He plonked the glass down on the formica table to indicate that he'd said his piece.
I looked at Nigel and he gave me a brief shrug of the shoulders, as if to say: "He's been like this all day. What more can we do?"
I went to the bar for refills. "Quiet tonight," I said to the landlord.
"It'll liven up later," he replied.
Dream on, I thought. A blackboard behind the bar said that Friday was quiz night, with free beer for the winners. Free beer for the losers would have stood a better chance.
I carefully placed the glasses on the beer mats and sat down. They both took sips and offered the customary salutation. "We needed Melissa's evidence, Dave," I began. "Without her we'd never have got off the ground. We're not prosecuting Kingston for all the crimes he might have committed for Fox, we're doing him for the ones he committed to cover his tracks. Without Melissa we couldn't have linked him to the fire, or to Duncan."
"She still gets away with it," he complained.
"We tried," I said. "We thought she'd be refused readmission to the States. That would have hurt her, but she was one step ahead of us."
"She's mixing with some crazy people over there," Nigel said. "There's a good chance one of them will shoot her, one day."
"That's something to look forward to," Dave agreed. He pushed his glass a few inches across the table and wiped condensation from it with a thumb. "I'm sorry, Charlie," he said. "You've done brilliantly, and I sound ungrateful. It's just that… I wish we could have got Melissa. It doesn't feel finished. Tomorrow she'll be back with her hillbilly friends, and…" He lifted his glass and left it at that.
And live happily ever after?
"I know how you feel," I told him, raising mine to join him in a drink.
"And why. I was at the fire too, remember. We've only done half of the job, but something tells me we haven't heard the last of Melissa Youngman."
"Slade," Nigel said. "Melissa Slade."
"Don't remind me," I hissed at him across the top of my glass.
I had the beginnings of a hangover, which wasn't a surprise. It was a cool, dull morning, and showers were promised, which didn't mean a thing. It might rain all day in Heckley and be fine in Halifax, or it could be vice versa. Either way, the weatherman would claim a success.
A familiar little Nissan Micra with fat tyres pulled out in front of me and the sight of it raised my spirits. It swung a left and so did I.
Then a right, into the station car park, and I pulled up alongside it.
"Morning, Annette," I said. "You're bright and early."
"A lot to do, boss," she replied, 'if you want me to deliver you-know-who to the airport."
"If you don't mind," I replied, holding the door open for her. "Then they're off our hands. You don't have to talk to them."
"Thank goodness for that. What's the latest from the Lake District?"
I was telling her about the dinghy and the divers as we climbed the stairs. Halfway up we had to stop to one side to avoid the desk sergeant on his way down. "Ah, Charlie," he said. "Just left another message on your desk."
"Another?"
"There was one already there."
"And I was hoping for a quiet day," I complained.
"I'll fill the kettle," Annette said as we entered the outer office.
"Let's see what these messages are," I suggested. "Maybe they've found something."
Two official message forms were on my desk, held down by my empty coffee mug. Someone was determined I'd find them. On the top one the spaces for From, To and Time were all ignored. It read: Body found.
Looks like her. PM this afternoon. L. Isles. I passed it to Annette and read the one underneath.
I read it again, then folded it and put it in my pocket. Spots of rain were falling against the window.
"That was quick," Annette was saying, offering the first note back to me.
"It was, wasn't it? What time did you say their plane left?"
"Two thirty, but they have to be there at eleven thirty."
"Don't you worry about it, Annette," I told her. "I'll take them to the airport."
"But I don't mind," she protested.
I raised my hands, palms towards her. "If you don't want to take them, that's OK," I insisted. "Never let it be said that I'm not considerate towards my staff." She went to make the tea and I rang Les.
"Wast Water, is it?" he said.
"Obvious choice," I replied. "It's the deepest lake in the country.
She's not the first to be dumped in there."
"So I'm told. The amateurs found her. They said she was on a shelf, and if he'd taken her another twenty yards out she'd have gone down three hundred feet. Five house bricks were strung on a piece of what might be climbing rope and tied round her waist. They've gone for examination. They must have come from somewhere. Do you want to sit in on the PM? I've bet my sergeant a fiver that her last meal was sushi."
"Thanks all the same, but much as I'd like to, I'll decline, if you don't mind." PMs on sinkers are not pleasant. "Apart from which," I continued, "I've said I'll take Melissa to the airport."
"They're going back today, are they?"
"Mm'
"Shame about the wedding."
"Isn't it just? Give me a ring, will you, please, Les, as soon as you have something."
"Will do."
After that we'd have a big meeting with Tregellis and the prosecution service to prepare the case against Kingston. That was something to look forward to. If I allowed an hour to Manchester airport I'd have to pick Melissa up at about ten thirty. Call it ten to be on the safe side. I went up to the top floor to tell Gilbert as much as he needed to know.
They were waiting for me, eager to be back in the Land of the Free, where the streets have no pavements, and you have to carry your driving licence with you and a disapproving look given to a skateboarding youth can end in gunfire. I pressed the lever to unlock the boot and Slade lifted it open. I got out and walked round the back but he didn't need any help. He wouldn't have received any, but he didn't need it. They were wearing the same outfits they arrived in, which was reasonable enough, you need to be comfortable when faced with a long plane ride, and she was made up like a Kikuyu warrior. They both climbed in the back. I could see the edge of his face in my rearview mirror, but she squeezed into the corner, out of sight.
I thought about taking them the scenic route, but decided not to. The M62 was quicker and that's all I was interested in. Cruising at seventy in the middle lane, I tilted my head to see him better and asked: "You been to England before, Slade?"
He glanced at me in the mirror and replied: "Nope. First and last visit, God willing."
"You don't sound impressed."
"You god dit
"What didn't you like?"
"The beer's like warmed-up hoss piss, the beefburgers rot your brain, you've never heard of air-conditioning and the women're ugly."
I had to chuckle. Well, I did ask. "Melissa's not ugly," I said.
"There's an English rose lurking underneath all that muck she covers herself with."
"Just fucking drive, Priest," she snapped. "We gave you what you wanted, now get us out of this dump."
I stretched my neck but she was ducked down and I couldn't see her.
What I didn't know was that she was holding one of the blades from the little feminine razor that she shaves her temples with, and was systematically slashing my back seat with it. I discovered that three days later, when I found the razor blade she'd thoughtfully left embedded in the upholstery. I wish I'd known; it would have helped me make a decision.
Meanwhile, the hangover had gone and I was feeling almost light-headed.
"We arrested Kingston yesterday," I said.
"Congratulations."
"Thought you'd like to know."
"You were wrong."
"Oh, and Mo Dlamini asks to be remembered to you." He'd prefer to forget all about her, but I was in a mischievous mood.