Stuart Pawson - Some By Fire

"Jeremy," Roper-Jones said to a fresh-faced young man wearing wire-rimmed spectacles, 'this is Inspector Priest from the CID. He wants some information from the files. Would you give him all the help you can, please." Turning to me he went on: "Sorry to have to dash, Inspector, and it's been a pleasure to meet you. Jeremy's our archive expert; if the information is there he'll find it for you. And if we can be of further assistance, feel free to call us any time. As you'll have noticed, things are rather quiet at the moment. During term we haven't time to breathe. I'd be rather interested to know if you solve the case, Inspector. It's all grist for the mill, as they say."

Or common room gossip, I thought. "I'll keep you informed," I promised, 'and I'm grateful for your co-operation." We shook hands and he fled. He'd have something to tell Emm Emma? Emily? over lunch.

Jeremy had turned a chair around for me. "Are you allowed to go for your lunch while the boss is out?" I asked.

"No problem, Inspector," he replied with a grin.

"It's Charlie. Charlie Priest. C'mon then; let's have a quick look at these files and then I'll treat you."

After I dropped Jeremy off I went for a drive round the city. The one-way system had changed but I just went with the flow for a while then followed the signs for the Royal Armouries. I knew the Fox Borealis was nearby, backing on to the River Aire. What I didn't realise was just how big it was; fifteen storeys, I counted, which must have made it the tallest building in Leeds. And directly across the river was the matching office block. The pair of them made an impressive gateway to the town for anyone coming up the river. They were almost all glass, which reflected the colour of the sky and made them look less intrusive. For once, the architects had got it right.

The hotel was open, doing business, but the finishing touches were still being added. A Coles crane was parked across the entrance, lifting a huge gilt fox, the company's emblem, on to the roof of the portico. I decided to pop in for afternoon tea and a workman in a hard hat directed me around the danger zone.

Inside was about par for the course: lots of pale wood, potted palms and low furniture; four businessmen in their shirt sleeves holding a conference around a paper-strewn coffee table; a lone woman tapping the day's sales into a laptop; and the Four Seasons playing softly in the background. Vivaldi, that is, not the American group. I sank into a settee and looked for a waitress.

The Coles crane was leaving at the same time as I was. As I walked out of the building I saw it turn on to the road, its yellow strobe light flashing and three cars already queuing behind it, and hoped it wasn't heading south. I eased out of my parking place and noticed the fox over the entrance, with two workmen tightening the holding-down bolts.

It was in full flight, tail stretched out behind, and glancing back over its shoulder.

"How appropriate," I said under my breath. "How jolly appropriate."

Friday morning a fax arrived giving the names of half of Duncan's fellow course members, with parents' addresses. We'd reckoned that if mummy and daddy had been in their forties when their offspring left the nest to explore the groves of academe they'd probably be in their late sixties now. Assuming that sponsoring one or more children through university had left them impoverished, there was a good chance that they hadn't moved far.

Monday morning another fax came with the rest of the names, giving a total of sixty-nine for me to be going on with. Jeremy had added a note saying that it would take him the rest of the week to list the students in the years above and below Duncan, and a long time if I wanted everybody at the university. He was throwing himself into this. I did a quick calculation. If the university had doubled in size since 1975 he was talking about 11,000 names. If I did four a day, without time off, it would take me nearly eight years to trace and interview them all. I faxed him back, thanking him profusely for his assistance but saying I had enough to be going on with.

Jeff and Maggie made a map showing the route the burglars had taken as they milked the McLellands' credit cards for all they could. Only one purchase had been made two and a half thousand for a Hewlett Packard computer system from the Power Store but cash withdrawals from machines and travel agents took the total to nearly five grand. Jeff had drawn the routes taken after the previous robberies in different colours, and had highlighted the places where the time-gaps indicated that they had possibly returned to base with the transit and transferred to something faster and less noticeable. It gave us a good picture of the general vicinity they operated from.

"They're somewhere in the Golden Triangle," Dave stated. That's his name for the area bounded by Halifax, Huddersfield and Heckley.

"It certainly looks like it," I agreed.

"So they're our babies. What are we going to do about it?"

"Can I make a suggestion, Charlie?" Jeff said. I spread my fingers in a be-my-guest gesture. "Well," he continued, "I've been studying my Transits and this aerial behind the driver is really unusual. In fact, I haven't seen another like it, and a Transit passes you on the M62 about every fifteen seconds. They must be the most popular vehicle ever built. If we go public, say on Crimewatch, someone's bound to recognise it."

Dave jumped in with: "If we do that, we alert the villains too.

The Transit is the only decent lead we have. Going public will lose it for us."

I stroked my chin and thought about it. "I'll have a word with our friends," I told them, when I'd made my decision. "You might be right, Jeff, but for the moment I'd like to keep this knowledge within the team. If someone does finger the van for us we'll still need evidence to put them on the scene."

Nigel had been quiet up to now. He broke his silence, saying: "Has anyone else been receiving calls from double-glazing people?"

"Mmm, me," I replied. "What's that got to do with it?"

"I have, too," Jeff added.

"I've had four calls in as many days," Nigel told us. "As I'm ex-directory I couldn't help wondering where they got my number from. I reckon someone has sold them a list of all our names and addresses and phone numbers. Maybe someone here, or maybe at the federation, or possibly the subscription list for the Review."

"The point of your story being that we're as leaky as a wicker basket,"

I suggested.

"Yep, and there's a good chance they already know what we have on them."

You're both right, as always," I agreed, 'but I'm using my golden vote to overrule you. We're supposed to be detectives, so let's find them our way."

The phone rang, effectively rubber-stamping my decision. Fearnside didn't introduce himself, he just said: "Can you be at the SFO at nine a.m. tomorrow?"

"Er, nine a.m.?" I queried, downcast.

"That's right."

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Good," and he was gone.

I looked into the earpiece, as if expecting to see his face there before it receded back down the wires, and replaced the handset.

"Trouble?" Nigel asked.

Jeff didn't know anything about the Crosby case. I trusted him implicitly, but didn't want to go through the whole thing again. It always becomes awkward and embarrassing when you start keeping secrets from the team. "Er, no," I said. I'd have to set off about five o'clock and I was seeing Jacquie tonight. "No trouble at all."

The Serious Fraud Office is situated in NW1, which is about as accessible as Iquitos, Peru, to someone like me. I'd been before but couldn't remember the way, so I studied the map and jotted the route on a Post-it. Jacquie was content to go for a quick drink and afterwards didn't mind me dropping her off at the door. I half-heartedly suggested that she come down to London with me for the day, but she was seeing a buyer.