Stuart Pawson - Some By Fire

He was on his knees, rubbing his eyes, and he called me a bastard. I gave him another short burst, at close range, just for the hell of it, and he rolled over, screaming like a pig on a spear. I handcuffed him and walked about twenty yards up the hill. I sat down with my arms around my knees and watched and waited. The moon came up, mysterious and majestic, bigger than I'd ever seen it, with Ullswater like a silver boomerang in the valley. He hadn't been lying about the moon.

When the sobbing subsided I grabbed a handful of Gore-Tex and hoisted him to his feet. "Walk!" I ordered. He stumbled a few feet and sank to his knees. I yanked him up again and kicked him. "Walk!" I yelled. "Walk! Walk! Walk!"

We made slow progress. When dawn broke, bright and new, we were only halfway along Swirral Edge. Kingston fell to the ground and said he could go no further. I grabbed him by the hair and stuffed the end of the CS canister into his left nostril. "Get this," I hissed at him.

"You can either walk out of here or you can be carried. But if I have to carry you the first thing I'll do is empty this up your friggin' nose. So get up on your feet and walkV After that we made better progress. On the bridle path leading into Patterdale a group of walkers approached us. They were all fairly elderly, out to enjoy a day on the fells. As we reached them Kingston turned to one, his shackled wrists held forward in an appeal for help.

I grabbed his arm and steered him past them with a communal: "Good morning." They all turned to watch us go by, mumbling their greetings, not believing their eyes. This was the Lake District, after all. When we were past them the first one to recover her senses called: "What's he done?" after us.

"Dropped a crisp packet," I muttered without looking back.

The cars were still there. I found my mobile in my rucksack and dialled 999. It was the only number I could remember. Fifteen minutes later a Cumbria Constabulary Vauxhall Astra pulled into the car park and two PCs with bum fluff on their chins climbed out with a battle-weary, what's-this-all-about air.

I showed them my ID. "DI Priest, Heckley CID," I said. "I want him taking to Kendal nick." I pushed Kingston back against their car and wished Sparky could have heard this next bit. "Nicholas James William Kingston," I began. "I'm arresting you for the murder of Jasmine Turnbull. You need not say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned…" I couldn't be bothered. "Oh, take him to Kendal," I said. "I'll see you there."

"But we're from Keswick," one of the PCs protested.

"If you lose your way, ask," I said. I took a towel from my car boot and dried my face and blew my nose on it. That CS gas gets everywhere.

I doubted if we'd run Kingston for little Jasmine, but we'd done our best for her. Found her some justice at last.

The jemmies went to have prints taken from them and I went for breakfast in their canteen. I was having my second tea when the DI that I'd dealt with before came in and joined me. "We've just had a report," he said, 'of a casualty on Striding Edge. Male, early twenties, with a broken leg. Anything to do with you?"

"Good," I replied. "Good. My cup run neth over. He's called Duncan J. Roberts and I want a statement from him."

"Patterdale rescue team are on their way," the DI told me, 'and the Air Sea Rescue helicopter's standing by. He'll be in hospital in half an hour."

We agreed that he'd interview DJ, if possible, before the morphine wore off. I suggested that the threat of an attempted murder charge might further loosen his tongue. Kingston was making a full and frank statement, we'd tell him, and blaming everybody but himself. Meanwhile, I'd try the same thing with Kingston.

DJ fell for it, Kingston didn't. He couldn't remember Melissa, didn't know anything about 32 Leopold Avenue, and stuck to his story about Fox. We brought Francesca in for questioning and searched the house.

Thoroughly, this time.

In the garage we found a rubber dingy. Not a super-duper neoprene job with a wooden floor and mountings for an outboard, like we might have expected. This was a cheapo plastic one, bright yellow, like you see on garage fore courts for parents to cast their offspring adrift in.

But Kingston had no children. It was deflated, and pools of water were trapped in the folds, so we took a sample and sent it for analysis.

Apart from that and a couple of grams of coke, we didn't find much else. I rang Les Isles and told him of my adventures. He said: "I'm coming over."

It was ten o'clock in the evening when I arrived home, sustained for the drive by adrenalin and canteen tea. I cleaned my teeth, switched the alarm off and crashed out for ten hours.

"Where've you been?" Dave demanded when I wandered into the office, clean-shaven and crisp-shirted, carrying a Marks and Spark's prawn sandwich for brunch. I told him all about it. My back hurt where DJ had whomped me, and my left arm was stiff. I could have had the bruises photographed as evidence, and filed a report, but I didn't bother. Screwing DJ wasn't on my agenda.

I did the paperwork and rang Tregellis. It's always easier to do things that way round, then the decks are clear if you are landed with another job. He was delighted, and had some news for me, too.

"Graham's been doing the rounds with the video you sent us," he told me. "He's shown it to three people who were at that charity bash at Newbury, and they all ID-ed Kingston as the man who accompanied Mary Perigo."

"Rodger-with-a-d Wakefield," I said.

"That's right. The case is building up nicely. Melissa's fingered him for the fire, you say this DJ character is spilling the beans on him, he's had a go at you and now we can link him with Mary Perigo. It's looking good."

"But it's all circumstantial," I said. "He'll spend his time in prison writing books about the injustice he's suffered, about the conspiracy against him because the Establishment regards him as a danger to their way of life. I want him nailing, bang to rights."

"Circumstantial evidence can be overwhelming, Charlie," Tregellis replied. "I'll settle for that."

"I suppose so."

"When does Melissa go back?"

"Tomorrow."

"Shame about the wedding. Piers said he couldn't believe his ears when she agreed to come over. Now that she's married they'll have to let her back in."

"I know, but she was stringing us along, acting innocent, all the way.

She's got away with it."

"Win a few, lose a few, Charlie. Don't take it personally."

"I'll try not to."

After that it was Les Isles again. "Thought you'd still be in bed, Charlie," he said.

"Dangerous places, beds," I replied. "People die in them."

"Thought you'd like to know the good news and the bad news about the dinghy. The water was tap water. He'd either used it in the bath or hosed it off, so we can't tell anything from that. But we know where the dinghy came from, and when. Kendal have traced it to a filling station in Windermere. The girl there knows Kingston by sight; he buys a lot of petrol and can't resist flirting with her. She recognised him as the man who bought it a week last Sunday, which was just before Fox died."

"Start dragging the lakes, Les," I said. "He dumped Danielle's body from it. He used her to set Fox up, and now he's silenced her. He's a hard man and a midnight swim would be nothing to him. She'd have to be weighted, so he'd need some assistance to keep her afloat until they were over deep water. She's in one of them somewhere, I'm sure of it."

"And he couldn't abandon the dinghy because he knew we might find it and trace it back to him."

"Like you have done. Exactly."

"The frogmen are out, and we've asked our amateur friends to help. You know what they're like; bloody bunch of enthusiastic ghouls. They'll find her."