'She's not my type.'
'No? I bet that when we've had these photos enlarged you just happen to return the originals personally.'
'I might. The camera was a Hasselblad, by the way,' I said.
'I know. And the moon men left theirs at the Sea of Tranquillity.
Shall we go fetch it tomorrow?'
'Good idea.'
We went to London instead. I'd wanted Dave to have a day down there to meet Graham and the team and compare notes. Our loose agreement was that we'd concentrate on the fire and they would resurrect the files on the other deaths that had accumulated on J.J. Fox's path to fortune.
When we'd arrived back at the office I'd rung the SFO and Graham had quickly discovered that Mo Dlamini lived in Southwark, south London, and had carved himself a reputation as a worker for civil liberties.
Nicholas Kingston was harder to pin down. I decided we'd both go; meet them mob-handed. Dave could drive us there while I snoozed.
Taking the car into town was a mistake. I'd timed it so we'd arrive about ten o'clock, but every hour is rush hour in London, and people were killing for parking places. We eventually muscled into a space and I took Dave into the hallowed halls of the Serious Fraud Office. A quick phone call told me that Mo Dlamini would be in his office most of the day and I left Dave discussing tactics with his new friends, Graham and Piers.
There was a tube train waiting at the platform, but I didn't know which way it was heading. I jumped on and risked it. At the next station I got off and looked for the down line. I'm just a country bumpkin at heart. Southwark is just across the river, according to the map, but it still took me nearly an hour to find his office. It was in a purpose-built Community and Resources centre, with graffiti on the walls next to posters about needle sharing and benefit cheats. Thursday was basketball, and two teams of youths were charging about in a huge gymnasium and getting nowhere, in spite of all having the proper gear.
Looking the part is all. Their shouts and the shrieks of rubber against wooden floor were deafening. I watched them for a few seconds with the door ajar and decided he wouldn't be in there. A woman with two toddlers asked me where the toilets were. I'd noticed them when I came in, so I pointed and said: 'At the end.' If in doubt, ask a policeman. There were several other doors off the corridor, some padlocked, some open. One led to a kitchen where a youth with a shaved head and a bolt through his neck was mopping the floor. 'Where's Mr.
Dlamini's office?' I asked.
'Who?' he replied.
'Mo Dlamini.'
'Dunno.'
'Thanks.'
Fortunately for me a human being came round the corner, wearing a dog collar, and he told me that Mo's office was the last on the left. I knocked and a voice shouted:
'Come in!'
Everybody in this case is older than I expected. Not old, exactly, but more mature. In their prime. About my age. I imagined everybody as if frozen at the age they were in the seventies, before twenty-three years of striving to earn a living had taken their toll. Mo Dlamini's hair was seriously greying, but he was as big as he'd looked on the photos and the expression was just as open and confident. He was a lighter colour than I thought he'd be, and his features were soft, almost European. He shook my hand vigorously and introduced me to his son, Ainsley.
Ainsley was leaning on the wall because it was easier for him than contorting his frame into one of the little stacking chairs.
Including his hair he must have been nearly seven feet tall and was built like a clothes prop. 'Hi, Ainsley,' I said, peering at the discreet logo on the left breast of his dazzling white T-shirt as we exchanged handshakes. It said calvin bolloCKs, and I warmed to him immediately.
'Sit down, Inspector Priest,' Dlamini invited, 'and tell us what we can do for you. You're a long way from Yorkshire so it must be important.'
'Thanks.' I coiled myself into the chair he gestured towards and took a quick glance at my surroundings. It wasn't exactly the office of a hot-shot lawyer, with its transport cafe Formica table, bare walls and tiled floor. I decided that this was where he held his surgeries. The heavyweight bookcases, VDUs, coffee percolator and secretarial staff were elsewhere. I looked at Ainsley then back at Dlamini and said:
'Some of the stuff I want to discuss is of a confidential nature…'
I left it hanging and they both took the hint.
'I'll see how the basketball's going,' Ainsley said, launching himself towards the door. 'Pleasure to meet you, Inspector.'
'Likewise, Ainsley,' I replied. 'Nothing personal.'
'Ring your mum,' his father shouted after him, followed by, 'Kids, who'd have 'em?'
'He's a big lad,' I observed.
'Big? I work the first three days of the week just to feed him. So what's this all about?'
I dived straight in. 'I'd like you to cast your mind back to 1970 if you can, Mr. Dlamini. Can you remember where you were then?' '1970? Jesus,' he replied. 'First of all, it's Mo. Everybody calls me Mo.'
'And I'm Charlie.' I told him.
'Right. Let me see… in 1970 I was gaining work experience on company law with a firm of solicitors in Colchester, Essex. Do you need any more than that?'
'No, that's fine. Do you remember going to a party in April of that year? It might be helpful if I tell you that the party coincided with the Apollo 13 moon mission, which was the one that nearly ended in disaster.'
The corner of his mouth twitched, but I couldn't tell if it was a stifled smile or embarrassment or something else. He tried to speak, hesitated, and tried again. 'Party?' he mumbled, his thoughts miles and years away.
'Apollo 13,' I prompted.
'Yes, I remember,' he admitted, struggling to appear impassive.
'Can you remember anybody else who was there?'
He thought about it, but all he could remember was that he was a lawyer. 'No,' he replied, shaking his head.
'Maybe I can jog your memory. Did you meet a young lady called Melissa Youngman there? She was quite distinctive-looking. Had dyed red hair.'
The description was unnecessary because he was already holding his head in his hands. He pulled at his hair in a parody of despair and cried:
'A lawyer! My kingdom for a lawyer!' When he recovered from the shock he said: 'What's she doing? Kiss 'n' telling?'
'Not that I know of,' I replied. 'Her name keeps cropping up in our investigations and they brought us to you. What can you tell us about her?'
'God!' he croaked, grinning at the memories. 'If this gets out I'm finished. What can I tell you about her? Nothing, Charlie. Nothing at all.'
'Didn't you have an affair with her?'
'An affair! We had one night of rampant lust and that was it.
She left me gasping for release, trying to beat the door down to escape. I never went out with her or anything because I stayed well away. That's all.'
'I believe you were interrupted,' I said.
He suddenly looked grave. 'You know about that?' he replied. 'God, that was awful. Her parents came marching in. It was very unpleasant.
I tried to be reasonable, said I loved her, we were engaged and stuff like that, but she didn't give a toss. She called them names. And her language… it was fucking this and fucking that… to her parents. Not a night or a young lady I choose to remember, Charlie. Thanks a bunch for reminding me.'
'It had to be done. So how did you meet her? Were you introduced?'
'Yeah. This so-called friend introduced me to her. I think she had been his girlfriend and he wanted rid of her. She looked interesting and she was bright, very bright. We both had a bit — a lot too much to drink, and that was that.'
