"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 f
or 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 wh
ile 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.
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