Over the weekend I tidied the garden, did some washing and took my shirts to the lady who irons them for me. She's a widow who lives a few doors away. Before her husband died he was the only friend I had in the street. The others don't like me because my dandelion seeds blow into their gardens. And I'm the law. I stroll round the cul-de-sac and pretend to look at then-tax discs, and as soon as I've passed they dash out to check them. We had home-made lemonade in her garden, with carrot cake, and I paid for it by making her laugh.
I bought three broad sheets on Sunday and scanned the business pages for news of Fox and Reynard. All of them told the story about him opening Reynard Tower, in Leeds, which would be the new seat of his insurance empire. The jobs, the spokesperson assured us, would be real ones.
Monday I gave Annette the job of negotiating with our contacts at Heckley General to see if they would be able to do Melissa's teeth at short notice. It would cost us, but a specialist said he could fit her in, after hours. In any other profession it's called moonlighting, using the boss's tackle, and would result in the sack. In the NHS it's normal practice. Can you imagine Kwik-Fit allowing their mechanics to fit exhausts to the cars of their private customers after five o'clock?
Not on your Nelly, Jose.
I had a long session with Nigel; questions and answers, role-playing.
He's good at stuff like that, and it was useful. We lunched at the Chinese and Nigel tested me on my knowledge of the Reynard Organisation. I scored ten out of ten, but I'd done some swotting.
Tregellis rang to wish me luck and Sparky poked his head round the door to say the same thing. I felt as if I was about to fight Mike Tyson. I emptied my in-tray and went home, slightly disappointed that there was no postcard of the Acropolis in there.
Tea was a tin of sardines, full of essential oils no, that's aroma therapy but they're good for you; followed by a piece of my neighbour's carrot cake that she'd insisted I bring home. I wondered what her apple pies were like. After that I found two big pieces of hardboard and painted them with white emulsion. The art exhibition was two weeks away and I was behind schedule. I did some sketches and by the time I went to bed I'd developed a couple of ideas.
I've interviewed people who've strangled wives, stabbed lovers, shot strangers, smothered babies. Some filled me with rage, others made me weep. All of them had a story, some redeeming feature, that reminded me of the old saw: There but for the grace of God… Well, nearly all of them. But Fox was different. He was from a mould that is rarely used, thank heaven. If what Crosby had told me was true, his goals in life were self-preservation and the accumulation of wealth and power.
Vast wealth. Monstrous power. The tools he used in the pursuit of these were murder and a cold indifference to the lives of anyone else.
He'd had fifty years to hone his skills, and tomorrow I was meeting him. One thing was certain; I wouldn't come away from that meeting much wiser than when I went in. But I'd know my quarry. I'd have seen him on his own patch, surrounded by his imperial guard of lawyers. I'd know what I was up against the next time we met, and I was sure there'd be a next time.
The weather changed through the night, as the forecasters had predicted. The summer was over. Flurries of rain rattled against the bedroom window like handfuls of gravel tossed by a lover. I sat up with a start. Perhaps it wasn't rain… but the sound of water running along the gutter told me it was. I sank back into my pillow and tried to sleep.
And then there was Kingston. If Fox was the Fuhrer, then Kingston was the head of his Gestapo. I was sure of it, but I had my own reasons for wanting Kingston. Private reasons.
I'd set the alarm to give me an hour's lie-in, but when it beeped into life I couldn't understand why I was late. Then I remembered; today was the day that Mr. Fox would snip the ribbon and create a thousand new jobs. And a city would be grateful and honour him. How many he'd lost that city over the past twenty years was incalculable. A thought struck me, as I lay in that never-never land when my stomach wants feeding but my legs refuse to swing out of bed. It was self-evident, but had completely eluded the last government. Every time a company streamlines itself by destroying a job, ten other businesses lose a customer. Not bad for seven on a Tuesday morning, I thought, and my legs kicked themselves from under the duvet and the day began.
I put on my charcoal suit and a blue tie with a pink stripe that added a dash of frivolity. I wouldn't take my briefcase, I decided, or even a notebook. We'd have a chat, man to man, nice and informal if I could see him for lawyers and I'd try to drop a little bombshell just before I left. Something to put them in a panic. I buffed my shoes with the soles of my socks and we were ready.
Traffic into Leeds at that time in the morning is like any normal big-city traffic. A great time to read War and Peace or study Mandarin. I timed my run so I'd just miss the nine o'clock peak, if there was such a thing, and hopefully arrive far too early. Perhaps I'd have time for a coffee in the restaurant. We were stop-going on the M621 when I thought I'd catch up on the mornings news. The M621 used to be the only motorway in the world that terminated at a set of traffic lights. Now it peters out in a forest of traffic cones, but it'll be good when it's finished. I pushed the power button and a familiar voice finished a story about natter jack toads. "Police in Yorkshire…" she continued.
"That's me!" I thought.
'… are trying to identify a man who threw himself off the Scammonden bridge over the M62."
He was, she told us, the umpteenth suicide there since the bridge was constructed. That'll be a great consolation to the relatives, I thought. A BMW in the fast lane decided he wanted my bit of the slow lane and cut across me. Fifty seconds later he'd done just the opposite. I braked and cursed him but he was too engrossed in his telephone conversation to notice.
"And a piece of late news has just been handed to me," she was saying.
"The businessman J.J. Fox, head of the Reynard Organisation, has been found dead in his hotel room in Leeds.
We'll let you have more on that as soon as we receive it."
I swung on to the hard shoulder and yanked the hand brake on, but she'd passed us over to the sports presenter, who was saying that our numero uno tennis player had lost in straight sets to a nine-year-old from Utah. "You should have strangled the little bastard," I hissed at the radio as I switched it off and reached for my phone.
I rang the nick and then Tregellis, but it was me breaking the news to them, so I decided the best place to be was at the Fox Borealis. I indicated right and an artic flashed me out.
The foyer of the hotel was filled with people standing in little hushed groups. There'd been a PC at the entrance, making a note of all visitors, which meant that the death was regarded as suspicious. He told me that Superintendent Isles was in charge and let me in. My old mate Les; that made it easier.
Another PC was guarding the lifts and two detectives were trying to organise the guests into a queue so they could take their names and then let them out to do their selling or conferencing or whatever it was that had brought them to this place on this day. Technicians and reporters in T-shirts and jeans, were wandering around with microphones and tape recorders, talking to anyone who looked as if they might be able to string two words together. A TV person with a big camera was speaking to head office on his mobile. "Can you get one of the body?" they'd be saying.
I introduced myself to the PC at the lift and told him I needed to see Mr. Isles. He explained that there was an express lift, for private use, that went straight up to the penthouse, on the fifteenth floor, where Mr. Isles was. However, that was out of bounds and only one of the other lifts was in use. I could go up in it but it only went to the fourteenth floor. I thanked him and he pressed the button.