Stuart Pawson - Some By Fire

There were only four that were relevant to our inquiry. Melissa, Mo and Mrs. Holmes, or Miss Wilson as she was then, were in self-conscious poses with several other young people in the various stages of inebriation. "Which one is you?" I'd asked after she'd pointed to Melissa on three of them.

"There," she said, 'and there," indicating a slim girl with long straight hair.

"You look like Julie Felix," I said.

She blushed and said: "I did a reasonable impersonation of her with the guitar, when pressed."

"And that must be Mo."

"A brilliant deduction, my dear Watson," she replied. He was the only black person in the photographs.

"Elementary, Holmes," I said, on cue, and she gave me a wistful smile, as if I'd stumbled into a private joke that she hadn't heard for a long time.

The pictures weren't the great breakthrough we'd hoped they might be.

They were small, two and a quarter inches square at a guess, and black and white. The quality was excellent, but the poses were informal and not much use for identification purposes.

"Can we borrow these?" I asked.

"Yes, of course."

"Is Kingston in any?" Dave wondered.

"No. He took them, but would never let anybody else handle his precious camera. It was the same as the first men on the moon used, he claimed. Another of his boasts. He did us all a set of contact prints, but would charge us for enlargements, if we wanted them. He wasn't famous for his generosity, just the opposite. Photography was one of his hobbies."

"Along with witchcraft," Dave suggested.

"Yes, and keep-fit and rock climbing. He was into everything. He was an interesting person, in a way, but weird with it. And slimy. I didn't like him, either." She laughed again and said: "I'm awful, aren't I?"

I assured her she wasn't and thanked her for everything. We placed our cups on the tray and I held the door for her as we walked through into the kitchen. Outside, there was a table on the lawn, with one chair against it, and the grass had been half-cut and then abandoned. "Do you know where Melissa is?" Mrs. Holmes asked.

"We believe she's in the United States," I replied.

"I've always thought I'd read about her one day," she said. "She was a remarkable girl, but after that episode with her parents I decided she was heartless, capable of anything. Nothing Melissa did would surprise me."

"You've dust on your nose," I said, smiling.

"A talented lady," Dave commented as we rejoined the Al.

"Mmm. And capable of anything, it would appear."

"Who?"

"Melissa."

"I meant Mrs. Holmes."

"Yes, she's a clever woman."

"And nice, too."

"What are you getting at?" I asked.

"Nothing, but you could do worse."

"She can't cook," I replied.

"I suspect she was being modest, and that's what takeaways are for."

"She's not my type."

"No? I bet that when we've had these photos enlarged you just happen to return the originals personally."

"I might. The camera was a Hasselblad, by the way," I said.

"I know. And the moon men left theirs at the Sea of Tranquillity.

Shall we go fetch it tomorrow?"

"Good idea."

We went to London instead. I'd wanted Dave to have a day down there to meet Graham and the team and compare notes. Our loose agreement was that we'd concentrate on the fire and they would resurrect the files on the other deaths that had accumulated on J.J. Fox's path to fortune.

When we'd arrived back at the office I'd rung the SFO and Graham had quickly discovered that Mo Dlamini lived in Southwark, south London, and had carved himself a reputation as a worker for civil liberties.

Nicholas Kingston was harder to pin down. I decided we'd both go; meet them mob-handed. Dave could drive us there while I snoozed.

Taking the car into town was a mistake. I'd timed it so we'd arrive about ten o'clock, but every hour is rush hour in London, and people were killing for parking places. We eventually muscled into a space and I took Dave into the hallowed halls of the Serious Fraud Office. A quick phone call told me that Mo Dlamini would be in his office most of the day and I left Dave discussing tactics with his new friends, Graham and Piers.

There was a tube train waiting at the platform, but I didn't know which way it was heading. I jumped on and risked it. At the next station I got off and looked for the down line. I'm just a country bumpkin at heart. Southwark is just across the river, according to the map, but it still took me nearly an hour to find his office. It was in a purpose-built Community and Resources centre, with graffiti on the walls next to posters about needle sharing and benefit cheats. Thursday was basketball, and two teams of youths were charging about in a huge gymnasium and getting nowhere, in spite of all having the proper gear.

Looking the part is all. Their shouts and the shrieks of rubber against wooden floor were deafening. I watched them for a few seconds with the door ajar and decided he wouldn't be in there. A woman with two toddlers asked me where the toilets were. I'd noticed them when I came in, so I pointed and said: "At the end." If in doubt, ask a policeman. There were several other doors off the corridor, some padlocked, some open. One led to a kitchen where a youth with a shaved head and a bolt through his neck was mopping the floor. "Where's Mr.

Dlamini's office?" I asked.

"Who?" he replied.

"Mo Dlamini."

"Dunno."

"Thanks."

Fortunately for me a human being came round the corner, wearing a dog collar, and he told me that Mo's office was the last on the left. I knocked and a voice shouted:

"Come in!"

Everybody in this case is older than I expected. Not old, exactly, but more mature. In their prime. About my age. I imagined everybody as if frozen at the age they were in the seventies, before twenty-three years of striving to earn a living had taken their toll. Mo Dlamini's hair was seriously greying, but he was as big as he'd looked on the photos and the expression was just as open and confident. He was a lighter colour than I thought he'd be, and his features were soft, almost European. He shook my hand vigorously and introduced me to his son, Ainsley.

Ainsley was leaning on the wall because it was easier for him than contorting his frame into one of the little stacking chairs.

Including his hair he must have been nearly seven feet tall and was built like a clothes prop. "Hi, Ainsley," I said, peering at the discreet logo on the left breast of his dazzling white T-shirt as we exchanged handshakes. It said calvin bolloCKs, and I warmed to him immediately.

"Sit down, Inspector Priest," Dlamini invited, 'and tell us what we can do for you. You're a long way from Yorkshire so it must be important."

"Thanks." I coiled myself into the chair he gestured towards and took a quick glance at my surroundings. It wasn't exactly the office of a hot-shot lawyer, with its transport cafe Formica table, bare walls and tiled floor. I decided that this was where he held his surgeries. The heavyweight bookcases, VDUs, coffee percolator and secretarial staff were elsewhere. I looked at Ainsley then back at Dlamini and said:

"Some of the stuff I want to discuss is of a confidential nature…"

I left it hanging and they both took the hint.

"I'll see how the basketball's going," Ainsley said, launching himself towards the door. "Pleasure to meet you, Inspector."

"Likewise, Ainsley," I replied. "Nothing personal."

"Ring your mum," his father shouted after him, followed by, "Kids, who'd have 'em?"

"He's a big lad," I observed.

"Big? I work the first three days of the week just to feed him. So what's this all about?"

I dived straight in. "I'd like you to cast your mind back to 1970 if you can, Mr. Dlamini. Can you remember where you were then?" '1970? Jesus," he replied. "First of all, it's Mo. Everybody calls me Mo."