When I saw Kingston he'd talked about walking in the dark, and the more I thought about it the more it appealed to me. Most of the time it would be ordinary, like walking in fog, but if you did it often enough you'd eventually have one of those magical experiences that make all the dull trips worthwhile. I could imagine being above the clouds, with the stars blazing across the sky like you'd never seen them before. I'd have to give it a try, when all this was over.
Tregellis was on the phone at eight thirty next morning and kept me talking for nearly an hour. It was worthwhile, though. He agreed that Graham should go to America and thought that Piers should accompany him. If Melissa agreed to kiss and tell about Kingston he could reassure her that she was safe from prosecution, or if he thought that that was out of the question and she insisted on having a team of hotshot lawyers present he could stop them running rings around poor Graham. The legal staff employed by the SFO have a special status. A Prosecution Service solicitor would never visit a client, but one with the SFO can because he is part of the investigative team, and the SFO can order a suspect to answer questions. There's a downside to that. A cornerstone of British law is that a suspect is not expected to incriminate himself, so any information extracted this way cannot be used in court. It'll be different in America, of course, so Piers would have to do some swotting on the plane.
Meanwhile, we agreed I'd talk to J.J. Fox on the pretext of gathering information about Kingston, who we knew worked for him. At this point we were displaying no suspicions about Fox himself. We'd nail his minions first, then see how they sang.
"What if," Tregellis asked, 'my two trusty manservants go all the way to the US of A and Melissa denies all knowledge of Kingston? She was never in one of his classes, was she?"
"No, but I've been thinking about that," I replied. "How does this sound?"
When I'd finished he said: "Right, I'll have a word with the brass in Cumbria and tell them to liaise with you."
I put the phone down, rubbed my ear and rotated my shoulder. Who'd be a telephone girl? Maybe I should be more sympathetic to them in future.
Eight a.m. on the Thursday morning a contingent from Cumbria Constabulary led by my oppo from Kendal arrested Nicholas Kingston on suspicion of defrauding the Inland Revenue. Eight a.m. was a compromise. They'd said seven, I'd suggested ten. Sparky, myself, one of their DCs and our photographer sat sipping coffee from a flask in Dave's car at the end of the lane as Kingston was lifted.
"There's seven of us for Saturday," Dave said.
"Saturday?" I queried. "What happens Saturday?"
"Fishing. Don't say you'd forgotten."
"What? To Bridlington?"
"That's right. Nigel and myself are going with you, and Jeff's got a car-full."
"Oh. Right."
"They're coming," Dave hissed, and I ducked down out of sight. I didn't want the Kingstons to associate me with this. I was from another force, miles away, and on a different inquiry.
"They've gone," he said, and I sat up.
"Got the warrant?" I asked, twisting round. The DC waved it in front of my face and I said: "Right. Let's go."
A WPC had been left with Mrs. Kingston to ensure that she didn't destroy all their records before we arrived. That was the story. The main thing was that she ensured that the gates were open for us. Dave parked right in front of the door and bailed out, followed by the other two. I spread myself across the seats, lying low again, and waited.
I opened my eyes as the door was wrenched open. Dave said: "They've taken her down to the gazebo. We've the place to ourselves."
"It's not a gazebo, it's a belvedere," I told him, arching my back and stretching my legs.
Inside the house the photographer was standing beside the camera cabinet, green with envy. "I haven't touched anything," he said, 'but I asked her to unlock the door."
"It's OK," I told him. "Stick your film in it and shoot away."
He extracted the Hasselblad with professional ease and undipped the back. In a few seconds the roll of film, huge by modern standards, was on the spools and the camera was back together again. He shot off half of it against a mahogany door and then went outside and took some pictures of the sky.
Dave went for a wander around the house while I watched through the back window for the others returning from the belvedere. I was in the kitchen, which was white-tiled and reminiscent of a high-tech operating theatre, with lots of stainless steel and glowing digital displays.
Only a half-eaten bowl of muesli and a mug of cold coffee on the breakfast bar spoiled the image. I doubted if Mrs. K spent much time in there. Beyond the belvedere, Goat Fell looked benign and welcoming in the morning light. They'd miss their walk today. I pushed the coffee mug nearer the centre of the bar and placed the muesli spoon at a more natural angle. That was better. Now they could let the Vogue photographer take his snaps. A black and white woodpecker landed in the garden, pecked at something and flew off, rising and falling like a small boat on a rough sea. "Look out," I whispered after it, 'or the man will get you."
"Bloody hell!" I heard Dave say behind me as he wandered into the room. "Talk about how the other half live."
"Does it meet with your approval?" I asked.
"I'll say. Wouldn't mind a week here myself. Do they take boarders, do you know?"
"I doubt it, but with luck it'll be on the market, soon. See anything interesting upstairs?"
"Not really. He has a telescope poking out of a window."
"He's into astronomy."
"Is he? Then why is it focused on the bedroom window of the farmhouse?"
I sighed. "Like you said, Dave, he's a charmer through and through.
Everything he does is bent."
"So let's make it his undoing."
"We will. And I'll tell you something else about him. Given plenty of time his planning is immaculate. If he's done the jobs we think he has then he hasn't left a trace. He's a clever man, but he can't think on his feet. When I interviewed him he was floundering, sent out all the signals that he was lying. Ask him a question that was irrelevant and he'd dictate you a textbook on it, then come to the point and it was one-word answers." I turned away from the window and said: "Keep an eye out for them. Did I see a loo along the corridor?"
"It's, er, out of order," Dave replied, stepping after me and placing his hand on my arm. "Use the one upstairs. You've never seen anything like it. The tiles are right up your street. Top of the stairs, on the left."
I'd seen an enamel sign, probably Victorian, on a door. It read we.
Underneath, in matching letters, blue on white, was one saying:
Gentlemen adjust your dress before leaving the urinal. I took Dave's advice and used the one upstairs.
It was nothing special. Toilet, bidet, huge free-standing iron bath, full-length mirrors that made you look sunburned and enough towels to cushion a stunt man fall. It could have been mine. The tiles were a mural of a classical scene. Aphrodite tempting Lesbos or something, with a swan taking an unhealthy interest in the proceedings and only a few vine leaves keeping it this side of depraved. A high-tech exercise bike with more dials than a light aircraft stood in a corner and two black satin dressing gowns hung behind the door. I had a slash, washed my hands, smiled at myself in the mirror, decided that a tan suited me and went downstairs.
I walked past the downstairs loo, then changed my mind. It was hard to imagine anything in this house being out of order. I bet they sent for an electrician to set the video. I read the sign, checked my flies and pushed the door open.
There was no window, but the light switch was handy, operated by a china bauble dangling on a string. For a downstairs loo it wasn't bad, about the same floor area as my upstairs one. The sink was full-size, not one of these miniatures added as an afterthought, and there was a shower cabinet in the adjacent corner. I flushed the low-level toilet, which worked, and washed my hands again. The towel warming on the heated rail had the letter C woven in gold braid in the corner.