Stuart Pawson - Some By Fire

The engine note rises to deafening and she edges backwards.

I elbowed a youth with a thousand-millimetre lens to one side and leaned over the rail. Strange vehicles, each designed for one specific task, were scurrying back and forth haphazardly, yellow lights flashing. The BA 767, next stop Miami, followed one of them at a snail's pace out on to the expanse of concrete. I watched it creep towards the far end of the runway and vanish from sight. Five minutes later it reappeared, gathering speed. They were on their way. Hear the mighty engines roar… The engines, on full power, were a distant rumble as it lifted off, climbed on stubby wings and banked into the clouds. See the silver wing on high… I looked at my watch. They were bang on time.

"You again," the immigration officer said as I entered his office.

"You'll be asking for a job here next."

"I couldn't stand the excitement. Do you mind if I make another telephone call, please? It's to America, I'm afraid."

"Business, I presume."

"No, I want to tell my mother-in-law that it's twins."

"That's all right then. Help yourself." He pointed to a vacant desk.

"Thanks."

I pulled the second message from my inside pocket and dialled the number I'd written on it. I'd no need to. I could have screwed the sheet of paper into a ball and tossed it into a bin, and that would have been the end of it. But I dialled the number. This time the message form had been fully completed. It was from FBI Agent Kaprowski and addressed to me. It read: Reference Jade Slade, aka Wcs Wesson, born Norman J. Lynch. Married in 1979 at Dade County, Florida. Not divorced, wife still alive, two children. Has gone through two more marriage ceremonies since then, in 1989 and 1993. Both partners still alive, no divorces, several children. Marriage to Melissa Youngman therefore bigamous and invalid. Hang in there. Mike.

"I'd like to speak to Agent Kaprowski," I said to the telephonist who answered. After a delay I was told that he was in a meeting. I know all about meetings.

"I'm Detective Inspector Priest," I told someone else, 'and I'm speaking from England. It's important and I'd appreciate it if you could get him to a phone."

They found him. "Hi, Charlie," he said. "Didya get my message?"

"I certainly did, Mike, and I've just seen her take off. I hadn't the heart to break the news to her myself. She'll land in Miami at about four thirty your time."

"Righty-ho. I'll have a word with immigration and they'll put her straight back on board. Seems a waste of a return ticket."

"Not a bit of it," I assured him. "If anybody grumbles I'll pay for it myself. If they just happen to take a video of her face when they tell her, I'd appreciate a copy."

"Ha! I like your style, Charlie. I'll see what they can do. Listen, I've been asking around and we've had a few queries raised over here about J.J. Fox's business methods. Any chance of letting us have a copy of the file?"

"No problem. I'll sort something out and put it in the post."

"That'd be great. Unless you wanted to bring it in person. We could easily fix you with accommodation."

"That sounds inviting," I said. "I might take you up on it." I could go jogging in the woods, and take pot-shots of cardboard effigies of Al Capone as they popped up, and practise my diving roll. Maybe not, but I would like to visit Arlington, to pay my respects to JFK. I'd think about it.

I drove home the scenic way, which was a mistake. It's a twisty road and my shoulder started aching. I saw a chemist's in Tintwistle and bought some paracetemol. They did the trick. There's a country-and-western song called "I'm Just an Okie from Muskogee' that's a satire on redneck values. The Committee to Re-elect President Reagan didn't recognise it as a piss-take and adopted it as their official campaign song. So a Texan singer songwriter called Kinky Friedman penned an alternative version, worded so that there could be no mistake this time. It's called "I'm Just an Ass-hole from El Paso', and that's the only line I know, but I sang it continuously, all the way back to Heckley. Most of the time it was silently, in my head, but occasionally out loud, and I launched into the full Pavarotti once in a while.

Sparky was holding court when I arrived back at the office, telling a story about this chap who died and went to hell. "So he sat there with the sewage over his ankles, and they dealt him a hand of cards, and he thought: This isn't too bad, I can bear this for the rest of eternity.

But just then the door opened and the Devil walked in. "Right lads," he said. "Tea break's over for this century. Back up on your heads."

"Hi, boss," he greeted me as I sat down with them. "We were just discussing the possible effects of European union on sentencing policy."

"Great," I said. "And what have you decided?"

"We're agin' it. Did you see her off OK?"

"You bet." They were all drinking coffee, but there were no spare cups. I took Kaprowski's message from my pocket and handed it to him.

"Read that while I fetch my mug," I said.

It was on my desk, where I'd left it, and laid alongside was a roll of big sheets of cartridge paper that I didn't recognise. I slid the rubber band off and spread them across my desk. The top one was a symmetrical blur of black ink, with a white line, an axis, down the centre. It was the anal print, and there were three similar ones. They reminded me of Rorschach images, which was disturbing. I rolled them up again and went back into the main office.

Annette took the mug from me and I said: "Thanks, love."

Dave had passed the message to Nigel. "Does that mean… she's not an American?" he asked.

"That's right."

"So they won't let her back in?"

"No way. Immigration have been tipped off to watch out for her."

"So what'll she do?"

"I don't know. Either spend the rest of her life in Arrivals at Miami airport or fly somewhere else. Back here, I assume. She won't be having grits and pancakes for breakfast with the Waltons, that's for sure."

"That's fantastic!" Nigel exclaimed, passing the note on.

"Bloody'ell!" Dave added.

The DC reading the note said: "Some of us don't know what all this is about. You've been a bit secretive lately, boss, if you don't mind me saying."

I held my hands up to show contrition. "For which I apologise," I told him. "It was all a bit sensitive and we wanted to keep it out of the papers. Tell you what. It's been a good week, first the burglars, then this. How about a full team night out, Friday?"

There was a mumble of approval. "Chinky and the social club," someone suggested.

"I reckon the firm should pay," Nigel said. "There ought to be at least some commendations in this for you and Jeff."

"Oh, I haven't room on my wall for another commendation," I told him.

"And I'd like to say," Jeff began, 'that any commendation given to me is only because I'm the figurehead. It will really belong to all of you."

"Golly, how kind," they muttered.

The phone in my office was ringing. I rose to my feet but the DC grabbed his own phone and said, "I'll pick it up, Charlie." He tapped in the appropriate number and listened. "Heckley CID," he said. His eyes widened and he smiled. "Yes, he's here. I'll put him on." He covered the mouthpiece and hissed: "This is it! The Chief Constable's secretary wants a word with you. Commendations here we come!"

I took the phone from him, composed myself and said: "DI Priest," in my most authoritative voice.

"Hello, Inspector Priest," a husky female replied. "This is Miss Yates, secretary to the Chief Constable."

"Hello, Rita," I boomed into the mouthpiece. "Long time no see." Rita goes through chief constables like Eurostar goes through the Chunnel.

"How can I help you?" The others were hanging on my words.