Stuart Pawson - Chill Factor

“I suppose so.”

“This’ll bring the property prices down,” he added, looking out of the window.

“That’s a consolation.”

The SOCO’s white van came swaying round the corner, bouncing over the speed humps and triggering the big security light. “Looks like Michael Schumacher’s on duty tonight,” Dave observed as we opened our doors. I pointed to a spot behind me and the SOCO parked there and doused his lights.

He’s young, fresh faced, and can still boogie ’til dawn then appear in court bright as a squirrel. “Hi, Mr Priest,” he said, slamming the van door. “What’s going on? Is it two-for — the-price-of-one night, or something?”

“First of all, it’s Charlie,” I told him. “Secondly, there are people in bed and I’d prefer them to stay there, and thirdly, don’t be so bloody cheerful at this time in the morning.” We told him what we’d found, and a few minutes later another patrol car came into the estate, followed by the other SOCO and the photographer. Bedroom lights came on in the neighbouring houses and curtains twitched. We were having an operational meeting, in hushed voices, when we heard a police siren in the distance, gradually growing louder. A minute later a traffic car, diverted off the motorway, careered round the corner and nearly took off over the humps. Somebody had dialled 999. I had words with the driver, persuaded him to turn his blue lights off, and sent him back to cruising the M62. A man from one of the houses joined us, saying he was chairman of the local Neighbourhood Watch, demanding to know what was going on. He wore a flying-officer moustache and a dressing gown over pyjamas. I ushered him to one side and asked him — “just between the two of us” — what he knew about the people who lived at The Garth, adding that I’d be very grateful if he could put it all in writing for me, before nine o’clock in the morning. He wandered off composing a hatchet job on the neighbour with the ghastly street lamps in his garden.

That was all we could do. Priorities were identification of the bodies and times and causes of death. These would be checked against Silkstone’s story and we’d see if anything else we discovered supported or disputed the facts. If he were telling the truth the Crown Prosecution solicitors would decide the level of the charge against him; if he were lying I had a job on my hands.

We left the experts doing their stuff, with the uniformed boys outside to keep the ghouls at bay, and went home. Come daylight, we’d be back in force.

While I was addressing the troops about the killing of Peter Latham, young Jamie Walker was practising the new scam he’d learned at the detention centre. He’d strolled into a pub in the town centre, one he knew the layout of because they had no scruples about serving juveniles, and sidled his way towards the toilets, carefully avoiding being seen by the bar staff. When nobody was looking he’d slipped upstairs to the landlord’s living quarters and rifled them. Pub landladies collect gold jewellery like some of us collect warm memories, and he made quite a haul. He escaped in a Mini taken from the car-park and celebrated by driving it through the town centre flat out. The traffic car that came to Silkstone’s house had earlier chased young Jamie for a while, but he escaped by driving along the towpath. Two of our pandas spent the rest of the night driving from one reported sighting to another, without success. We know it was Jamie because he left fingerprints in the pub and in the mini, which he had to abandon before he could torch it.

I found all this out much later. When I arrived home I took off all my clothes, found a fresh set for next day and cleaned my teeth. I slipped under the duvet and closed my eyes.

The house Annabelle and I nearly bought was two along from Silkstone’s, backing on to a rocky field that the estate agent called a paddock. It had a double garage that dominated the front aspect, with an archway over the path and a wrought iron gate. Inside were four bedrooms, two with en suite bathrooms, and a study. The downstairs rooms had dado rails and patio doors, and the next door neighbours were members of the National Trust. They introduced themselves, saying we’d be very happy there, and gave us some membership forms. Annabelle said they were sussing us out.

We could have been happy there. The house was warm and dry and airy, with decent views over the fells; and pissing — off the neighbours would have been no problem. We could have locked the doors and closed the curtains, and played her Mozart and my Dylan to our hearts’ content. I’m sure we’d have been very happy there if we both hadn’t been such bloody reverse snobs.

Today — no, yesterday — I pulled a carving knife out of a dead body, standing astride it as if I were harvesting carrots. Play the film in reverse and you’d see the knife going in, feeling its way between rib and cartilage, following the line of least resistance as it severed vein, nerve and muscle. A dagger in the heart doesn’t kill you. It’s not like an electrical short circuit that immediately blows a fuse and cuts off the power. Blood stops flowing, or pumps out into the body’s cavities instead of following its normal well-ordered path, and the brain dies of starvation.

Today it was strangulation. A pair of tights knotted around the neck, stopping the flow of air and blood until, again, the brain dies. A pair of tights: aid to beauty; method of concealing identity favoured by blaggers; murder weapon. She had black hair and white skin, and may have been attractive, once. Before fear twisted her features and the ligature tightened, building up the pressure in her skull until her eyeballs and tongue tried to escape from it.

Murder doesn’t come stalking its victim at night, skulking from shadow to shadow, whispering unheard threats. It comes in the afternoon, with the sun casting shadows on the wall and the curtains blowing in the breeze. It comes from familiar hands, that once were loving.

The collared doves that live in next door’s apple tree were tuning up like a couple of novice viola players, and my blackbird was doing his scales prior to the morning concert. I got out of bed and staggered to the bathroom for a shower. I put on the clean clothes, brushed my hair and opened the curtains.

The sky was light, with Venus the palest speck on the horizon, not quite drained of its glow by the advancing sun. Above it was the disc of the moon, a duller blue than the sky, one edge dipped in cream. They hovered there like the last two reluctant guests to leave a party. I picked up the alarm clock and went downstairs to grab an hour’s rest on the settee.

The night tec’ was sitting at my desk when I arrived in the office, reading the morning paper. “Hi, Rodge, anything in about us?” I asked, slipping my jacket off.

“Morning, Charlie. No, not yet,” he replied, moving out of my chair.

“Pity. I was hoping they’d have it sorted for us.”

“You’ve had a busy night.”

“Oh, just two murders,” I replied. “Nothing special. And you?”

“Sex or money?”

“Sex. Sex all the way.”

We only have one detective on duty through the night, in case the uniformed boys come across anything that requires a CID presence. He slid a typed report across to me, saying: “Jamie Walker. He was out causing grief again but we’ve got some dabs — I had to borrow a SOCO from City because ours were otherwise engaged. Hopefully, we’ll pick him up today.”

“And as soon as we put him in front of the mags they’ll give him bail,” I said. “God, I could do without him.”

I told him to carry on looking after the stuff outside the murder enquiries, adding that we’d have them sorted as soon as the PM results came through to confirm what we already knew. He went home to breakfast with his wife, a nightshift staff nurse at the General, and I read his report. “Jamie Walker, aged fourteen, why do I hate you?” I said to myself as I slid it into the Pending tray.