"Ah! Don't we all, but we are only looking for somewhere free from sheep droppings, eh, Inspector?"
"No, I think there's more to it than that."
"You've surprised me," he said. "You're obviously a man with a great sense of the spiritual. You said you'd walked most of the hills in the Lake District, I believe?"
"Several times, over the years," I replied.
"Have you ever done any at night?"
"No, not really. Camped out near Sprinkling Tarn a couple of times in my youth. That's all."
"Well, I recommend you try it. The spirits are abroad after dark, Inspector. Late evening is a very special time. For a man with a soul it's a wonderful experience up there. Power is everywhere, believe me."
"Isn't it dangerous?"
"Only for he that cannot see."
"I'll have to try it some time. Thanks for your time, Mr. Kingston."
I walked to the door and he followed me out.
"I'll take you through the house," he said. We wandered down the path, making small talk, and entered through a back door inside a smallish porch filled with flowers I couldn't name. "Darling!" he called when we were inside.
Francesca appeared and Kingston said: "The inspector's leaving, dear. I wasn't able to help him, unfortunately." He introduced us and we shook hands.
"Perhaps you'll stay for a coffee next time, Inspector," she said.
Only if you make the offer first, I thought. We were in a passage, quite gloomy, that ran through the house. There were original watercolours of Lakes views on the walls, and in an alcove I noticed a display cabinet filled with cameras.
"Who's the photographer?" I asked, although I knew the answer.
"Oh, I used to dabble," Kingston replied.
There was a full range, from ancient folding jobs with bellows, levers and spirit levels, right up to a Nikon with a complete set of lenses.
He hadn't bothered with the latest electronic devices which did everything for you except choose the subject. Smack in the middle, with the others arranged round it, was the famous single lens reflex Hasselblad.
"I'd hardly call it dabbling," I said, 'if you used one of those."
He smiled with pride and agreed that he had been quite keen.
"I've never seen one before," I admitted, adding: "Neil Armstrong left one on the moon, you know."
"Too heavy to bring back, Inspector," Kingston replied. "The cost was negligible compared with the rocks that replaced it. A cool million dollars an ounce, they said, to transport anything there and back."
We parted like old mates and I strolled off down the drive. I had a moment of panic when I remembered the gates, but they'd opened them for me.
He was a liar, I was sure of that. He'd recognised the three names I'd mentioned. Salesmen are supposed to be suckers for a so-called bargain, and it looked as if something similar applied to psychologists. I'd been right not to forewarn him of my visit. That would have given him time to rehearse his answers and his body language. Taken off guard, he scored none out of ten.
I'd enjoyed the Carlos Castaneda books. The main character is a Mexican sorcerer who does wonderful things while blasted out of his mind on peyote. They're full of wisdom and insights, but otherwise total claptrap. Mind you, I really do look for that special spot, what he called a place of power, before I sit down to eat my sandwiches.
I went back to Kendal nick to give an informal report to my opposite number, in case I needed any favours from him, and drove back to Heckley. The meeting was over when I arrived, but Sparky was still hanging around. I was writing my thoughts down when he came in with two mugs of tea.
"He sounds a right charmer," he concluded after I'd told him all about it.
"He is. What happened here? Anything I need to know?"
"Just one small item. There's nothing new on the burglaries, so you can forget about them. Except, of course, that it's a month since the last one, so they're due again. Jeff's alerted everyone. Graham rang, from London. He said that the FBI have located Melissa, and we can have her any time we want. Apparently she's over there on a non-immigrant visa, and has overstayed her welcome by several years."
"That's useful to know. Have they talked to her?"
"No, and they won't unless we ask them. She's living in a trailer park just outside a town called Oak Ridge, in Tennessee. Graham thinks he should go over to have a word with her."
"That might be a good idea," I said. "Do you fancy going with him?"
He shook his head. "Nah, let him have all the glory."
We pushed our chairs back. I put my feet on the desk and Dave balanced his on the edge of the waste-paper bin. "First drink I've had since the one this morning," I said.
He looked at me and told me: "You'll be giving yourself an ulcer."
"Through not drinking tea?"
"Through not eating regularly; not looking after yourself. What are you doing this weekend?"
"Haven't thought about it," I replied. "Do some catching up. Sleep, cleaning, gardening and the car, for starters."
"Do you fancy going off somewhere?"
"No. I've too much to do."
After a long silence he said: "You still miss her, don't you?"
I put my mug down and replied: "Who, Annabelle?" in my best see-if-I-care voice. She dumped me three months ago, after five years, and yes, I did miss her. Like a bird would miss its wings.
"Mmm."
"I suppose so. Does it show?"
"Yep. You've become a miserable sod."
"I'm sorry. I thought I'd covered it up fairly well."
"I've known you a long time."
"That's true."
He finished his tea and said: "How about having a day's fishing some time. It's years since we've been."
"You mean, like, there's plenty of fish in the sea? Is that it?"
"I didn't say that," he protested, grinning.
"But that was the train of thought. I'd have socked you if you had."
"Bridlington, next weekend. We could take Nigel. We could all go."
I nodded my approval. "It might be fun," I replied. "We could bring a cod back for Gilbert, show him a proper fish."
We talked about the case for half an hour and went home. We had lots of hearsay evidence but nothing substantial. Nothing forensic that would link Kingston with the fires or even with Melissa. If he denied ever knowing her there was little we could do to show otherwise.
Witnesses might identify him as Rodger Wakefield, but in isolation that was worthless. In the absence of a rock-solid link we would have to build up a formidable amount of circumstantial evidence to show he was the man who did Fox's dirty work. We might not be able to pin anything on Fox himself, but we'd disgrace him. We'd have to settle for that, but it was going to be a long haul. I decided that a talk with Mr. Big himself might be a good idea.
Three o'clock in the morning; the thunder and lightning woke me. I dozed until eight and had a leisurely breakfast while watching the rain flatten the peonies in the garden. At nine I strode into the police station to see what the mailman had brought.
"It'll wash the cricket out," the desk sergeant grumbled after I'd said my good morning.
"Well, paint a door and watch it dry," I suggested.
I read the night 'tec's report and the mail, but there was nothing worthwhile. I tried the SFO, to have a word with Graham about going to America, but they don't work weekends. I didn't bother with his home number. At ten I rang Janet Holmes in York.
"It's Charlie Priest, Mrs. Holmes," I began. "Inspector Priest. I came to see you on Wednesday."
"Hello, Mr. Priest," she answered, sounding quite pleased. "This is a surprise. Was there something else you wanted to know?"