forget it. Power will be in the air. Shall we wait for you?'
'Oh, er,' I stumbled. 'Er, it'll take me a couple of hours to get there.'
'Good man, Charlie. You're in for a treat. Shall we say the car park at Patterdale, at midnight?'
I looked at my watch. 'I've my boots to find,' I said. 'I might be a few minutes late.'
'We'll wait for you. See you soon.'
I knew exactly where my boots were. Right where I took them off last time. The kettle had just boiled so I made a flask of coffee and pushed it into my rucksack with a packet of biscuits and a sweater. I donned a thicker shirt and my Gore-Tex jacket and turned the lights out.
First stop was Heckley nick. I punched the code into the lock on the back door and let myself in. We were in the lull before the pubs shut.
The front desk was deserted and the station was as quiet as I've ever heard it. No cheerful banter from the cells, no drunken snoring from the locker room. Behind the desk, the door to the sergeants' office was firmly shut, which was unusual. I tiptoed over to it, paused, then threw the door open.
Chapter 13
A fat man was standing there, bent over. His trousers were round his ankles, copious shorts enveloped his knees and his arse was as big and white as the harvest moon I was expecting to see later. Arthur was standing in front of the man and a PC was kneeling behind him, applying black ink to that backside with one of the little rollers that the fingerprint boys use. Arthur's jaw dropped as the door crashed open and the PC's eyes bulged like gob stoppers The man's resigned expression didn't change he was already as low as he could go. We stared at each other for an eternity until I said: 'My office,' to Arthur and turned on my heel.
I pulled my big diary from the drawer and opened it at today. I wrote:
See Nick Kingston in Patterdale car park at midnight. Climbing Helvellyn. It was just in case. As I put it back I saw my handcuffs there. I picked them up, weighed them in my hands, and slipped one end down the back of my trousers. Like I said, just in case.
Arthur came in, looking contrite. 'What the fuck are you playing at, Arthur?' I demanded.
He shuffled about from one foot to the other. We have a good, casual relationship, but he knew that I was the boss and could only allow so much. 'He, er, he was caught, earlier this evening,' he said. 'Act of gross indecency.'
'Like what?'
'Buggery. Shit-stabbing. He was stuck up a youth in the Park Avenue toilets. Probably underage.'
'Where's the youth?'
'He ran away.'
'But Fatso didn't make it.'
'No.'
'So what were you doing?'
He heaved a big sigh and said: 'We just added a line to the PACE conditions. We told him that in cases of indecency between males we have to take an anal print as well as fingerprints. That's what you caught us doing.'
'Jeeesus Chris tV I hissed. 'You know, don't you, that if he complains they'll hang you from the town hall clock by your bollocks? And not just you; all of us.'
'His sort are not in the habit of complaining, Mr. Priest.'
'He might. And cut out the Mr. Priest. Let him go, Arthur. Clean him up and let him go.'
'Right, Chas. Thanks. What shall we do with the print?'
'Destroy it. No, leave it on my desk. No, destroy it.' I opened the door and turned the light out.
'Shall we destroy the others?'
'The othersV I exploded. 'How long has this been going on?'
'Since PACE came out,' he replied. 'We've quite a collection.'
I shook my head in disbelief, but couldn't help laughing. 'Better hang on to them,' I spluttered. 'You never know, this might be pioneering research.'
At the bottom of the stairs I said: 'I want something from Gareth Adey's office.' The CS gas canister was still in his drawer. They're quite tiny for an aerosol, about the size of a tube of mints. It wasn't noticeable in the pocket of my anorak.
Then it was just a matter of a two-hour blast towards the setting sun and the Lake District, the heater blowing cold because I was overdressed, and the cuffs reassuringly sticking into the base of my spine.
Helvellyn, at just over three thousand feet, is the third highest mountain in England. Imagine you are in bed, with your knees drawn up and the duvet draped over them. That's what it looks like. The top is flat and unimpressive compared with its cousins like Scafell and Skiddaw, and the far side slopes gently down to Thirlmere. At this side it drops a clear thousand feet to Red Tarn, but there's no dramatic cliff top that you can peer over. It's just a gradual steepening of gradient until you are beyond the point of no return. In winter, when fresh snow lies on frozen, that point can come horrifyingly early. In summer, it's a pussycat. From Patterdale there are two approaches to the summit: Swirral Edge, up your right knee, which is a steep and narrow path; or Striding Edge, up your left, which is a jagged spine of rock like an iguana's backbone.
Kingston was leaning on the boot of the BMW when I swung into the car park. 'Hello, Charlie,' he greeted me. 'Glad you could make it.'
'Where's Francesca?' I asked without ceremony.
'Oh, she decided not to come. She doesn't like me wandering about on my own, but as soon as I told her I'd be in your capable hands she said she'd prefer to have an early night. We're having a dinner party tomorrow, so it will be a busy day for her.'
'Right,' I said. 'Just the two of us.' I poured a coffee and sipped it.
'I'm not bothering with a 'sack,' Kingston said. 'The weather is settled. Just stick a Mars bar or something in your pocket.'
'Good idea,' I told him. 'I always feel that we carry too much anyway.'
'Excess baggage, Charlie, in more ways than one. Travel light, like a warrior; free, fluid and unpredictable.'
'Let's go,' I said. I wasn't in the mood for philosophical discussions.
It's a two-mile walk-in, then you have to decide which path to take.
Normal practice is to go up one and down the other. Common sense said up Swirral and down Striding Edge, when dawn would be breaking, but at the fork Kingston veered to the left.
'Striding Edge?' I said. 'Is that wise?'
'We'll be OK,' he assured me. I wasn't convinced. He walked fast, and I was stumbling along behind him, blindly placing my feet in black patches that might have been potholes or shadows, for all I could see.
That's when I started worrying. Kingston was lots of things that I despised, but he could withstand cold and fire and was probably convinced that he had supernatural gifts. Some murderers, the real nutters, believe that when they kill someone their own life is enriched, their powers are enhanced. They are endowed with all the qualities of the victim. Like I said, I started worrying.
I'd intended staying behind him, but didn't have any choice. He clambered on to the rocks at the start of the Edge and waited for me.
'OK?' he asked as I caught up with him.
'Just puffing a bit,' I said. 'You set a brisk pace.'
'This bit's slow going; you'll soon get your breath back.'
He could see in the dark. He was soon fifty yards ahead, striding from boulder to boulder with all the confidence of a mountain goat. I measured each step, feeling for solid ground before I transferred my weight, and fell still further behind. When it came to walking, I was out of my class. If I fell it wouldn't be far, it's too rough for that, but on these rocks eight feet could kill you, no problem. This was for crazies.
I made it to the end. The last bit is the worst; a ten-foot step, with a narrow foothold halfway down. He was
