Stuart Pawson - Some By Fire

Fox was naked apart from pyjama trousers, which were round his ankles.

His eyes were closed, and he looked reasonably peaceful, although a ribbon of saliva had run down his chin and chest. His winkie was relaxed, small and red, with a condom hanging off the end like an old sock. If that's safe sex, I thought, God save me from the dangerous sort.

An hour later we saw the real thing, just before he was hauled away for dissection. I didn't feel sorrow for him, not an ounce. Around his bed the pong of cheap perfume hung in the air like petrol fumes on a foggy morning, and that, as much as anything, convinced me what a sordid little man he was. Les still insisted we wore paper suits and bootees and we trudged from room to room, me concerned with the man's lifestyle, Les looking for anything that might throw some light on how he met his death.

A feature of the living room was a pond containing several large koi carp. As we approached they rose to the surface and followed us with their bulging eyes.

"They need feeding," the DI stated.

"So do I," Les told him.

In another room I found a bank of televisions, six of them, all glowing silently, their screens alight with columns of names and numbers. They were showing stock market prices from all around the world: the Dow Jones, Hang Seng, Nikkei; plus exchange rates and commodity prices. If that's what it took to become rich, I'd rather not bother.

"Look at this, boss," I heard the DI say, and wandered out to see what he'd found. He was holding a fishing rod, about four feet long, complete with reel, line and hook.

"Where was that?" Les asked.

"Under there," the DI replied, pointing to a window seat. "It lifts up. I was looking for some fish food for them."

"That's one way of doing your fishing," Les said. "Beats standing out in the rain for hours."

I went back to Heckley and did some typing. Les promised to keep me informed about the post-mortem and I arranged to see him in the morning with a synopsis of Fox's affairs. He rang me late that evening, just after I'd stood under the shower.

"Cause of death was asphyxia by strangulation," he said, bypassing the normal formalities. "Time, about eleven p.m."

"Foul play?" I wondered.

"Difficult to tell. We've told the press that it looks like a sexual experiment that went tragically wrong. He was over twice the driving limit with alcohol and there were traces of coke on the bedside table.

Haven't got the results of the blood test yet. What did you say that character was called who worked for Fox?"

"Kingston," I replied. "Nick Kingston. Why?"

"I thought so. Because an NJ.W. Kingston was booked in the Fox Borealis for Monday night, but his bed wasn't slept in."

"That sounds like my man," I said.

"One other guest is unaccounted for," Les continued. "A young lady called Danielle La Petite also booked in for Monday night only. Her room was number 1403, Kingston's was 1405, next door. Both rooms were booked on Reynard's account, so there were no bills to pay."

"Danielle La Petite I said, 'sounds like a hooker."

"She does, doesn't she? We're checking her out."

"Les…" I began.

"I know what you're going to say," he replied.

"What?"

"You want to talk to Kingston."

"So how about it?"

"See me in the morning, as planned, and we'll discuss it then."

"Fair enough, and thanks for ringing."

"There's one other small point you might find interesting," he said before I replaced the phone. "Guess what Fox's last meal was?"

"No idea."

"Sushi."

"Sushi? Raw fish?"

"That's right. With oysters. About nine o'clock the chef went up to his room and prepared a freshly-caught carp for Mr. Fox and his guest.

She was a tall and beautiful half-caste girl. The chef is Japanese, and his English is rather basic. He said she was dressed like a prostitute."

"Yuck," I said.

Superintendent Isles was happy for me to interview Kingston. I knew the man, was intimate with the story, and could put my mileage expenses on the SFO's account. One of his own detectives would have been limited to the usual did-anyone-see-you-there questions; I could try to get under his guard. I rang him in Kendal from Les's office.

"It's DI Priest from Heckley CID," I said. "I came to see you a fortnight ago."

"I remember, Inspector. The Carlos Castaneda man."

"That's me. First of all, I suppose you have heard the bad news about J.J. Fox?"

"Yes, just caught it on the radio. What a tragedy."

"We've just been going through the guest list at the Fox Borealis where he died," I told him, 'and have noticed that there is a N.J.W. Kingston on it, with your address. Were you at the Fox Borealis on Monday night, sir?"

"Well, yes, as a matter of fact I was, Inspector. I had a meeting with J.J. that evening. I do consultancy work for the Reynard Organisation: psychometric testing of job applicants; motivational lectures to senior management; that sort of thing. He wanted to discuss some ideas he had. I assure you he was fit and in good spirits when I left him."

Les was listening on another phone. He pulled a nice-work-if-you-can-get-it face and nodded for me to carry on.

"In that case, Mr. Kingston," I continued, 'we will need a statement from you and some samples, with your permission, so we can identify you amongst any others we find. Elimination purposes, as we say. I'd like to drive over now and see you at Kendal police station, if that's all right."

"Of course, Inspector. Anything to help, anything at all. Can I ask, though, why you are on this? I thought you were with HeckleyCID."

"I am, sir," I told him, improvising like a non-swimmer in the deep end. "But I also work for something called SCOG; Serious Crimes Operations Group. We all get roped in when something like this happens."

He put on a good show of sounding incredulous. "Serious crime? Crime?

You mean… you mean… it wasn't natural causes? Are you saying he was m-m-murdered?"

"We're not sure," I told him. "It was probably an unfortunate accident, but we have to treat it as a suspicious death, and with him being such an important person we're giving it all we've got. You know what the papers will say if we're negligent. I'll set off now and ring you from Kendal nick at about…" I looked at my watch, '… about twelve thirty, eh?"

"Fine, Inspector. I'll wait for your call."

"Just one other thing, sir," I said. "Could you please wear the same shoes you were wearing on Monday night?"

We replaced our phones and Les said: "Well done. He had it all off pat; he was expecting someone to ring him. Do you want a coffee before you go?"

"No thanks," I said. "I'll be stopping for a pee all the way."

The A65 leads through the Dales and on to Kendal, Windermere and the Lake District. Long stretches of it are single carriage way and queues of slow-moving traffic are the norm. Lorries bring limestone from Settle and hurtle back at breakneck speed where conditions allow.

They're no problem. It's the coaches and caravans and mothers taking the kids to school in the next village with the Range Rover stuck in first gear that cause the hold-ups. I hate the road. The only consolation is that although thousands of tourists head this way, thousands more are deterred. I did the eighty miles in two and a half hours and rang Kingston. He was with us in fifteen minutes.

I explained to him more fully why we wanted samples of his DNA, and he enthusiastically allowed the police surgeon to extract six hairs, by the roots. That's where the DNA lives. I boasted expansively about ESFLA, electronic footprint lifting apparatus, or something like that, that enables us to track a culprit across a carpet, and he happily surrendered his shoes to the force photographer. He admitted that he'd been in Fox's room, so he had nothing to hide.