Some By Fire dcp-6

by Stuart Pawson

  I placed my pen on it and pushed it back, saying: "Could you sign it, please."

  She unfolded the statement, took the pen in her left hand and scrawled her signature across the bottom. I didn't look but I just knew that Dave's eyes had flickered my way.

  We sat in silence for a while, then I said: "What colour was your hair then?"

  She looked flustered, and turned to her solicitor. He decided it must be a leading question and came out with the usual is-it-relevant response.

  "I'd like to know," I replied.

  "I can't remember," she said.

  "Was it purple?"

  "I don't know."

  "Was the boy you took to the house Duncan Roberts?"

  "I'm not sure. Duncan rings a bell, but I never heard his surname."

  "Are you sure he wasn't your boyfriend?"

  "Positive."

  "You didn't have an affair with him?"

  "Not that one, but I had lots of boyfriends. It was never a problem for me."

  I wanted to grill her about her relationship with Duncan, but managed to hold off. She'd already been threatened with the little we knew, when Piers and Graham saw her in America. That's why she was here, and I didn't want to reveal how fragile our case against her was. I asked Dave to start the video and explained to the tape recorder what we were doing.

  The first image appeared, a still taken by a CCTV camera, with the number 1 in the corner. "If you recognise Kingston please say the number," I told her.

  "That's him," she said, after a while.

  "Number?"

  "Eight."

  There were sixty-five pictures, and seven of them were Kingston. She got all seven.

  "Thanks," I said. "I think that's everything. We'll try to get you on a flight on Wednesday, if that suits you."

  "The sooner the fuckin' better," Slade said, and flung his cup of spit into the waste bin.

  Annette was waiting upstairs. Dave went to put the kettle on and I told her that Bonnie and Clyde were finding their own way back to the hotel. She was relieved of baby-sitting duties. "Thank God for that," she sighed. "They're the most thoroughly disagreeable couple I've ever met. Give me the Sylvan Fields lot any day."

  "What did you find out about the telephone?" I asked. We were paying their bill, so the hotel had no qualms about feeding us the information.

  "Ah! You're not going to like this. They've spent every waking hour on the phone. Several calls to Directory Enquiries, but we can't tell who they asked for; more to various parts of England, as if she's been renewing acquaintances; and several long calls to the USA. I've asked for a printout. It's as if they've deliberately run up the bill, because we're paying."

  "They're anarchists, Annette," I said. "That's what anarchists do.

  They'll probably put the plugs in and leave the taps running when they check out. I'd better have a word with BT."

  Dave shouted: "How many sugars, Annette?"

  "None, thank you," she called back.

  "Listen, Annette," I said, quietly. "I'm sorry I didn't ask you to sit in on the interview, but Dave's been in on this since 1975. It's personal."

  "That's OK, Mr. Priest," she replied.

  I'm growing to like Annette. She's a good sport and has a pleasant nature. That Mr. Priest never fails to put me in my place, though.

  Dave came in, carrying three teas, which says a lot for my department.

  I found some custard creams and we told Annette all about Kermit Shermit and his filthy habits.

  The others came filtering back, high on adrenalin and braggadocio.

  Maggie had socked one of the Nelson brothers and the other had fallen into a stream. Good living in Tenerife had not equipped them for cross-country running. Masks and baseball bats were recovered from the Transit and a hand-drawn map was found showing directions to the house they'd intended to rob. Somebody was doing the leg work for them. Jeff sent the map to fingerprints.

  We all shared in the success, and a bonus was that I didn't have to do the paperwork. In the middle of all the laughing I heard my phone ringing.

  "CID, Call It Done," I said into it.

  "Is that Inspector Priest?"

  "Yes."

  "Morning, Mr. Priest. It's Sergeant Watson from Division. As you know, the ACC leaves at the end of the week, and there's a presentation to him on Thursday night. I understand that you sometimes do cartoons for these events, and was wondering if you could knock one up for him?"

  "Gosh, that's three whole days away," I replied. "I would think I could knock one up in that time. I could probably knock up a Sistine Chapel ceiling in three days."

  "Oh, right, Mr. Priest. You'll send it over, will you."

  "Will do."

  I looked in my drawer to make sure the one I'd done three weeks earlier was still there. I didn't particularly like the ACC, so this had been a good opportunity to embarrass him. Not many people knew this, but a long time ago, when he was a humble superintendent in another division several hundred miles away, he had too much to drink at a chief constable's leaving bash and messed his trousers. He rang his wife to ask her to bring him a spare pair and skulked in the car park until she arrived with them. He took them from her, thanked her profusely, and sneaked back into the toilets to change. He took off the offending garment, stuffed it out of the window and removed the new one from the bag his good lady had handed him. It was a skirt she'd collected from the cleaner earlier in the day. My drawing recaptured the incident in all its bladder-wrenching humiliation.

  It also reminded me that I needed two frames for the abstracts I'd done. One of our uniformed PCs is a dab hand at woodwork and has a nice little sideline turning out door stops and wooden apples that he sells for charity. No wooden Indians, though. I rang him and he promised to make the frames for me. He pointed out that the exhibition was next Sunday and I'd left it a bit late. I'd thought it was weeks away.

  We had a debriefing in the afternoon, eating ice creams that we'd sent out for. Barry and Len Nelson had been interviewed and fed into the sausage machine for processing. They were looking at twenty years each. I deflated the euphoria by saying that we'd missed a vital opening. The bar they part-owned was called the Pigeon Pie. "And the yob we arrested for using Joe McLelland's credit card was wearing a Pigeon Pie T-shirt." I said. "We should have asked him about it."

  "T-shirts from pubs in Tenerife are ten-a-penny," someone stated.

  "Fair enough," I agreed, licking the runny bits from round the edges, 'but it was still a link, and we missed it."

  Jeff sid: "Ah, but with luck like yours, boss, we can afford the odd mistake." He pulled the chocolate flake out and used it as a spoon.

  "What do you mean, luck?" I demanded, with mock affront.

  "Going to the rhubarb sheds like you did. That was dead jam my "Luck had nothing to do with it. Good detective work, that's what it was. Right, Dave?"

  "Right, Charlie," he mumbled with his mouth full.

  "So how did you know to look there?" Jeff asked.

  "In the rhubarb sheds?"

  "Mmm."

  "I'll tell you. Remember what O'Keefe said about elephant?"

  "Mmm."

  "So what did we call rhubarb when we were kids?"

  Tusky," someone chipped in.

  "There you go, then."

  Jeff shook his head in disbelief.

  Later, as we left for home, Dave said: "You didn't really make the link between tusky and elephant, did you?"

  We were in the car park. I looked over my shoulder, then under my car and behind his. When I was absolutely sure we were alone I leaned closer and said: "I might have done."

  I called in the supermarket for some ready meals and filled up with petrol. It's over three pounds a gallon now. That's something else not many people know. My favourite checkout girl was there but I went to someone else just in case she's beginning to wonder about me. Three times in a month is stalker territory.

  The council had written to me to ask my address and if I sti
ll lived alone. I put es No Yes No Yes No. An insurance company reminded me that I was at a dangerous age and somebody else thought that I'd benefit from listening to the best bits of every piece of classical music ever recorded. Nearly two years of it, for only 149.99. No postcards. I had chicken korma, a currant square and tea, followed by a short snooze in an armchair.

  Action is the best antidote for lethargy so I washed the car. The next-door neighbour couldn't believe his eyes and sent for his wife to come and see. "There's no hose pipe ban, then?" he whined.

  "It's odd numbers this week," I explained.

  "Oh," he said, and nodded knowingly.

  I was flicking round the channels, trying to decide whether to watch TV or stand on one leg for a couple of hours, when the phone rang.

  "Charlie Priest," I intoned into it, almost absent-mindedly.

  "Charlie, it's Arthur." Arthur's the duty sergeant.

  "Hello, Arthur," I said. "What's gone wrong now?"

  "Bloke been after you. Said I'd give you his number. He's called Nick Kingston; do you know him?"

  "Kingston? Yes, I know him. Fire away."

  I didn't ring him immediately. I went over all the possibilities in my head and rehearsed the answers. Les Isles was planning to see him and I concluded that Kingston wanted to grill me about that. Les and I had agreed that he'd say we were involved in two separate inquiries; him into Fox's death, me into the fire of 1975.

  He must have been waiting by the phone, and answered with a cheery:

  "Nick Kingston."

  "DI Priest," I said. "You've been after me."

  "Charlie!" he gushed. "Thanks for ringing. Have you seen the forecast?"

  "The forecast? What forecast?" I asked.

  "The weather for tonight," he explained. "Bright and clear, but best of all, it's a full moon, and it rises at just after one. It'll be another world up there, Charlie. Francesca and I are going up Helvellyn. Fancy coming with us, eh?"

  "Helvellyn?" I mumbled. This hadn't been in my expectations.

  "That's right. High enough, but nice and straightforward. We'll see the stars in all their glory, and then the biggest moon you've ever seen in your life will come over the horizon. It's a perfect night, I guarantee you'll never forget it. Power will be in the air. Shall we wait for you?"

  "Oh, er," I stumbled. "Er, it'll take me a couple of hours to get there."

  "Good man, Charlie. You're in for a treat. Shall we say the car park at Patterdale, at midnight?"

  I looked at my watch. "I've my boots to find," I said. "I might be a few minutes late."

  "We'll wait for you. See you soon."

  I knew exactly where my boots were. Right where I took them off last time. The kettle had just boiled so I made a flask of coffee and pushed it into my rucksack with a packet of biscuits and a sweater. I donned a thicker shirt and my Gore-Tex jacket and turned the lights out.

  First stop was Heckley nick. I punched the code into the lock on the back door and let myself in. We were in the lull before the pubs shut.

  The front desk was deserted and the station was as quiet as I've ever heard it. No cheerful banter from the cells, no drunken snoring from the locker room. Behind the desk, the door to the sergeants' office was firmly shut, which was unusual. I tiptoed over to it, paused, then threw the door open.

  Chapter 13

  A fat man was standing there, bent over. His trousers were round his ankles, copious shorts enveloped his knees and his arse was as big and white as the harvest moon I was expecting to see later. Arthur was standing in front of the man and a PC was kneeling behind him, applying black ink to that backside with one of the little rollers that the fingerprint boys use. Arthur's jaw dropped as the door crashed open and the PC's eyes bulged like gob stoppers The man's resigned expression didn't change he was already as low as he could go. We stared at each other for an eternity until I said: "My office," to Arthur and turned on my heel.

  I pulled my big diary from the drawer and opened it at today. I wrote:

  See Nick Kingston in Patterdale car park at midnight. Climbing Helvellyn. It was just in case. As I put it back I saw my handcuffs there. I picked them up, weighed them in my hands, and slipped one end down the back of my trousers. Like I said, just in case.

  Arthur came in, looking contrite. "What the fuck are you playing at, Arthur?" I demanded.

  He shuffled about from one foot to the other. We have a good, casual relationship, but he knew that I was the boss and could only allow so much. "He, er, he was caught, earlier this evening," he said. "Act of gross indecency."

  "Like what?"

  "Buggery. Shit-stabbing. He was stuck up a youth in the Park Avenue toilets. Probably underage."

  "Where's the youth?"

  "He ran away."

  "But Fatso didn't make it."

  "No."

  "So what were you doing?"

  He heaved a big sigh and said: "We just added a line to the PACE conditions. We told him that in cases of indecency between males we have to take an anal print as well as fingerprints. That's what you caught us doing."

  "Jeeesus Chris tV I hissed. "You know, don't you, that if he complains they'll hang you from the town hall clock by your bollocks? And not just you; all of us."

  "His sort are not in the habit of complaining, Mr. Priest."

  "He might. And cut out the Mr. Priest. Let him go, Arthur. Clean him up and let him go."

  "Right, Chas. Thanks. What shall we do with the print?"

  "Destroy it. No, leave it on my desk. No, destroy it." I opened the door and turned the light out.

  "Shall we destroy the others?"

  "The othersV I exploded. "How long has this been going on?"

  "Since PACE came out," he replied. "We've quite a collection."

  I shook my head in disbelief, but couldn't help laughing. "Better hang on to them," I spluttered. "You never know, this might be pioneering research."

  At the bottom of the stairs I said: "I want something from Gareth Adey's office." The CS gas canister was still in his drawer. They're quite tiny for an aerosol, about the size of a tube of mints. It wasn't noticeable in the pocket of my anorak.

  Then it was just a matter of a two-hour blast towards the setting sun and the Lake District, the heater blowing cold because I was overdressed, and the cuffs reassuringly sticking into the base of my spine.

  Helvellyn, at just over three thousand feet, is the third highest mountain in England. Imagine you are in bed, with your knees drawn up and the duvet draped over them. That's what it looks like. The top is flat and unimpressive compared with its cousins like Scafell and Skiddaw, and the far side slopes gently down to Thirlmere. At this side it drops a clear thousand feet to Red Tarn, but there's no dramatic cliff top that you can peer over. It's just a gradual steepening of gradient until you are beyond the point of no return. In winter, when fresh snow lies on frozen, that point can come horrifyingly early. In summer, it's a pussycat. From Patterdale there are two approaches to the summit: Swirral Edge, up your right knee, which is a steep and narrow path; or Striding Edge, up your left, which is a jagged spine of rock like an iguana's backbone.

  Kingston was leaning on the boot of the BMW when I swung into the car park. "Hello, Charlie," he greeted me. "Glad you could make it."

  "Where's Francesca?" I asked without ceremony.

  "Oh, she decided not to come. She doesn't like me wandering about on my own, but as soon as I told her I'd be in your capable hands she said she'd prefer to have an early night. We're having a dinner party tomorrow, so it will be a busy day for her."

  "Right," I said. "Just the two of us." I poured a coffee and sipped it.

  "I'm not bothering with a 'sack," Kingston said. "The weather is settled. Just stick a Mars bar or something in your pocket."

  "Good idea," I told him. "I always feel that we carry too much anyway."

  "Excess baggage, Charlie, in more ways than one. Travel light, like a warrior; free, fluid and unpredictable."

  "Let's
go," I said. I wasn't in the mood for philosophical discussions.

  It's a two-mile walk-in, then you have to decide which path to take.

  Normal practice is to go up one and down the other. Common sense said up Swirral and down Striding Edge, when dawn would be breaking, but at the fork Kingston veered to the left.

  "Striding Edge?" I said. "Is that wise?"

  "We'll be OK," he assured me. I wasn't convinced. He walked fast, and I was stumbling along behind him, blindly placing my feet in black patches that might have been potholes or shadows, for all I could see.

  That's when I started worrying. Kingston was lots of things that I despised, but he could withstand cold and fire and was probably convinced that he had supernatural gifts. Some murderers, the real nutters, believe that when they kill someone their own life is enriched, their powers are enhanced. They are endowed with all the qualities of the victim. Like I said, I started worrying.

  I'd intended staying behind him, but didn't have any choice. He clambered on to the rocks at the start of the Edge and waited for me.

  "OK?" he asked as I caught up with him.

  "Just puffing a bit," I said. "You set a brisk pace."

  "This bit's slow going; you'll soon get your breath back."

  He could see in the dark. He was soon fifty yards ahead, striding from boulder to boulder with all the confidence of a mountain goat. I measured each step, feeling for solid ground before I transferred my weight, and fell still further behind. When it came to walking, I was out of my class. If I fell it wouldn't be far, it's too rough for that, but on these rocks eight feet could kill you, no problem. This was for crazies.

  I made it to the end. The last bit is the worst; a ten-foot step, with a narrow foothold halfway down. He was waiting for me. I sat on my backside and groped for the ledge with my feet. He extended his hand and I took it, gripping it in a butcher's hold. I stepped off, landed on firm ground and said: "Cheers." He turned and started on the final climb to the top.

  It was just a steep slog from then on, levelling off as we reached the summit plateau. The sky was hazy, with no stars visible. A breeze blew from the north, and as it came over the brow it condensed into clouds above us. I wondered if he'd been lying about the forecast, and the moon.