Stuart Pawson - Some By Fire

"You used to visit him at… his flat?" I said, narrowly avoiding saying 'squat'.

"Yeah."

"I went to have a look for myself, about a week after I saw you. Nice place he had."

"Yeah, wicked."

"Mr. Wong, the landlord, showed me round," I lied.

"Did he?"

"Mmm. Right, DJ, I'll tell you what we know. Your Uncle Duncan telephoned someone just before he died, confessing to starting a fire in Leeds, back in 1975. Eight people died in the fire, and it's still on our files as an unsolved crime it was arson, started deliberately.

I've been trying to link your uncle with it but so far can't find anything at all to suggest he was anywhere near or had anything to do with it. He was a sick man, DJ. Maybe he knew someone who died in the fire, someone he loved, and thought he could have saved them somehow.

It might have been preying on his mind all these years. Perhaps, in the phone call, he didn't say he started the fire, perhaps he said he was to blame for it, and the person he was talking to misinterpreted his words. Do you follow what I'm saying?"

"Yeah, I fink so."

"I don't know if that helps at all. Anything else you want to ask me?"

"No. That's about it. Fanks for ringing."

"No problem, DJ. And any time you want to talk, you know where I am."

"If you find anyfing else will you let me know?" he blurted out as an afterthought.

"Will do."

"OK. Fanks again."

We all replaced our phones and Dave joined me again. "You handled that very, er, sensitively, squire, if you don't mind me saying so," he told me.

"Li'l ol' smooth-talkin' me," I said. "Trouble is, he was lying through his teeth. Someone put him up to that call."

"Oh. Who?"

"I don't know. His dad? His mum?" I reached into a drawer for my planner diary and turned to the back page where I write new telephone numbers. I said: "The code for his parents, in Welwyn Garden City, is… here we are… 01707. And the code for wherever I've just rung him at is… 01524. Where's that?"

"Hang on," Dave told me and went back out. I watched him walk over to the bookshelf where we keep all the telephone stuff and extract some pages stapled together. He consulted them for a few seconds, put them back and retraced his steps into my office.

"Lancaster," he said.

"Lancaster!" I echoed. "He's in Lancaster?"

"It sounds like it."

"What the chuff's he doing there?"

We were discussing possibilities when Nigel and Jeff came in. Jeff was carrying a rolled-up tabloid, which he spread on my desk, saying: "Seen this, boss?"

We were on the front page, or the Transit was. Find This Van ran the headline, over a full-page picture of a Transit doctored to look like the one we needed. That took care of page one. Inside, we learned that East Pennine police were putting lives at risk by not disclosing details of the vehicle used by villains who had terrorised old people right across the north of England, tying them to their chairs in their own homes while they ransacked, violated and desecrated. It was powerful stuff; interrupted only by Angharad on page three who wanted to be a brain surgeon and had nipples that stuck out like a racing dog's balls. If we were indifferent to the safety of the people, it went on, they, the UK News, would gladly take that responsibility upon themselves by publishing full details of the vehicle used in these dastardly crimes. They offered a 10,000 reward for anyone who found it, providing, of course, that they weren't policemen and it led to a conviction.

"See!" I declared. "I told you to go public' "Urn, no, boss," Jeff replied. "The way I, um, recollect things, you used your golden vote to overrule us all."

"Did I!" I exclaimed. "MoiV Dave said: "Blimey! You could hang your cap and a walking stick on them."

"It might work," Nigel told us. "Perhaps someone will ring in."

"Don't hold your breath," Dave told him. "Yuk News readers probably think they're talking about something on television. They'll all be looking for a Transit in EastEnders tonight."

"So what do we do?" Jeff asked.

"Nothing," I replied. "If the other papers don't pick it up we might get away with it. Chances of the villains seeing it are fairly small, and the Yuk News's credibility is about as low as mine at the moment.

Give something bland to the publicity department for them to hand out if anyone asks."

"Right," Jeff said, rolling the paper up and tossing it into the bin.

"Are you happy with that?" I asked him.

"Sure. No problems."

"OK," I said. "Here's another for you. What is elephant?"

"Elephant?" they replied, not quite in unison.

"That's right. Elephant."

"Big grey animal," Dave told us. "Pulls bunches of grass up with its tail and stuffs them up its arse."

I ignored him and related the conversation that O'Keefe's pal, "Wilkie'

Collins, had overheard in the Half a Sixpence. "So what did he mean?"

I asked.

"Horse is heroin," Nigel said. "Could be the same. Elephant, sounds reasonable. Or perhaps it's simply E for Ecstasy."

"It must be drugs," Jeff agreed. "Herbal cannabis looks a bit like elephant shit."

"Have you ever seen elephant shit?" I asked.

"Well, no, but it looks like it ought to look. And shit's cannabis."

"Trouble is," Nigel said, 'they change the names all the time. It's best to just use the proper name when you talk to them. If you try to be clever and streetwise you end up looking foolish."

"It's not Ecstasy," Jeff declared. "It's too butch for Ecstasy."

Nigel, thinking aloud, mumbled: "Elephant… elephant… elephant… s'foot umbrella stand."

We were getting nowhere until Dave made a contribution. "It's rhyming slang," he said.

"Go on," I urged him.

"I don't know what for. Elephant something… then something else that rhymes with it, like, oh, er, horse and cart… fart."

"Earthy as always, David," I said. "So keep going."

He thought for a few seconds, then offered us: "Elephant's trunk… um … skunk."

"That's cannabis," Jeff told us.

"Elephant's trunk, junk," Nigel suggested.

"That's heroin," Jeff confirmed.

I said: "Sounds highly likely it's one or the other. Have a word with O'Keefe, Jeff, and see if he's anything to add. Have a few liquid lunches in the Half a Sixpence; they sound a distinctive trio, you might recognise them. And let Drugs know about it; maybe they'll have some ideas of their own."

"Right," he replied, adding: "My money's on skunk. The place is flooded with it."

Things were moving, and that gives me a good feeling. I'd have liked to have kept working on the burglaries but I had to let go and give Jeff a chance. If he caught them I'd still get the credit, but all the satisfaction of feeling their collars would be his. We now had a name for the girl with purple hair, and that would lead to other names, dozens of them, one of whom might hold the key to eight agonising deaths. I'd be more than satisfied if we could solve this piece of unfinished business.

Interpol came back to us on Tuesday afternoon. They had a file on Melissa Youngman because of her drugs conviction and some doubtful associates, and had faxed us a resume. She'd attended seven universities, including the University of California, Los Angeles, but had never graduated. Not in any of the named subjects, that is. Her studies had given her foundation courses on palaeontology, very useful; modern languages; psychology; politics and business studies. No bomb-making, but a well-rounded education by any standards. The last bit was most interesting. When at UCLA she had contacted a right-wing group of militiamen and was believed to be currently living in the States. Consult FBI for further details, it said, which was all the encouragement Dave required.

"They're five hours behind us," Dave reminded me when our paths crossed and he had an opportunity to tell me how hard he'd worked. "Somebody called Agent Kaprowski is attending to it and will ring back. I'm taking the kids to the baths, so I've given him your home number and our office hours. Is that OK?"