The DI was speaking on his radio. 'The caravan's set up,' he said as he switched off, 'but the BT engineer's still working on the phones.'
'In that case find the manager and ask him if there's anywhere we can watch this,' Les told him, waving the cassette. The DI made for the lift and the pathologist excused himself and followed.
When we were alone I said: 'There's a lot more to this, Les. I'm seconded to the SFO and they're looking into Fox's affairs. I'll fill you in when we have the chance, but meanwhile I'd appreciate it if you could let me sit in on things.'
He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. 'I knew it. As soon as I saw you I knew it. You're bad news, Charlie, did anyone ever tell you?'
I grinned and said: 'I know, but it makes death more interesting, doesn't it.'
The manager switched the video on and told the DI which button to press on the remote control when the tape had run itself back to the beginning. He hovered until Les told him, very politely, that he'd have to leave. It might have been his office, with a huge mahogany desk, three-piece suite and Atkinson Grimshaw prints on the walls, but this was a murder inquiry and he'd have to go. I assumed they were prints, but you never know.
The SOCO had given us a wide-angle overall view of Fox's suite of rooms that constituted the penthouse. She'd panned around and wandered from room to room as if making a film for architects or interior designers.
The main room, presumably the one intended for his waking hours, had a glass wall with a view over the city, and outside was a bank of mirrors that could follow the sun and reflect it in. Furniture was sparse but luxurious, with lots of white fur, and a few antique pieces struck a discordant note.
After the grand tour the SOCO pulled back the lens and got down to the nitty-gritty. Fox's clothes were in an un hasty pile in a Queen Anne chair with a pair of striped boxer shorts on top. The huge bed was crumpled and the pillows had been pushed to one side. It was built in, with lights and speakers in the headboard and a bank of controls for things I could only wonder about. The man himself was half-kneeling, half-sitting on the floor near the top of the bed. His head was at an awkward angle and a cord led from his neck and was looped behind one of the hi-fi speakers. The cameraman zoomed in with ruthless disregard for taste or propriety. This was strictly after- the-watershed stuff.
Fox was naked apart from pyjama trousers, which were round his ankles.
His eyes were closed, and he looked reasonably peaceful, although a ribbon of saliva had run down his chin and chest. His winkie was relaxed, small and red, with a condom hanging off the end like an old sock. If that's safe sex, I thought, God save me from the dangerous sort.
An hour later we saw the real thing, just before he was hauled away for dissection. I didn't feel sorrow for him, not an ounce. Around his bed the pong of cheap perfume hung in the air like petrol fumes on a foggy morning, and that, as much as anything, convinced me what a sordid little man he was. Les still insisted we wore paper suits and bootees and we trudged from room to room, me concerned with the man's lifestyle, Les looking for anything that might throw some light on how he met his death.
A feature of the living room was a pond containing several large koi carp. As we approached they rose to the surface and followed us with their bulging eyes.
'They need feeding,' the DI stated.
'So do I,' Les told him.
In another room I found a bank of televisions, six of them, all glowing silently, their screens alight with columns of names and numbers. They were showing stock market prices from all around the world: the Dow Jones, Hang Seng, Nikkei; plus exchange rates and commodity prices. If that's what it took to become rich, I'd rather not bother.
'Look at this, boss,' I heard the DI say, and wandered out to see what he'd found. He was holding a fishing rod, about four feet long, complete with reel, line and hook.
'Where was that?' Les asked.
'Under there,' the DI replied, pointing to a window seat. 'It lifts up. I was looking for some fish food for them.'
'That's one way of doing your fishing,' Les said. 'Beats standing out in the rain for hours.'
I went back to Heckley and did some typing. Les promised to keep me informed about the post-mortem and I arranged to see him in the morning with a synopsis of Fox's affairs. He rang me late that evening, just after I'd stood under the shower.
'Cause of death was asphyxia by strangulation,' he said, bypassing the normal formalities. 'Time, about eleven p.m.'
'Foul play?' I wondered.
'Difficult to tell. We've told the press that it looks like a sexual experiment that went tragically wrong. He was over twice the driving limit with alcohol and there were traces of coke on the bedside table.
Haven't got the results of the blood test yet. What did you say that character was called who worked for Fox?'
'Kingston,' I replied. 'Nick Kingston. Why?'
'I thought so. Because an NJ.W. Kingston was booked in the Fox Borealis for Monday night, but his bed wasn't slept in.'
'That sounds like my man,' I said.
'One other guest is unaccounted for,' Les continued. 'A young lady called Danielle La Petite also booked in for Monday night only. Her room was number 1403, Kingston's was 1405, next door. Both rooms were booked on Reynard's account, so there were no bills to pay.'
'Danielle La Petite I said, 'sounds like a hooker.'
'She does, doesn't she? We're checking her out.'
'Les…' I began.
'I know what you're going to say,' he replied.
'What?'
'You want to talk to Kingston.'
'So how about it?'
'See me in the morning, as planned, and we'll discuss it then.'
'Fair enough, and thanks for ringing.'
'There's one other small point you might find interesting,' he said before I replaced the phone. 'Guess what Fox's last meal was?'
'No idea.'
'Sushi.'
'Sushi? Raw fish?'
'That's right. With oysters. About nine o'clock the chef went up to his room and prepared a freshly-caught carp for Mr. Fox and his guest.
She was a tall and beautiful half-caste girl. The chef is Japanese, and his English is rather basic. He said she was dressed like a prostitute.'
'Yuck,' I said.
Superintendent Isles was happy for me to interview Kingston. I knew the man, was intimate with the story, and could put my mileage expenses on the SFO's account. One of his own detectives would have been limited to the usual did-anyone-see-you-there questions; I could try to get under his guard. I rang him in Kendal from Les's office.
'It's DI Priest from Heckley CID,' I said. 'I came to see you a fortnight ago.'
'I remember, Inspector. The Carlos Castaneda man.'
'That's me. First of all, I suppose you have heard the bad news about J.J. Fox?'
'Yes, just caught it on the radio. What a tragedy.'
'We've just been going through the guest list at the Fox Borealis where he died,' I told him, 'and have noticed that there is a N.J.W. Kingston on it, with your address. Were you at the Fox Borealis on Monday night, sir?'
'Well, yes, as a matter of fact I was, Inspector. I had a meeting with J.J. that evening. I do consultancy work for the Reynard Organisation: psychometric testing of job applicants; motivational lectures to senior management; that sort of thing. He wanted to discuss some ideas he had. I assure you he was fit and in good spirits when I left him.'
