Some by Fire

Author:Stuart Pawson [Stuart Pawson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780749012953
Publisher: Allison & Busby
Published: 2012-10-15T16:00:00+00:00

Things were moving, and that gives me a good feeling. I’d have liked to have kept working on the burglaries but I had to let go and give Jeff a chance. If he caught them I’d still get the credit, but all the satisfaction of feeling their collars would be his. We now had a name for the girl with purple hair, and that would lead to other names, dozens of them, one of whom might hold the key to eight agonising deaths. I’d be more than satisfied if we could solve this piece of unfinished business.

Interpol came back to us on Tuesday afternoon. They had a file on Melissa Youngman because of her drugs conviction and some doubtful associates, and had faxed us a resume. She’d attended seven universities, including the University of California, Los Angeles, but had never graduated. Not in any of the named subjects, that is. Her studies had given her foundation courses on palaeontology, very useful; modern languages; psychology; politics and business studies. No bomb-making, but a well-rounded education by any standards. The last bit was most interesting. When at UCLA she had contacted a right-wing group of militiamen and was believed to be currently living in the States. Consult FBI for further details, it said, which was all the encouragement Dave required.

‘They’re five hours behind us,’ Dave reminded me when our paths crossed and he had an opportunity to tell me how hard he’d worked. ‘Somebody called Agent Kaprowski is attending to it and will ring back. I’m taking the kids to the baths, so I’ve given him your home number and our office hours. Is that OK?’

‘You’ve been a little beaver on this, Dave,’ I told him, knowing that sitting in the office using the telephone was not his favourite style of policing. ‘I appreciate it.’

‘That’s because I’ve a ghost to lay,’ he replied grimly.

We’d never talked about me dragging him out of that burning building all those years ago. I’d always suspected that a little bit of him blamed me for not letting him try to rescue Jasmine Turnbull, but he’d never said anything. I didn’t feel guilty about it; he hadn’t stood a chance. ‘I know, old son,’ I said. ‘I know you have.’ I reread the fax and that old restless feeling began to swell inside me. We were on to something, I was sure of that. ‘Some time tomorrow,’ I said, ‘have a word with Graham at the SFO and tell him where we’re at. If we’re dealing with the FBI and Interpol we should keep them informed, and no doubt they have some better contacts than us. Give him some of it to do, if you want.’

‘Did you say he’s a DS?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Right. No sweat.’

I called at the supermarket and bought a fresh trout and a ready-made salad, determined to improve my eating habits. Smothered in margarine and four minutes in the microwave and the trout would be delicious. The oven was pinging to say it was ready when the phone rang.

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