'If you lose your way, ask,' I said. I took a towel from my car boot and dried my face and blew my nose on it. That CS gas gets everywhere.
I doubted if we'd run Kingston for little Jasmine, but we'd done our best for her. Found her some justice at last.
The jemmies went to have prints taken from them and I went for breakfast in their canteen. I was having my second tea when the DI that I'd dealt with before came in and joined me. 'We've just had a report,' he said, 'of a casualty on Striding Edge. Male, early twenties, with a broken leg. Anything to do with you?'
'Good,' I replied. 'Good. My cup run neth over. He's called Duncan J. Roberts and I want a statement from him.'
'Patterdale rescue team are on their way,' the DI told me, 'and the Air Sea Rescue helicopter's standing by. He'll be in hospital in half an hour.'
We agreed that he'd interview DJ, if possible, before the morphine wore off. I suggested that the threat of an attempted murder charge might further loosen his tongue. Kingston was making a full and frank statement, we'd tell him, and blaming everybody but himself. Meanwhile, I'd try the same thing with Kingston.
DJ fell for it, Kingston didn't. He couldn't remember Melissa, didn't know anything about 32 Leopold Avenue, and stuck to his story about Fox. We brought Francesca in for questioning and searched the house.
Thoroughly, this time.
In the garage we found a rubber dingy. Not a super-duper neoprene job with a wooden floor and mountings for an outboard, like we might have expected. This was a cheapo plastic one, bright yellow, like you see on garage fore courts for parents to cast their offspring adrift in.
But Kingston had no children. It was deflated, and pools of water were trapped in the folds, so we took a sample and sent it for analysis.
Apart from that and a couple of grams of coke, we didn't find much else. I rang Les Isles and told him of my adventures. He said: 'I'm coming over.'
It was ten o'clock in the evening when I arrived home, sustained for the drive by adrenalin and canteen tea. I cleaned my teeth, switched the alarm off and crashed out for ten hours.
'Where've you been?' Dave demanded when I wandered into the office, clean-shaven and crisp-shirted, carrying a Marks and Spark's prawn sandwich for brunch. I told him all about it. My back hurt where DJ had whomped me, and my left arm was stiff. I could have had the bruises photographed as evidence, and filed a report, but I didn't bother. Screwing DJ wasn't on my agenda.
I did the paperwork and rang Tregellis. It's always easier to do things that way round, then the decks are clear if you are landed with another job. He was delighted, and had some news for me, too.
'Graham's been doing the rounds with the video you sent us,' he told me. 'He's shown it to three people who were at that charity bash at Newbury, and they all ID-ed Kingston as the man who accompanied Mary Perigo.'
'Rodger-with-a-d Wakefield,' I said.
'That's right. The case is building up nicely. Melissa's fingered him for the fire, you say this DJ character is spilling the beans on him, he's had a go at you and now we can link him with Mary Perigo. It's looking good.'
'But it's all circumstantial,' I said. 'He'll spend his time in prison writing books about the injustice he's suffered, about the conspiracy against him because the Establishment regards him as a danger to their way of life. I want him nailing, bang to rights.'
'Circumstantial evidence can be overwhelming, Charlie,' Tregellis replied. 'I'll settle for that.'
'I suppose so.'
'When does Melissa go back?'
'Tomorrow.'
'Shame about the wedding. Piers said he couldn't believe his ears when she agreed to come over. Now that she's married they'll have to let her back in.'
'I know, but she was stringing us along, acting innocent, all the way.
She's got away with it.'
'Win a few, lose a few, Charlie. Don't take it personally.'
'I'll try not to.'
After that it was Les Isles again. 'Thought you'd still be in bed, Charlie,' he said.
'Dangerous places, beds,' I replied. 'People die in them.'
'Thought you'd like to know the good news and the bad news about the dinghy. The water was tap water. He'd either used it in the bath or hosed it off, so we can't tell anything from that. But we know where the dinghy came from, and when. Kendal have traced it to a filling station in Windermere. The girl there knows Kingston by sight; he buys a lot of petrol and can't resist flirting with her. She recognised him as the man who bought it a week last Sunday, which was just before Fox died.'
'Start dragging the lakes, Les,' I said. 'He dumped Danielle's body from it. He used her to set Fox up, and now he's silenced her. He's a hard man and a midnight swim would be nothing to him. She'd have to be weighted, so he'd need some assistance to keep her afloat until they were over deep water. She's in one of them somewhere, I'm sure of it.'
'And he couldn't abandon the dinghy because he knew we might find it and trace it back to him.'
'Like you have done. Exactly.'
'The frogmen are out, and we've asked our amateur friends to help. You know what they're like; bloody bunch of enthusiastic ghouls. They'll find her.'
I put the phone down. Tregellis was right. We might not go to court with anything that could be called forensic, but overwhelming circumstantial evidence was just as damning. I could imagine the phrase rolling off the judge's tongue, and the jury sitting a little straighter as that word overwhelming helped them come to terms with the thought of locking a man away for the rest of his life. Just the same, a little more evidence would be useful. Wanting to find the body of a young girl made me feel uneasy. 'I hope she's not dead,' I said to myself. 'I truly hope and pray that she's not dead. But if she is, I hope we find the body.'
Nigel came for me after work, with Dave already in his car, and we went for a few bevvies in one of the pubs high on the moors. These days you can have an animated conversation in one with little fear of being overheard. Cheap booze from the Continent keeps the punters at home, sipping Australian lager from the can and watching Australian soaps on TV until the blue kangaroos coming down the chimney tell them they've had enough. The landlord blinked with surprise at the sudden influx of trade and tried to remember the prices.
The inquiry had fizzled out, that was the problem. Fox was dead, Kingston was in custody and Melissa was going home. We'd never know the full extent of their evil. Crosby had met the War Crimes people and told them all his early memories, right down to the colour of his grandma's cat. If it were proved that he was the original Johannes Josef Fuchs it would give us a good insight into Fox's character and the papers would go into a feeding frenzy at his expense. And that was about it.
'Where's Annette?' I asked, after a good long sip of proper beer.
'Out on a date,' Nigel replied, glumly.
'Oh. Do we know who with?'
'He sells computers.'
'That could be anything from Bill Gates's chief executive to behind the checkout at Computers-R-Us.'
'He rings her on his mobile.'
'Sounds a right prat,' I pronounced. 'Doesn't he, Dave?'
Dave was studying a miner's lamp hanging in a little niche. 'Er, sorry?' he mumbled.
'I said he sounds a right prat.'
'Who?'
'Oh, go back to sleep. Just leave your wallet handy.'
'I was thinking.'
'Well, no wonder you're tired.'
'She's got away with it, hasn't she?' he said.
'Annette?'
'No! Melissa.'
'Got away with what?'
'I don't know, but she has.'
