'You mean…' Sparky began, '… there really is a place called Virginia Water?'
'Of course there is,' I told him. 'And very nice, too. It's close to Blackbush airport.'
'Blackbush airport,' Nigel echoed. 'How do you know about Blackbush airport?'
'I saw Dylan there in '79. Me and quarter of a million others.'
'You were there!' he exclaimed. 'With all the hippies! We couldn't get out of the avenue for two days.'
'Cultural event of the century,' I declared. 'Now here's what we do.
We keep this under our hats. We three and Mr. Wood are the only ones to know about it. Nigel, you and Jeff will have to run the everyday show, while I work on this when I can. I'll borrow Dave when I need another pair of eyes and ears. OK?'
'No problem, boss.'
'If anything goes off I want to be there,' Dave insisted, his tone as hard as millstone grit.
'I know you do, old son,' I assured him. 'And you will be.'
Tuesday morning someone hijacked the postman's van and ram-raided the Sylvan Fields news agent with it. They escaped with four boxes of cheese and onion crisps and ten copies of the Guardian. We're looking for a liberal with a savoury tooth. I escaped by a nifty piece of delegation and headed south on the M1.
A lorry with a puncture in the middle of the roadworks near Northampton ate up the extra hour I'd allowed, so I arrived at the Happy Burger just about dead on time. Fearnside was sitting in his big Rover. He got out as I parked and we walked into the cafe together, without ceremony.
'It's good to see you, Charlie,' he said when we were seated in the smoking section, where it was quieter.
'And you, Mr. Fearnside,' I replied. 'I just hope I'm not wasting your time.'
'Well, first of all, let's cut out this Mr. Fearnside nonsense, eh?
It's Roland. And secondly, you got me out of an accountability meeting, so you're definitely not wasting my time. So what's it all about, eh?'
They did pancakes with cherries, maple syrup or caramel sauce, and Fearnside ordered one of each. The little girl who took the order looked flustered. She might be an ace at French irregular verbs, but this hadn't been in her crash course on waitressing. 'You mean, all on one plate?' she improvised.
'Yes please,' Fearnside told her, beaming. I ordered a cheeseburger.
When she'd gone I said: 'In July 1975 we had an MP called Keith Crosby in Heckley. You may remember him.' Fearnside gave a hesitant nod. 'He fell from grace when an old terraced house he'd been bequeathed by an aunt burned down and eight people women and children were burned to death. He'd allowed the house to be used as a shelter for battered women and it was breaking the fire regulations. He resigned as an MP shortly afterwards.'
Our waitress was hovering. I stopped speaking and looked up at her.
'We don't do three pancakes together,' she told Fearnside, 'but you could have them on separate plates, if that's all right?'
'That will be fine, my dear,' he replied with a warm smile. He was growing benevolent in his old age. I decided he must be nearer to retiring than I'd thought. 'Go on, Charlie,' he prompted as she turned to leave.
'Keith Crosby is convinced that J. J. Fox was behind the fire, to deliberately discredit him. Apparently he'd been investigating Fox's background and business methods. Asking questions in the House.'
'J. J. Fox!' Fearnside mouthed, almost silently. 'The J. J. Fox?'
'Of the Reynard Organisation,' I confirmed.
'Pardon me asking this, Charlie, but does he have any… you know… evidence!'
I pushed a manila envelope across the table. 'I'd hardly call it evidence, but it's all in there.'
'Bloody hell, Charlie,' he said. 'When I was with the SFO we had a file on Fox thicker than prep school porridge, but we never pinned anything on him. Not that that meant a lot; we had files on nearly everyone who earned more than the commissioner did.' He patted the envelope. 'I'll have to talk to a few people. You realise that, don't you?'
What he meant was that Fox would have friends in the force, and they might have fraternal contacts in Yorkshire. 'No problem,' I said.
The girl brought the food and Fearnside slid his pancakes, each complete with a blob of vanilla ice cream, on to one plate. 'There you go, my dear,' he said, handing her the two redundant plates. I cut my cheeseburger in half and wished I'd ordered it with fries.
We ate in silence and I continued the story over coffee. Fearnside dabbed his chin with his napkin and nodded at my words. At the far end of the restaurant a couple and their two children were eating. The older child, a teenage boy, was brain damaged He kept jerking his head around and waving his arms. His father fed him spoonfuls of food and wiped his mouth. Both of them were smiling, as if it were a game they played. I half-remembered a line from a poem; G. K. Chesterton, I believe: To love is to love the unlovable, or it is no virtue at all, and for a moment or two everything I was trying to do seemed second rate.
'Hell's teeth, Charlie,' Fearnside said. 'If you can land something on Fox the SFO'll put your statue up in Elm Street.'
'So you think it's worth pursuing?'
'From what you've told me, most certainly, old boy.'
'Good. I'm just glad I haven't wasted your time.'
'Not at all. Not at all.'
I decided to have a little celebration and have cream in my coffee. As I fumbled with a plastic thimble of what passed for it I said: 'So how long have you got to go, then, Roland?' His reply took the wind out of my spinnaker.
'Um, allowing for leave, I'll be away a week on Friday.'
And then I'd be on my own, I thought.
I hadn't known what to expect of Welwyn Garden City, so it came as a pleasant surprise. I'd telephoned the Robertses after arranging to meet Fearnside, and Mrs. Roberts had told me that her husband, Andrew, would be in any night after five thirty. Two junctions on the M25 and four short ones up the Al and I was there, an hour early. The approaches to the town it's not a city, that's just its name were along an avenue with wide close-cropped verges and wall-to-wall trees. I followed the intermittent town centre signs and found myself on a one-way system that routed me into the shopping area, where my initial enthusiasm gave way to dismay. The planners had done a good job, with some decent open spaces, and it's probably a pleasant enough place to live and work, but the architect only knew one type of brick and one shape of window. He was working to a tight schedule, so he designed one building and rubber-stamped the rest. Couldn't see any of the famous concrete cows anywhere. Or was that Milton Keynes? Come to think of it, was it Milton Keynes where I was supposed to be? I decided it didn't make much difference either way. I thought about exploring the town centre, but a drive through sufficed. I found the street where the Robertses lived and parked up for an hour, listening to the radio.
It was an ornate semi with jutting eaves in what was more like an overgrown jungle than a leafy suburb. Someone had overlooked the simple fact that trees grow. Their front garden boasted a giant flowering cherry, long past its best, and a wishing well. A Bedford Rascal with Andrew's Carpet Fitter's painted on the side stood on the drive, behind a fairly recent Saab and an elderly Fiesta. I was at the home of the phantom apostrophe bandit. The garage door was open and a teenage boy with lank blond hair and acne was working on a Honda trail bike. There was a nasty blank space behind the engine, with two suspicious-looking bolts projecting into it.
'Problems?' I said, to introduce myself.
He spared me a worried glance and said: 'Yeah, it's eight-stroking on the overrun.'
'That sounds painful.'
'It's the carburettor.'
'Will you be able to fix it?'
'I hope so. Are you looking for Dad?'
'Yep.'
'He's round the back. DAD! Your visitor's here.'
Dad wore his hair in a ponytail and had a tattoo, nothing extravagant, on each arm. He was wearing cut- down jeans and a Guns 'n' Roses T-shirt. Definitely not what I'd expected.
'DI Charlie Priest,' I said, extending my hand, 'from Heckley CID.'
He gave me a limp shake. 'Andrew Roberts. Pleased to meet you. I'm just lighting the barbecue, round the
