I'd intended to take Annette with me to Manchester because I wanted her to be our contact with Melissa and her boyfriend, but Gilbert had asked her to produce some figures for a survey about overtime and sick leave.
The Home Secretary had been given warning of a question he was about to be asked in Parliament, so everything had to stop until we had an answer. The sun was still shining, but the temperature had dropped by quite a bit. It was bright and pleasant, rather than oppressive. I gave myself plenty of time and stopped for a chicken burger at the services. As usual, when I used the loo I found that someone with pubic alopecia had beaten me to it.
I was still early. I called in at the Immigration office and they confirmed that Melissa was on the flight, which was a pleasant surprise. Piers had told me that she didn't seem to realise that once she had left the USA it was unlikely that they'd let her back in. He hadn't tipped her off about this small point and we were looking forward to breaking it to her after she'd given us what she wanted.
I wandered up to the spectator's gallery to watch the big jets taking off, and caught myself humming "In the Early Morning Rain'. There's a shop up there that sells aviation magazines, spotters' guides and plastic models of famous crashes. Hanging in a corner was a sheepskin flying jacket, circa WWII, marked down from 300 to 199. Wow! I thought, this'll work wonders for my image. I'd wear it to the office tomorrow, regardless of the weather.
But the sleeves were miles too short. The rest of it fitted, but I held my arms forward to demonstrate the problem and exchanged disappointed smiles with the sales lady. I went back to Arrivals and stood with the blank-faced straggle of people waiting for flight DL064.
Shifty-looking taxi drivers held boards under their arms with scrawled names across them, and a well-dressed elderly man in a chauffeur's cap stood patiently to attention. Once he'd been the terror of the parade ground, and now he was someone's lackey. That'd be me soon, I thought.
The rest were bleary-eyed sons-in-law or parents, come to pick up their loved ones after yet another holiday of a lifetime.
I'd have recognised her at half a mile, but she still took my breath away. I stepped forward in front of them, and the immigration official shadowing them gave me a nod and peeled off. "Miss Youngman?" I said.
"The former Miss Youngman," she said, almost smiling. "Now I'm Mrs.
Slade. Meet my husband of twenty-four hours, Jade Slade." "How ya doin'?" he said.
"Fine," I lied. "DI Priest." Shit fuck bugger, I thought. She's done us.
The extravagances of the seventies had been toned down, and of course, our tastes have developed over the years. Her hair was red again, cropped short and carelessly styled, but nothing that you wouldn't see any day in any small town. She wore a nose ring and extravagant eye make-up not heavy lashes and shadow, but paint and speckles all around them with black lipstick. Underneath the muck was one of those faces that can launch a young girl to fame and fortune or blight her life with a string of wrong men because the decent ones don't think they stand a chance. She was beautiful, and ageing well, and I could understand anybody falling for her. Nancy Spungeon had become Zandra Rhodes.
He was something else. Short, pot-bellied, with one of those hillbilly beards that looks as if it's just been shampooed. He wore faded denims held up by a broad belt heavily inlaid with silver and turquoise. She was in a brown leather suit. I led them to my car and told them about the Station Hotel, in Heckley, where we'd booked them a room for the week.
"Do they have a pool?" he asked.
I apologised for the lack of a pool.
On the motorway I said: "I understand you write poetry, Mr. Slade."
"That's right," he replied.
"Will I have heard any?"
"Do you read redneck poetry?"
"No."
"Then you won't."
I told Melissa that she was booked into Heckley General Hospital tomorrow at about four thirty, to have her teeth fixed. Then, if she was up to it, we'd do a taped interview with her the following day, Saturday. All leave was cancelled for the first team. She mumbled responses in the right places and we rode the rest of the way in silence. He said: "Jeez!" under his breath when he saw the Station Hotel, and that was the sum total of our conversation. I didn't mind;
I had no desire to be on first-name terms with either of them. I wrote Annette's name and number on a page of hotel notepaper and left them to unpack.
Back at the nick I rang Tregellis but had to settle for Piers. "The eagle has landed," I said. We talked for a while about tactics and when he'd hung up I rang Les Isles and had the same conversation all over again.
Agent Mike Kaprowski wasn't in his office but a colleague introduced himself and told me that he was familiar with the case. "I just met Melissa Youngman off the plane," I told him, 'except that she's not called Youngman any more because she's got herself married. To this poet feller, Jade Slade."
"Aw, shit!" he exclaimed. "You know what that means?"
"We'll have to buy them a present?"
"Yeah, and that, goddammit! OK, Charlie, thanks for letting us know.
I'll tell Mike and he'll get back to you. Adios."
"Adios." I put the phone down.
"AdiosV said a voice behind me. "Adiosl Who was that, Speedy Gonzales?"
I half-turned and grinned at Sparky. "Just my friends in the FBI,"I told him.
He flopped into the spare chair. "What did they want?"
"They've run out of white chalk, wondered if we had any to spare.
Actually, I rang them. Melissa's arrived, but she married her boyfriend in a touching little ceremony in the airport lounge just before they left the USA."
"What difference does that make?"
I told him.
"The crafty little cow," he said.
"It does look as if we underestimated her," I admitted.
"Charlie…" he began.
"Mmm."
"When you interview her… what's the chances of being in on it?"
I looked at him and said: "I wouldn't have it any other way, Dave."
He gripped his knees and said: "Thanks."
"But just remember she's co-operating with us."
"I will," he replied, 'but I still reckon she's in this up to her ears.
She's gonna get away with murder, probably literally."
"I think you're right," I replied, 'but it's the only way we'll get Kingston, and he's the senior partner."
"I've been thinking about Kingston," he told me. "If he killed Fox to silence him, I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't kill Danielle whatsername, the hooker, too, for the same reason. In the past he killed, or caused people to die, for financial gain. Now he's killing to save his skin. He's in a panic, thinking on his feet."
"And that will be his downfall, Dave. Do you think he might have a go at Melissa?"
"Possibly. Does he know she's over here?"
"We haven't told him."
"But she might, if she knows where he lives. Just for old times' sake."
"Great," I said. "We'd better keep an eye on her."
We booked a DC into the Station Hotel, posing as a travelling Punch and Judy man, and Annette went round to introduce herself to our guests.
Friday afternoon she took Melissa and Jed Clampitt to the hospital to get for free what would have cost them a fortune back home. It was a cloudy day and I spent it in the office, typing my notes and memories into a more accessible format. Six of us had pie and chips for lunch in one of Heckley's more traditional pubs.
Nine o'clock in the evening Annette rang me to say that Melissa had been through the wringing machine and they'd decided to keep her in overnight. She'd be discharged in the morning, no problem, but an interview might be asking too much of her.
"In that case," I decided, 'tell her Monday morning, at Heckley nick.
You make sure she's there, please, Annette." I rang the others to tell them that they could have the weekend off after all.
Saturday I did an h
our in the office, then went home to finish the Jackson Pollock painting. It took me until ten at night plus two visits to B amp; Q for materials, but it looked smashing. If JP had done it you'd be talking above five million for it. I'd ask for fifty quid, for the kids' ward, and probably not get it. Sunday I completed the one that had originally been inspired by the tapeworm drawing done by Janet Holmes. It was ragged blocks of oranges and yellows, with a jagged flash of lime green coming up from the bottom left corner that danced before your eyes. I was pleased with that one, too. They'd look great surrounded by all those scenes of Malhamdale in autumn.
She still hadn't sent me a postcard.
Monday morning I rose early. I hadn't slept very well, worrying that Melissa might be taking us for a ride. After a cup of tea I decided that it was unlikely. We were, after all, offering her immunity from prosecution on charges of God-knows-what. I was just running the shower when the phone rang.
"It's Jeff," it said, breathlessly. "The Transit's on the move."
"It can't be," I complained, looking at my watch. "I've an appointment at nine."
"We can manage. I've scrambled the chopper and alerted the ARV. Now I'm just rounding up the troops."
I was going to miss this, and I was annoyed. "OK," I said. "Take everybody you need, plus a few more, but not Sparky and Annette; and alert our neighbours. We can't afford to lose them, so the more the merrier. Lift them whenever it's convenient. In the garden but before they enter the house would be ideal, but on no account let them get in the house. It would be nice, though, to know what their target was.
Nobody hurt, that's the priority, Jeff, unless, of course, it's them.
No, I didn't say that. Anything you want me to do?"
"Not at the moment, boss."
"Get on with it then. I'll be in the control room if you need me."
Dammit, I thought. Dammit. I'd wanted to scramble the chopper. Jeff had decided that the best thing was for him to ring Mr. Nelson at seven o'clock every morning. If the boys were there, he'd say wrong number; if they'd come home and left the house Jeff would tell him to report the van stolen and give him a crime number. Mr. Nelson then had to ring the Tracker people and report it missing. They would double-check with us before activating the transponder in the van, enabling the receivers in our vehicles to pinpoint it. Tracker only acted after a report of theft; we didn't have carte blanche to follow anyone who had the device fitted.
I had a hasty shower and nearly broke the speed limit on the way to the nick. The car park was surprisingly devoid of police cars but Dave's Escort was in its usual place.
He was in the control room, listening to the action. "We could put Melissa back an hour," he suggested, temptingly.
"No," I replied. "They can handle it."
The radios were on talk-through, so we could hear everything. "Target heading south," someone said, which was bad news, because everyone had gone straight to the motorway, which was north. Jeff came on and directed all the unmarked cars in the right direction, sharing them out between the different routes. At this stage they just wanted to be close. The pandas and the ARV were told to take their time.
"Zulu ninety-nine, we have contact with target," came over the airwaves, against a background of the chum-chum-chum of the chopper's blades. "On A616, just beyond Debberton, travelling slowly."
Jeff asked for the positions of his cars, and rerouted where necessary.
We studied the big map and the duty sergeant made a guess about some posh houses between Debberton and Holmfirth. I told him to pass it on to Jeff.
Zulu ninety-nine told us that the van had stopped in a lay-by and they were veering off to avoid being spotted.
"Lima Mike. Just passing target." That was Maggie.
"Ten twenty."
"Lima Oscar, we have target under observation. Zulu ninety-nine stay away until they move again."
"Ten twenty. Do you copy, Zulu ninety-nine?"
"Zulu ninety-nine, ten twenty."
"Lima Mike standing by."
Gilbert came in and asked for an update. I showed him where they were on the map. "Unlike you not to be out there, Charlie," he said.
"Oh, you know how I like to delegate," I replied.
"Lima Oscar, target on the move." We all turned to the control desk, as if looking at the loudspeakers would give us a picture of the scene.
The Transit drove about a quarter of a mile and turned up a gravel track. "They probably stopped to put their masks on," Dave suggested.
"Zulu ninety-nine, we have them. T2 out of vehicle, opening gate to a house. Suggest you go-go-go."
Accelerators were flat to the floor, tyres were squealing, but we could see none of it. "Zulu ninety-nine, T2 has seen us. He's back in the van and they're aborting."
"Lima Mike, I'm turning into the lane, Lima Oscar behind me. We'll block the lane." A silence, then: "Lima Mike, they're out and running.
Giving chase."
We all laughed and relaxed. Gilbert went up to his office and I rang Annette at home, in case she'd forgotten what day it was. Five minutes later a breathless Maggie panted: "Lima Mike to XL."
"Go ahead, Maggie," the controller told her.
"We have a ten twelve. Will bring Tl and T2 to Heckley, out."
Jeff came on, saying: "All units ten three. Thank you and good morning."
"Let's go," I said to Dave. "We can't stand here all day listening to them playing cowboys and Indians. What's all this ten twenty stuff?"
They were half an hour late. Annette brought them in, apologising, and Dave set eyes on Melissa for the first time. She was wearing no make-up, which was a shock, and her cheeks were swollen. I suspected that the dark glasses were to hide black eyes. Nigel's wisdom teeth had been removed, and he said it gave your face quite a hammering. Jade Slade was with her, wearing an embroidered shirt, jeans and cowboy boots, like he was expecting line dancing. The duty solicitor looked a treat, as always, in his blue suit and regimental tie.
"Are you fit enough to answer questions?" I asked, because I was concerned about the quality of her answers, not her health.
"Let's get on with it," she said.
"Okey-do key I set the tape running and did the spiel and asked everyone to introduce themselves. Dave and I were at one side of the table, Melissa and the solicitor at the other, with Slade rocked back against the wall near the video player I'd asked for. He was holding one of our polystyrene beakers, and at first I thought he'd bought a coffee from the machine. When I saw him lift it towards his mouth and spit into it I thought: It's not that bad. When he did it again, a few moments later, I realised he was chewing tobacco.
"Mrs. Slade," I began, 'did you attend Essex University in 1969?"
"Yes."
"And after that did you attend Paris, Edinburgh, Manchester, Los Angeles, Durham and Leeds universities?"
"If you say so."
"What do you say?"
"I say this has fuck-all to do with why I'm here."
"Did you meet a lecturer called Nick Kingston at Essex?"
"I might have done."
"Did you?"
"I don't remember. I met him somewhere."
"But you already knew him when you moved to Leeds?"
"Yes."
"What was the nature of your relationship?"
"Were we fucking, you mean? Of course we were."
Dave shuffled. When he was settled again I said: "Have you contacted Kingston during this visit?"
She looked uneasy and turned to the solicitor. He shrugged, not knowing if this was relevant to anything. Slade said: "Is this part of the deal?"
"What deal?" I asked.
"You know, the fuckin' deal."
I turned to Melissa. "Mrs. Slade, to have it on the record, could you tell us what you are expecting from this meeting."
"I'll tell you what she's expecting," Slade shouted. "She puts the finger on this Kingston, and you give her immunity from prosecution.
That's the fuckin' deal, ain't it?"
>
I told Slade that we'd make better progress if he let his wife answer the questions. We weren't interested in his comments or opinions. She smiled at him and he spat into the cup and let his chair plop down on to all four legs.
"What are you expecting, Mrs. Slade?" I asked again.
"What he said," she replied. "I tell you about Kingston and you let me go."
"I have no power to grant you immunity from prosecution," I explained.
"Nobody has. However, I can assure you that this force and two others involved with the Kingston case will not actively pursue any charges against you or follow up any evidence relating to these of fences that may implicate you. Is that clear?"
"Yes."
"Would you like your solicitor to discuss it with you?"
"No."
"Very well, what can you tell us about Nick Kingston?"
"I've got a statement," Melissa said, bringing a page of Station Hotel notepaper from the inside pocket of her jacket. She unfolded it and we sat back, listening.
"In June or July 1975," she began, "I was having a sexual relationship with a university lecturer called Nick Kingston. I was infatuated with him and completely under his spell. He was a very charismatic man. He told me that he was renting a house in Chapeltown, Leeds, to use as a postal address for a mail order business he was just starting. The number on the house had worn off, so he asked me to write it on again, in chalk, so the postman would find it when the orders started coming in. He said he couldn't do neat numbers. He took me there one evening and I wrote the number thirty-two on the wall. A few days later he asked me to show a boy where it was. He was going to work for Nick, pick up the orders, or something. About a week after that the house was burnt down and some people lost their lives." She refolded the paper and slid it across the table towards me.
Some By Fire dcp-6 Page 24
