'What was this friend called?'
After a long pause he said: 'No. I've told you enough for the moment.
You tell me a bit more about the reason for all this.'
'Fair enough,' I replied. I told him about the fire five years later, and the girl with purple hair that we thought was Melissa Youngman. If she'd put Duncan Roberts up to the fire, who was she working for? It was enough to convince him.
'OK,' he replied. 'The person who introduced us was called Kingston.
Nick Kingston. He lectured in psychology.'
Kingston rides again, I thought. 'How did you meet him?'
Mo sat back in the chair, which was invisible under his bulk, and folded his arms. He raised a knee and pressed it against the table, which moved away from him so he had to put his foot back on the floor.
'Let me tell you about my background,' he began. 'You have, here before you, a member of the royal family of Swaziland. Now, before you are overwhelmed with respect and deference let me tell you that my grandfather, the king, had two hundred wives, of whom my grandmother was about number one hundred and seventy. He died in 1983 after ruling for fifty-two years, which made him the longest-serving monarch ever. I was a bright child, so I was sent to England for my education and was expected to take up a position in government after I'd qualified.' He held his arms wide and proclaimed: 'I could have been Prime Minister by now!'
'What happened?' I asked.
'Usual story. I fell in love with a white girl in the office. Couldn't really see her baring her breasts at the annual Reed Dance, so we settled here. She was a bit of a radical; espoused what our enemies call left-wing causes, as if that were an insult, and here we are.' He waved a hand at the walls. 'Business is good, as you can see.'
'That's interesting,' I told him, because it was. 'You have a colourful background.'
'But what's it got to do with Kingston? I'll tell you. King Sobhuza, my grandpa, was a very wise man. He embraced modern technology, where possible, but strove to maintain traditional values. Witch doctors the ones who cast spells on people and dabbled in the black arts were outlawed, but the more benign ones are still tolerated and even encouraged. For instance the iNyanga are herbalists, and the iSangona are foreseers of the future. I wanted to explore the psychology of traditional medicine and started attending Kingston's lectures. I'd approached him and he said it was OK, which I thought was very kind of him. Unfortunately, as I got to know him better, I changed my mind. He was more interested in the witch doctors than I was. He was forever asking me about their powers and the type of things they could do. He believed in astral travel and all sorts of oddball stuff, and thought they had the key to it and the knowledge would be lost forever if someone, namely him, didn't write it down. He saw me as his key to that knowledge.'
'Was this after the party?' I asked.
'Yeah, I suppose so. I was starting to have doubts about him by then, though.'
'In what way?'
'I realised he was strange. He was into keep-fit and martial arts, things like that. Yoga. He didn't feel pain. He could snuff out a candle with his fingers, very slowly. It was his party trick. And the same with cold. Christmas Day he used to join the swimmers in the sea at Southend or somewhere. I tell you, Charlie, Nick Kingston is a weird cookie.'
'It sounds like it. You don't know where he is now?'
'No, 'fraid not.'
'Did you fall out or just drift apart?'
'It was a fairly gradual process. I saw him one evening and Melissa was with him again. We fell into conversation, naturally, but it was obvious that she'd told him all about that night. They were laughing at me behind their hands, so to speak. I decided he'd been patronising me; I was just another backward nigger to him. They weren't my kind of people, so I split.'
'They sound a lovely couple.'
'Made in heaven, Charlie. I'll tell you who might be able to help you.
A girl called Janet… Wilson, I think it was. She had been to school with Melissa. They shared a house. She was a lovely person, just the opposite of Melissa. I have an address somewhere, but it'll be twenty years out of date. God, she'll probably have a grown-up family by now.'
'I've met Miss Wilson,' I told him, unable to hide my grin.
'You've met Janet?'
'Mmm.'
'Did she…' A broad smile spread across his face, like the sun breaking through and illuminating the savannah. 'Was it Janet who put you on to me?'
I nodded.
'Hey, that's great,' he declared. 'How is she?'
'She's fine. Family grown up and her husband's left her, but she's doing nicely.'
'Fantastic! She was a lovely girl; a real sweet. Not like Melissa.
Will you give her my number, please?'
'Sure. No problem.'
I thanked him for his help and left. Outside, I rang Dave on my mobile and told him that Kingston had dominated the conversation once again.
He said he'd put his new friends on to it and agreed to meet me at the car.
He was waiting when I arrived, eating an ice-cream while sitting on someone's garden wall with his jacket over his shoulder, hooked on a thumb.
'Sorry I'm late,' I said.
'That's OK. Graham had a quick look at the Nicholas Kingstons; there's only a handful of them. Going by approximate DOB, making him in his fifties, the most likely one is a Nicholas James William Kingston who lives in Kendal. They're having a closer look at him right now.
Anything else?'
I told him about Kingston's fascination with the witch doctors, and his indifference to pain. It was stop-start motoring along the Marylebone Road and no better along the Edgware Road, except that we were now heading north. Every junction was controlled by traffic lights and the bits in between were clogged with buses trying to get past parked vehicles, for mile after mile. It was nearly as bad as Heckley High Street when the school turns out.
I was hungry, and Dave can eat anything, any time. He's what they call a greedy so-and-so, unless he has a twenty-foot tapeworm eating away inside him. I said: 'They're paying, so which do you fancy; the Savoy Grill or the Little Chef?'
'If it's on the SFO,' he replied, 'we might as well splash out. Bugger the expense.'
'Right,' I agreed, 'so Little Chef here we come.'
All the postman had brought me was a credit card statement and there were no messages on the ansa phone Dave's wife, Shirley, had invited me in for some supper when I dropped him off, but I'd declined.
Sometimes they're just being polite. The all-day breakfast had been over two hours ago and I was peckish again, so I had a banana sandwich with honey and a sprinkling of cocoa. 'Condensed milk,' I muttered to myself. 'Why can't you find condensed milk these days?' The cut-and-thrust of the M1, plus three hours of near-total concentration, had left me on edge. I was stiff and tired, but knew I wouldn't be able to sleep. Jacquie's number was still on the telephone pad, and I thought about ringing it. For a friendly chat, that's all. Make sure she was all right.
But it would have been self-indulgent and inconsiderate of her feelings, so the phone stayed where it was. Part of me wished I'd gone in for that coffee at Elspeth's. It would have ended in tears, probably, but would that matter? Is ending in tears worse than never happening? I doubt it. In fact, I'm sure of it. I wondered if she'd finished her painting.
Dave was right. I'd make an excuse to see Mrs. Holmes again. Time it so we could repair to the riverside pub for a ham sandwich, with salad and a glass of orange juice; unless she had eventually developed a taste for beer. Then, perhaps, she'd show me some more of her drawings.
Things were moving on all fronts, which is how I like it. I found my box of oil paints in the back bedroom and
