Chill Factor dcp-7

by Stuart Pawson

  “Phew!” I said, glad it was over. I could feel sweat on my spine.

  “Well done,” someone murmured.

  My happy band of crime-fighters started to arrive, wearing the clothes they’d intended spending the rest of the evening in. Annette Brown was in jeans and a Harlequins rugby shirt, and my mouth filled with ashes when I saw her. She’s been with us for about a year, and was now a valuable member of the team. For a long while she’d kept me at a distance, not sure how to behave, but lately we’d been rubbing along quite nicely. She was single, but I’d never taken her out alone, and as far as I knew nobody else had. Inevitably, there were rumours about her sexual inclination. She has wild auburn hair that she keeps under control with a variety of fastenings, and the freckles that often go with that colour. I looked at my watch, wondering if we’d have the opportunity to go for that drink later, and ran my tongue over my teeth. No chance, I thought, as I saw the time.

  I sent Sparky and Annette to talk to the house-to-house boys, collating whatever they’d discovered, and asked Jeff Caton to do some checks on the car numbers and the two people in the house. At just before ten the undertaker’s van collected the body. We secured the house, leaving a patrol car parked outside, and moved en masse to the incident room that Mr Wood had hopefully set up at the nick.

  The coffee machine did roaring service. As soon as I’d managed to commandeer a cup I called them all to order. “Let’s not mess about,” I said. “With a bit of luck we’ll still be able to hit our beds this side of midnight. First of all, thank you for your efforts. First indications are that the dead man might be called Peter Latham. What can anybody tell me about him?”

  Annette rose to her feet. “Peter John Latham,” she told us, “is the named householder for number 15, Marlborough Close, West Woods. He is also the registered keeper of the Citroen Xantia parked on the drive. Disqualified for OPL in 1984, otherwise clean. Latham’s description tallies with that of the dead man, and a woman at number 13 has offered to identify the body. She’s a divorcee, and says they were close.”

  “Do you mean he was doing a bit for her, Annette?” someone called out.

  “No, close as in living in the adjoining semi,” she responded, sitting down.

  “Thanks Annette,” I said, raising a hand to quieten the laughs. “It appears,” I went on, “that Latham was killed with a single stab wound to the heart. We’ll know for certain after the post-mortem.”

  “Arranged for eight in the morning,” Mr Wood interrupted. He was on the phone in his office when I’d started the meeting, organising the PM, and I hadn’t seen him sneak in.

  “Thanks, Boss,” I said. “It doesn’t appear to have been a frenzied attack, but all will be revealed tomorrow. You OK for the PM, Annette?”

  She looked up from the notes she was making and nodded.

  “The man who claims to have done it,” I continued, “is called Anthony Silkstone. What do we know about him?”

  Jeff flipped his notebook open but spoke without consulting it. “Aged forty-four,” he told us. “Married, comes from Heckley and has a string of driving convictions, but that’s all. His address is The Garth, Mountain Meadows, wherever that is.”

  I knew where it was, but didn’t admit it.

  “Yuppy development near the canal, on the north side of town,” Gareth Adey interrupted. “We’ve had a car there, but the house is in darkness and the door locked. Presumably the key is in Silkstone’s property.”

  Jeff waited until he’d finished, then went on: “He shares the place with a woman called Margaret Silkstone, his wife, I imagine, and drives an Audi A8 with the same registration as the one parked outside the dead man’s house.”

  “Nice car,” someone murmured.

  “What’s it worth?” I asked.

  “They start at about forty grand,” we were informed.

  “So he’s not a police officer. OK. Number one priority is find Mrs Silkstone — we’d better get someone round to the house again, pronto — get the key from Silkstone’s property. Then we need next of kin for the dead man.”

  “We’re on it, Charlie,” Gareth Adey said.

  “Cheers, Gareth. And we need a simple statement for the press.” He nodded to say he’d take that on, too.

  The door opened and the afternoon shift custody sergeant came in, wearing no tie and a zipper jacket over his blue shirt to indicate that he was off duty and missing a well-earned pint.

  “Just the man,” I said. “Has our friend been through the sausage machine?”

  “He’s all yours, Mr Priest,” he replied. “He’s co- operating, and beginning to talk a bit. Dr Evans says there’s no reason why he shouldn’t be questioned, and he’s not on any medication.”

  “We think there’s a wife, somewhere. Has he asked for anybody to be informed?”

  “No, Boss, just his solicitor. I’ve never heard of them, but apparently they’re an international firm with a branch in Manchester, and someone’s coming over.”

  “Tonight?”

  “That’s what they said.”

  “They must be able to smell a fat fee.” I turned to the others. “Right, boys and girls,” I said. “Anybody short of a job, see me. Otherwise, go home to bed and we’ll meet again at eight in the morning. With a bit of luck we’ll have this sewn up by lunchtime.”

  They drifted away or talked to the sergeants to clarify their tasks. Sparky found me and said: “Well that mucked up our nice quiet drink, didn’t it?”

  “And I could use one,” I replied.

  “If you get a move on we might manage a swift half over the road,” he said.

  “You go,” I told him. “I’ll hang about a bit in case anybody wants a word.” I like to make myself available. They might be detectives, but some of them are not as forthcoming as others. There’s always someone who seeks you out to discuss an idea or a problem, or to ask to be allocated to a certain task. This time it was Iqbal, who was on a fortnight’s secondment with us from the Pakistan CID and who never stopped smiling. He was lodging with Jeff Caton, and apparently had come in with him.

  “Where would you like me to go, Inspector Charlie?” he asked.

  For over a week he’d followed me round like a bad cold, and I was tempted to tell him, but he outranked me and the big grin on his face made me think that his provocative phrasing was deliberate.

  “Ah! Chief Inspector Iqbal,” I said. “Just the man I’m looking for. Tomorrow you can help me with the submission to the CPS. That should be right up your street.”

  “The dreaded MG forms,” he replied.

  “Precisely.”

  Before I could continue Annette came by and said: “Goodnight, Boss. See you some time in the morning.”

  “Er, we were thinking of trying to grab a quick drink at the Bailiwick,” I told her. “Fancy one? Dave’s paying.”

  “Ooh,” she replied, as if the thought appealed to her, then added: “I’d better not. I don’t want to feel queasy at the PM. Thanks all the same.”

  “The PM!” I exclaimed, as enlightenment struck me. “What a good idea. How do you feel about taking Iqbal along with you?”

  Whatever she felt, she declined from expressing it. I don’t know how Iqbal felt about watching a body being cut open, but I suspected he’d rather eat a whole box of pork scratchings than be shown around by a woman. He tipped his head graciously and they arranged to meet at the General Hospital, early.

  As they left us Sparky said: “Annette’s a nice girl, isn’t she?”

  “She is,” I replied. “Very sensible. But she will insist on calling me Boss all the time.”

  He grinned and shook his head.

  “What did I say?” I demanded.

  “Nothing,” he replied.

  A couple of others came to clarify things with me and it was about ten to eleven as we walked along the corridor towards the front desk. Some of the team had already gone across to the pub. The duty constable was talking to a short man in a raincoat, and when he sa
w me he indicated to the man that I was the person he needed.

  “This is Mr Prendergast, Mr Silkstone’s solicitor,” the constable told me, before introducing me as the Senior Investigating Officer. Prendergast didn’t offer a handshake, which was OK by me. I’m not a great shaker of hands.

  He didn’t waste time with unnecessary preliminaries or pleasantries. “Have you charged my client?” he asked.

  “No,” I replied. “We haven’t even interviewed him, yet.”

  “So he is under arrest and the clock is running?”

  “Yes.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since about six forty-five this evening. The precise time will be on the custody sheet.” He was a keen bugger, no doubt about it. I mentally slipped into a higher gear, because he’d know every dodge in the book and screw us if we made the slightest mistake.

  “And when do you propose to interview him?” he demanded.

  “In the morning,” I replied. “We normally allow the prisoner to sleep at night. He’s been offered food and drink, and given the opportunity to inform another person of his arrest, but he has declined to do so.”

  “Yes, Yes,” Prendergast said, swapping his briefcase from his left hand to his right. “I’m sure you know the rules, Inspector, but I would prefer it if you interviewed him tonight, then perhaps we can explain away this entire sorry event.”

  “I think that’s unlikely, but I’m happy to interview him if he’s willing.” I turned to Sparky who was hovering nearby, and said: “Looks like we’re in for a late night, Sunshine. You’d better ring home.”

  “Right,” he replied, grimly. Anybody who keeps Sparky away from that desperately needed pint is walking near the edge. We took the brief through into the custody suite to have words with the sergeant, then locked him in the cell with his client, so they could get their story straight. After ten minutes we knocked on the door, but he asked for another ten minutes. We didn’t wait idly while they were conferring. Phone calls to friends in the business told us that Prendergast specialised in criminal law for a big firm of solicitors based in Luxembourg who worked for several large companies with tendencies to sail close to the wind. It was nearly midnight when Sparky pressed the red button on the NEAL interview recorder and I made the introductions.

  Tony Silkstone, as he called himself, was of barely average height but built like a welterweight. I could imagine him working out at some expensive health club, wearing all the right gear. The stuff with the labels on the outside. His pate still glistened, so I decided he was a natural slaphead and not one from choice. He had a suntan and his fingernails were clean, even and neatly cut. Apart from that, his paper coverall was pale blue and a trifle short in the arms.

  “Today,” I began, after the formalities had been committed to tape, “at about five p.m., police officers were called to number 15, Marlborough Close, Heckley. Did you make that call, Mr Silkstone?”

  “Yes,” he replied in a firm voice, and Predergast nodded his approval.

  “When they arrived there,” I continued, “they found the body of a man believed to be one Peter Latham. He was lying dead in the kitchen. Did you kill Mr Latham?”

  That threw them into a tizzy, but I wasn’t in a mood for tip-toeing round the issue. I wanted it sewn up, so I could go home. Silkstone had been offered a meal; Prendergast had probably dined lavishly on smoked salmon and seasonal vegetables, washed down by a crisp Chardonnay; I’d had a Cornish pasty twelve hours ago. And, I remembered, four chocolate digestives in Gilbert’s office. Prendergast grabbed his client’s arm and told him not to answer, as I’d expected.

  “That’s a rather leading question, Inspector,” he said.

  “And I’d like a leading answer,” I replied.

  “I think I’d like to confer with my client.”

  “Mr Prendergast,” I said. “It is after midnight and I am tired. Your client has had a stressful day and is probably tired, too. Do you not think it would be in his interest to conduct this interview in the morning, when we all have clear heads? If you are constantly asking for adjournments we could be here until the day after tomorrow.”

  Except, of course, that there would be other places where Prendergast would prefer to be tomorrow. Like the golf course, or entertaining one of his corporate clients who was having alimony problems. Silkstone himself came to the rescue. He ran his hand over the top of his head and massaged his scalp with his fingers, before saying: “It’s all right, Mr Prendergast. I’d like to answer the inspector’s questions.”

  “In which case,” I stated, “I would like it on record that this interview is continuing at your insistence and not under any duress from me.”

  Prendergast put the top on his fountain pen and sat back in his plastic chair.

  “Why did you make that phone call, Mr Silkstone,” I asked.

  “Because Peter was dead.”

  “You knew he was dead?”

  “I was fairly certain.”

  “You didn’t send for an ambulance?”

  “There was nothing anybody could do for him.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “I did.”

  Prendergast sat forward in an involuntary reaction, then relaxed again.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I followed him home. We had words and I pulled a knife out of the set of carvers that just happened to be on the worktop. I stabbed him with it, in the chest, and he fell down. He moved about for a bit, then lay still. I could tell he was dead.”

  “What did you do then?” I asked.

  “I sat in the other room for a while. Driving there I’d been seeing red. Literally. I always thought it was just an expression, but it isn’t. I’d been mad, raging mad, but suddenly I was calm again. I could see what I’d done. After about ten minutes I rang the police.”

  “So you are confessing to killing Peter Latham, by stabbing him in the chest?”

  “Yes. I did it.”

  “And the man is indeed Peter Latham?”

  “Yes, it’s Peter.”

  “You knew him well?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why did you kill him?”

  Silkstone put his face in his hands and leaned forward until his forehead rested on the little table that separated us.

  I said: “Why did you follow him home and stab him?” and he mumbled something through his fingers.

  “I’m sorry…?” I said.

  He sat up, his eyes ringed with red. “He killed her,” he told us.

  So that was it, I thought. Some old score settled. Some grudge over an old sweetheart, real or imagined, that had festered away for years until it could be contained no longer. I’d seen it all before. I even held one myself. “Who did he kill?” I demanded.

  “My wife. He killed my wife.”

  I leaned forward until my elbows were on the table. “When was this?” I asked. “When are we talking about?”

  “Today. This afternoon. He…he…he raped her. Then he strangled her.”

  There was a “clump” as the front legs of Sparky’s chair made contact with tiled floor, and Prendergast’s eyes nearly popped out. I interlaced my fingers and leaned further forward.

  “You’re saying that Latham killed your wife this afternoon, Mr Silkstone?” I said, softly.

  He looked up to see if there was a clock on the wall, but it was behind him. “Yes,” he replied.

  “Where exactly did this take place?”

  “At my house. I came home early and saw him leaving. She…Margaret…she was upstairs, on the bed. He’d…he’d done things to her. So I followed him home and killed him.”

  I looked across at Sparky. “Sheest!” he mumbled.

  “Interview terminated while further investigations are made,” I said, reading off the time and nodding for him to stop the tape. I rose to my feet and glanced at the hotshot lawyer who looked as if he was trying to run uphill with his shoelaces tied together. “I think it’s safe to say we’ll be holding your client
for a while, Mr Prendergast,” I told him.

  “I’m not surprised, Inspector,” he responded, shaking his head.

  Chapter Four

  The estate agent’s advert had said that Mountain Meadows was a pleasant development on a flat strip of land alongside the canal. There were only seven houses, all detached and with decent gardens. Sparky and myself went to investigate, in my car, after ringing Mr Wood with the latest bombshell. The roads were empty and I drove fast. Soon we were clear of the streetlamps, tearing along through the night.

  “You seem to know where you’re going,” Dave observed.

  “I came to look at them, once,” I replied.

  “What? You were thinking of moving?”

  “Mmm.”

  “You kept that quiet.”

  “I don’t tell you everything.”

  A cat darted halfway across the road, then stopped and stared into my headlights. I hit the brakes and the front of the car dipped and pulled to the right as a wheel locked. The moggie regained the power of movement and leapt to safety.

  After a silence Dave said: “You and Annabelle?”

  “Yeah. We could have afforded one reasonably comfortably if we’d pooled our resources.”

  Annabelle was my last long-term relationship. We were together for about five years, which was a personal best for me, but she decided the grass was greener when seen through the windscreen of a Mercedes. I live in the house I inherited from my parents, and she owned an old vicarage. When things were good between us we’d done the tour of a few places, including Mountain Meadows. On paper it had looked ideal, but a quick visit one summer’s evening destroyed the dream. The smoke from all the barbecues and the incessant drinky-poos with the neighbours would have ruined our lungs and livers. Then she left me, so it was just as well that we hadn’t moved.

  Except, maybe, if we had… Ah well, we’d never know.

  “So what do you think,” Dave asked, changing the subject.

  “We’ll soon find out,” I replied. “This is it.”

  I turned off the lane and slowed down for the speed humps, hardly recognising the place. The darkness was almost absolute, broken only by an occasional lighted window, and all the twigs with garden centre labels on them that had dotted the open plan gardens were now luxuriant shrubs and trees. As my headlights swung around, probing the shadows, we saw that the conservatory salesman had done a roaring trade, and since my last visit the registration letters on the cars parked outside every house had progressed two places along the alphabet. Two houses, next to each other, had speedboats. Tony Silkstone had told us that his house, The Garth, was the last one on the right. “The one with the converted gas lamps along the drive,” he’d added. Somebody’s million-watt security light flicked on behind us, turning night into day.