Stuart Pawson - Chill Factor

Jeff Caton was the only person there, his head deep in that morning’s Gazette. “That all you’ve got to do?” I asked.

“Hi, Chas,” he said, looking up. “Nothing in it, I’m afraid. Nothing about us, that is. The release will have gone out too late for this edition.”

“But?”

“But there’s something in the free ads that might be worth looking at. Bloke selling a box of fifty King Edward cigars for fifty quid. Says they’re an unwanted gift.”

“Maybe he’s stopped smoking.”

“Maybe, but it’s the seventh week the advert’s been in.”

“Really? What are they worth?”

“About twice that.”

“I’m convinced. Let’s go round in the morning and kick his door down. On second thoughts, let’s go round now, just the two of us. I feel like some aggro.”

Jeff laughed. “I’ll call round later, posing as a buyer. What’s brought this on?”

“Oh, Pritchard,” I told him. “Wants me to drop chasing Silkstone. He hasn’t taken me off the case, but I’ve to leave him alone. It’s back to keeping the fair streets of Heckley safe enough for decent people to go about their business. Who cares if one of them just happens to be a psychopath?”

“Maybe he’s a fellow lodge member.”

“No, it’s just bad public relations. I’m the ugly face of the police force.”

I went into my office and gathered up all the papers on my desk, piling them in the in-tray. I slumped in my chair and put my feet on the desk, pushing the chair back until the angle was just right. You can make yourself surprisingly comfortable like that. I checked the position of the big hand on the clock and closed my eyes. With a bit of luck the phone wouldn’t ring for ten or eleven minutes.

Three minutes, but it was Annette, so I didn’t mind. “Boss, I’m at the front desk,” she said, sounding breathless.

“Well, you see those stairs on your left? Go up the first flight and your…”

“I’m interviewing a girl in number two,” she interrupted. “Says she was followed by a stalker. I think you should come down and hear what she says.”

“I’m a bit busy,” I lied. “Can’t you deal with it?”

“I can deal with it, no problem,” she replied, “but I think you’d like to hear it for yourself. Believe me, Boss, you would.”

“OK, I’m on my way.” I swung my feet down on to the plain but functional carpet and reached for my jacket.

She was a big girl, with a bright, open face. Her hair was swept straight back into a ponytail and her complexion wasn’t too good, but she had a nice smile and that makes up for a lot. Her school skirt was short, stretched tight around her crossed thighs, and she wore a blue V-necked pullover with a school badge on it. Apart from all that, she was sitting in my chair. I smiled at her and moved round the table to where the prisoner usually sits.

“This is Debbie Collins,” Annette said, “and this is Inspector Priest. He’s in charge of the case.”

“I know,” Debbie replied. “I saw your picture in the paper.”

“That’s me,” I told her. “Now what can I do for you?”

Annette answered for her: “I’ve recorded an interview with Debbie, but she said she doesn’t mind going through it again.”

“OK. Let’s hear it, then, Debbie, in your own words, at your own speed.”

She leaned forward, placing one hand on the table. “It was one morning last June,” she began. “I was going to school.”

“Which one?” I interjected.

“Heckley Sixth Form College. This man waved to me, from a car. I waved back, sort of instinctively, if you follow me. But when I thought about it I hadn’t a clue who he was.”

“I know what you mean,” I said. “Somebody waves and you wave back. It happens to all of us.”

“Yeah, well, a few mornings later I saw him again. I was waiting to cross the road and he drove by. This time he smiled and gave a little wave, like that.” She raised a hand, as if off a steering wheel. “I didn’t smile back, I don’t think. Next time I saw him was in the afternoon, as I walked home, and he smiled again.”

“Did you take his number?” I asked.

“No, sorry. I didn’t think too much about it. Then, a couple of weeks later, after we’d had our French exam, he stopped his car. I was smoking a cig. I don’t normally, it’s a stupid habit, but we were in the middle of exams and I was nervous. I took one of my dad’s to school with me, to have afterwards, and I was smoking it on the way home and he asked me for a light.”

“He stopped the car and asked you for a light?”

“No, not quite. I saw him drive past and he pulled into the shopping precinct and dashed into the newsagents. He came out with a new packet of Benson and Hedges, and that’s when he asked me. He sort of pretended he wasn’t in a car and walked out on to the path, in front of me. Said he’d lost his matches and could he have a light.”

“Were you frightened?” I asked.

“No,” she replied. “I was bigger than him. I’d’ve socked him if he’d tried anything.” Her face lit up in a smile, and she looked lovely.

“Did he say anything else?”

“Well, just something, you know, suggestive.”

“He propositioned you?”

“Not quite. He held the cigs out and said: ‘Can I give you one?’ but it was obvious he didn’t mean the fags.” She smiled again and this time Annette and I joined her. She’d done the right thing, coming to us, but fortunately her experience, if this was all there was, hadn’t troubled her.

“And what happened next,” I asked.

“Nothing. I said no and he went off. After that I started walking home with some other girls. I saw him once, the following week, but I ignored him.”

“Would you recognise him again?” From the corner of my eye I saw Annette smile.

“Oh, yeah,” Debbie replied, sitting up. “I’d recognise him all right. It was him in the paper, with you, yesterday. Him who did that murder.”

“Oh,” I said, caught off guard. I hadn’t expected this. I sat up straight and placed both hands on the table. It shows that I’m being honest and concerned. “That must have been quite a shock for you.”

“It was.”

“Well, I’m pleased that your ordeal doesn’t appear to have frightened you too much, Debbie, although it must have been pretty scary at the time. You handled the situation very well, but if it does start to bother you at all, have a word with us. Come and see Annette or myself, anytime. Meanwhile, as you know, he can’t hurt you now, because…well…he’s dead.”

Her eyes widened and I heard Annette clear her throat. “No!” Debbie insisted. “Not him! Not Peter Latham. It wasn’t him who followed me, it was the other one: Tony Silkstone.”

I sat looking at her for an age, she returning my gaze from small blue eyes and her cheap scent spreading out across the rickety table. I glanced at Annette, whose grin looked as if it might bubble over into joyous laughter at any moment.

“When?” I managed, eventually. “When did you see him the first time? You said it was June. June the what?”

Annette said: “Debbie has checked when her French exam was, and believes it was on June the ninth.”

“One week before Margaret Silkstone died,” I stated.

“And probably the day Silkstone came home early and caught them together,” Annette added.

“Debbie,” I said, turning to her. “What you have told us may be very important. Do your parents know you are here?”

“Yes. My mum told me to come. She wanted to come with me, but I said it was all right.”

“Good. I’m really pleased you did but I’d be grateful if you’d not discuss this with anyone else, OK?”

“Yeah, no problem.”