Stuart Pawson - Chill Factor

“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 the 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.