Stuart Pawson - Some By Fire

"Is that Mr. Kingston?" Annette asked in her best little-girl voice.

"It might be," he replied.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Kingston," she went on. "This is Janine from ABC Windows. We're doing a promotion in Kendal at the moment, with fifty per cent off, and are looking for a show home in your area. Would you be…"

"What did you say your name was?" he interrupted.

"Er, Janine, Mr. Kingston."

"And do you have a boyfriend, Janine?"

"Er, yes."

"So in that case why don't you piss off home and get him to give you a good stiff seeing-to." CLICK!

The four of us in the outer office buried our heads in our arms and shook with laughter. When I looked up Annette was standing there, blushing. "That was short and sweet," she said bravely.

It wasn't politically correct, but I couldn't resist it. I flapped a hand towards the door and said: "Well, off you go then."

It was Friday and he was at home. I didn't want to wait until Monday, but we were supposed to be having a team meeting in the afternoon. Dave knew as much as I did about this case but we were both a week behind with the burglaries, although it was obvious that there had been nothing new to report. I decided to dash up to Kendal to try to catch Kingston at home while they held the meeting without me. Dave and I discussed tactics and at just after eleven I filled the car with petrol and pointed it towards Cumbria, formerly Westmorland, aka the Lake District.

First stop was Kendal nick. I had a long talk with my opposite number, who I'd never met before, and told him the minimum I could. He realised I wasn't being too forthcoming but had the good sense to know that I probably had my reasons and didn't ask too many questions. The main thing was that he offered his co-operation and gave me directions to Kingston's house.

Somebody once said that schizophrenics build castles in the air, psychopaths live in them and psychiatrists collect the rent. OK, so he was a psychologist, but he was doing very nicely. The house was the end one of three that a farmer had built in one of his fields in the middle of nowhere. How he'd obtained planning permission was probably a story in itself, but the proof was here in the security gates, the five- or six-bed roomed mansion and the sweeping views towards the mountains. I pressed the button and wondered what happened next.

There was a click and a hum and the big gates swung open. They were black with gold arrowheads and Prince of Wales feathers. I looked one way, then the other, and strode off up to the block-paved drive. I'd once had a quote to have mine done like this, but had thought 4,000 excessive and opted for tarmac again. Kingston's drive was about twenty times as long as mine. Loopy Lucille from Draughty Windows could have earned herself a holiday in Benidorm with the commission on this. When I reached the door I paused for breath and rang the bell.

It definitely wasn't the cleaning lady who opened the door almost immediately, her mouth already forming words which she cut off when she saw me. "Oh!" she exclaimed, with what might have been a touch of disappointment. "I, er, I'm sorry, I, er, thought you were the man from Wineways."

She was about average height but that was the only thing about her that was average. Ash-blonde hair down to her shoulders and curves like Monza, fast and sweeping, demanding your full attention. She was under thirty, at a guess, and wearing a navy-blue pullover with a white blouse and jodhpurs. This was trophy wife incarnate. I took it all in with a trained policeman's sweeping glance, from the Hermes scarf at her throat right down to the gleaming riding boots with two spots of mud on the left and three on the right. She'd been out for a canter.

"No," I said, offering my ID. "I'm the man from the CID. Detective Inspector Priest. I was wondering if I could have a word with Mr.

Kingston."

She quickly regained her composure and realised I really was just another tradesman. "Mr. Kingston?" she echoed, as if I'd asked for an audience with Barbra Streisand. I was two steps down from her so she had the advantage, whichever way you looked at it.

"Is he in?" I wondered.

"What's it about?" she demanded. "He's very busy."

"Are you… Mrs. Kingston?" I risked. I suppose she could have been his daughter.

"Yes, I am."

"Could you please tell him it's about a little matter that I'm sure he can clear up. I won't keep him more than a few minutes."

"Well, actually, he's not in the house. I think you'll find him in the belvedere."

"The Belvedere?" I queried. Where the hell was the Belvedere?

"Yes. He does his reading there."

"Can you give me directions, please?"

She stepped down to my level and pointed to the corner of the house.

"At the bottom of the garden," she told me. "I'll tell him you're coming."

I wandered down the side of the house feeling bemused. He had a pub at the bottom of the garden? Wow! Wait till I told Sparky! There was a BMW M3 convertible in one of the garages and a short hike away I saw a large summerhouse flanked by ornamental trees. As I approached it Kingston came to the door and held it open for me, for which I was mightily grateful. This, presumably, was the belvedere, and they had a telephone line to it.

They also had electricity and the security system coupled up. It was a double-glazed mahogany construction shaped like an old thru penny bit, with a raised deck running all the way around it.

"Good afternoon, Inspector," Kingston greeted me. "My wife forewarned me of your approach."

I entered, then waited for him to pass me because there was more than one room. He pushed a door open and said: "In here, please."

It was every grown-up small boy's dream. Windows on three sides gave a view of the hills, as if from a ship's bridge. Behind me, the wall was lined with bookcases and framed old Ordnance Survey maps. "What a gorgeous view," I stated.

"Mmm, it is," he agreed. "Goat Fell. We try to walk over it three times a week."

"Both of you?"

"Of course. Just the thing to raise your, er, spirits."

"It's beautiful. I envy you."

"Do you know the Lake District at all?" he asked.

"Yes, I've done most of it," I boasted.

"Really? Good for you."

Leaning in a corner I noticed a high-powered air gun with a telescopic sight, and one of the windows was wide open. "Shooting?" I asked, nodding towards the gun.

"Squirrels," he replied. "Grey ones, of course. Bloody menace they are." Thirty yards away, hanging from a branch, were several bird-feeders filled with peanuts.

"Sit down, Inspector," he invited, 'and tell me how I can help you.

Francesca didn't catch your name…"

"Priest," I told him, settling into a studded leather chair that matched the captain's he pulled out for himself. "From Heckley CID. I believe you were a lecturer at Essex University back in 1969."

"Good God!" he exclaimed, throwing his head back and guffawing. "I knew I should have paid that parking ticket! You've taken your time, Inspector, if you don't mind me saying so."

I didn't mind at all. My day would come. In some ways he was a bit like me. Tallish, skinny, with all his own hair worn a little too long. The years had treated us differently, though. My features have been etched by alternating stress and laughter into an attractive pattern of wrinkles and laugh-lines. Well, I think so. He'd grown flabby-cheeked and dew lapped from a dangerous combination of dissolute living and half-hearted exercise. He wasn't wearing well, in spite of his efforts.

I aid: "You lectured in psychology, sir, I believe."

"That's right, Inspector. You are to be commended for your diligence;

I can see you've done your homework."

"Can I ask… why psychology?" There was no table between us and I carefully watched his reactions. He might have the book learning, but my knowledge of human behaviour was honed on the streets and in the interview rooms, with some of the toughest nutters and craftiest crooks in society.