Some by Fire

by Stuart Pawson

  ‘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.

  ‘Adios’ said a voice behind me. ‘Adios’ 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 cooperating 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 hour in the office, then went home to finish the Jackson Pollock painting. It took me until ten at night plus two visits to B&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-dokey.’ 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 offences 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.

  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 again
st 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 babysitting 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.’