Stuart Pawson - Chill Factor

“Smashing. And meanwhile, DC Brown — Annette — will take you on a tour of the police station before driving you home. If you’re hungry she might even call in McDonalds and treat you to a burger.”

“Great!” Debbie said, beaming one of her gorgeous smiles at me and uncurling those sapling legs.

I stopped at the front desk and dialled Mr Wood’s number. “It’s Charlie,” I said when he answered. “Is Mr Pritchard still with you?”

“No, he left about half an hour ago. Why?”

“There’s been a development. Give him a ring, please, Gilbert. Tell him Charlie Palooka is back on the case.”

I rang my DI friend in Somerset and asked him to oil a few wheels for me. I wanted to see the file for the Caroline Poole murder, and then I wanted the files on all other associated cases. In a crime like that there are always similar offences which may or may not have been perpetrated by the same person. Caroline’s death stood alone, shocking an otherwise safe community, but rapists and murderers go through a learning process, and usually have a few false starts before they hit the big time. I needed to know who might have had a lucky escape while the killer was developing his technique, and from them I needed a description.

Caroline’s death pre-dated DNA fingerprinting by a couple of years, and there were no samples from her attacker that could be resurrected and tested, but the thought of sticking Silkstone in a line-up excited the Somerset DI. “When were you thinking of coming down?” he asked.

“It will have to be Saturday,” I told him.

“Damn! I’m a bit tied up. I’ll have to let you have Bob. You remember Bob?”

“I don’t need any help,” I protested. “Sit me in front of the files and I’ll work my way through them.”

“No disrespect, Charlie,” he replied, “but I’d like us to keep abreast of this one. We already have Caroline’s file here in the office. I’ll let Bob spend tomorrow on it and he’ll identify the associated files and have them brought to Frome from HQ. He knows his way around them; with a bit of luck he’ll have it done for you. What time will you be here?”

“Umm, ten o’clock,” I said, thinking that I’d work out the details later.

“Right. He’ll be waiting for you.”

When I looked at the map I wished I’d said twelve noon. If I’d had the gift of second sight I’d have said: “Make it Monday,” but I don’t, so I didn’t.

It was microwave chicken casserole for tea, with pasta and green beans. After doing two-days worth of washing up I ran the car through the car wash and checked the tyre pressures and oil and water levels. My energy level was high, things were moving, looking good. I had a shower, put some decent clothes on and went out. It was nearly dark.

I drove to the brickyard, where the lovers meet. It was early for the normal trysts, but one car was parked up, windows grey with condensation. I drove to the opposite corner and parked so I could see it in my mirrors. It was a Vauxhall Vectra, brand new, with a mobile phone aerial on the back window. Later, after the pubs closed, the cars would be cheap Fords and Peugeots owned by the youth of Heckley who had no homes worthy of the name to go to, nobody to ask questions. Right now, it was the time for married men, having a drink with the boys or working late at the office.

I saw the interior light come on as a back door opened. A right-angle of white leg reached out, testing its strength before trusting it with the full weight of the attached body. Sex does that to your legs. A pale dress, flash of peroxide hair as she transferred to the front seat and made herself comfortable behind the steering wheel. Ah well, I’d got the details wrong. The man extricated himself from the back, glanced over towards me as he adjusted his clothing and took his place next to the woman.

They drove away, back to their respective partners. “Had a hard day, Darling?” “Yes, you could say that.” Unless they were married to each other of course, and trying to recapture love’s young dream. Whatever turns you on, I say. I didn’t check to see if he’d dropped anything in the grass. I drove straight into town, not knowing why I’d been there, wondering if sometimes I take my job too seriously.

I couldn’t park in my usual place because next week was Statis week. In mediaeval times it was the annual thanksgiving and excuse for a piss-up in celebration of another successful year’s wool harvest. When nobody needed an excuse any more it fell out of favour for a while, but has recently been revived as part of the culture boom. The fair has been relegated to the park and the town square now hosts a series of open-air concerts, sometimes followed by a firework display across the canal. It brings money into the town and causes traffic havoc, but this is how they do things in Europe and our councillors like to show how cool and young- at-heart they are. Council workmen were busily erecting a stage and seating where I normally park, so I drove into the multi-storey. All leave would be stopped for the woodentops this weekend.

Buddy Holly was still on the door at the Aspidistra Lounge but his hair was growing again, and the ticket girl hadn’t finished her gum. I paid my money, picked up my change and waited for him to open the door.

The steady boom-boom I’d heard outside threatened to do me brain damage now I was in. Blue whales in the South Atlantic probably had their flippers over their ears. The place was as empty as usual and Georgie was behind the bar, surveying his monarchy. In his position, I’d have considered abdication.

“My my, it’s Mr Priest,” he said. “Your usual, is it?” I nodded and he reached into the chiller cabinet for a Foster’s Ice. He flipped the top off and slid the bottle towards me. “This is getting to be a habit, Mr Priest,” he went on. “Your little friends are in, not that they’re little, of course. Young, perhaps, but not little. Like them young, do you, Mr Priest?”

“Glass,” I said, and he lifted one down from the rack above the bar. I carefully poured the over-priced, over-rated lager into it.

“Personally,” he said, “I prefer them slightly older. More mature. But I can see what the attraction is. At their age they still have that innocence, don’t you think? That openness, like a blank page that’s waiting to be written on. I can understand how that might appeal to someone like yourself, Mr Priest.”

“George,” I began. “I’d like you to know that you’re talking family. If ever you or one of your goons as much as makes an approach to any of them, you’ll be taking your sustenance through a tube for the next month.”

“Ooh, I love it when you talk tough,” he said.

I picked up my change and turned away. He called after me: “You know what they say, Mr Priest, vice is nice, but…” The rest of it was lost in the mindless drumbeat, but I knew what he meant: Vice is nice, but incest is best. It rhymes, which is the sole reason for its memorability.

There were only three of them. Shani saw me first and waved, causing Sophie to look up from her glass and give me a smile that did more for me than the lager ever could.

“Who’s missing?” I asked, sitting down.

“Josie,” Sophie told me. “She’s doing a year in Italy before university.”

“And next week you’ll all be gone, will you?”

“Week after is Freshers’ week for me,” she explained. “But this is our last night out.” Shani was going to London and the other girl, Frances, to Keele.

“Looks like I’ll be here on my own, then,” I said, pulling a face.

“Aw!” they cried, in sympathy, and Shani reached out and put her hand on mine. “We’ll make a special point of coming to see you during vacation,” she promised.