front of the door and bailed out, followed by the other two. I spread myself across the seats, lying low again, and waited.
I opened my eyes as the door was wrenched open. Dave said: 'They've taken her down to the gazebo. We've the place to ourselves.'
'It's not a gazebo, it's a belvedere,' I told him, arching my back and stretching my legs.
Inside the house the photographer was standing beside the camera cabinet, green with envy. 'I haven't touched anything,' he said, 'but I asked her to unlock the door.'
'It's OK,' I told him. 'Stick your film in it and shoot away.'
He extracted the Hasselblad with professional ease and undipped the back. In a few seconds the roll of film, huge by modern standards, was on the spools and the camera was back together again. He shot off half of it against a mahogany door and then went outside and took some pictures of the sky.
Dave went for a wander around the house while I watched through the back window for the others returning from the belvedere. I was in the kitchen, which was white-tiled and reminiscent of a high-tech operating theatre, with lots of stainless steel and glowing digital displays.
Only a half-eaten bowl of muesli and a mug of cold coffee on the breakfast bar spoiled the image. I doubted if Mrs. K spent much time in there. Beyond the belvedere, Goat Fell looked benign and welcoming in the morning light. They'd miss their walk today. I pushed the coffee mug nearer the centre of the bar and placed the muesli spoon at a more natural angle. That was better. Now they could let the Vogue photographer take his snaps. A black and white woodpecker landed in the garden, pecked at something and flew off, rising and falling like a small boat on a rough sea. 'Look out,' I whispered after it, 'or the man will get you.'
'Bloody hell!' I heard Dave say behind me as he wandered into the room. 'Talk about how the other half live.'
'Does it meet with your approval?' I asked.
'I'll say. Wouldn't mind a week here myself. Do they take boarders, do you know?'
'I doubt it, but with luck it'll be on the market, soon. See anything interesting upstairs?'
'Not really. He has a telescope poking out of a window.'
'He's into astronomy.'
'Is he? Then why is it focused on the bedroom window of the farmhouse?'
I sighed. 'Like you said, Dave, he's a charmer through and through.
Everything he does is bent.'
'So let's make it his undoing.'
'We will. And I'll tell you something else about him. Given plenty of time his planning is immaculate. If he's done the jobs we think he has then he hasn't left a trace. He's a clever man, but he can't think on his feet. When I interviewed him he was floundering, sent out all the signals that he was lying. Ask him a question that was irrelevant and he'd dictate you a textbook on it, then come to the point and it was one-word answers.' I turned away from the window and said: 'Keep an eye out for them. Did I see a loo along the corridor?'
'It's, er, out of order,' Dave replied, stepping after me and placing his hand on my arm. 'Use the one upstairs. You've never seen anything like it. The tiles are right up your street. Top of the stairs, on the left.'
I'd seen an enamel sign, probably Victorian, on a door. It read we.
Underneath, in matching letters, blue on white, was one saying:
Gentlemen adjust your dress before leaving the urinal. I took Dave's advice and used the one upstairs.
It was nothing special. Toilet, bidet, huge free-standing iron bath, full-length mirrors that made you look sunburned and enough towels to cushion a stunt man fall. It could have been mine. The tiles were a mural of a classical scene. Aphrodite tempting Lesbos or something, with a swan taking an unhealthy interest in the proceedings and only a few vine leaves keeping it this side of depraved. A high-tech exercise bike with more dials than a light aircraft stood in a corner and two black satin dressing gowns hung behind the door. I had a slash, washed my hands, smiled at myself in the mirror, decided that a tan suited me and went downstairs.
I walked past the downstairs loo, then changed my mind. It was hard to imagine anything in this house being out of order. I bet they sent for an electrician to set the video. I read the sign, checked my flies and pushed the door open.
There was no window, but the light switch was handy, operated by a china bauble dangling on a string. For a downstairs loo it wasn't bad, about the same floor area as my upstairs one. The sink was full-size, not one of these miniatures added as an afterthought, and there was a shower cabinet in the adjacent corner. I flushed the low-level toilet, which worked, and washed my hands again. The towel warming on the heated rail had the letter C woven in gold braid in the corner.
Claridgesl I wondered. I shook my head in disbelief and turned to leave.
There were three tiny pictures on the wall alongside the door, and they attracted me like marmalade to carpet pile, as pictures always do. At first I thought they were abstracts, but then I saw they were the wings of something like a dragonfly. I lifted one off its hook and took it under the light.
I need spectacles. It comes to everyone, with the passing of years. I peered at the caption in the bottom right-hand corner until my head ached. The microscopic letters read, I think, Aeshna grand is whatever that is. The signature in the other corner was easier. It said J.
Wilson, who we now know as Mrs. Holmes.
Chapter 10
'He's got a dirty muriel on his bathroom wall,' I announced, strolling into the kitchen.
'Not bad, is it?' Dave replied.
The photographer had joined him. 'Oh, can I go look?' he asked.
I shook my head. 'Sorry, Pete, it's against the rules.'
'Shirley would love this,' Dave said, waving at the appliances. His wife is the best cook I know. 'Poggen… pohl? Where are they from?'
'Why the kitchen?' I asked. 'She'd probably love the bedroom or the television lounge or every other room in the house.'
'Women like kitchens, Charlie,' he stated. 'Maybe that's where you go wrong.'
'Could be,' I replied, 'but this is not for us. Give 'em a click, Dave, and let's go.'
He undipped his radio from his belt and clicked transmit three times, as we'd agreed. 'We'll wait at the gate,' I said, 'just in case she comes to the door to wave goodbye.' The photographer followed me out and we took the car to the bottom of the drive. Five minutes later Dave, the local DC and the WPC piled into the back seat and we drove back to Kendal nick. On the way we told them that they could let Kingston go.
The fraud boys calculated that Kingston was living way beyond his legitimate income. He appeared to receive frequent but irregular sums of money from somewhere, and he said that he gambled at a casino in Blackpool. Checks they made later showed that he was a member, but nobody there recognised him from his photograph. He must have been the most successful player of roulette ever, but he claimed he had a system, which he had to be careful not to give away. He was, he said, very cautious and low-key when he played. Casino winnings are not tax- deductible, so they let him go and even managed a strained apology.
Kingston was happy, because he thought he'd fooled us, and we were delirious because he was happy. Like they say, nowadays we're a service, not a force. The local team took us to the pub and we had a long lunch, sitting outside in the sun, and Mr. Snappy took a picture of us all.
I was sitting at my desk, just before seven, when Pete the photographer rang me. 'We've something to show you,' he said.
I pulled my jacket on and ran down four flights of steps to the basement, where the darkroom was. I knocked and he opened the door.
With him was a scientist from the Home Office lab at Wetherton. We'd met before and exchanged pleasantries.
'This is proper photography,' Pete said. 'There's no arguing with this.'
'How do you mean?' I asked.
