Stuart Pawson - Some By Fire

I wandered up to the spectator's gallery to watch the big jets taking off, and caught myself humming "In the Early Morning Rain'. There's a shop up there that sells aviation magazines, spotters' guides and plastic models of famous crashes. Hanging in a corner was a sheepskin flying jacket, circa WWII, marked down from 300 to 199. Wow! I thought, this'll work wonders for my image. I'd wear it to the office tomorrow, regardless of the weather.

But the sleeves were miles too short. The rest of it fitted, but I held my arms forward to demonstrate the problem and exchanged disappointed smiles with the sales lady. I went back to Arrivals and stood with the blank-faced straggle of people waiting for flight DL064.

Shifty-looking taxi drivers held boards under their arms with scrawled names across them, and a well-dressed elderly man in a chauffeur's cap stood patiently to attention. Once he'd been the terror of the parade ground, and now he was someone's lackey. That'd be me soon, I thought.

The rest were bleary-eyed sons-in-law or parents, come to pick up their loved ones after yet another holiday of a lifetime.

I'd have recognised her at half a mile, but she still took my breath away. I stepped forward in front of them, and the immigration official shadowing them gave me a nod and peeled off. "Miss Youngman?" I said.

"The former Miss Youngman," she said, almost smiling. "Now I'm Mrs.

Slade. Meet my husband of twenty-four hours, Jade Slade." "How ya doin'?" he said.

"Fine," I lied. "DI Priest." Shit fuck bugger, I thought. She's done us.

The extravagances of the seventies had been toned down, and of course, our tastes have developed over the years. Her hair was red again, cropped short and carelessly styled, but nothing that you wouldn't see any day in any small town. She wore a nose ring and extravagant eye make-up not heavy lashes and shadow, but paint and speckles all around them with black lipstick. Underneath the muck was one of those faces that can launch a young girl to fame and fortune or blight her life with a string of wrong men because the decent ones don't think they stand a chance. She was beautiful, and ageing well, and I could understand anybody falling for her. Nancy Spungeon had become Zandra Rhodes.

He was something else. Short, pot-bellied, with one of those hillbilly beards that looks as if it's just been shampooed. He wore faded denims held up by a broad belt heavily inlaid with silver and turquoise. She was in a brown leather suit. I led them to my car and told them about the Station Hotel, in Heckley, where we'd booked them a room for the week.

"Do they have a pool?" he asked.

I apologised for the lack of a pool.

On the motorway I said: "I understand you write poetry, Mr. Slade."

"That's right," he replied.

"Will I have heard any?"

"Do you read redneck poetry?"

"No."

"Then you won't."

I told Melissa that she was booked into Heckley General Hospital tomorrow at about four thirty, to have her teeth fixed. Then, if she was up to it, we'd do a taped interview with her the following day, Saturday. All leave was cancelled for the first team. She mumbled responses in the right places and we rode the rest of the way in silence. He said: "Jeez!" under his breath when he saw the Station Hotel, and that was the sum total of our conversation. I didn't mind;

I had no desire to be on first-name terms with either of them. I wrote Annette's name and number on a page of hotel notepaper and left them to unpack.

Back at the nick I rang Tregellis but had to settle for Piers. "The eagle has landed," I said. We talked for a while about tactics and when he'd hung up I rang Les Isles and had the same conversation all over again.

Agent Mike Kaprowski wasn't in his office but a colleague introduced himself and told me that he was familiar with the case. "I just met Melissa Youngman off the plane," I told him, 'except that she's not called Youngman any more because she's got herself married. To this poet feller, Jade Slade."

"Aw, shit!" he exclaimed. "You know what that means?"

"We'll have to buy them a present?"

"Yeah, and that, goddammit! OK, Charlie, thanks for letting us know.

I'll tell Mike and he'll get back to you. Adios."

"Adios." I put the phone down.

"AdiosV said a voice behind me. "Adiosl Who was that, Speedy Gonzales?"

I half-turned and grinned at Sparky. "Just my friends in the FBI,"I told him.

He flopped into the spare chair. "What did they want?"

"They've run out of white chalk, wondered if we had any to spare.

Actually, I rang them. Melissa's arrived, but she married her boyfriend in a touching little ceremony in the airport lounge just before they left the USA."

"What difference does that make?"

I told him.

"The crafty little cow," he said.

"It does look as if we underestimated her," I admitted.

"Charlie…" he began.

"Mmm."

"When you interview her… what's the chances of being in on it?"

I looked at him and said: "I wouldn't have it any other way, Dave."

He gripped his knees and said: "Thanks."

"But just remember she's co-operating with us."

"I will," he replied, 'but I still reckon she's in this up to her ears.

She's gonna get away with murder, probably literally."

"I think you're right," I replied, 'but it's the only way we'll get Kingston, and he's the senior partner."

"I've been thinking about Kingston," he told me. "If he killed Fox to silence him, I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't kill Danielle whatsername, the hooker, too, for the same reason. In the past he killed, or caused people to die, for financial gain. Now he's killing to save his skin. He's in a panic, thinking on his feet."

"And that will be his downfall, Dave. Do you think he might have a go at Melissa?"

"Possibly. Does he know she's over here?"

"We haven't told him."

"But she might, if she knows where he lives. Just for old times' sake."

"Great," I said. "We'd better keep an eye on her."

We booked a DC into the Station Hotel, posing as a travelling Punch and Judy man, and Annette went round to introduce herself to our guests.

Friday afternoon she took Melissa and Jed Clampitt to the hospital to get for free what would have cost them a fortune back home. It was a cloudy day and I spent it in the office, typing my notes and memories into a more accessible format. Six of us had pie and chips for lunch in one of Heckley's more traditional pubs.

Nine o'clock in the evening Annette rang me to say that Melissa had been through the wringing machine and they'd decided to keep her in overnight. She'd be discharged in the morning, no problem, but an interview might be asking too much of her.

"In that case," I decided, 'tell her Monday morning, at Heckley nick.

You make sure she's there, please, Annette." I rang the others to tell them that they could have the weekend off after all.

Saturday I did an hour in the office, then went home to finish the Jackson Pollock painting. It took me until ten at night plus two visits to B amp; Q for materials, but it looked smashing. If JP had done it you'd be talking above five million for it. I'd ask for fifty quid, for the kids' ward, and probably not get it. Sunday I completed the one that had originally been inspired by the tapeworm drawing done by Janet Holmes. It was ragged blocks of oranges and yellows, with a jagged flash of lime green coming up from the bottom left corner that danced before your eyes. I was pleased with that one, too. They'd look great surrounded by all those scenes of Malhamdale in autumn.

She still hadn't sent me a postcard.

Monday morning I rose early. I hadn't slept very well, worrying that Melissa might be taking us for a ride. After a cup of tea I decided that it was unlikely. We were, after all, offering her immunity from prosecution on charges of God-knows-what. I was just running the shower when the phone rang.