Stuart Pawson - Some By Fire

The phone was ringing as I arrived home. I charged into the hallway and gasped: "Priest," into it, my jacket half off and every door behind me wide open.

A female voice intoned something like. "Oh hello my name is Mindless Sally from Leaky Windows and we are doing a promotion in your area and require a show house for one of our conservatories all you have to do to receive a three million per cent discount is to agree for our photographer to take some pictures which we will use in our publicity material when would you like a representative to call to give you a no-obligation quotation?"

I said: "Pardon?"

"My name is…"

"No, love," I interrupted. "I, er, already have a conservatory, thank you." I didn't but it was unlikely she'd sue.

"Would you be interested in double-glazing?"

"Got it," I told her, this time with conviction.

"A patio door? We have a special offer at the moment where "No," I insisted. "I don't need anything like that, thank you. In fact, I'm moving next week."

"What about your new house?"

"I'm going abroad. Puerto Rico."

"OK. Sorry to have troubled you."

I replaced the phone and pulled my other arm out of its sleeve, muttering: "Then why did you?" to nobody in particular. She'd been the third this week. Six flies had come in through the open doors and were doing aerobatics around my kitchen. I found an aerosol of Doom under the sink and gave each of them enough to stun a Tetley's dray horse. With maximum prejudice, as the CIA say.

One minute earlier the next call would have dragged me out of the shower, and that would have meant big trouble for someone. I mean, like, BIG. As it was, I was dry but improperly dressed when I answered it.

"Sorry to bother you, Charlie," the desk sergeant said, 'but a bloke called Mr. Crosby has been on again. Asked me to ask you to call him.

Wouldn't say what it was about, just that he knew you from long ago."

"No trouble, Arthur," I replied. "You know as well as I do that the CID never sleeps. Give me the number." I wrote it down and said: "If we've met before it must be Keith Crosby. You remember him, don't you?"

"Our old MP? That was a long time ago. He got sacked, didn't he?"

"He resigned."

"I remember now. Wasn't he caught dipping his bread in someone else's gravy? Nowadays they're all at it. What does he want?"

"No, he wasn't, and I don't know what he wants. Have a quiet night."

"And you."

Keith Crosby wanted to meet me, to tell me a story. That's what he said after I'd rung his number and introduced myself. "I've seen your name in the paper several times, Mr. Priest," he continued, 'and I remembered you from all those years back. You impressed me. I thought then that you'd make a good policeman, and I was delighted to read of your successes."

"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 co-operative, 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 apiece 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.