and stir things up.' I'm a great believer in stirring things up.
'I'll do that, Charlie. Thanks. Thanks.'
I dialled the number he'd given me and a very polite female told me that I was through to Reynard London.
'I'm trying to fix an appointment with JJ. Fox,' I told her. 'Could you please put me through to his diary secretary?'
'What name is it, please?'
'Priest'
'Mr. Priest?'
'As in Roman Catholic'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Sorry. Nothing.'
'I'm putting you through.'
It was Pachelbel's Canon in D. I hate Pachelbel's Canon in D, especially when it's played on a twenty-quid Yamaha organ. Fortunately I had only to endure two bars, which is all you need hear to know the work intimately, when another female sang: 'Secretaries; how can I help you?'
'I'd like to make an appointment to see Mr. Fox when he comes to Yorkshire in a fortnight. Can you put me through to his diary secretary, please?'
'Mr. Fox? We don't have a Mr. Fox.'
'J.J. Fox, love. He owns the company.'
'Oh, that Mr. Fox.'
After that it was personnel, then head of secretariat, with bursts of Pachelbel in between. By the time I reached the legal department I'd decided that a hatchet downsizing of his own administrative staff might be a good idea and that Pachelbel should have been burned at the stake.
'Did you say Detective Inspector Priest?' one of his tame solicitors asked me after I'd been shunted around the legal department.
'Yes. From Heckley CID.'
'And what's it about?'
'Before I answer that,' I said, 'tell me this: do you have the authority to make an appointment for me to see Mr. Fox?'
'Yes, I do. Subject to his approval, of course.'
'Right then, listen up. It's about murder. I want to ask Mr. Fox a few simple questions, and one way or another I shall ask them. It might be easier and less embarrassing for all concerned if you could make an appointment for me to see him on his territory, then I won't have to insist on seeing him on mine. Do I make myself understood?'
'I'll ring you back, Inspector.'
Phew! I'd enjoyed that last bit. It's not too often I get to tell a lawyer the facts of life. No doubt if and when I saw Fox he'd be surrounded by them and they'd have a conference about everything from whether to say good morning right through to having milk or sugar in their coffees. I'd learn absolutely nothing, but I'd have them worried, and that's worth a lot.
He kept his word. At four o' clock he confirmed that Fox would be opening the Reynard Tower in a fortnight. He'd arrive at the Fox Borealis Monday afternoon and stay for one night. Tuesday morning he was having a power breakfast with the Lord Mayor of Leeds and other dignitaries, and would see me at ten, before his next appointment at half past. I said my thank yous, like I'd been brought up to do, and wrote it in my diary, with a fluorescent marker-pen circle around it.
We were on our way!
I'd been neglecting Keith Crosby, so I rang him from home, after chicken pie and new potatoes. I didn't give him any details or names, but assured him I was working full-time on the case and the Serious Fraud people were interested and involved. He thanked me profusely.
After that I finished most of the painting that I'd started on Thursday night. Every summer the police put on a gala in the park to raise money for the children's ward of the General. The dogs and the horses show what they can do, and we stage a mock bank raid, with flashing lights and cars skidding on the grass. One of the stands is for paintings by cops or their families. Most of them are of the Dales, some amateurish, some extremely skilled, but all slavish to the scene as viewed. The PC who has organised the show for the last ten years brought me a wad of entry forms for the troops and I told him to put me down for a couple of paintings. If I could knock up a couple of big abstracts I'd enter them, just for the notoriety. Anything for a laugh, that's yours truly. And Janet would be back by then; perhaps she'd come with me.
When I saw Kingston he'd talked about walking in the dark, and the more I thought about it the more it appealed to me. Most of the time it would be ordinary, like walking in fog, but if you did it often enough you'd eventually have one of those magical experiences that make all the dull trips worthwhile. I could imagine being above the clouds, with the stars blazing across the sky like you'd never seen them before. I'd have to give it a try, when all this was over.
Tregellis was on the phone at eight thirty next morning and kept me talking for nearly an hour. It was worthwhile, though. He agreed that Graham should go to America and thought that Piers should accompany him. If Melissa agreed to kiss and tell about Kingston he could reassure her that she was safe from prosecution, or if he thought that that was out of the question and she insisted on having a team of hotshot lawyers present he could stop them running rings around poor Graham. The legal staff employed by the SFO have a special status. A Prosecution Service solicitor would never visit a client, but one with the SFO can because he is part of the investigative team, and the SFO can order a suspect to answer questions. There's a downside to that. A cornerstone of British law is that a suspect is not expected to incriminate himself, so any information extracted this way cannot be used in court. It'll be different in America, of course, so Piers would have to do some swotting on the plane.
Meanwhile, we agreed I'd talk to J.J. Fox on the pretext of gathering information about Kingston, who we knew worked for him. At this point we were displaying no suspicions about Fox himself. We'd nail his minions first, then see how they sang.
'What if,' Tregellis asked, 'my two trusty manservants go all the way to the US of A and Melissa denies all knowledge of Kingston? She was never in one of his classes, was she?'
'No, but I've been thinking about that,' I replied. 'How does this sound?'
When I'd finished he said: 'Right, I'll have a word with the brass in Cumbria and tell them to liaise with you.'
I put the phone down, rubbed my ear and rotated my shoulder. Who'd be a telephone girl? Maybe I should be more sympathetic to them in future.
Eight a.m. on the Thursday morning a contingent from Cumbria Constabulary led by my oppo from Kendal arrested Nicholas Kingston on suspicion of defrauding the Inland Revenue. Eight a.m. was a compromise. They'd said seven, I'd suggested ten. Sparky, myself, one of their DCs and our photographer sat sipping coffee from a flask in Dave's car at the end of the lane as Kingston was lifted.
'There's seven of us for Saturday,' Dave said.
'Saturday?' I queried. 'What happens Saturday?'
'Fishing. Don't say you'd forgotten.'
'What? To Bridlington?'
'That's right. Nigel and myself are going with you, and Jeff's got a car-full.'
'Oh. Right.'
'They're coming,' Dave hissed, and I ducked down out of sight. I didn't want the Kingstons to associate me with this. I was from another force, miles away, and on a different inquiry.
'They've gone,' he said, and I sat up.
'Got the warrant?' I asked, twisting round. The DC waved it in front of my face and I said: 'Right. Let's go.'
A WPC had been left with Mrs. Kingston to ensure that she didn't destroy all their records before we arrived. That was the story. The main thing was that she ensured that the gates were open for us. Dave parked right in
