Chill Factor dcp-7

by Stuart Pawson

  “But Latham was shagging his wife,” Dave stated.

  “Oh, so that makes it OK, does it? What law’s this, Sparkington’s law?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No I don’t.”

  “Mc-whatsit made the laws. What does he say about it?”

  “The McNaughton Rules? He says that to establish a defence against murder they have to prove that the defendant was off his trolley, which they probably can do. He came home and found his wife dead in bed, murdered and raped by one of his employees. It’s strong stuff, if that’s what happened. I think we’d best resign ourselves to calling this a double clean-up and get on with keeping the streets safe.”

  “Everybody else is happy with that, Charlie. You’re the one wanting to make a meal of it.”

  “Yeah, well,” I said.

  I went downstairs to find the custody officer. He was in the briefing room, listening to one of the other sergeants, a new guy, regaling the troops with stories from his holiday in Florida. He had a suntan and a big mouth, and was thrust upon us by HQ for reasons we knew not.

  “And this hostess was coming down the aisle,” he was telling them. “Typical American — all tits and teeth. ‘Would you like some TWA coffee, sir?’ she asked. ‘No,’ I told her, ‘ — but I wouldn’t mind some TWA tea!’”

  They laughed as only a captive audience can. I caught the custody sergeant’s gaze and he followed me into his purpose — designed domain.

  “He’s in fine form,” I said.

  “Isn’t he just.”

  “Have a brotherly word with him, Bill, or I might have to.”

  “Right.”

  “We’ve decided to do Silkstone for manslaughter.”

  “Good,” he replied, opening a drawer in one of his filing cabinets. “In that case we’d better ring his brief and get on with the paperwork.”

  Something was troubling me. Nothing I could name or explain or put in a report to show what a clever boy I was at a later date. There was a loose end — less than that, more like a draught around the edge of a closed window — that was making me feel uneasy. I collected the keys from the connected property store and drove to number 15, Marlborough Close, home of the late Peter Latham.

  The spaghetti jar still stood on his worktop, next to the pan lid, as if the cook had been interrupted by the ringing of the telephone, and a carton of milk was making unhealthy smells. I took it outside and dropped it in his dustbin. The woman next door peered at me shamelessly, but didn’t come to investigate. The pile of mail behind the door looked depressingly familiar, with not a single hand-written envelope amongst it all. I toyed with the idea of writing: Dead, return to sender on everything, but resisted the temptation. They’d probably all send it back asking for it to go to the next of kin.

  The bird prints on his walls were Audubons, and good quality. Maybe I’d underestimated Peter Latham. I climbed the stairs slowly, listening for creaks, wondering if he’d ever led Mrs Silkstone up them, tugging at her hand. If walls could speak, what would they tell us? The door to his bedroom was ajar. I pushed it open and went in.

  The sun cast a big geometric patch of light across the bed and wall, showing off the room as if in an advertising brochure. There’s something inviting and evocative about sunlight spilling across a made-up bed. Three tiny Zebra spiders scurried across the windowsill, alarmed by my intrusion, but a dead or sleeping wasp ignored me. The photograph of the young girl was still there, smiling shyly, self-consciously, as she had done for God-knew how many years, and the new Mrs Latham was still gazing down into his eyes. But it was the girl I was interested in.

  I sat on the bed and removed a pair of latex gloves and my Swiss Army knife from a jacket pocket. The room was chilly but the sunlight warmed my legs. I wriggled my fingers into the gloves and tried to open the big blade of the knife. Couldn’t do it. My thumbnail wouldn’t engage with the little groove. I removed one glove, opened the knife and replaced the glove. You live and learn.

  Carefully, I eased back the metal sprigs that held the photo in the frame. There was a stiff backing card, a sheet of acid-free paper to stop the picture discolouring, and then the photo itself. Something about it had reminded me of the one I owned with Sophie and Daniel on. Both pictures were black and white, and exposed to the same degree. Mine was taken and printed by the Heckley Gazette.

  This one had a similar stamp on the back. Both sides were trimmed to isolate this girl only, and one edge of the stamp had gone, but it told me that the photographer had worked for the Burdon and Frome Exp…and the serial number was 2452…? We were in business.

  Five minutes later I was on Latham’s phone, dialling a Somerset number. A small intuitive leap had told me that the picture came from the Burdon and Frome Express and I was right first time. Sometimes, you have to trust your instincts.

  “Gillian McLaughlin,” a voice said, after I’d asked to be put through to the editor in charge. I introduced myself and asked if she were the editor.

  “Deputy editor,” she stated. “Mr Binks is not in at the moment. How can I help you?”

  “In the course of an enquiry,” I began, “we have come across a photograph which apparently comes from your paper.” I explained what it was and told her the number on the back.

  “Shouldn’t be a problem, Inspector,” she replied, and went on to tell me that the number was the edition number and only the digits which identified the actual page and photograph were missing. They were now up to edition 3,582.

  “So this picture was taken just over a thousand editions ago,” I stated.

  “Um, yes, which is about, um…”

  “Are you a weekly?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “About twenty years, then.”

  “Um, yes. Twenty years,” she agreed.

  She also agreed to extricate the full article from the archives and fax me a copy. I told her that we were trying to track down a dead person’s relatives, and we suspected this girl might be one of them. If there was a story in it, I assured her, she’d be the first to know.

  Nothing was spoiling back at the nick so I went home. My house wasn’t as tidy as Latham’s, I decided, so I made the bed, just in case, and washed and dried a two-day pile of crockery. When you live alone you don’t notice how the sloppy habits slowly overtake you. The decay starts in the unseen corners, then spreads like mould on a bowl of fruit. For tea I had boil-in-the-bag cod with pasta. If you put the pasta in the same pan as the cod it saves on washing up. The telly cooks never tell you useful stuff like that.

  Big Jim Lockwood was leaving the car-park as I arrived on Tuesday morning, wheeling an upright bicycle that was last used when Whitehall one-two one-two was the number you dialled after the villains had said: “It’s a fair cop, Guv.” I wound the window down and spoke to him.

  “Back with us, eh, Jim?”

  “Looks like it, Mr Priest,” he replied, “but we’re still grounded.”

  “Have they said how long for?”

  “Indefinitely. Calling it a new initiative. Bobbies in the community and all that. It’ll get me fit, lose some weight.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it.” I drove into my space, shaking my head at the stupidity of it.

  Gillian McLaughlin’s fax was waiting for me when I came out of the morning prayer meeting. “Come and dig this,” I said to all and sundry as I bore it into the office. They gathered round and peered at it. There were four girls on the photo, all carrying the letter B on their chests. They were, the text told us, the victorious Under 13s relay team at the recent Burdon schools sports day, and the girl second from the left was called Caroline Poole.

  “Caroline Poole,” I heard Annette whisper. “Where are you now?”

  “With looks like that,” someone said, “I’m surprised she’s not on t’telly. I bet she grew up into a right cracker.”

  “She’s certainly a bonny ’un,” another agreed.

  “Let’s find her, then,” I suggested. “An
d the others. Should be easy enough. They’ll be in their early thirties, now.” I turned to Annette. “Can I leave that with you, Ms Brown?”

  She smiled, saying: “No problem, Boss.”

  “No hurry,” I told her. “There’s nothing in it for us, more than likely. She’s probably a relative of Latham’s, that’s all.”

  Four of us, including Annette, went down to the canteen for bacon sandwiches. “Mr Wood’s sent Jim Lockwood and Martin Stiles out on the beat, on bikes,” Jeff Caton stated.

  “It wasn’t Mr Wood,” I disclosed. “The order came down from above.”

  “What, God?”

  “His deputy.”

  “Bloody crackers, if you ask me.”

  “It’s a new initiative. Get the bobby back on the beat.”

  “On a 1930s bike that weighs half a ton and has rotting tyres. They’ll be laughing stocks.”

  “They became that when they got the car stuck.”

  We chuckled at the memory. “You’ve got to admit it was bloody funny,” Jeff said.

  Annette and Dave came back from the counter carrying the teas. Annette placed a mug in front of me, saying: “No milk or sugar for you, Charlie.”

  “Wait a minute. Wait a minute,” Jeff demanded. “How come you know that the boss doesn’t take milk or sugar?”

  “The same way as you know,” she told him, without hesitation.

  “Oh. And did you know he liked his belly rubbed with baby oil?”

  “Cut it out,” I said. “You might not be embarrassing Annette but you’re embarrassing me. I don’t want everybody in the station knowing my little foibles.”

  I was sitting with my back to the canteen counter, and a phone started ringing behind me. I raised a finger in a listen gesture, and after a few seconds was rewarded with a call of: “Mr Priest, it’s for you,” from the office manageress.

  The other three stirred, with mumbles of “I’ll get it,” but I beat them to it.

  “Priest here,” I said.

  “Detective Inspector Priest?” The voice was new to me.

  “That’s right. How can I help you?”

  “This is George Binks, editor of the Burdon and Frome Express. I’ve just discovered that my deputy has faxed you a photograph that you were interested in.”

  “Hello, George. That’s right. Ms McLaughlin found what I wanted. Pass on my thanks to her, please.”

  He said he would, and asked me why I was interested. I gave him the sanitised version, without mentioning dead bodies, and then he explained why he’d rung. I was sprawling across the canteen counter, leaning on my elbows because the phone cord wasn’t long enough. “Wait a second,” I told him, putting the phone down and going behind the counter. I picked it up again, found a seat and said: “Go on.”

  Annette had said something funny and they all laughed out loud as I approached the table. They quietened as they saw me and Jeff pushed a chair towards me with his feet.

  “Are you all right, Chas?” Dave asked. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I shook my head and sat down.

  “What is it, Charlie, bad news?” Annette added, concerned.

  “That was the editor of the Burdon and Frome Express,” I told them. “He’s just seen a copy of the fax on his desk. Apparently, the girl in the photograph…Caroline Poole…four years later, in 1984, when she was sixteen…she was raped and strangled. Nobody was ever done for it.”

  Annette said: “Oh God no!” and her hand reached out and covered mine. She pulled it back as I said: “I’m afraid so. We’d better take another long hard look at Peter John Latham.”

  Chapter Six

  I rang my opposite number in Somerset. His euphoria evaporated when I told him that Latham was dead, so there was little point in coming to Yorkshire to interview him. However, we did have the man who killed Latham in our cells, and the two of them went back a long time. Maybe he could throw some candle power on Latham’s movements at the time of Caroline’s death. It had been a big hunt. Caroline had grown into a beauty, as predicted, and her face had captured the public’s imagination. We all remembered her when we saw the later picture that they’d used during the search.

  Two detectives from Somerset said they would drive up and interview Silkstone some time on Wednesday. Wednesday morning they rang to say that they’d been delayed and they’d now be with us on Thursday. They confirmed that Latham did not appear to be related to Caroline in any way. Late Wednesday afternoon they said they were on their way and could we have Silkstone and his brief primed for a ten a.m. interview. They sounded keen.

  Trouble was, Thursday morning I’d been requested to attend a high-power committee meeting, about catching murderers, chaired by the Deputy Chief Constable. I insisted that someone from Heckley sit-in on the Silkstone interview, and nominated Dave Sparkington.

  The DCC considers himself an expert at murder enquiries. Early in his career he arrested a drunken husband who’d stabbed his wife to death in the middle of a bus queue, and that became the launch pad for his rise to fame. Fact is, the best collar he’s felt in the last twenty-five years is on his dinner jacket. He’d resigned himself to never having the top job, so he wanted to make his mark by creating the definitive programme for a murder enquiry. Something that would bear his name and be used by police forces world-wide as a template — his word — in their quests to solve the most dastardly crimes of all. His name — Pritchard — would be in all the textbooks, alongside those of Bertillon, Jeffreys and Kojak. And he wanted me to help put it there.

  They’d been meeting for months, unknown to me, and had commissioned a video showing how to examine the crime scene during those first, crucial minutes. It was good, which wasn’t surprising considering that the combined salaries of those involved would have paid for a battleship. They’d watched a lot of television, and remembered or made notes on how it was done. I couldn’t fault it.

  “You all know Charlie,” the DCC told them. “Charlie has caught more murderers than anyone in the division, and I’m sure you’ll all be interested to know what he thinks of our little enterprise. Over to you, Charlie. What have we forgotten?”

  I stood up, mumbling something, and told them how impressed I was with the film. As Mr Pritchard had said, those first few minutes were crucial and recording evidence without destroying other evidence was the essence of the early enquiry. “I thought the way the film demonstrated the importance of reading the complete crime scene, the overall picture, was particularly well demonstrated,” I told them, and the collective glow they radiated nearly ignited my shirt. “However,” I continued, “perhaps there is one small point that you’ve overlooked,” and they shuffled in their seats. All I needed now was to think of one.

  I wasn’t knocking them. Some of us like to be out on the streets, some of us are more suited to administrative jobs. He couldn’t have done mine as effectively as I do, and I couldn’t have done his. Put me in charge of discipline and complaints and anarchy would reign. Give me the budget and we’d be bankrupt in a month.

  “Context,” I said.

  “Context?” the DCC murmured, his head tipped to one side, one finger pressed to his chin.

  “Mmm, context,” I repeated. While we were watching their film I’d been thinking about the space video young Daniel had loaned me, and it had come to my rescue. “The first men on the moon,” I began, “stuffed their pockets with the first rocks they found and brought them home. Frankly, they were a bit of a disappointment. On the last expedition, Apollo 17, they sent a geologist. He looked for rocks that were out of context, and found some interesting stuff. If you are looking for meteorites, here on earth, you don’t look on a beach. You’d never recognise them amongst all those different stones. You go to one of the big deserts, or better still, Antarctica, and set up your stall there. If you find a rock in the middle of an ice field it is out of context, and chances are it came from outer space.” I swept my gaze across them, one by one. Eye contact, that’s what it’s all about
. They were all listening.

  “In a murder enquiry,” I continued, “we do something similar. We look for the unusual, the everyday item that is in the wrong place. If you look in the dead man’s shoe cupboard — or the accused’s shoe cupboard — and find shoes, no problem. If you look in his shirt cupboard, and there’s a pair of shoes tucked under there, start asking questions. One of the suspects in the case I’m on at the moment is as bald as a coot. If I’d found a comb in his pocket I’d have wanted to know about it.”

  “For his eyebrows?” someone suggested and everybody roared with laughter.

  “I’d’ve accepted that,” I replied, nodding, and they laughed even more.

  It was the buzzword they were looking for. “Context,” they mumbled as we gathered our papers and prepared to leave. “Context,” “Context,” “Context.”

  Bollocks, I thought.

  “Charlie.”

  It was the DCC. “Yes, Boss,” I replied.

  “Any chance of you giving me a lift to Heckley? My car’s in for a service.”

  “Sure, no problem. What have we done to deserve a visit?” As if I didn’t know.

  “I’m wearing my D and C hat, seeing those two prats who got the car stuck between the bollards. Lockwood and Smiles, isn’t it? He won’t be smiling when I’ve finished with him, I’ll tell you that much.”

  “Stiles,” I told him. “Lockwood and Stiles.”

  “Is it? Oh.”

  I opened his door but didn’t wait to close it behind him, and threw my briefcase on the back seat. On the bypass a speed limit sign went by at well over the stated figure and I eased off the accelerator. If you think being followed by a police car is bad, you should try having the Deputy Chief Constable sitting in your passenger seat with his discipline and complaints hat on. I said: “Bit over the top, isn’t it, Sir, suspending them and you handling it personally?”

  “High profile, Charlie,” he explained. “The media are involved. Made a laughing stock of the whole force. I’m seeing them at two.”