Les was listening on another phone. He pulled a nice-work-if-you-can-get-it face and nodded for me to carry on.
'In that case, Mr. Kingston,' I continued, 'we will need a statement from you and some samples, with your permission, so we can identify you amongst any others we find. Elimination purposes, as we say. I'd like to drive over now and see you at Kendal police station, if that's all right.'
'Of course, Inspector. Anything to help, anything at all. Can I ask, though, why you are on this? I thought you were with HeckleyCID.'
'I am, sir,' I told him, improvising like a non-swimmer in the deep end. 'But I also work for something called SCOG; Serious Crimes Operations Group. We all get roped in when something like this happens.'
He put on a good show of sounding incredulous. 'Serious crime? Crime?
You mean… you mean… it wasn't natural causes? Are you saying he was m-m-murdered?'
'We're not sure,' I told him. 'It was probably an unfortunate accident, but we have to treat it as a suspicious death, and with him being such an important person we're giving it all we've got. You know what the papers will say if we're negligent. I'll set off now and ring you from Kendal nick at about…' I looked at my watch, '… about twelve thirty, eh?'
'Fine, Inspector. I'll wait for your call.'
'Just one other thing, sir,' I said. 'Could you please wear the same shoes you were wearing on Monday night?'
We replaced our phones and Les said: 'Well done. He had it all off pat; he was expecting someone to ring him. Do you want a coffee before you go?'
'No thanks,' I said. 'I'll be stopping for a pee all the way.'
The A65 leads through the Dales and on to Kendal, Windermere and the Lake District. Long stretches of it are single carriage way and queues of slow-moving traffic are the norm. Lorries bring limestone from Settle and hurtle back at breakneck speed where conditions allow.
They're no problem. It's the coaches and caravans and mothers taking the kids to school in the next village with the Range Rover stuck in first gear that cause the hold-ups. I hate the road. The only consolation is that although thousands of tourists head this way, thousands more are deterred. I did the eighty miles in two and a half hours and rang Kingston. He was with us in fifteen minutes.
I explained to him more fully why we wanted samples of his DNA, and he enthusiastically allowed the police surgeon to extract six hairs, by the roots. That's where the DNA lives. I boasted expansively about ESFLA, electronic footprint lifting apparatus, or something like that, that enables us to track a culprit across a carpet, and he happily surrendered his shoes to the force photographer. He admitted that he'd been in Fox's room, so he had nothing to hide.
I took him into an interview room but didn't bother with the tape. I wanted it to be nice and informal; he was among, if not friends, a bunch of half-witted coppers who didn't know their batons from their buttons. He told me that Fox had asked to see him about some ideas he was having. 'As I said on the phone, Inspector,' he continued, 'I analyse information from tests about the suitability of staff members.
Management staff, that is. It's not regular work, about two hundred hours per year. I also devise the tests. J.J. is was a great believer in a scientific approach to staff selection and promotion. He puts great store by loyalty. That and competence were the attributes my tests were designed to highlight. Lately, though, he'd become paranoid. He was considering placing bugs in places where staff congregated, so he could see what they were saying about him behind his back. That's what he wanted to discuss with me. It would be my job to listen to the tapes and report directly to him. I discouraged him, of course. Said that just because someone might say something disparaging it didn't mean they were disloyal. We all go over the mark in private, I said. I think I talked him out of it.'
'What time did you leave him?' I asked.
'About eight o'clock. I had a workout in the gym and came home.'
'You didn't stay in your room overnight?'
'No, Inspector, I prefer my own bed.' He gave a little smile and I thought of the delightful Francesca.
After a long silence I said: 'Did you see anything of a dark girl who was staying in the room next to yours? She's called Danielle La Petite He heaved a giant sigh, leaned heavily on the table between us and drummed his fingertips on the top of his head. It was a gesture he'd seen on How to be a Psychologist videos, when the patient runs out of patience and is considering whether to slot the doctor. He'd obviously practised it. 'I might as well tell you,' he said, looking up at me, his face a study of embarrassed guilt.
'You'll find out, one way or another.' I sat back and waited for the revelation.
'Danielle is J.J.'s mistress,' he began. 'She's a dancer with a Manchester theatre group called Zambesi. I met her off the eighteen fifty-two train and took her to the hotel. JJ. trusts me, you see. We had a drink in the cocktail lounge, and I came home.'
'Did you find Danielle for Fox?' I asked, avoiding the word procure.
'I introduced them, if that's what you mean,' he replied, almost offended.
'Was she a student of yours?'
'What if she had been, Inspector? She was the same as lots of others like her; expectations way above their intellects. Thick as two short planks and wanted to be a doctor. She's a good dancer and good in bed;
I encouraged her to develop what talents she possessed. JJ. pays her a thousand pounds a night and she enjoys her work. Where else could she earn money like that?'
'And what was your cut?' I asked.
'I didn't take a penny off her. J.J. paid me well, extremely well, and …' He shrugged and smiled.
'And what?'
'Like I said, she was a good dancer and good in bed, and nobody misses a coconut off a fruit stall, do they? J.J. liked her to put on a show for him and I was the warm-up act. I didn't need any money from him.
Shagging the boss's ladyfriend just before he does has a certain appeal all of its own, don't you think, Inspector?'
'I wouldn't know,' I said.
Going home it was the M6, M61 and M62 all the way and I never dropped under ninety. If a traffic car had followed me I'd have given him the secret signal that says: 'I'm a cop in a hurry,' and he'd have dropped back. You just switch your hazard lights on for three flashes and dab your brakes, that's all. Try it some time. The local chip pie opens at teatime on Wednesdays, so I had them again. They were all right, but nowhere as good as the ones Shirley had cooked for us. By six o'clock I'd washed my plate, made a pot of tea and the full evening stretched before me.
I laid a blank piece of hardboard on the drive and started flicking blue enamel on it, a la Jackson Pollock. It's a lot harder than it looks, and time-consuming. It doesn't start to work until the entire field is thickly covered in splashes and squiggles and spots and dribbles. This would give the exhibition judges something to think about, and might even make the Gazette. I'd have to think of a name for it, and for its partner, when I'd finished the pair of them. I reached for my tea and found it had gone cold.
I was taking the lid off the red when a sound behind me caused me to turn. Young Daniel, Dave's son, was freewheeling his mountain bike through my gateway, closely followed by his dad on a lady's pink model with a basket on the handlebars. Dave was wearing a Heart Appeal T-shirt and jogging bottoms.
'Hi, Charlie,' Daniel greeted me. 'Whatya doing?' He saw the painting and went: 'Wow! It's fantastic!'
Dave dismounted, saying: 'It's Uncle Charlie to you, young man,' for the thousandth time, followed by: 'Good God, it looks like a bag of maggots.'
I knocked the lid back into place and stretched upright, my vertebrae creaking in protest. 'Visitors!' I exclaimed. 'This is a pleasant surprise. Let's have a drink.'
'Can I have a go on your computer, please, Uncle Charlie?'
Daniel asked. 'I think Dad wants to talk cop talk.'
'Sure,' I replied. 'C'mon, I'll set you up.' I left him with a glass of LA lager and lime, zapping aliens, and carried two cans of real beer and two glasses out into the garden, where Dave had made himself comfortable on the seat.
The cans went psssss! as we broke the seals. Dave said: 'It's just two small messages. First of all Les Isles rang to say that Danielle La Petite is a torn from Salford, and she hasn't turned up yet. Aged twenty-two, several
