"Did you feel safe?" I asked. It sounded dodgy to me.
"Not really, Charlie," he replied. "Even though we had the deputy sheriff with us each time we visited them. They have some mean-looking neighbours."
"How well off is she?"
"Hard to say. Not very, at first glance, but they have plenty of possessions: the trailer, big Dodge pickup, huge television, freezer, air-conditioning, you name it. I'd say their main problem is cash flow. Melissa is having problems finding the money to have her teeth fixed."
"Her teeth?"
"That's right. This is the good bit. Their belief in self-sufficiency and disrespect for the establishment precludes having health insurance, it would appear, and Melissa is suffering from impacted wisdom teeth.
They're giving her a lot of trouble."
"Sounds painful. How does that help us?"
"Like this. Melissa IDs Kingston for us and signs a statement saying that he told her to mark the number on the house in Leeds and show Duncan Roberts which it was. She thought he was just visiting there, or something. She swears she knew nothing of any plan to burn it down."
"She's a lying little madam," I said.
"That's as may be," Piers replied. "Her story is that she was a nervous little student and Kingston was a charismatic lecturer. She was under his spell. Our side of the bargain is that we fly her to England with her boyfriend, house them for a week somewhere cheap but cheerful up near you, and arrange for her to have her teeth fixed. What do you think?"
I thought for a few seconds before replying, then said: "I think you've done well, Piers. That's about as much as you could possibly achieve, but it means she's getting away with murder. We only know about Leeds.
What happened, who did she recruit, in Durham or Manchester, California, Paris or wherever?"
"I understand your feelings," Piers told me, 'but I think it's the best we'll do. We don't know how she fits into the scheme of things; whether she was a leading light or a tiny cog; and you can't catch 'em all, Charlie."
America had done him good, loosened him up. He was calling me Charlie.
After a long silence he said: "There is one little titbit I've been saving. It might upset all our plans, but on the other hand, it could be useful. How does this sound?"
When he'd finished I said: "Right. I'm convinced; let's do it."
Piers went home and slept for fourteen hours. On Friday he briefed Tregellis, who had no objections, and on Monday he phoned Melissa and said we were trying to make an appointment for her to have her wisdom teeth fixed. That was my job. The appointment, that is, although I was quite willing to tackle the teeth myself, with the pliers from my little toolkit.
Over the weekend I tidied the garden, did some washing and took my shirts to the lady who irons them for me. She's a widow who lives a few doors away. Before her husband died he was the only friend I had in the street. The others don't like me because my dandelion seeds blow into their gardens. And I'm the law. I stroll round the cul-de-sac and pretend to look at then-tax discs, and as soon as I've passed they dash out to check them. We had home-made lemonade in her garden, with carrot cake, and I paid for it by making her laugh.
I bought three broad sheets on Sunday and scanned the business pages for news of Fox and Reynard. All of them told the story about him opening Reynard Tower, in Leeds, which would be the new seat of his insurance empire. The jobs, the spokesperson assured us, would be real ones.
Monday I gave Annette the job of negotiating with our contacts at Heckley General to see if they would be able to do Melissa's teeth at short notice. It would cost us, but a specialist said he could fit her in, after hours. In any other profession it's called moonlighting, using the boss's tackle, and would result in the sack. In the NHS it's normal practice. Can you imagine Kwik-Fit allowing their mechanics to fit exhausts to the cars of their private customers after five o'clock?
Not on your Nelly, Jose.
I had a long session with Nigel; questions and answers, role-playing.
He's good at stuff like that, and it was useful. We lunched at the Chinese and Nigel tested me on my knowledge of the Reynard Organisation. I scored ten out of ten, but I'd done some swotting.
Tregellis rang to wish me luck and Sparky poked his head round the door to say the same thing. I felt as if I was about to fight Mike Tyson. I emptied my in-tray and went home, slightly disappointed that there was no postcard of the Acropolis in there.
Tea was a tin of sardines, full of essential oils no, that's aroma therapy but they're good for you; followed by a piece of my neighbour's carrot cake that she'd insisted I bring home. I wondered what her apple pies were like. After that I found two big pieces of hardboard and painted them with white emulsion. The art exhibition was two weeks away and I was behind schedule. I did some sketches and by the time I went to bed I'd developed a couple of ideas.
I've interviewed people who've strangled wives, stabbed lovers, shot strangers, smothered babies. Some filled me with rage, others made me weep. All of them had a story, some redeeming feature, that reminded me of the old saw: There but for the grace of God… Well, nearly all of them. But Fox was different. He was from a mould that is rarely used, thank heaven. If what Crosby had told me was true, his goals in life were self-preservation and the accumulation of wealth and power.
Vast wealth. Monstrous power. The tools he used in the pursuit of these were murder and a cold indifference to the lives of anyone else.
He'd had fifty years to hone his skills, and tomorrow I was meeting him. One thing was certain; I wouldn't come away from that meeting much wiser than when I went in. But I'd know my quarry. I'd have seen him on his own patch, surrounded by his imperial guard of lawyers. I'd know what I was up against the next time we met, and I was sure there'd be a next time.
The weather changed through the night, as the forecasters had predicted. The summer was over. Flurries of rain rattled against the bedroom window like handfuls of gravel tossed by a lover. I sat up with a start. Perhaps it wasn't rain… but the sound of water running along the gutter told me it was. I sank back into my pillow and tried to sleep.
And then there was Kingston. If Fox was the Fuhrer, then Kingston was the head of his Gestapo. I was sure of it, but I had my own reasons for wanting Kingston. Private reasons.
I'd set the alarm to give me an hour's lie-in, but when it beeped into life I couldn't understand why I was late. Then I remembered; today was the day that Mr. Fox would snip the ribbon and create a thousand new jobs. And a city would be grateful and honour him. How many he'd lost that city over the past twenty years was incalculable. A thought struck me, as I lay in that never-never land when my stomach wants feeding but my legs refuse to swing out of bed. It was self-evident, but had completely eluded the last government. Every time a company streamlines itself by destroying a job, ten other businesses lose a customer. Not bad for seven on a Tuesday morning, I thought, and my legs kicked themselves from under the duvet and the day began.
I put on my charcoal suit and a blue tie with a pink stripe that added a dash of frivolity. I wouldn't take my briefcase, I decided, or even a notebook. We'd have a chat, man to man, nice and informal if I could see him for lawyers and I'd try to drop a little bombshell just before I left. Something to put them in a panic. I buffed my shoes with the soles of my socks and we were ready.
Traffic into Leeds at that time in the morning is like any normal big-city traffic. A great time to read War and Peace or study Mandarin. I timed my run so I'd just miss the nine o'clock peak, if there was such a thing, and hopefully arrive far too early. Perhaps I'd have time for a coffee in the restaurant. We were stop-going on the M621 when I thought I'd catch up on the mornings news. The M621 used to be the only motorway in the world that terminated at a set of traffic lights. Now it peters out in a forest of traffic cones, but it'll be good when it's finished. I pushed the power button and a familiar voice finished a story about natter jack toads. "Police in Yorkshire…" she continued.
"Tha
t's me!" I thought.
'… are trying to identify a man who threw himself off the Scammonden bridge over the M62."
He was, she told us, the umpteenth suicide there since the bridge was constructed. That'll be a great consolation to the relatives, I thought. A BMW in the fast lane decided he wanted my bit of the slow lane and cut across me. Fifty seconds later he'd done just the opposite. I braked and cursed him but he was too engrossed in his telephone conversation to notice.
"And a piece of late news has just been handed to me," she was saying.
"The businessman J.J. Fox, head of the Reynard Organisation, has been found dead in his hotel room in Leeds.
We'll let you have more on that as soon as we receive it."
I swung on to the hard shoulder and yanked the hand brake on, but she'd passed us over to the sports presenter, who was saying that our numero uno tennis player had lost in straight sets to a nine-year-old from Utah. "You should have strangled the little bastard," I hissed at the radio as I switched it off and reached for my phone.
I rang the nick and then Tregellis, but it was me breaking the news to them, so I decided the best place to be was at the Fox Borealis. I indicated right and an artic flashed me out.
The foyer of the hotel was filled with people standing in little hushed groups. There'd been a PC at the entrance, making a note of all visitors, which meant that the death was regarded as suspicious. He told me that Superintendent Isles was in charge and let me in. My old mate Les; that made it easier.
Another PC was guarding the lifts and two detectives were trying to organise the guests into a queue so they could take their names and then let them out to do their selling or conferencing or whatever it was that had brought them to this place on this day. Technicians and reporters in T-shirts and jeans, were wandering around with microphones and tape recorders, talking to anyone who looked as if they might be able to string two words together. A TV person with a big camera was speaking to head office on his mobile. "Can you get one of the body?" they'd be saying.
I introduced myself to the PC at the lift and told him I needed to see Mr. Isles. He explained that there was an express lift, for private use, that went straight up to the penthouse, on the fifteenth floor, where Mr. Isles was. However, that was out of bounds and only one of the other lifts was in use. I could go up in it but it only went to the fourteenth floor. I thanked him and he pressed the button.
I stepped out into a moderately large foyer with a blue and gold carpet and several easy chairs. Four figures turned to see who the newcomer was and Les Isles said: "Good God! What are you doing here?"
"Look in his diary," I replied. "I've an appointment to see Mr. Fox at ten o'clock."
"You were seeing Fox? What for?"
"To ask him some questions. Is it murder?"
"We don't know." He introduced me to the pathologist and a DI, telling them: "When Charlie appears, you know you have trouble."
"So what's happened?" I asked.
"Maid found him, 'bout six thirty," Les replied. "He's half on the floor, hanging from the bed head with a dressing gown cord round his neck. At first glance it's a sex game gone wrong, but that might be the intention. The SO COs and scientific are in there at the moment.
I want every fibre, every latent footprint on record. Nobody goes in without an Andy Pandy on. We should have a video in a few minutes.
Right, now you're up to speed, how about telling us why you're here."
I told them about the fire, Melissa, Kingston and the link with Fox, and left it at that. "I was hoping Fox might tell me something about Kingston," I said, 'seeing as he employed him."
A SOCO came down the stairs carrying a video cassette. He was wearing a white suit that completely enveloped him. Presumably Andy Pandy dressed in a similar manner. Only a nose protruded, beneath a pair of rimless spectacles. Les took the cassette and said: "Thank you, Carol.
"He was a she.
The DI was speaking on his radio. "The caravan's set up," he said as he switched off, 'but the BT engineer's still working on the phones."
"In that case find the manager and ask him if there's anywhere we can watch this," Les told him, waving the cassette. The DI made for the lift and the pathologist excused himself and followed.
When we were alone I said: "There's a lot more to this, Les. I'm seconded to the SFO and they're looking into Fox's affairs. I'll fill you in when we have the chance, but meanwhile I'd appreciate it if you could let me sit in on things."
He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I knew it. As soon as I saw you I knew it. You're bad news, Charlie, did anyone ever tell you?"
I grinned and said: "I know, but it makes death more interesting, doesn't it."
The manager switched the video on and told the DI which button to press on the remote control when the tape had run itself back to the beginning. He hovered until Les told him, very politely, that he'd have to leave. It might have been his office, with a huge mahogany desk, three-piece suite and Atkinson Grimshaw prints on the walls, but this was a murder inquiry and he'd have to go. I assumed they were prints, but you never know.
The SOCO had given us a wide-angle overall view of Fox's suite of rooms that constituted the penthouse. She'd panned around and wandered from room to room as if making a film for architects or interior designers.
The main room, presumably the one intended for his waking hours, had a glass wall with a view over the city, and outside was a bank of mirrors that could follow the sun and reflect it in. Furniture was sparse but luxurious, with lots of white fur, and a few antique pieces struck a discordant note.
After the grand tour the SOCO pulled back the lens and got down to the nitty-gritty. Fox's clothes were in an un hasty pile in a Queen Anne chair with a pair of striped boxer shorts on top. The huge bed was crumpled and the pillows had been pushed to one side. It was built in, with lights and speakers in the headboard and a bank of controls for things I could only wonder about. The man himself was half-kneeling, half-sitting on the floor near the top of the bed. His head was at an awkward angle and a cord led from his neck and was looped behind one of the hi-fi speakers. The cameraman zoomed in with ruthless disregard for taste or propriety. This was strictly after-the-watershed stuff.
Fox was naked apart from pyjama trousers, which were round his ankles.
His eyes were closed, and he looked reasonably peaceful, although a ribbon of saliva had run down his chin and chest. His winkie was relaxed, small and red, with a condom hanging off the end like an old sock. If that's safe sex, I thought, God save me from the dangerous sort.
An hour later we saw the real thing, just before he was hauled away for dissection. I didn't feel sorrow for him, not an ounce. Around his bed the pong of cheap perfume hung in the air like petrol fumes on a foggy morning, and that, as much as anything, convinced me what a sordid little man he was. Les still insisted we wore paper suits and bootees and we trudged from room to room, me concerned with the man's lifestyle, Les looking for anything that might throw some light on how he met his death.
A feature of the living room was a pond containing several large koi carp. As we approached they rose to the surface and followed us with their bulging eyes.
"They need feeding," the DI stated.
"So do I," Les told him.
In another room I found a bank of televisions, six of them, all glowing silently, their screens alight with columns of names and numbers. They were showing stock market prices from all around the world: the Dow Jones, Hang Seng, Nikkei; plus exchange rates and commodity prices. If that's what it took to become rich, I'd rather not bother.
"Look at this, boss," I heard the DI say, and wandered out to see what he'd found. He was holding a fishing rod, about four feet long, complete with reel, line and hook.
"Where was that?" Les asked.
"Under there," the DI replied, pointing to a window seat. "It lifts up. I was looking for some fish food for them."
"That's one way of doing your fishing," Les sai
d. "Beats standing out in the rain for hours."
I went back to Heckley and did some typing. Les promised to keep me informed about the post-mortem and I arranged to see him in the morning with a synopsis of Fox's affairs. He rang me late that evening, just after I'd stood under the shower.
"Cause of death was asphyxia by strangulation," he said, bypassing the normal formalities. "Time, about eleven p.m."
"Foul play?" I wondered.
"Difficult to tell. We've told the press that it looks like a sexual experiment that went tragically wrong. He was over twice the driving limit with alcohol and there were traces of coke on the bedside table.
Haven't got the results of the blood test yet. What did you say that character was called who worked for Fox?"
"Kingston," I replied. "Nick Kingston. Why?"
"I thought so. Because an NJ.W. Kingston was booked in the Fox Borealis for Monday night, but his bed wasn't slept in."
"That sounds like my man," I said.
"One other guest is unaccounted for," Les continued. "A young lady called Danielle La Petite also booked in for Monday night only. Her room was number 1403, Kingston's was 1405, next door. Both rooms were booked on Reynard's account, so there were no bills to pay."
"Danielle La Petite I said, 'sounds like a hooker."
"She does, doesn't she? We're checking her out."
"Les…" I began.
"I know what you're going to say," he replied.
"What?"
"You want to talk to Kingston."
"So how about it?"
"See me in the morning, as planned, and we'll discuss it then."
"Fair enough, and thanks for ringing."
"There's one other small point you might find interesting," he said before I replaced the phone. "Guess what Fox's last meal was?"
"No idea."
"Sushi."
"Sushi? Raw fish?"
"That's right. With oysters. About nine o'clock the chef went up to his room and prepared a freshly-caught carp for Mr. Fox and his guest.
Some By Fire dcp-6 Page 22