Stuart Pawson - Chill Factor

Male voice: “No thanks.”

Female voice: “You’ve been after me.”

Male voice: “Yes, I rang you because…”

I pressed the stop button and ejected the cassette. There was nothing there that I wanted to save for posterity; nothing I could play back to her later, and watch the colour rise in her cheeks until I reached out and cooled them with my fingertips. I hooked a thumbnail under the tape and pulled it from the spools, heaping it on the passenger seat until no more was left and ripping the ends free. I clicked the spare cassette into position and concealed the tape recorder in my inside pocket. The microphone was under my tie. It worked, and that was all that mattered. I locked the car and went into the pub.

I tried the steak and kidney pie but didn’t enjoy it. I was stabbing a perfunctory chip with my fork — there’s something oddly irresistible about a plate of cold chips — when a movement outside caught my eye. Another Ford Mondeo had joined mine in the car-park, and it was closely followed by a Peugeot. The place was getting busy. My phone rang and I grabbed it from my pocket. “Charlie,” I whispered into it.

“He’s with someone,” I was told, “in a Ford like yours. I’ve done a vehicle check and it’s owned by a Julian Maximillian Denver.”

“Cheers, I know him.” I looked up at the door as I slipped the phone back into my pocket and saw Silkstone, accompanied by Max Denver, ace reporter of the UK News, heading my way.

Denver, a grin on his face, was all for joining me, but Silkstone didn’t want to. I’d never been formally introduced to Denver, but recognised him as the character who’d confronted me outside the station a week ago, and his name was plastered all over the articles. He was wearing a belted leather coat a size too big, faded jeans and a slimy smile on one of those faces that has punch me writ large across it. I scratched my armpit and switched the tape on. If Mohammed wouldn’t come to the mountain…

They ordered drinks and food at the bar and took a table several places away from me. I waited until they were settled and wandered over, glass in hand.

“Well well,” I said, pulling a chair from an adjoining table and placing it at the end of theirs. “I’d have thought this was a bit downmarket for a pair of hotshots like you two.”

“I was thinking the same myself,” Silkstone sneered.

“Sit down, why don’t you,” Denver invited, somewhat superfluously as I already had done.

“Thanks. On the other hand, in your reduced circumstances, Silkstone, I’d have thought you’d have taken advantage of the two-for-one, before six o’clock.”

He turned to Denver, asking: “Do we have to listen to this?” but Denver would listen to anyone, and the more aggro the better.

“Or is this little treat on your new-found friend’s expense account?” I asked. “Signed a contract with him, have you?”

Denver said: “Killed any unarmed men today, Priest?”

“No,” I replied, “but there’s time.” I turned back to Silkstone. “How much is he paying you then? Enough to replace the fifty thousand you donated to the Kevin Chilcott holiday fund?” A red shadow spread from Silkstone’s face, stopping as it reached his bald head, like the British Empire on an old map of Africa. Denver looked from me to Silkstone and back again, his brow beetled in mystification. “What!” I exclaimed, “hasn’t he told you about the fifty thousand?”

“Because it’s a pack of lies,” Silkstone hissed. “Another of the stories you invented to blacken my name because…because…because you haven’t got a leg to stand on and you know it. Why don’t you leave me alone and…and…”

“And go out and catch a murderer?” I suggested. I drained my glass and placed it on their table. Denver twisted in his seat and raised a hand to the girl behind the bar, but she turned away because they don’t do waitress service.

“Ah, maybe you’re right,” I conceded. “It’s this job.”

Denver got to his feet and shouted to the barmaid, asking if he could order some drinks, but she ignored him again. He wanted a drink in my hand, but he didn’t want to leave my side, in case he missed something. “Don’t worry,” I told him, “I’ll get it.” I strolled to the bar and ordered myself another pint.

“You know,” I began, when I’d rejoined them, “I took an instant dislike to you, Silkstone.” I looked at his companion and explained: “You have to, when you’re investigating a murder. But then, as I looked around your house, I decided that you had at least one redeeming feature.” I picked up my glass and drained nearly half of it, licking my lips and pretending it wasn’t as unappetising as the cold urine it resembled.

“And what was that?” Denver prompted.

“He’s a Jaguar man,” I replied. “Had a 1964 Mark II. Great car, highly desirable.” I had another drink, before adding: “Can’t be much wrong with a man who owned a car like that, I said to myself.”

“It hasn’t stopped you persecuting me,” Silkstone declared.

“Top brass,” I told him. “You know how it is.” I finished my drink and Denver snatched up the glass almost before my fingers had left it.

“Another?” he asked.

“Why not?” I replied.

“Lager?”

“Please.”

“Which one?”

“Labatt’s.”

He dashed off to the bar as I said to Silkstone: “Once upon a time I had an E-type. A three-point-eight. Fabulous car. I loved it. Drove it to southern Spain, once. Boy, did that machine turn heads. And pull birds. Felt like a bloody film star when I was in it.”

Denver placed the replenished glass in front of me and I thanked him. “I was just telling Mr Silkstone that I owned an E-type Jag, a long time ago. It nearly broke my heart when it was stolen. A scrote from Sylvan Fields took it and torched it. I’d have strangled the little bastard if I’d got my hands on him.” I took a sip of the Labatt’s. It was a big improvement. I’d sold the car when prices were at their highest and made nearly ten grand profit, but they didn’t need to know that. “What happened to yours?” I asked.

“I crashed it,” Silkstone informed me.

“Crashed it? Were you hurt?” Some men are embarrassed if they have the misfortune to crash their car, see it as a mistake; others never accept the blame and enjoy relating all the gory details. I had little doubt which group our friend belonged in.

“No. I was lucky.”

“What happened?”

“Hit a patch of black ice on the A37. The gritters hadn’t been out.”

“And it was written off?”

“Yeah. I rolled it over three times. Would have cost too much to repair, so it went for scrap.”

“And you walked away from it?”

“Without a scratch.”

“Blimey.” I had another drink.

“So what’s the state of the investigation now?” Denver asked, trying to drag the conversation back to something he might be interested in.

“The file’s with the CPS,” I told him. “It’s up to them.”

“But aren’t you following any lines of enquiry?”

“No,” I lied. “It’s up to them, now,” and I gave a little belch, for emphasis.

“Why don’t you charge Mr Silkstone?” Denver challenged me.

“What with?” I asked.

“You’re the one making all the wild accusations. Saying he murdered his wife and that woman in Halifax.”

“Marie-Claire Hollingbrook.” I said. “She has a name, Denver — God knows, you’ve typed it often enough.”

“So why don’t you charge him?”

“I told you, it’s the CPS’s decision. Me, I’m just here for a quiet drink. Can I remind you that I was here first. But as we’re all together I thought that talking about cars might be a pleasant diversion. I thought that was what people like us were supposed to do. You know, lads’ talk. Did Silkstone ever tell you that he had an MGB after the Jaguar?” I turned to him saying: “That’s right, isn’t it?”