'Well,' he explained, 'with this digital stuff you can fake it. The picture is converted to a million bits of information, little electrical impulses, passed down wires and through silicon chips, then reassembled into something that hopefully resembles what you started out with. With the Hasselblad, the image falls directly on to the negative and from that directly on to the print paper. What you see is what you get.'
'He's right,' said the scientist, whose name I'd forgotten. 'A thousand-pound-a-day barrister would get digital evidence kicked out of court.'
'That's something for us to think about,' I said. 'So what have you found?'
'OK,' the scientist began. 'Pete shot a roll of 100 ASA through the Hasselblad and printed it on medium-grade glossy fibre paper. The prints you supplied are on similar paper. The border of each picture, as you know, is an image of the frame in the camera that the film is held flat against. Ideally, we should see four dead-straight black edges all the way round. In practice, when seen under the microscope, there are minute blobs of paint and specks of dust that make it irregular. Let me show you.'
He switched on an overhead projector and placed a slide under it. The images on the screen jerked around as the shadow of his hand manipulated them, its movements magnified by the apparatus. I could see two black right- angles which he eventually placed side by side. 'We took some negatives from your pictures,' he said, 'and this is a typical comparison. It's not as clear as under the 'scope, but you can see here…' He pointed to something on the slide, then realised that it was easier to show me on the screen and jumped to his feet.
'Here,' he continued, 'and here. These are probably dust particles stuck to the paint that the camera interior was treated with. As it is matt paint we can also show how irregular that looks. See here, and here.'
'They look similar,' I said.
'That's right. There are also some scratches across the negative, caused by dust in the camera. Similar scratches can be seen on the photographs.'
'So what's the bottom line?' I asked. Sometimes the cliche is the easiest way of expressing it.
'The bottom line, Inspector, is that I am quite prepared to stand in the box and say that the pictures you supplied of the groups of partygoers and the film that Peter says was shot through a Hasselblad earlier today were taken on one and the same camera. No doubt about it.'
'You'll do for me,' I said. 'You'll do for me.' We could prove that Melissa and Kingston had met, in spite of his denials. I rang Tregellis's home number from my office and told him the good news.
'Great!' he said. 'Leave it with me.'
The young lovers shuffled forwards in the queue, tightly holding hands.
Rows twenty-one to thirty were boarding flight BA175 from Heathrow to New York, and their seats were 22 A and 22B. They worked for British Airways, in the accounts department, and this was the first time they had used the generous concession on fares that their employer offered.
It was also to be the first time he had ever been abroad and the first time she had been to New York. And slept with a man. It was to be a short stay, two nights, so they only carried hand luggage. Hers contained a selection of tasteful underwear and a transparent nightie; his held enough condoms for the crew of a nuclear submarine on shore leave in Saigon. Expectations were high and sightseeing wasn't in the itinerary.
He offered their boarding passes to the stewardess at the mouth of the tunnel that would transfer them magically on to the jumbo, and wondered why the man with her was peering over her shoulder and paying so much attention to the passes.
'Ah!' the stewardess said, showing a pass to the man.
'Ah!' he responded, saying to the couple: 'Could you just step to one side, please. I'm afraid your seats have been taken and we'll have to bump you off this flight.'
They turned tearfully away and never noticed the two men who came running through the departure lounge to join the back of the queue. One of them was short and bulky, with an Adidas holdall over his shoulder, and the other, the one with the bow tie, carried a leather Armani flight bag. Both of them were puffing with the exertion. Graham and Piers were on their way.
I did some travelling too, but slower and lower. Friday afternoon, on a whim, I drove 190 miles to Welwyn Garden City and at five forty-five pressed the bell at the side of the front door of Andrew Roberts' house. It was called Sharand. I hadn't noticed that before. Shaz, is wife, must be Sharon, I thought. How clever. The Bedford and the Saab were on the drive, but the Fiesta was missing.
He opened the door, still wearing his Guns 'n' Roses and cut-downs.
'Hello, Mr. Roberts,' I began. 'DI Priest. I was just passing. Been to a meeting, you know how it is, and thought I'd call to give you the latest.'
'Oh, er, right,' he replied. 'You'd, er, better come in.'
The carpets were deep and well-laid, as you might expect, but the colour was out of your nightmares. Day- glo orange and brow ny-orange in geometric patterns that shimmered and swayed like a Bridget Riley painting. The fireplace with its copper canopy dominated the room and the pictures on the walls were numbers one to five in the World's Most Sentimental Prints. The kid with a snotty nose, the Malaysian woman who's just eaten a badly cleaned puffer fish, and so on. Shaz was curled on the settee in a fluffy pink cardigan, watching TV and looking like an inflatable Barbie doll with a slow leak. I rested my eyes on the fish tank bubbling in the corner and sat down.
'Hope I'm not disturbing you,' I began, 'but I thought you'd like to know what's happening.'
'No, that's all right,' he replied. She threw me a smile, on and straight off, and made a token effort to pull the hem of her miniskirt towards her knees.
'There've been a few developments,' I began, 'but we're still working on it.' I was competing against a peroxide-blonde creep who had a good line in third-form humour and a tits fixation. 'Whether your brother Duncan started the fire is uncertain, but if he did he was most certainly put up to it by a girl. We're convinced he was just being used. She's in America at the moment, but we'll be having words with her. The house belonged to Keith Crosby at the time of the fire, and he was sacked. He was an MP, as you know. Apparently there was some bad blood between him and a prominent businessman, someone really famous, but I can't tell you his name just yet. We're talking to him a week on Tuesday and hoping he'll throw some light on things. He's promised to give us his full co-operation. One theory is that the girl did it to please him. So…' I stood up to leave,'… watch the news on telly and hope that he keeps his promise.'
'Right,' he said, rising. Tanks for coming.'
At the door I turned and said: 'Isn't young DJ at home?'
'No,' he replied. 'E's at college.'
'I thought it was the holidays.'
'Yeah, well, you know how it is. 'Spect he has a bird up there or somefmg. He's at Lancaster University. Takes after his uncle in that re spec not me.'
'What's he studying?'
'Mechanical engineering. He's a whiz wiv anyfing mechanical.'
'He rang me,' I told him, 'to ask about Uncle Duncan.'
'Who? DJ?' He sounded surprised.
'Mmm. I think he cared about him more than you realised. I was hoping he'd be here, so I'd be grateful if you could pass on what I've told you.'
'Yeah, right, I'll give 'im a bell an' tell 'im.'
'Week on Tuesday,' I said. 'Watch the papers.'
'Will do. Fanks.'
I started the engine and did a three-point turn at the end of their cul-de-sac. He'd gone in before I drove by so I didn't wave. That's put the Fox amongst the chickens, I thought. This hadn't been in the game plan, and Tregellis would probably eat his desk if he found out, but sometimes it helps to stir things up a little. I tried to blink away the green spots that were swirling before my eyes and headed back towards the M1.
'That's where Percy Shaw lived,' Sparky said, presumably pointing down a lane end we'd just passed.
Here we go, I thought. He's in one of those moods.
'Who's Percy Shaw?' Nigel asked, dead on cue. He'll never learn.
'Percy Shaw? You've never heard of Percy Shaw?'
'I'm afraid not.'
'Blimey, and I thought you were educated. Percy's a local hero, and his product is used on nearly every road in the country; in the world, probably.'
