Stuart Pawson - Some By Fire

I took him into an interview room but didn't bother with the tape. I wanted it to be nice and informal; he was among, if not friends, a bunch of half-witted coppers who didn't know their batons from their buttons. He told me that Fox had asked to see him about some ideas he was having. "As I said on the phone, Inspector," he continued, "I analyse information from tests about the suitability of staff members.

Management staff, that is. It's not regular work, about two hundred hours per year. I also devise the tests. J.J. is was a great believer in a scientific approach to staff selection and promotion. He puts great store by loyalty. That and competence were the attributes my tests were designed to highlight. Lately, though, he'd become paranoid. He was considering placing bugs in places where staff congregated, so he could see what they were saying about him behind his back. That's what he wanted to discuss with me. It would be my job to listen to the tapes and report directly to him. I discouraged him, of course. Said that just because someone might say something disparaging it didn't mean they were disloyal. We all go over the mark in private, I said. I think I talked him out of it."

"What time did you leave him?" I asked.

"About eight o'clock. I had a workout in the gym and came home."

"You didn't stay in your room overnight?"

"No, Inspector, I prefer my own bed." He gave a little smile and I thought of the delightful Francesca.

After a long silence I said: "Did you see anything of a dark girl who was staying in the room next to yours? She's called Danielle La Petite He heaved a giant sigh, leaned heavily on the table between us and drummed his fingertips on the top of his head. It was a gesture he'd seen on How to be a Psychologist videos, when the patient runs out of patience and is considering whether to slot the doctor. He'd obviously practised it. "I might as well tell you," he said, looking up at me, his face a study of embarrassed guilt.

"You'll find out, one way or another." I sat back and waited for the revelation.

"Danielle is J.J."s mistress," he began. "She's a dancer with a Manchester theatre group called Zambesi. I met her off the eighteen fifty-two train and took her to the hotel. JJ. trusts me, you see. We had a drink in the cocktail lounge, and I came home."

"Did you find Danielle for Fox?" I asked, avoiding the word procure.

"I introduced them, if that's what you mean," he replied, almost offended.

"Was she a student of yours?"

"What if she had been, Inspector? She was the same as lots of others like her; expectations way above their intellects. Thick as two short planks and wanted to be a doctor. She's a good dancer and good in bed;

I encouraged her to develop what talents she possessed. JJ. pays her a thousand pounds a night and she enjoys her work. Where else could she earn money like that?"

"And what was your cut?" I asked.

"I didn't take a penny off her. J.J. paid me well, extremely well, and …" He shrugged and smiled.

"And what?"

"Like I said, she was a good dancer and good in bed, and nobody misses a coconut off a fruit stall, do they? J.J. liked her to put on a show for him and I was the warm-up act. I didn't need any money from him.

Shagging the boss's ladyfriend just before he does has a certain appeal all of its own, don't you think, Inspector?"

"I wouldn't know," I said.

Going home it was the M6, M61 and M62 all the way and I never dropped under ninety. If a traffic car had followed me I'd have given him the secret signal that says: "I'm a cop in a hurry," and he'd have dropped back. You just switch your hazard lights on for three flashes and dab your brakes, that's all. Try it some time. The local chip pie opens at teatime on Wednesdays, so I had them again. They were all right, but nowhere as good as the ones Shirley had cooked for us. By six o'clock I'd washed my plate, made a pot of tea and the full evening stretched before me.

I laid a blank piece of hardboard on the drive and started flicking blue enamel on it, a la Jackson Pollock. It's a lot harder than it looks, and time-consuming. It doesn't start to work until the entire field is thickly covered in splashes and squiggles and spots and dribbles. This would give the exhibition judges something to think about, and might even make the Gazette. I'd have to think of a name for it, and for its partner, when I'd finished the pair of them. I reached for my tea and found it had gone cold.

I was taking the lid off the red when a sound behind me caused me to turn. Young Daniel, Dave's son, was freewheeling his mountain bike through my gateway, closely followed by his dad on a lady's pink model with a basket on the handlebars. Dave was wearing a Heart Appeal T-shirt and jogging bottoms.

"Hi, Charlie," Daniel greeted me. "Whatya doing?" He saw the painting and went: "Wow! It's fantastic!"

Dave dismounted, saying: "It's Uncle Charlie to you, young man," for the thousandth time, followed by: "Good God, it looks like a bag of maggots."

I knocked the lid back into place and stretched upright, my vertebrae creaking in protest. "Visitors!" I exclaimed. "This is a pleasant surprise. Let's have a drink."

"Can I have a go on your computer, please, Uncle Charlie?"

Daniel asked. "I think Dad wants to talk cop talk."

"Sure," I replied. "C'mon, I'll set you up." I left him with a glass of LA lager and lime, zapping aliens, and carried two cans of real beer and two glasses out into the garden, where Dave had made himself comfortable on the seat.

The cans went psssss! as we broke the seals. Dave said: "It's just two small messages. First of all Les Isles rang to say that Danielle La Petite is a torn from Salford, and she hasn't turned up yet. Aged twenty-two, several convictions for soliciting. But the big news is from Tregellis. He rang just before five to say that Melissa is on her way, with her boyfriend. They arrive in Manchester at nine a.m. tomorrow, and can you arrange for someone to meet them?"

"Brilliant," I said. "It's all coming together." I looked at my watch. "I ought to ring Tregellis," I said, 'tell him about today."

"He said to tell you not to bother," Dave replied. "He's out tonight; it'll do in the morning."

"Good."

Dave took a long sip, held the glass to the light and turned it in his fingers. A blackbird landed on the fence, looked affronted by our presence in his garden and took off again. High above us a jumbo jet filled with holiday makers did a course-correction, leaving a bent trail across the sky. The sun glinted under its wing as it levelled out.

"There is one other thing," Dave said.

"What's that?" I asked.

He shuffled and crossed his ankles. "You remember Peter Mark Handley?"

"The games master who touched up little girls?"

"He did more than touch them up, but not any more. He's dead. Monday night he jumped off Scammonden bridge."

"Oh God," I said.

"He didn't leave a note or anything. He should have appeared before the magistrates that morning, but he didn't. They issued a warrant. He wasn't identified until this afternoon."

"We drove him to that," I said. "Or I did. And I caused Fox's death, too. I put pressure on him and Kingston. Kingston probably killed him to silence him, thanks to me. Judge, jury and executioner, all in one.

Sometimes I hate this job, Dave. When we're old, do you think we'll be able to sleep at nights?"

"You're talking soft," he replied. "Handley was a pervert and Fox a monster. We'll never know how evil he was. They were both all right when they were picking the fruits, but when it came to paying the bill they didn't like it. We're the law, Charlie. We just catch them. If they can't hack it, it's their fault. What is it they say? "If you can't do the time, don't do the crime." '"If you deserve it, serve it." Handley's wife didn't deserve it. She seemed a pleasant enough person, and loyal to him. Now she's a widow."