Chill Factor dcp-7

by Stuart Pawson

  I carried on with the file. Poor Eileen had been taken and seated in the passenger seat of every model that Jaguar, formerly Swallow Sidecars, had made. They changed their name at the outbreak of World War II, because SS, the abbreviated form, wasn’t good PR in 1939. Eileen couldn’t identify the actual model, but was adamant it was a Jag because it had the famous mascot on the bonnet and when she was little she’d seen a Walt Disney film about the animal.

  I closed my eyes and leaned back in the chair. We were in the main CID office, but the place was deserted on a Saturday afternoon. I’d thanked Bob for his consideration but told him that I’d prefer to go home if we finished at a reasonable hour. Staying overnight would take another big chunk out of the weekend. Barber’s Adagio is one of those tunes that I can hear in my head but can’t reproduce with a whistle or hum. I imagined it now, with its long mournful descants and soaring chords. I saw a car, a Jag, revolving on a plinth. First it was sideways on, sleek and elegant; then it slowly turned to three-quarter view, radiating power and aggression with its rounded air intake and fat tyres; and then nose on, looking like it was coming at you from the barrel of a gun. People fall in love with their Jags, and I could understand why. Parting with it must have broken Silkstone’s heart.

  I collected Bob’s mug and made us another coffee. He was talking on the phone and scribbling on a pad. I placed the replenished mug on his beer mat and tried to make sense of his notes.

  “Thanks a lot,” he said. “You’ve been a big help. I’ll come back to you shortly.”

  He pushed himself back and turned to me, throwing his pencil on the desk. “According to Swansea the Jag was written off,” Bob told me. “After that he owned an MGB, presumably bought with the proceeds, but three years later that was written off, too.”

  “Writing off one sports car is unfortunate,” I said. “Writing off two is downright careless. So he had an MGB at the time of the Eileen Kelly attack?”

  “That’s right.”

  “According to the file she was shown and seated in every Jag produced, but couldn’t recognise the precise model. I wonder if she was shown an MGB?”

  “I don’t know,” Bob replied, “but we’ll be on to it, first thing Monday.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “We’ll find her.”

  I pulled a chair closer to Bob’s desk and took a sip of coffee. He shoved a sheet of paper towards me, to stand my mug on. “I used to have a Jaguar,” I began. “An E-type. My dad restored it and it came to me when he died. It was a fabulous car, but wasted on me. I like one that starts first time, and that’s about it. We used to go to rallies, and I was amazed at the attention and devotion that some owners lavished on their vehicles. Love isn’t too strong a word.” I paused, remembering those good days, some of the best I’d ever had. “Imagine, if you can,” I continued, “that you are in your early twenties and you own your dream car. It’s fast and desirable, it turns heads and it pulls birds. What more could a young lad want? Then, one day, you write it off. It’s beyond repair, a heap of scrap. What would you do?”

  “Look for another, I suppose,” Bob replied.

  “There isn’t another. They’ve stopped making them and those who own ’em aren’t parting.”

  “Look for something similar, then.”

  “Yes, but what about the old car. How would you remember it?”

  “Photographs?”

  “Perhaps. What about something more substantial?”

  “You mean, like a momento?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The jaguar!” he exclaimed. “The mascot off the bonnet. I’d save that.”

  “Good idea,” I told him. “And if you just happened to own an MGB? It’s a very nice car, but not quite in the same class as the Jag you once had. Might you not be tempted to…you know…so you could relive your dreams…?”

  “Put the mascot on the MG,” Bob suggested.

  “Exactly. And Eileen Kelly said the car was a Jag because of the mascot on the bonnet.”

  “Fuckin’ ’ell, Charlie,” he hissed. “It’s a bit far-fetched, don’t you think?”

  “I thought you were a Methodist,” I reminded him.

  “Only in leap years.” We drank our coffee, reading the notes he’d made. “A more likely explanation…” Bob began, “…is that it really was a Jaguar, driven by someone unknown to us.”

  I nodded and placed my empty mug on his desk. “I know, Bob,” I agreed. “But humour me, please. We can either go back to the beginning and start all over again, which will take us nowhere all over again, or we can run it with Silkstone in the frame. So let’s do it, eh?”

  “That’s fine by me, Chas.”

  “Thanks. I’m going home.”

  Sunday I stayed in bed until after ten, had a shower and went out for a full English breakfast. I brought a couple of heavies back in with me and spent the rest of the day catching up on the latest hot stories, a neverending supply of tea at my elbow. Heaven. Annette had said she might go to her mother’s, in Hebden Bridge, and I’d said that I might stay overnight with Bob, so there was no answer when I tried her number. Another communication breakdown. The weather system had swung right round and the day was warm again, with just enough threat of rain to put me off doing some gardening. A quick run-around downstairs with the vacuum cleaner gave me sufficient Brownie points to justify an evening watching television and listening to music. I brought the Chinese painting in from the garage and propped it in a corner, where it caught the light, so I could study it. You are supposed to leave oil paint for about a year to dry before varnishing it, but a month or two is usually enough. A few touches of black contour, I thought, on some of the images, and that would be that. I can’t justify black contours, but they can transform a picture, and V. Gogh did it all the time so why shouldn’t C. Priest? I was pleased with the painting and it was good fun having a whole day to myself. At nine o’ clock I gave Annette’s number another try, and this time she answered.

  “You were lucky to catch me,” she said. “I’ve only been in two minutes, and I’ve put my waterproof on to go straight out again.”

  “Fate,” I told her. “Fate, working in sympathy with our circadian rhythms as part of some great master plan to bring us together. On the other hand, I could have tried your number every minute for the last two days.”

  “Oh, and which was it?”

  “Fate, definitely fate. So where are you going, young lady, at such a late hour. Didn’t you know that the streets are not safe in this town?”

  “It’s the start of Statis week,” she reminded me. “There’s a concert in the square, followed by fireworks. Why don’t you come? I could see you there.”

  “Who’s playing?” I asked, as if it mattered.

  “It’s an Irish band, called Clochan. They’re pretty good.”

  “Right. Great. Where shall I meet you?” I like Irish bands, but I’d still have gone if it had been Emma Royd and the Piledrivers.

  Annette was standing at the edge of the audience, near the Sue Ryder shop as arranged, with the hood of her waterproof down even though it was raining. She looked pleased to see me, and I kissed her on the lips and put my arm around her.

  “Good weekend?” I shouted into her ear, in competition with ‘Whiskey in the Jar.’

  “Mmm,” she mouthed in reply. “And you?”

  “So so. They are good, aren’t they.” I sang along with them, to show how hip I’d once been: As I was going over the Cork and Kerry mountains, I met Captain Farrel…and I shot him with my pistol.

  We caught the last three songs, finishing with a tour de force rendition of ‘Marie’s Wedding’ that slowly built-up and carried the audience along with it: first swaying to the tune; then clapping and foot-stamping; and eventually dancing wildly, arms and legs flailing. Annette and I looped arms and dozey-do’d, exchanging partners with the couple next to us, until the music stopped and we all ground to a breathless halt. I stood with my arms around her and th
e rain running down my face as she and the others applauded them from the stage. If the devil really does have all the best tunes he must be a Celt.

  The bang startled me. I spun round, heart bouncing, but all I saw was a sea of upturned faces, washed in pink and then lilac as the firework filled the sky with spangles. Annette joined in the chorus of “Ooh” and “Aah” as chandeliers of fire blossomed above our heads, each burst of light a giant chrysanthemum, illuminating the smoke trails of its predecessor until it faded to make way for something even brighter. I looked around at the jostling crowd, their eyes shaded by hoods and hats, as explosions rippled and crackled through the sodden sky. The noise of a machine gun, never mind a. 38, could easily have gone un-noticed amongst all that cacophony.

  A single desultory bang signified the end, leaving us with fading images on our retinas and the smell of cordite in our nostrils. “Thank you for the dance,” I said to the complete stranger that I’d been whirling around two minutes earlier.

  “I’ll save one for you next year,” she laughed, and her husband looked embarrassed, as if he couldn’t believe it had all happened.

  Annette and I picked our way through the crowd heading towards the car parks until I eased her into a side street and steered a course down towards the canal, where it was quieter. “I’m in the multi-storey,” I explained. “But let’s take the romantic route.”

  “I’d hardly call Heckley Navigation romantic,” she laughed.

  “I know, but it’s the best I can do. I think hot cocoa at your place is called for. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds very inviting,” she agreed, squeezing my hand.

  The alley down to the canal is the one where Lockwood and Stiles had come to grief, four months earlier. As we approached the end I sensed Annette looking around her, realising where we were.

  “This is Dick Lane, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Mmm,” I replied.

  “Where Martin Stiles got the panda stuck?”

  “That’s right.” Through the day it is blocked with delivery vehicles servicing the shops that back on to it, but at night only courting couples and glue sniffers use it, sheltering in the doorways and behind the dumpsters. Tonight the rain had kept them away, but it was still early. We’d reached the iron posts that prevent the egress of anything wider than a stolen Fiesta. “And these,” I said, fondling one of the rounded tops, “are the items in question.”

  “Oh God!” Annette giggled, letting go of my hand.

  “What?” I laughed.

  “I just…I just…”

  “What?”

  She shook her head and made gurgling noises.

  I put my hand on her shoulder to steady her. “You just what?”

  “Nothing!”

  I engulfed her in my arms and felt her body shaking as she tried to control her giggling. It was a pleasant experience. “What?” I demanded, turning to shelter her from the rain.

  “I just…I just…”

  Now I was giggling. “You just what?”

  “I just realised…I just realised why they call it…Why they call it…”

  I completed the sentence for her. “Why they call it Dick Lane? It was named after the Methodist minister who built this church.” I flapped a hand at the building to my left.

  A respectable stream was running down the middle of the alley, and up at the top the cobbles shone yellow and orange with the lights from the square. Halfway along a movement caught my attention, so brief that I wondered if I’d imagined it. A figure stepped out of the shadows and stepped straight back into them.

  “If you say so,” she replied, finding a tissue and blowing her nose. “But I don’t believe it.”

  “I’m appalled,” I told her. “I can’t imagine what sort of people you mix with. C’mon, I’m soaked.” I grabbed her hand again and pulled her towards the towpath.

  The canal was a black hole, devoid of movement or form apart from where an occasional rectangle of light fell on to it and the surface became a pattern of overlapping circles, piling on to each other as the rain increased in force. I stepped into a puddle and said: “I think this was a mistake.”

  Annette stopped, saying: “That’s where Darryl Buxton lived, isn’t it?” She was looking at a mill across the canal, converted into executive flats. Buxton was a rapist that we jailed.

  “That’s right,” I agreed, looking behind us. I hadn’t imagined it. A figure stepped cautiously out of the end of Dick Lane and merged into the shadows again. He was hugging the wall, gaining on us, and the next opening was nearly a hundred yards away. “Do you have plenty of milk?” I asked, tugging at her arm.

  “Milk?”

  “Mmm. You know, comes from cows. I like my cocoa made with milk.”

  “Oh, I think we’ll be able to manage that. Except mine comes from Tesco.”

  “That’ll do. C’mon.”

  “The canal looks spooky, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. Not as romantic as I’d thought. Perhaps I was confusing it with Venice.”

  “How deep is it?”

  I looked back but couldn’t be sure if he was there. “I don’t know.”

  “Did you swim in it when you were a child?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No. We went to the baths.” This time I saw him, and he was much closer, moving purposefully but still keeping to the shadows. I stopped to pick up a stone and tossed it towards the water. It splashed somewhere out in the blackness. When I looked, he’d stopped too.

  We were nearly at the end of the next alleyway, similar to Dick Lane but without the dicks. It was another service road, cobbled and narrow, and not illuminated. I patted my pockets, feeling for my mobile phone, knowing I wouldn’t find it. “Do you have your phone with you?” I asked, but she didn’t.

  “Listen, Annette,” I said as we approached the end of the wall. “When we reach this corner I want you to do exactly as I say.”

  She sensed the urgency in my voice. “What is it, Charlie?” she asked.

  “Just do as I say. When we get round the corner I want you to run as fast as you can towards the town centre. There’s a pub called the Talisman at the top of the street. Go in and go straight to the ladies’. Lock yourself in for five minutes. Then come out and order two drinks at the bar. I’ll join you about then.”

  “What are you talking about?” she demanded.

  “Just do as I say.”

  “Why? What is it?”

  “We’re being followed.” We reached the corner and turned it. Two big green dumpsters were standing there, just as I’d hoped. “Now run!” I hissed, pushing her towards the lights.

  “And what are you doing?” she asked.

  “Just run!”

  “I’m not running without you.”

  I heard the tch tch of his trainers on the wet floor, fast at first, as if he were jogging, then slower, cautious, as he reached the corner. I grabbed Annette’s arm and pushed her behind the dumpster, bundling her deep into the corner. A rat squealed a protest and scuttled away.

  The footsteps paused as he surveyed the empty street, then started again, striding out. I heard his noise, sensed his shadow as I anticipated his position, predicting the exact moment he would emerge. As he passed the dumpster I took two rapid strides forward and hurled myself at him.

  Priority was to stop him finding his gun. I threw my arms around him in a bear hug and knocked him to the ground. He kicked wildly and we rolled over, first me on top, then him, followed by me again. As he rolled over me I felt water running down my neck. He shouted something I didn’t catch and Annette joined in, flailing at him with her fists, trying to hold his head. Next time he was on the bottom I risked letting go with one hand for sufficient time to smash his face against the cobbles. He jerked and went limp.

  Neither of us had handcuffs with us. I felt his clothing for a gun but he was unarmed. I rolled him over and moved to one side so my shadow wasn’t on him. His lips were moving and
a trickle of blood ran from his forehead until the rain diluted it to almost nothing.

  “Oh shit!” I said.

  “It’s me,” he mumbled. “It’s me, Mr Priest.”

  “Do you know him?” Annette asked.

  “Yeah, I know him.” I grabbed his lapels and pulled him, still mumbling, into a seated position. “I know him all right. I’d like you to meet Jason Lee Gelder: until recently chief suspect in the Marie-Claire Hollingbrook case.”

  It was Les Isles’ fault. We led Jason to where there was more light and cleaned him up. He was more apologetic than I was, and refused to be taken to Heckley General for a check-up. He wouldn’t even let us give him a lift home. “It’s my fault, Mr Priest,” he kept insisting. “I shouldn’t have followed you like that.”

  When they’d decided not to oppose bail, poor old Jason had interpreted this as implying that he was no longer in the frame for Marie-Claire’s murder. He’d attempted to thank Les, who’d said: “Don’t thank me, thank Inspector Priest,” and told him that he owed me a pint. Jason took him literally. When he saw us at the fireworks he thought he would pay his debts, and followed us into Dick Lane. He said he was going to catch up with us there, but when we stopped “for a snog” he thought better of it and waited.

  I believed him. Jason wasn’t a crook, but he certainly qualified as a client, and some of them get funny ideas. They come into the station and see us in court, and start to see themselves as part of the organisation. We see them as the enemy, they regard themselves as our colleagues. I told Jason to call into the nick tomorrow and report the incident. He said it didn’t matter, but I insisted. I’d do a full report, to keep myself and Annette in the clear. He was slow but well-meaning, and destined for a lifetime of holding the dirty end of whatever stick was offered him. I imagined him at the slaughterhouse, doing every obscene job that his sick workmates could find, and felt sorry for the Jasons of the world.

  It was only a five-minute drive to Annette’s, and we did it in silence. I doused the lights outside her flat and turned to face her. She stared straight ahead, unsmiling and pale in the harsh light. Under the street lamps the rain was falling like grain out of a silo.