Some by Fire (27 page)

‘Oh,’ he said, and nodded knowingly.

I was flicking round the channels, trying to decide whether to watch TV or stand on one leg for a couple of hours, when the phone rang. ‘Charlie Priest,’ I intoned into it, almost absent-mindedly.

‘Charlie, it’s Arthur.’ Arthur’s the duty sergeant.

‘Hello, Arthur,’ I said. ‘What’s gone wrong now?’

‘Bloke been after you. Said I’d give you his number. He’s called Nick Kingston; do you know him?’

‘Kingston? Yes, I know him. Fire away.’

I didn’t ring him immediately. I went over all the possibilities in my head and rehearsed the answers. Les Isles was planning to see him and I concluded that Kingston wanted to grill me about that. Les and I had agreed that he’d say we were involved in two separate inquiries; him into Fox’s death, me into the fire of 1975.

He must have been waiting by the phone, and answered with a cheery: ‘Nick Kingston.’

‘DI Priest,’ I said. ‘You’ve been after me.’

‘Charlie!’ he gushed. ‘Thanks for ringing. Have you seen the forecast?’

‘The forecast? What forecast?’ I asked.

‘The weather for tonight,’ he explained. ‘Bright and clear, but best of all, it’s a full moon, and it rises at just after one. It’ll be another world up there, Charlie.
Francesca and I are going up Helvellyn. Fancy coming with us, eh?’

‘Helvellyn?’ I mumbled. This hadn’t been in my expectations.

‘That’s right. High enough, but nice and straightforward. We’ll see the stars in all their glory, and then the biggest moon you’ve ever seen in your life will come over the horizon. It’s a perfect night, I guarantee you’ll never 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.

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 gobstoppers. 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 Christ
!’ 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 others
!’ 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 clifftop 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 waiting for me. I sat on my backside and groped for the ledge with my feet. He extended his hand and I took it, gripping it in a butcher’s hold. I stepped off, landed on firm ground and said: ‘Cheers.’ He turned and started on the final climb to the top.

It was just a steep slog from then on, levelling off as we reached the summit plateau. The sky was hazy, with no stars visible. A breeze blew from the north, and as it came over the brow it condensed into clouds above us. I wondered if he’d been lying about the forecast, and the moon.

He slowed and I caught up, but stayed about three yards behind him. There’s a cairn marking the top,
and a wall to give some shelter. Kingston moved to his right, approaching the wall in a curve, which struck me as curious.

Our feet crunched and scraped on the ground, and although we didn’t speak our progress was noisy. When we were ten yards from the wall a figure rose and stepped out into the open. He was tall and gangly, and a rucksack hung from his hand.

‘Hello, DJ,’ I said. ‘Come to watch the moonrise with us?’

He reached into the bag and produced what looked like two short walking sticks. They were bent at one end, sharpened into chisel points and wrought from steel. In the tool catalogues they are called wrecking bars, but they are universally known as jemmies. Kingston reached out and DJ handed one to him, bent end first so it would be difficult to pull it from his grasp. They’re a formidable weapon. One blow and I’d be down. It didn’t have to be the head. An arm, shoulder, knee or foot, it was all the same. They separated, shepherding me towards the slope that went on and on, all the way down to Red Tarn.

‘You won’t be watching the moonrise, Priest,’ Kingston said.

I walked backwards, glancing from one to the other. The breeze was on my right cheek, flapping the collar of my jacket against my ear. ‘This is a
surprise,’ I shouted above it. They didn’t answer, just moved towards me in slow steps.

‘So how did you two meet?’ I tried. The book says keep them talking. It wasn’t a bestseller. ‘It’s a reasonable question,’ I argued. ‘How did you meet?’

‘You wouldn’t understand,’ Kingston replied.

‘Try me.’

‘DJ found me.’

‘Found you?’

‘Yes. Something brought him to Lancaster and I saw his name on the list of the new students.’

‘What were you doing?’ I demanded. ‘Trawling for likely candidates you could corrupt?’ The slope was growing steeper and I was aware of a big black nothingness behind me.

‘I said you wouldn’t understand.’

‘A coincidence,’ I said. ‘You were looking for girls with fancy names and you came across Duncan Roberts. It rang a bell, so you looked him up. That’s it, isn’t it?’

‘There are no coincidences in this life, Priest. We make our own destinies. Fate brought DJ to me because he understands that there is more to our lives than the average person can see. He was looking for something, a way to take control. Like I said, he found me.’

I turned to DJ. ‘Hear that?’ I yelled at him. ‘You’re listening to the words of a madman; a raving lunatic.’
DJ raised the jemmy. The slope was so steep I had to twist my feet sideways to stand up. ‘His half-baked ideas killed your uncle, DJ,’ I went on. ‘He hooked him somehow, sex and alcohol at a guess, then used him to do his dirty work. What’s he supplying you with, DJ? Coke? Heroin, and a nice bit of stuff that’s thrown herself at you? She wasn’t called Danielle, was she? Sex, drugs and promises of wealth and power. Is that it?’

‘Danielle?’ DJ said. ‘He knows Danielle?’

‘Don’t listen to him,’ Kingston argued. ‘He’s a cop. He’s been spying on you.’

‘Danielle’s vanished,’ I shouted. ‘She worked for Kingston and we think he’s killed her, like he killed your uncle.’

‘I never met DJ’s uncle,’ Kingston shouted.

‘Your girlfriend did. Melissa. She picked him out as a likely candidate, and between you, you destroyed him.’

‘He’s lying, DJ,’ Kingston protested. ‘Duncan was a good person. He’d have been all right if they hadn’t hounded him to his death, always keeping him down, moving him on, never giving him a chance. The pigs killed your uncle, DJ. He killed him. We’re doing this for him. Remember that.’

I couldn’t go any further and the wind was still on the side of my face. Duncan was holding the jemmy by the bent end, resting it on the palm of his other
hand. I took a side-step up the hill towards him, and he raised his arm.

Maybe I could afford to take one blow. I felt in my pocket for the CS canister and turned it in my fingers, groping for the flat side of the button. If I whipped it out and pressed, and it squirted up my sleeve, I’d be in big trouble. DJ hesitated, the jemmy still aloft, ready to strike. Kingston, to my left, kept coming nearer and lower, slowly moving downwind, where I wanted him.

I pulled the aerosol from my pocket, took four quick steps towards DJ and ducked. I heard the jemmy hiss through the air and felt it thud into my back as I let fly at Kingston with the CS. He screamed and clutched his face, his weapon falling to the ground. DJ had swung himself off-balance and he stumbled to his knees, dropping the jemmy as he scrabbled to stop himself going over the edge. I’d fallen too, but was facing uphill and was soon back up. DJ recovered but he saw Kingston’s agony, didn’t understand what had happened and jumped away from me. I pointed the CS at him but he was upwind and I’d have got the lot if I’d pressed the button. The threat was enough and he turned and fled. I chased him for about thirty yards, but the gradient and the years were against me. He vanished, crashing and stumbling, into the darkness. I walked back to Kingston and picked up both jemmies, holding them around the middle.

He was on his knees, rubbing his eyes, and he called me a bastard. I gave him another short burst, at close range, just for the hell of it, and he rolled over, screaming like a pig on a spear. I handcuffed him and walked about twenty yards up the hill. I sat down with my arms around my knees and watched and waited. The moon came up, mysterious and majestic, bigger than I’d ever seen it, with Ullswater like a silver boomerang in the valley. He hadn’t been lying about the moon.

When the sobbing subsided I grabbed a handful of Gore-Tex and hoisted him to his feet. ‘Walk!’ I ordered. He stumbled a few feet and sank to his knees. I yanked him up again and kicked him. ‘Walk!’ I yelled. ‘Walk! Walk! Walk!’

We made slow progress. When dawn broke, bright and new, we were only halfway along Swirral Edge. Kingston fell to the ground and said he could go no further. I grabbed him by the hair and stuffed the end of the CS canister into his left nostril. ‘Get this,’ I hissed at him. ‘You can either walk out of here or you can be carried. But if I have to carry you the first thing I’ll do is empty this up your friggin’ nose. So get up on your feet and
walk
!’

After that we made better progress. On the bridle path leading into Patterdale a group of walkers approached us. They were all fairly elderly, out to enjoy a day on the fells. As we reached them Kingston
turned to one, his shackled wrists held forward in an appeal for help. I grabbed his arm and steered him past them with a communal: ‘Good morning.’ They all turned to watch us go by, mumbling their greetings, not believing their eyes. This was the Lake District, after all. When we were past them the first one to recover her senses called: ‘What’s he done?’ after us.

‘Dropped a crisp packet,’ I muttered without looking back.

The cars were still there. I found my mobile in my rucksack and dialled 999. It was the only number I could remember. Fifteen minutes later a Cumbria Constabulary Vauxhall Astra pulled into the car park and two PCs with bum fluff on their chins climbed out with a battle-weary, what’s-this-all-about air.