Stuart Pawson - Chill Factor

“If you say so,” he replied.

“Not me, the DVLA,” I responded. “I had to check your records. Was it any good?”

“The MG?”

“Mmm.”

“It was alright.”

“But not in the same league as the Jag?”

“No.”

I decided to backtrack, not pursue the MG. Maybe it was a mistake, bringing it into the conversation. I looked at my glass, studying the bubbles clinging to the sides, wondering whether they brought the lager all the way from Canada or just the name. Outside, a narrow boat glided by, heading for the open canal, fulfilling someone’s long-held dream. I hoped it wasn’t a disappointment. “When my car was burnt out,” I began, “I salvaged the little pouncing jaguar mascot from the bonnet. Actually, the garage where it went took it off and saved it for me, which was thoughtful of them, don’t you think?” The expressions on their faces suggested they didn’t, but I pressed on. “I still have it. I mounted it on a piece of mahogany and had a little metal plate engraved for it. It stands on my mantelpiece, reminds me of the life I once led.” I smiled at the memory, a little wistful smile, which was difficult because I’d just invented the whole story. “What about you?” I asked, looking at Silkstone. “Weren’t you tempted to do something similar?”

“What’s all this about?” he snapped. “Why all this interest in my cars, all of a sudden?”

“It’s just conversation,” I protested, turning to Denver as if appealing to him to intervene on the side of reason. “I just wondered if he’d removed the mascot from his car, like I did.”

“Fuck off!” Silkstone growled.

“Nice friend you have,” I told Denver.

“He’s right,” Denver said. “Just what are you after, Priest?”

“He wants me to say something he can twist round, for his own purposes,” Silkstone declared. “While my brief isn’t here. Well, I’m not saying another word. Why don’t you just piss off, Priest, and leave us alone. You’re not welcome.”

I’d blown it, that was for sure. Ah well, I thought, if he wasn’t going to say anything incriminating the least I could do was give him something to ruin his sleep, and maybe sow a few doubts in his new friend’s mind. Perhaps I could provoke Denver into doing some investigating of his own. He had resources that I didn’t possess, and could take liberties that would have me carpeted. With luck, he’d do my job for me. “There was an attempted rape in Somerset,” I told Denver, “two years before the girl called Caroline Poole was murdered; and another extremely serious assault just a year before. One of the victims has given evidence that suggests her attacker’s car was an MGB.” I paused to let it sink in. So what? they were thinking. “An MGB,” I added, “that just happened to have a pouncing jaguar mascot screwed on the bonnet. Can’t be many of those about, can there?” They didn’t appear to have an opinion on that. Silkstone looked away and Denver was lost for words, so I pressed on. “Silkstone and Latham gave each other alibis for Caroline’s murder,” I said, addressing Denver. “Margaret Silkstone and a woman called Michelle Webster verified their stories.” From the corner of my eye I saw Silkstone flinch at the mention of Michelle’s name. “She sends her regards,” I told him. “She also says that she lied about the alibi. Her new story is that Margaret asked her to cover for you and Latham. I was being less than truthful a few seconds ago when I said that we weren’t following any new lines of enquiry. We now think that you killed Caroline Poole, too, as well as Margaret and Marie-Claire.”

Denver shook his head and laughed. “Kick a dog while it’s down, eh, Priest?”

“He was besotted with Caroline,” I went on, “after he saw a photograph of her in the local paper, as a twelve- year-old. He saved the photo, bought a glossy print from the paper and kept it as a souvenir, until he planted it in Latham’s bedroom to throw suspicion on him.”

Denver said. “Let’s face it, Priest, you’ve got Tony for doing a scumbag like Latham and now you’re trying to pin every unsolved crime on your books on him. Makes your figures look good but meanwhile the real killers go free. A confession for manslaughter isn’t good enough for you, is it? No glory in that for Charlie Priest the Killer Cop, is there? You’ll have to do better than that, Squire, you really will.”

“We’ll see,” I replied, standing up to leave.

“You haven’t finished your lager,” Denver said, eagerly gesturing for me to sit down again. He wanted more.

“I’d rather drink from the drip tray at the path lab, where I have to watch the results of his handiwork being dissected. You deserve each other.” I turned, then turned again. “Think about this,” I said. “Their marriage was on the rocks. Maybe he wanted to leave Margaret. Perhaps, just perhaps, she didn’t want him to go. She suspected he’d done the Caroline job and was threatening to confess to lying about it if he did leave her. That makes another good reason for wanting her dead.” I found my car key in my pocket and pointed it at Denver. “And just for the record,” I added before striding away from them, “the first two pints were non-alcoholic, and they tasted like piss.”

On my way out I winked at the only other customer, sitting at a table near the door. Rodger, the shift tec’ gazed implacably through me as he lifted a square of gammon towards his mouth. Outside, the rain had started again.

Peddling drugs is a serious offence, as serious as it gets, and some people believe that tobacco is as pernicious as any. Jeff Caton posed as a buyer of King Edwards and brought their advertiser back in with him. We sat him in a cell for an hour and decided to let him off with a caution, this time. Selling tobacco isn’t illegal but importing cigars, other than for your own consumption, is. He’d brought a thousand back from Spain and was a non-smoker.

I put on my jacket, straightened my tie, and went downstairs to give him his bollocking, arranging my expression to one of suitable solemnity. He stood to make about a tenner per box of fifty, which would give him a grand profit of two hundred pounds. Somehow, I just couldn’t take it seriously. I told him that he was robbing the exchequer of their cut, reminded him that if he was prosecuted we could seize his assets, and suggested he didn’t waste my time again.

“What about the rest of the cigars?” he asked. He was a real professional.

“How many do you have left?”

“Four boxes.”

“Well put them on the compost heap.”

Somerset Bob had left a message for me when I arrived back in the office. I tried his number but he’d gone out. “After the Eileen Kelly attack,” I asked him, when we finally crossed wires on Wednesday afternoon, “was the information released that you were looking for a Jaguar?”

“Um, not sure,” he replied. “I’ll have to check the cuttings. Why do you need to know?”

I told him about my little talk with Silkstone. “He clammed up as soon as I mentioned the mascot, as if he knew it had been a mistake. If he saved it, afterwards, we never found it when we searched his house.”

“I’ll check. Want to know what I’ve dug up?”

“Yes please.”

“OK,” he began. “I’ve checked his insurance records and discovered a bit about the accidents. It wasn’t easy — they’ve had several take-overs since the time we’re talking about. The Jag was written off and sent to the crusher. Apparently it was vandalised after the accident and set alight. The MGB went to somewhere called Smith Brothers Safe Storage, which is one of those places where insurance cases are stored until a settlement is made. They’re at Newark. Silkstone’s occupation is down as area manager with a company called Burdon Developments and he covered the Midlands, which is probably why he was over there.”