me. Most of the time it would be ordinary, like walking in fog, but if you did it often enough you'd eventually have one of those magical experiences that make all the dull trips worthwhile. I could imagine being above the clouds, with the stars blazing across the sky like you'd never seen them before. I'd have to give it a try, when all this was over.
Tregellis was on the phone at eight thirty next morning and kept me talking for nearly an hour. It was worthwhile, though. He agreed that Graham should go to America and thought that Piers should accompany him. If Melissa agreed to kiss and tell about Kingston he could reassure her that she was safe from prosecution, or if he thought that that was out of the question and she insisted on having a team of hotshot lawyers present he could stop them running rings around poor Graham. The legal staff employed by the SFO have a special status. A Prosecution Service solicitor would never visit a client, but one with the SFO can because he is part of the investigative team, and the SFO can order a suspect to answer questions. There's a downside to that. A cornerstone of British law is that a suspect is not expected to incriminate himself, so any information extracted this way cannot be used in court. It'll be different in America, of course, so Piers would have to do some swotting on the plane.
Meanwhile, we agreed I'd talk to J.J. Fox on the pretext of gathering information about Kingston, who we knew worked for him. At this point we were displaying no suspicions about Fox himself. We'd nail his minions first, then see how they sang.
"What if," Tregellis asked, 'my two trusty manservants go all the way to the US of A and Melissa denies all knowledge of Kingston? She was never in one of his classes, was she?"
"No, but I've been thinking about that," I replied. "How does this sound?"
When I'd finished he said: "Right, I'll have a word with the brass in Cumbria and tell them to liaise with you."
I put the phone down, rubbed my ear and rotated my shoulder. Who'd be a telephone girl? Maybe I should be more sympathetic to them in future.
Eight a.m. on the Thursday morning a contingent from Cumbria Constabulary led by my oppo from Kendal arrested Nicholas Kingston on suspicion of defrauding the Inland Revenue. Eight a.m. was a compromise. They'd said seven, I'd suggested ten. Sparky, myself, one of their DCs and our photographer sat sipping coffee from a flask in Dave's car at the end of the lane as Kingston was lifted.
"There's seven of us for Saturday," Dave said.
"Saturday?" I queried. "What happens Saturday?"
"Fishing. Don't say you'd forgotten."
"What? To Bridlington?"
"That's right. Nigel and myself are going with you, and Jeff's got a car-full."
"Oh. Right."
"They're coming," Dave hissed, and I ducked down out of sight. I didn't want the Kingstons to associate me with this. I was from another force, miles away, and on a different inquiry.
"They've gone," he said, and I sat up.
"Got the warrant?" I asked, twisting round. The DC waved it in front of my face and I said: "Right. Let's go."
A WPC had been left with Mrs. Kingston to ensure that she didn't destroy all their records before we arrived. That was the story. The main thing was that she ensured that the gates were open for us. Dave parked right in front of the door and bailed out, followed by the other two. I spread myself across the seats, lying low again, and waited.
I opened my eyes as the door was wrenched open. Dave said: "They've taken her down to the gazebo. We've the place to ourselves."
"It's not a gazebo, it's a belvedere," I told him, arching my back and stretching my legs.
Inside the house the photographer was standing beside the camera cabinet, green with envy. "I haven't touched anything," he said, 'but I asked her to unlock the door."
"It's OK," I told him. "Stick your film in it and shoot away."
He extracted the Hasselblad with professional ease and undipped the back. In a few seconds the roll of film, huge by modern standards, was on the spools and the camera was back together again. He shot off half of it against a mahogany door and then went outside and took some pictures of the sky.
Dave went for a wander around the house while I watched through the back window for the others returning from the belvedere. I was in the kitchen, which was white-tiled and reminiscent of a high-tech operating theatre, with lots of stainless steel and glowing digital displays.
Only a half-eaten bowl of muesli and a mug of cold coffee on the breakfast bar spoiled the image. I doubted if Mrs. K spent much time in there. Beyond the belvedere, Goat Fell looked benign and welcoming in the morning light. They'd miss their walk today. I pushed the coffee mug nearer the centre of the bar and placed the muesli spoon at a more natural angle. That was better. Now they could let the Vogue photographer take his snaps. A black and white woodpecker landed in the garden, pecked at something and flew off, rising and falling like a small boat on a rough sea. "Look out," I whispered after it, 'or the man will get you."
"Bloody hell!" I heard Dave say behind me as he wandered into the room. "Talk about how the other half live."
"Does it meet with your approval?" I asked.
"I'll say. Wouldn't mind a week here myself. Do they take boarders, do you know?"
"I doubt it, but with luck it'll be on the market, soon. See anything interesting upstairs?"
"Not really. He has a telescope poking out of a window."
"He's into astronomy."
"Is he? Then why is it focused on the bedroom window of the farmhouse?"
I sighed. "Like you said, Dave, he's a charmer through and through.
Everything he does is bent."
"So let's make it his undoing."
"We will. And I'll tell you something else about him. Given plenty of time his planning is immaculate. If he's done the jobs we think he has then he hasn't left a trace. He's a clever man, but he can't think on his feet. When I interviewed him he was floundering, sent out all the signals that he was lying. Ask him a question that was irrelevant and he'd dictate you a textbook on it, then come to the point and it was one-word answers." I turned away from the window and said: "Keep an eye out for them. Did I see a loo along the corridor?"
"It's, er, out of order," Dave replied, stepping after me and placing his hand on my arm. "Use the one upstairs. You've never seen anything like it. The tiles are right up your street. Top of the stairs, on the left."
I'd seen an enamel sign, probably Victorian, on a door. It read we.
Underneath, in matching letters, blue on white, was one saying:
Gentlemen adjust your dress before leaving the urinal. I took Dave's advice and used the one upstairs.
It was nothing special. Toilet, bidet, huge free-standing iron bath, full-length mirrors that made you look sunburned and enough towels to cushion a stunt man fall. It could have been mine. The tiles were a mural of a classical scene. Aphrodite tempting Lesbos or something, with a swan taking an unhealthy interest in the proceedings and only a few vine leaves keeping it this side of depraved. A high-tech exercise bike with more dials than a light aircraft stood in a corner and two black satin dressing gowns hung behind the door. I had a slash, washed my hands, smiled at myself in the mirror, decided that a tan suited me and went downstairs.
I walked past the downstairs loo, then changed my mind. It was hard to imagine anything in this house being out of order. I bet they sent for an electrician to set the video. I read the sign, checked my flies and pushed the door open.
There was no window, but the light switch was handy, operated by a china bauble dangling on a string. For a downstairs loo it wasn't bad, about the same floor area as my upstairs one. The sink was full-size, not one of these miniatures added as an afterthought, and there was a shower cabinet in the adjacent corner. I flushed the low-level toilet, which worked, and washed my hands again. The towel warming on the heated rail had the letter C woven in gold braid in the corner.
Claridgesl I wondered. I shook my head in disbelief and turned to leave.
There were three tiny pictures on the wall alongside the door, and they attracted me like marmalade to carpet pile, as pictures always do. At first I thought they were abstracts, but then I saw they were the wings of something like a dragonfly. I lifted one off its hook and took it under the light.
I need spectacles. It comes to everyone, with the passing of years. I peered at the caption in the bottom right-hand corner until my head ached. The microscopic letters read, I think, Aeshna grand is whatever that is. The signature in the other corner was easier. It said J.
Wilson, who we now know as Mrs. Holmes.