Stuart Pawson - Some By Fire

And then there was Kingston. If Fox was the Fuhrer, then Kingston was the head of his Gestapo. I was sure of it, but I had my own reasons for wanting Kingston. Private reasons.

I'd set the alarm to give me an hour's lie-in, but when it beeped into life I couldn't understand why I was late. Then I remembered; today was the day that Mr. Fox would snip the ribbon and create a thousand new jobs. And a city would be grateful and honour him. How many he'd lost that city over the past twenty years was incalculable. A thought struck me, as I lay in that never-never land when my stomach wants feeding but my legs refuse to swing out of bed. It was self-evident, but had completely eluded the last government. Every time a company streamlines itself by destroying a job, ten other businesses lose a customer. Not bad for seven on a Tuesday morning, I thought, and my legs kicked themselves from under the duvet and the day began.

I put on my charcoal suit and a blue tie with a pink stripe that added a dash of frivolity. I wouldn't take my briefcase, I decided, or even a notebook. We'd have a chat, man to man, nice and informal if I could see him for lawyers and I'd try to drop a little bombshell just before I left. Something to put them in a panic. I buffed my shoes with the soles of my socks and we were ready.

Traffic into Leeds at that time in the morning is like any normal big-city traffic. A great time to read War and Peace or study Mandarin. I timed my run so I'd just miss the nine o'clock peak, if there was such a thing, and hopefully arrive far too early. Perhaps I'd have time for a coffee in the restaurant. We were stop-going on the M621 when I thought I'd catch up on the mornings news. The M621 used to be the only motorway in the world that terminated at a set of traffic lights. Now it peters out in a forest of traffic cones, but it'll be good when it's finished. I pushed the power button and a familiar voice finished a story about natter jack toads. "Police in Yorkshire…" she continued.

"That's me!" I thought.

'… are trying to identify a man who threw himself off the Scammonden bridge over the M62."

He was, she told us, the umpteenth suicide there since the bridge was constructed. That'll be a great consolation to the relatives, I thought. A BMW in the fast lane decided he wanted my bit of the slow lane and cut across me. Fifty seconds later he'd done just the opposite. I braked and cursed him but he was too engrossed in his telephone conversation to notice.

"And a piece of late news has just been handed to me," she was saying.

"The businessman J.J. Fox, head of the Reynard Organisation, has been found dead in his hotel room in Leeds.

We'll let you have more on that as soon as we receive it."

I swung on to the hard shoulder and yanked the hand brake on, but she'd passed us over to the sports presenter, who was saying that our numero uno tennis player had lost in straight sets to a nine-year-old from Utah. "You should have strangled the little bastard," I hissed at the radio as I switched it off and reached for my phone.

I rang the nick and then Tregellis, but it was me breaking the news to them, so I decided the best place to be was at the Fox Borealis. I indicated right and an artic flashed me out.

The foyer of the hotel was filled with people standing in little hushed groups. There'd been a PC at the entrance, making a note of all visitors, which meant that the death was regarded as suspicious. He told me that Superintendent Isles was in charge and let me in. My old mate Les; that made it easier.

Another PC was guarding the lifts and two detectives were trying to organise the guests into a queue so they could take their names and then let them out to do their selling or conferencing or whatever it was that had brought them to this place on this day. Technicians and reporters in T-shirts and jeans, were wandering around with microphones and tape recorders, talking to anyone who looked as if they might be able to string two words together. A TV person with a big camera was speaking to head office on his mobile. "Can you get one of the body?" they'd be saying.

I introduced myself to the PC at the lift and told him I needed to see Mr. Isles. He explained that there was an express lift, for private use, that went straight up to the penthouse, on the fifteenth floor, where Mr. Isles was. However, that was out of bounds and only one of the other lifts was in use. I could go up in it but it only went to the fourteenth floor. I thanked him and he pressed the button.

I stepped out into a moderately large foyer with a blue and gold carpet and several easy chairs. Four figures turned to see who the newcomer was and Les Isles said: "Good God! What are you doing here?"

"Look in his diary," I replied. "I've an appointment to see Mr. Fox at ten o'clock."

"You were seeing Fox? What for?"

"To ask him some questions. Is it murder?"

"We don't know." He introduced me to the pathologist and a DI, telling them: "When Charlie appears, you know you have trouble."

"So what's happened?" I asked.

"Maid found him, 'bout six thirty," Les replied. "He's half on the floor, hanging from the bed head with a dressing gown cord round his neck. At first glance it's a sex game gone wrong, but that might be the intention. The SO COs and scientific are in there at the moment.

I want every fibre, every latent footprint on record. Nobody goes in without an Andy Pandy on. We should have a video in a few minutes.

Right, now you're up to speed, how about telling us why you're here."

I told them about the fire, Melissa, Kingston and the link with Fox, and left it at that. "I was hoping Fox might tell me something about Kingston," I said, 'seeing as he employed him."

A SOCO came down the stairs carrying a video cassette. He was wearing a white suit that completely enveloped him. Presumably Andy Pandy dressed in a similar manner. Only a nose protruded, beneath a pair of rimless spectacles. Les took the cassette and said: "Thank you, Carol.

"He was a she.

The DI was speaking on his radio. "The caravan's set up," he said as he switched off, 'but the BT engineer's still working on the phones."

"In that case find the manager and ask him if there's anywhere we can watch this," Les told him, waving the cassette. The DI made for the lift and the pathologist excused himself and followed.

When we were alone I said: "There's a lot more to this, Les. I'm seconded to the SFO and they're looking into Fox's affairs. I'll fill you in when we have the chance, but meanwhile I'd appreciate it if you could let me sit in on things."

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I knew it. As soon as I saw you I knew it. You're bad news, Charlie, did anyone ever tell you?"

I grinned and said: "I know, but it makes death more interesting, doesn't it."

The manager switched the video on and told the DI which button to press on the remote control when the tape had run itself back to the beginning. He hovered until Les told him, very politely, that he'd have to leave. It might have been his office, with a huge mahogany desk, three-piece suite and Atkinson Grimshaw prints on the walls, but this was a murder inquiry and he'd have to go. I assumed they were prints, but you never know.

The SOCO had given us a wide-angle overall view of Fox's suite of rooms that constituted the penthouse. She'd panned around and wandered from room to room as if making a film for architects or interior designers.

The main room, presumably the one intended for his waking hours, had a glass wall with a view over the city, and outside was a bank of mirrors that could follow the sun and reflect it in. Furniture was sparse but luxurious, with lots of white fur, and a few antique pieces struck a discordant note.

After the grand tour the SOCO pulled back the lens and got down to the nitty-gritty. Fox's clothes were in an un hasty pile in a Queen Anne chair with a pair of striped boxer shorts on top. The huge bed was crumpled and the pillows had been pushed to one side. It was built in, with lights and speakers in the headboard and a bank of controls for things I could only wonder about. The man himself was half-kneeling, half-sitting on the floor near the top of the bed. His head was at an awkward angle and a cord led from his neck and was looped behind one of the hi-fi speakers. The cameraman zoomed in with ruthless disregard for taste or propriety. This was strictly after-the-watershed stuff.