Stuart Pawson - Some By Fire

"You've been a little beaver on this, Dave," I told him, knowing that sitting in the office using the telephone was not his favourite style of policing. "I appreciate it."

"That's because I've a ghost to lay," he replied grimly.

We' dnever talked about me dragging him out of that burning building all those years ago. I'd always suspected that a little bit of him blamed me for not letting him try to rescue Jasmine Turnbull, but he'd never said anything. I didn't feel guilty about it; he hadn't stood a chance. "I know, old son," I said. "I know you have." I reread the fax and that old restless feeling began to swell inside me. We were on to something, I was sure of that. "Some time tomorrow," I said, 'have a word with Graham at the SFO and tell him where we're at. If we're dealing with the FBI and Interpol we should keep them informed, and no doubt they have some better contacts than us. Give him some of it to do, if you want."

"Did you say he's a DS?"

"Yeah."

"Right. No sweat."

I called at the supermarket and bought a fresh trout and a ready-made salad, determined to improve my eating habits. Smothered in margarine and four minutes in the microwave and the trout would be delicious. The oven was pinging to say it was ready when the phone rang. "DI Priest, Heckley CID," I barked into it.

It was Loopy Lucille from Easybroke Windows. They were working in my area again and looking for a show house that they could fix at a huge discount PLUS offering four windows for the price of six and when could they start?

I said: "Er, no thanks, love." That trout smelled good.

"What about a conservatory?" she asked. They were doing interest-free credit on conservatories.

"Er, no, love."

"A patio door?"

"I don't have a patio."

"Our range of Victorian patios come complete with free dwarf conifers.

When would you like our surveyor to call?"

"No thanks."

"Plastic guttering, soffits and fascia boards?"

"No."

"Imitation stone cladding?"

"No."

"Block-paved driveway?"

"No."

"Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Priest," she sang, unperturbed by rejection.

I couldn't believe it. She was about to put her phone down, allowing me to return to my meal, when I heard myself saying: "Wooden Indians."

"Pardon," she said.

"Wooden Indians," I repeated. "I don't suppose you do wooden Indians.

I've been trying to find a wooden Indian for years."

"Wooden… Indians?" she queried. They weren't in her script.

"That's right."

"I'll put you through to my manager. Hold the line, please."

The New World symphony burst into my left ear as she briefed her manager. I remembered a little dodge I used to be good at when I spent some time on the front desk, and wondered if I could still do it. If one of our regulars rang the nick to complain about a domestic I used to make clicking noises like a loose connection on the line. I was young and irresponsible in those days. After struggling to be understood for a while they'd say: "Oh, forget it," and stab their husband with the potato peeler.

"Hello, Mr. Priest," came a cheery voice.

"Actually, it's the Reverend Priest," I replied.

"Reverend Priest! Well, good evening, sir. How are you this evening?"

"Very well, ck ck you."

"Good. And a lovely evening it is too."

"It is, isn't ckckT "This is a bad line," he told me. "Can I just check your number, Reverend Priest, and I'll ring you back." I agreed that he'd got it right and held the bar down. The phone rang immediately.

"Ah, that's better," he began. "Now, could you please tell me what it was you're interested in, Reverend Priest. Lucille didn't quite catch what you said."

"I told her I was considering ck ck a conservatory, if the price was ckck."

"Right, sir. I'm afraid this line is just the same."

"I can ck ck you perfectly well."

"Good. Good. So when will it be convenient for someone to come and discuss our range of Georgian, Victorian and Edwardian conservatories with you?"

"I'd prefer it if you could just give me an approximate ck ck over the phone. I may not beck ck to afford one."

"We're not really able to give prices over the phone," he replied.

"There are so many different considerations, such as size and style and …"

"Oh, I ck ck the size," I interrupted. "It will have to beck ck six inches long by ck ck six inches wide."

"I didn't quite catch that, sir."

"I said ck ck six inches long and ck ck six inches wide."

"I'm sorry, sir," he said. "I'm only getting the six inches."

"Ooh! You should be so lucky!" I told him and he called me a fucking wanker and we slammed our phones down more or less simultaneously.

Agent Kaprowski rang just after nine, while I was still basking in the warm glow of success. "According to Officer Sparkington you're interested in a lady called Melissa Youngman," he said, after the introductions. "I'd be appreciative if you could tell me what your concern is, Inspector Priest."

"Right," I told him. "First of all can I say thanks for ringing, Agent Kaprowski. Do I, er, have to keep calling you Agent Kaprowski? I answer to Charlie."

"Pleased to have your acquaintance, Charlie. I'm Mike."

"That's better. OK, Mike, here we go." I told him briefly about the fire and Melissa's possible involvement. I made it vague and general, and said we thought there might have been a political motive. I suggested that it gave us a window on to a much bigger picture, but at the moment it was dark out there. He made uh-uh noises at appropriate intervals. I finished by asking why the FBI had a file on her.

"Routine," he replied. "It was opened in '73 when she came to UCLA, presumably because of her drugs conviction. They were heady days back then, and all sorts of cuckoos were coming in and causing trouble. Miss Youngman, it says here, had friends in Paris who were believed to be attached to the Red Brigade. They were a bunch o' left-wing loonies based in Italy. She left the US a year later, re-entered in 1989 and immediately made contact with a militia group in Tennessee. That's about the size of it. Did you say this fire was back in '75?"

"Yes."

"Gee! Don't you guys ever give up?"

"Just catching up with my workload, Mike. I thought these militia groups you have were right-wing."

"Right-wing, left-wing, what's the difference? Do you subscribe to the theory that the world is round, Charlie?"

"Er, yes."

"That's a concept that a farm boy from Iowa like me has difficulty grappling with. Apparently if you walk far enough in one direction you'll find yourself coming back the other way. It's just the same with these groups; they all widdle in the same creek. If the guns are big enough and it messes with the government, they'll join."

"I get the message. Do you know where she is now?"

"Youngman? No, but I reckon we could find her without breaking a sweat. You want her back?"

"I'm not sure. We might one day, but at the moment we're only gathering background, acquaintances, you know the thing."

"Well, just let me know if you do, and I'll put her on the next plane with a liddle label around her neck."

"She sounds a delightful lady, I can hardly wait. Thanks for your help, Mike, and I'll be in touch."

"My pleasure, Charlie. Adios."

"Adios."

Adios. I liked that. I replaced the phone and said it again. "Adios.

Adios. Adios, amigo." So Melissa was in America, running through the woods with a bunch of rednecks whose wives had backsides bigger than their pickups and whose idea of entertainment was arm-wrestling with a bear. Should be right up the street of an ex-head girl of Beverley Cathedral Grammar School, I thought.

The anti cyclone re-established itself over the Bay of Biscay, pushing the threat of unsettled weather back over Russia, where it belonged.