Stuart Pawson - Chill Factor

I pulled everything that might be useful from the Silkstone file and made copies for Somerset. I was extricating details of his early life in Heckley from the photocopier chute when Annette joined me, holding a letter she wanted duplicating.

“What’s all that?” she asked.

“Stuff about Silkstone, for Somerset,” I replied. “I’m going down there tomorrow to look at their files.”

“There looks to be a lot.”

“There is.”

“Why didn’t you ask? I could have done it for you.”

“Because: a, you were busy; and b, you’re a detective, not a clerical assistant.”

“Sorry,” she replied. “Put it down to a hundred thousand years of conditioning.”

“Pull the other one,” I responded, lifting the original off the bed and gesturing for her to put her document on it.

“Thanks, I only want one copy.” I pressed the button for her. “Are you driving down?” she asked.

“’Fraid so. Early start, about six o’clock.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

The light tube moved across and back again, and I lifted the lid. “Why?” I asked. “Aren’t you going to York?”

“No. He’s taking the girls to see their grandma. It’s her birthday, and I’m not invited.”

“Damn!” I cursed. “I wish I’d known. I’ve arranged to stay the night at Bob — the DC’s — house. It would have been a good day out, and you could have shared the driving.”

“Tell him there’s been a change of plans.”

I thought about it. “How were you going to spend the day?” I asked.

“Shopping in Leeds, and a hair-do,” she replied.

“Harvey Nick’s? House of Fraser?” I suggested.

“That’s right.”

“Treat yourself?”

“You bet!”

“Made an appointment for the hair-do?”

“Yes. What’s all this leading to?”

“No,” I said. “Thanks for the offer, Annette, but you have your day out in town. You’ve probably been looking forward to it, and you deserve it.”

“I don’t mind cancelling,” she offered.

“No, but there is one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t let him cut too much off. I like it how it is.” She blushed, so I followed up with: “And as it’s an early start for me in the morning I won’t feel like cooking tonight, so I might pop out for a meal somewhere. Some company would be nice.”

She tipped her head on one side and gave a little tight-lipped smile. “Would I do, Mr Priest?” she asked.

“You’ll do just fine, Miss Brown,” I replied.

I decided to splash out, demonstrate that I know how to treat a girl. Annette protested, said it was her turn, offered to at least split the bill, but I asked her to indulge me. I laid it on a bit thick, said I felt like a treat, something more special than our usual curry or Chinese. I drove us into Lancashire, to a place near Oldfield that Jeff Caton had discovered, run by a French-Persian couple and attracting rave reviews.

We started with kebabs and I followed them with lamb done in goat’s milk and smothered in a spicy sauce. Annette had chicken in a fruity sauce with lots of chutneys, which I helped her with. We washed it down with a full-bodied Bordeaux. The proper stuff, all the way from France. The reviews, we agreed, were well deserved.

“Phew!” Annette exclaimed, dabbing her lips with her napkin. “That was good.”

I finished my coffee. It came in tiny cups and was strong enough to drive a nuclear reactor. They didn’t throw the grounds into the waste bin; they sent them to Sellafield for re-processing. A waiter appeared with the coffee jug but I held my hand over the cup and shook my head. “Any more of that and I’ll be awake all night,” I said.

“And you’ve an early start in the morning,” Annette reminded me.

“Six o’clock,” I groaned. “As much as I’d like to take you for a night on the town, it had better be some other time.” I paid the bill, which went a long way towards compensating the proprietor for the oil wells he lost when the Shah was deposed, and we left.

It was raining and dark, but I decided to take the scenic route back, over the tops rather than the motorway. I pushed the heater control over to maximum and pressed the Classic FM button on the radio. Rodrigues, excellent. I’d thought about pre-loading the cassette with a romantic tape, but it had felt corny, even for me. And what could be more romantic than Rodrigues? Annette wriggled in the passenger seat, making herself comfortable, and hummed along with Narciso Yepes.

A sudden flurry of sleet had me switching the wipers to maximum, but it only lasted a few seconds. “Where does Grandma live?” I asked.

“Scarborough,” she replied.

“And does she know about you?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“So why aren’t you going with them?”

“Because they’re staying overnight, and there isn’t room for me.”

“I see.”

More sleet splotched on to the windscreen, blobs of shadow that slithered upwards until the wipers swept them to the sides, where they clung to each other for security. “Brrr!” Annette exclaimed. “It looks a bit bleak out there.”

“Ah, but…” I argued, raising a finger to emphasise the point I was about to make, “we’re not out there.”

“Do you think…” she began, then stopped herself.

“Do I think what?”

“Do you think he is, out there?”

“Who?”

“Chilcott. Chiller.”

I hadn’t forgotten him, just pretended to myself that he’d gone away. “Somewhere, I suppose,” I replied. “Probably where it’s a little warmer than this, if he’s any sense.”

“Have you heard anything about him, since he escaped?”

“No, not a word since the Calais sighting. When we interviewed Silkstone we made it clear that they’d conned him out of his money. That’s probably what happened. Shooting me was never on the agenda.”

“I don’t believe you,” she stated.

“Well I’ll be off it now, that’s for sure. All he’ll want to do is survive. If the look on Silkstone’s face was anything to go by he’d been paid in full, and there’s no honour among thieves. None at all.” Apart from the odd fool like Vince Halliwell, I thought, doing ten years for someone whose name he “couldn’t remember.” Except that a hit man who ran off with the money without delivering the goods would very soon be an ex-hit man, but I kept that to myself.

I changed gear for the hairpin bend at the end of the reservoir and let the car drift over to the wrong side of the road. We were the only people up there, and it was easy to imagine, after just a few minutes, that we were completely alone in the world, snug in our private cocoon of warmth and music. Now it was Samuel Barber, Adagio for Strings. Someone was making it easy for me.

I slowed and turned off the road. A length of it, right on the top, has been straightened, but the old road is still there, used as a picnic place for day trippers from both counties, risking ambush by the old enemy.

“Don’t panic,” I said as we came to a halt. “I bring all my female friends here to admire the view.” Usually it’s the sky, ragingly beautiful as the sun sinks somewhere beyond the Irish Sea; or the lights of the conurbation, spread out below in a glowing blanket. Tonight it was a streak of paler sky marking the horizon, with indigo clouds bleeding down into it. Ah well, I thought, at least I got the music right. As I killed the lights I noticed the time. Twenty-two hours earlier I’d parked up with young Sophie sitting next to me. This was beginning to be a habit.

“I’m not panicking,” Annette said, turning towards me.

“I just thought we should talk more,” I began. “It would have been really nice to have had you along, tomorrow.”