Stuart Pawson - Some By Fire

I put the phone down. Tregellis was right. We might not go to court with anything that could be called forensic, but overwhelming circumstantial evidence was just as damning. I could imagine the phrase rolling off the judge's tongue, and the jury sitting a little straighter as that word overwhelming helped them come to terms with the thought of locking a man away for the rest of his life. Just the same, a little more evidence would be useful. Wanting to find the body of a young girl made me feel uneasy. "I hope she's not dead," I said to myself. "I truly hope and pray that she's not dead. But if she is, I hope we find the body."

Nigel came for me after work, with Dave already in his car, and we went for a few bevvies in one of the pubs high on the moors. These days you can have an animated conversation in one with little fear of being overheard. Cheap booze from the Continent keeps the punters at home, sipping Australian lager from the can and watching Australian soaps on TV until the blue kangaroos coming down the chimney tell them they've had enough. The landlord blinked with surprise at the sudden influx of trade and tried to remember the prices.

The inquiry had fizzled out, that was the problem. Fox was dead, Kingston was in custody and Melissa was going home. We'd never know the full extent of their evil. Crosby had met the War Crimes people and told them all his early memories, right down to the colour of his grandma's cat. If it were proved that he was the original Johannes Josef Fuchs it would give us a good insight into Fox's character and the papers would go into a feeding frenzy at his expense. And that was about it.

"Where's Annette?" I asked, after a good long sip of proper beer.

"Out on a date," Nigel replied, glumly.

"Oh. Do we know who with?"

"He sells computers."

"That could be anything from Bill Gates's chief executive to behind the checkout at Computers-R-Us."

"He rings her on his mobile."

"Sounds a right prat," I pronounced. "Doesn't he, Dave?"

Dave was studying a miner's lamp hanging in a little niche. "Er, sorry?" he mumbled.

"I said he sounds a right prat."

"Who?"

"Oh, go back to sleep. Just leave your wallet handy."

"I was thinking."

"Well, no wonder you're tired."

"She's got away with it, hasn't she?" he said.

"Annette?"

"No! Melissa."

"Got away with what?"

"I don't know, but she has."

I said: "It's normal to be reasonably specific about the offence before we put someone before a judge and send them to jail. Juries take a dim view if we just say that we don't know what they've done, but they must have done something."

"Listen," he began. "Mrs. Holmes painted a bleak picture of Melissa.

Said she was capable of anything. So did the black lawyer you met…"

"Mo," I interrupted.

"Him. And look how awful she was with her parents. For God's sake, she drove her mother to her death. Then there's her friendship with Kingston. She's admitted that she was at Leopold Avenue with him, and that was six years after they met. Six years! What were they up to in between? She and Kingston were partners, equal partners, I'm sure of it. She's as bad as him, maybe worse." He underlined his words by picking up his glass and draining it. "And she's got off, scot-free."

He plonked the glass down on the formica table to indicate that he'd said his piece.

I looked at Nigel and he gave me a brief shrug of the shoulders, as if to say: "He's been like this all day. What more can we do?"

I went to the bar for refills. "Quiet tonight," I said to the landlord.

"It'll liven up later," he replied.

Dream on, I thought. A blackboard behind the bar said that Friday was quiz night, with free beer for the winners. Free beer for the losers would have stood a better chance.

I carefully placed the glasses on the beer mats and sat down. They both took sips and offered the customary salutation. "We needed Melissa's evidence, Dave," I began. "Without her we'd never have got off the ground. We're not prosecuting Kingston for all the crimes he might have committed for Fox, we're doing him for the ones he committed to cover his tracks. Without Melissa we couldn't have linked him to the fire, or to Duncan."

"She still gets away with it," he complained.

"We tried," I said. "We thought she'd be refused readmission to the States. That would have hurt her, but she was one step ahead of us."

"She's mixing with some crazy people over there," Nigel said. "There's a good chance one of them will shoot her, one day."

"That's something to look forward to," Dave agreed. He pushed his glass a few inches across the table and wiped condensation from it with a thumb. "I'm sorry, Charlie," he said. "You've done brilliantly, and I sound ungrateful. It's just that… I wish we could have got Melissa. It doesn't feel finished. Tomorrow she'll be back with her hillbilly friends, and…" He lifted his glass and left it at that.

And live happily ever after?

"I know how you feel," I told him, raising mine to join him in a drink.

"And why. I was at the fire too, remember. We've only done half of the job, but something tells me we haven't heard the last of Melissa Youngman."

"Slade," Nigel said. "Melissa Slade."

"Don't remind me," I hissed at him across the top of my glass.

I had the beginnings of a hangover, which wasn't a surprise. It was a cool, dull morning, and showers were promised, which didn't mean a thing. It might rain all day in Heckley and be fine in Halifax, or it could be vice versa. Either way, the weatherman would claim a success.

A familiar little Nissan Micra with fat tyres pulled out in front of me and the sight of it raised my spirits. It swung a left and so did I.

Then a right, into the station car park, and I pulled up alongside it.

"Morning, Annette," I said. "You're bright and early."

"A lot to do, boss," she replied, 'if you want me to deliver you-know-who to the airport."

"If you don't mind," I replied, holding the door open for her. "Then they're off our hands. You don't have to talk to them."

"Thank goodness for that. What's the latest from the Lake District?"

I was telling her about the dinghy and the divers as we climbed the stairs. Halfway up we had to stop to one side to avoid the desk sergeant on his way down. "Ah, Charlie," he said. "Just left another message on your desk."

"Another?"

"There was one already there."

"And I was hoping for a quiet day," I complained.

"I'll fill the kettle," Annette said as we entered the outer office.

"Let's see what these messages are," I suggested. "Maybe they've found something."

Two official message forms were on my desk, held down by my empty coffee mug. Someone was determined I'd find them. On the top one the spaces for From, To and Time were all ignored. It read: Body found.

Looks like her. PM this afternoon. L. Isles. I passed it to Annette and read the one underneath.

I read it again, then folded it and put it in my pocket. Spots of rain were falling against the window.

"That was quick," Annette was saying, offering the first note back to me.

"It was, wasn't it? What time did you say their plane left?"

"Two thirty, but they have to be there at eleven thirty."

"Don't you worry about it, Annette," I told her. "I'll take them to the airport."

"But I don't mind," she protested.

I raised my hands, palms towards her. "If you don't want to take them, that's OK," I insisted. "Never let it be said that I'm not considerate towards my staff." She went to make the tea and I rang Les.

"Wast Water, is it?" he said.

"Obvious choice," I replied. "It's the deepest lake in the country.

She's not the first to be dumped in there."

"So I'm told. The amateurs found her. They said she was on a shelf, and if he'd taken her another twenty yards out she'd have gone down three hundred feet. Five house bricks were strung on a piece of what might be climbing rope and tied round her waist. They've gone for examination. They must have come from somewhere. Do you want to sit in on the PM? I've bet my sergeant a fiver that her last meal was sushi."