Some by Fire (6 page)

‘Sadly, not in the promotion race,’ I said.

‘Ah, I suspect that has more to do with a lack of ambition, not any flaw in your ability,’ he replied. I was growing to like him. ‘You came to see me,’ he went on, ‘twenty-three years ago, after the fire. Do you remember?’

‘Yes, I remember. I had a piece chewed off me by the DCI for interfering.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. He was convinced that the real target for the arsonist was a brothel in the next street, Leopold Crescent. A group of girls had set up a cooperative, working for themselves instead of the local pimps. He assumed the pimps were fighting back.’

It’s the sort of thing they’d do,’ I said. ‘It was the identical house, one street along.’

‘But you didn’t really believe it, did you?’

‘I didn’t believe anything, Mr Crosby. We gather evidence, see where it leads.’

‘You found a piece of chalk, remember? Someone had marked the house earlier, so that there would be no mistake. That’s what you thought, isn’t it?’

‘It was a possibility.’

‘Will you see me, Mr Priest? It’s a long story, I’m afraid, but I desperately need to tell it to someone. Someone who might understand.’

‘I’ll listen to what you have to say,’ I told him, ‘but I can’t promise any action. We just haven’t the time or resources to resurrect ancient crimes, especially if there is little or no public benefit. Perhaps an injustice was done, which is unfortunate for you, but that’s how it works. Sometimes, as you know, the bad guys win.’

‘But you’ll listen, Mr Priest? That’s all I ask.’

‘I’ll listen. I have a reputation for being a good
listener. It usually hides my boredom.’

‘So when can I see you? Do you work Saturdays?’

‘Yes, but I’m busy in the morning.’ Another sunny day off was slipping out of my grasp. ‘Tell you what,’ I said. ‘I’ll lunch at the Bargee. That’s fairly near you, isn’t it? I could eat about twelve, see you about half past. How does that sound?’

‘It sounds fine, Mr Priest, but do you object to me having lunch with you? They have a nice garden where we could eat and talk without fear of being overheard, if the weather stays fine.’

‘OK, Mr Crosby. Tomorrow at twelve it is.’ I didn’t know what I was letting myself in for, and it had been a long time ago, but the photograph in the paper of little Jasmine Turnbull had lived with me ever since, and I’d have gambled money that Sparky could have named the other seven victims. The inquiry had turned nothing up, and a couple of months later all CID’s resources were concentrated on finding the person who was going round knocking street girls on the head with a ball-peen hammer.

All that talk about lunches had reminded me that I was hungry. I looked at the bottom number on my telephone pad and dialled it. A husky voice repeated the numbers and I said: ‘Hi, Jacquie, it’s me. I’ve managed to escape early. Don’t suppose you’d like to watch me eat, would you?’

There was a condition. There’s always a condition. Jacquie would watch me eat providing she had a similar piled-up plate in front of her. ‘I’ll never be a rich man,’ I sighed and arranged to pick her up in fifteen minutes.

We went to the Eagle, up on the moors. It had been taken over by one of the big chains since my last visit and the menu read like a government specification. We had overdone eight-ounce (uncooked) steaks with French fries as dangerous as broken knitting needles, succulent garden peas that were so green they looked radioactive, all garnished with half a tomato – cold – and a sprig of parsley. What are you supposed to do with parsley? We entered into the spirit of the place by finishing off with Black Forest gateau and ten minutes in the bouncy castle.

‘That was lovely,’ Jacquie said, looking up into my face and laughing as we walked across the car park.

‘Telling fibs doesn’t become you,’ I replied. ‘It was dreadful. Six months ago it was all home-cooked and they did the best apple pie in Christendom. Sorry, love, I’ll let you choose next time.’

‘It was fine,’ she told me. ‘Don’t worry about it. The alternative for me was washing my hair and phoning Mum.’

‘And this was preferable?’

‘Of course it was. No dishes to do.’

‘Thanks. Get in.’

Jacquie came into my life when I was as low as I’ve ever been. I’ll never be able to tell her how good she was for me, for I’d only be able to do that by comparing her with someone else, which would be unkind. She was eighteen years younger than me and had the kind of figure that ought to be included in the Highway Code. Watch out, deadly distraction ahead. Masses of wild fair hair framed a face that was full-lipped yet ingenuous, blue-eyed but smouldering. English Rose meets Sophia Loren. It was a potent combination. But…

‘Let’s go for a drive,’ I suggested, starting the engine. ‘I need my spirits lifting after that.’ I took us on to the Tops, near Blackstone Edge, and parked with the nose of the car almost overhanging the drop into Lancashire. It’s one of my favourite places, and Jacquie wasn’t the first woman I’d shared it with. I sat with my arm extended across the back of her seat, my fingers running through her hair, and we talked about our days as the sun fell imperceptibly into Morcambe Bay. Jacquie owns a boutique, Annie’s Frock Shop, in the new mall, and she told me about a difficult customer and the problems of ordering from the winter collections when the thermometer is in the eighties. I told her about the robbers and the
ram-raiders
.

‘I knew you’d ring me tonight,’ she said, ‘although you left it a bit late.’

‘I didn’t know I could get away until the last thing,’ I replied.

‘It was in my stars.’

‘Was it?’

‘Yes. What did yours say?’

‘That I’d buy a rabbit and fall off my bike,’ I replied.

‘Don’t mock them,’ she admonished, looking at me. After a few moments she declared: ‘Leo. I bet you’re a Leo, aren’t you?’

‘How do you work that out?’

‘By studying you. You pretend to be relaxed, asleep, but you’re always in charge, watching. That’s a Leo characteristic. You have a wisdom, a self-confidence, but it’s easily damaged and just as easily restored.’

‘Yep, that’s me,’ I said. ‘All it takes is a tickle behind my ears.’ I pulled her closer until her head was resting on my shoulder. Her perfume was so delicate I hadn’t smelt it until now, and it hit me like a fix.

‘You’re soft and cuddly,’ she went on, ‘but you have claws and you’re not afraid to use them, if necessary.’

‘Only on nasty people,’ I said. ‘And never on you.’

‘So am I right?’

‘Ssh,’ I said. ‘Watch the sun. Sometimes, just as it disappears, there’s a flash of green light.’

The last molten blob of orange spread sideways and vanished, leaving a void in the sky that the stars
would soon fill. ‘How long does it take you to brush your hair?’ I asked.

She turned her face towards me and said: ‘As long as I’ve got. Two minutes? Ten minutes? It doesn’t make much difference.’

‘Doesn’t it?’

She shook her head.

‘I’d like to brush it for you,’ I told her, burying my fingers and raking them through it. ‘Two hundred times, and then another two hundred just for the hell of it.’

‘That would be nice,’ she replied, tilting her face upwards towards mine.

Her lips are everything I’d dreamt they’d be, are everything I remember. But lips are lips, promising all, then creating greater desires than the one they satiate. My free hand slipped around her waist and hers fell on to my forearm, halting its progress, like it always does. I buried my face in that hair, gritted my teeth and thought of England.

Maggie was sitting in my chair when I arrived at the nick Saturday morning. ‘Morning, crimebuster,’ I said as she moved into the visitor’s place. ‘Is the kettle on?’ It was, of course.

‘I’ve rung the hospital,’ Maggie informed me. ‘They’re sending them home first thing, meaning nine o’clock, so I’ll meet them there. Are you coming?’

‘Do you need me?’

‘No. I can manage.’

‘OK. I want a word with Mr Wood, if he comes in. We need to know exactly what’s missing: values; photographs, if possible; any distinguishing marks; you know the sort of thing.’

‘It’s going to be a really jolly morning,’ she sighed.

‘Yeah, afraid so. To be honest, I think you’ll be better on your own. Look after them, Maggie, it’s a tough time for them.’

She finished her tea, looked at her watch and decided there were a few minutes to waste. ‘So, did you have a riotous Friday evening?’ she asked.

‘Went to the Eagle,’ I replied. ‘Don’t bother going. It’s a fun pub now.’

‘The Eagle up on the moors?’

‘Mmm.’

‘They used to do decent grub.’

‘Not any more.’

‘That’s a shame. Did you, um, go by yourself, or were you, um, accompanied?’ Maggie takes a sisterly interest in my love life.

‘I, er, did have a companion with me,’ I admitted.

‘The radiographer?’

‘No.’

‘The librarian?’

‘She’s not a librarian. I thought she was but she’d
just gone in to see her best friend, who is the librarian. They were both behind the counter and when they saw me approaching they fought to decide who served me.’

‘And the librarian friend won?’

‘No,’ I said with forced patience, ‘Jacquie won.’

‘Ah, it’s Jacquie, is it? So what does Jacquie do?’

‘She owns Annie’s Frock Shop in the mall.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘So she’s a lady of independent means?’

‘Let’s just say she’s doing better than I am.’

‘Great, Charlie. I hope it works out for you. Tell me, why don’t they call it Jacquie’s Frock Shop?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s like Alice’s Restaurant.’

Maggie looked puzzled, then said: ‘So what happened to the radiographer?’

‘She saw through me,’ I replied.

I had an hour doing paperwork until I felt the need for another brew coming on and went upstairs to see Superintendent Wood. When we were settled behind our mugs and I’d brought him up to date on crime in a small Pennine town, I said: ‘What can you tell me about Keith Crosby?’

He took that first tentative sip to test the temperature and replied: ‘Keith Crosby? Our old MP? Why, what’s he done?’

‘Nothing that I know of, but he wants to see me. Says it’s important. I thought you might have met him at one of your charity bashes, or the Freemasons.’

‘How many times,’ he sighed, ‘do I have to tell you? It’s the Rotary Club, not the Freemasons.’

‘It’s all the same,’ I told him.

‘No it’s not.’

‘You all piss in the same pot…’

‘No we don’t.’

‘…while standing on a chair, with one trouser leg rolled up.’

‘Do you want to know about Crosby or don’t you?’

‘Do you know him?’

‘I’ve only met him briefly, but I know about him. He gets talked about.’

‘Ah, so you go for the gossip,’ I said.

Gilbert nodded in agreement. ‘You’d be surprised what I learn, Charlie, when tongues have been loosened by the Macallan.’

I told him about me and Sparky being at the fire that caused Crosby’s fall from grace. Gilbert hadn’t known we were there. I was supposing that Crosby had some new evidence, and wanted to know as much as possible about him before we met.

‘He remembers you from the fire?’ Gilbert wondered.

‘Yes.’

‘It was sad, I suppose,’ he went on. ‘Poor bloke had only been an MP for a couple of years. Achieved his life’s ambition, then,
splodge,
it’s taken from him. Word has it that he’d set up a love nest with a gorgeous black girl, but I doubt if it’s true. Anyhow, it cost him his job.’

‘It was sad for the people burnt to death in the fire, Gilbert,’ I said. ‘Tell me how he’s got to where he is now, if you can.’

‘Well,’ he began, ‘you’ve heard of the Friends in Need organisation?’

‘Yes. It was a forerunner of the Samaritans, wasn’t it?’

‘Not exactly. The Samaritans came first, I believe, but the Friends is slightly different. Crosby started it long before he became an MP. It was a counselling service intended primarily for the student population, but the idea is that you call them long before you reach the suicide state. He must have got the idea when he was at university himself. From small beginnings it spread to other universities, and now it’s targeted at specific professional groups, especially the ones with high suicide rates. Doctors, for example. The theory is that each client also becomes a counsellor, so you are accountable to each other, if you follow me.’

‘You mean, they’d introduce a doctor who was having problems to someone similar who’d pulled through, so they could counsel each other?’

‘I think that’s it. If you are responsible for someone else’s well-being you are, hopefully, less likely to top yourself. I bet they had some really miserable phone calls, but we all enjoy a good moan, don’t we? Anyway, he got an MBE for it, so somebody thinks it works. After resigning from Parliament he threw himself into it, but I don’t know if he still runs the show; he must be nearly seventy now.’

‘Where does he come from?’

‘He’s not English. Well, nationalised, not born here. Poland, Hungary or somewhere. I think he probably fled here with his parents during the war. When are you seeing him?’

I looked at my watch. ‘Twelve o’clock. I’ve stung him for lunch.’

He was dressed differently but I easily recognised him. The politician’s suit was replaced by fawn slacks and a crumpled linen jacket, and he wore a straw Panama hat. The face was long and aristocratic, as I remembered it, with a nose designed for looking down or sniffing claret. Our Man in Heckley. I rose as he glanced around the pub garden, and he lifted a hand in recognition and threaded his way between the plastic furniture.

‘This is pleasant,’ I said as he seated himself next to me. The garden led down to the canal, and several narrow-boats were moored nearby. I fetched two pints
of bitter while he composed his speech.

We sipped the froth off the tops of our glasses, and after licking his lips appreciatively he said: ‘I’m very grateful for you seeing me, Mr Priest. I know you’re a busy man.’