Stuart Pawson - Chill Factor

“Got black bright,” she complained. “It’s filthy in there, that far back.” She was wearing false eyelashes that a Buddhist monk could have raked the gravel with.

“And then what?” I asked.

“I was saving it,” Smith continued, “here in my drawer. He rang me again this morning. Twice, in fact. First time I told him we’d found the card, second time he said that you,” — he showed me the pad he kept alongside his telephone, with my name written on it — “would be calling to collect it. Then, about five minutes later, this man came in. Blimey, I thought, that was quick. Thought he’d said you’d be coming down from Yorkshire. This feller asked about the MG, gave me the number, and I said: ‘Are you DI Priest?’ and he said he was, so I gave him the card.”

“Can you describe him?” I asked.

“Well, he wasn’t very tall. Didn’t look like a cop, now you mention it. Dark hair, slim build, wore a leather raincoat.”

“I know him,” I said. “He’s a reporter.”

“A reporter!” Glynis exclaimed, clasping her hand to her mouth, as if I’d announced that the Son of Beelzebub had walked amongst them. I couldn’t imagine what she might have told him.

“Did you ask for a receipt for the card?” I asked.

“No, I’m sorry,” he replied.

“Or make a photocopy?”

“No, sorry. After all these years…”

“Nothing for you to be sorry about, Mr Smith,” I interrupted. “You were trying to be helpful and he took advantage. That’s how he earns his living. He definitely said he was me, did he?”

“Yes. I said: ‘Are you DI Priest?’ and he said: ‘Yes, that’s right,’ just like I told you.”

“Can you remember what it said on the card?”

“No, not really, except that I remember telling the other policeman, the one who rang, that Mr Burgess-Jones had bought the MG from the insurance company. He’s at Avecaster, on the Sleaford road, about fifteen minutes from here. Has a museum of vintage and classic cars. Used to buy a lot of stuff from us, but not so much these days.”

“OK,” I said, “here’s what I’d like you to do. Our young friend here,” — I gestured towards the PC — “will take a statement from you, putting in writing exactly what you’ve just told me, and anything else you remember. I’ll be grateful if you could do that for me.”

“Yes, glad to,” he agreed.

I stood up to leave. “And Glynis can make a contribution, if she has anything to add. Towards Sleaford, did you say?”

“That’s right.”

“It’s just off the A17,” the PC explained.

“Then that’s where I’m headed.”

It’s a different landscape to the one I live in: kinder to its inhabitants but two-dimensional and undemanding. Neat and fertile fields stretch away into the distance, outlined by lush trees, and in every direction a church steeple punctures the sky. Underneath the signpost pointing to Avecaster was one for Cranwell, home of the famous RAF college. I’d considered going there, once upon a time. The thought of roaring up and down the countryside in the latest fighter plane, silk scarf blowing in the wind, had a great appeal to me, but they changed the uniform and I lost interest. Avecaster was a typical Lincolnshire village: yellow stone houses; ivy-clad walls and an understated air of prosperity. Close-cropped verges fronted walled gardens. In the main street the houses crowded the road but on the outskirts they stood back from it: some quite modest; others with stable blocks jutting out to balance the triple garage at the other side. Mr Granville Burgess-Jones and his museum were at Avecaster Manor, probably known locally as the Big House. The gates were open so I drove in.

It was a respectable driveway, curving and lined with ornamental chestnut trees to hide the house until the last dramatic moment. A sign pointed left to the museum and car-park, with the information that it was only open at weekends and bank holidays. I went straight on, through an archway in a high wall, to where I could see several parked vehicles.

Denver’s car was parked at the end of the line and I turned towards the space alongside it, gravel crunching under the tyres, making the steering feel heavy and imprecise. Away to the right a group of people turned to see who the new arrival was.

I was in a courtyard, with the house facing me and outbuildings down the adjacent sides. The sun was out and I felt as if I’d wandered on to the set of Brideshead Revisited. Denver had reversed into his parking place, but I drove straight in, so my driver’s door was next to his. Why people reverse into parking places mystifies me, unless it’s so they can make a fast getaway. I climbed out and stretched upright. The little group of them — I counted six — were still looking towards me, over the roofs of the other cars in the line. Denver was there, and so was Prendergast, which was a surprise. I didn’t know the others.

I glanced down into Denver’s car and saw his mobile phone on the passenger seat, plugged into the cigar lighter to have its battery recharged. I also noticed that his keys were dangling from the ignition lock. It’s a funny thing about Fords. Because of the activities of some of the younger members of our society, they, along with all the other manufacturers, have spent millions of pounds trying to protect our beloved vehicles against theft. War, they say, brought about vast improvements in the field of aviation. Little scrotes like Jamie What’s-his-name initiated the development of the car alarm and immobiliser, thus creating thousands of jobs in the security market. Thanks to him and his friends, the key I held in my right hand had a minute electronic chip built into it. It would only open a lock that had a certain combination of signals, and there were two hundred and fifty thousand possible combinations. My mind boggled at the thought of it. A thief had a 1-in-250,000 chance of his key starting my car, which made the odds against him guessing my pin number and emptying my bank account, at a mere 1-in-9,999, look a good bet.

What they don’t tell you is that any Ford key will lock any Ford car. When it comes to locking the car, they’re all the same. It was Sparky’s sixteen-year-old son, Danny, that told me that. His dad had just bought an Escort, and Danny bet me a pound that his dad’s key would lock my car. I lost the bet. That’s what they teach them at school, these days.

The little group were still looking my way. Without taking my eyes off them I felt for the lock of Denver’s car with the tip of the key for mine. Years of practise, opening the car day after day, give you an instinct for it. The key slipped home and I turned it away from the steering wheel. I heard the whirr of electric motors and the chunk of the bolts slamming across as a glow of satisfaction welled up inside me. Denver was locked out, and that was the best quid I’d ever lost.

Two of them were TV people. Freelancers, armed with cameras and sound equipment and presumably hired by Denver. The other two were wearing blue overalls with Avecaster Motor Museum embroidered on the breast pocket. The taller of them had a gaunt face and was puffing on a cigarette stub, the other had a handlebar moustache and the complexion of an outdoor man who enjoys a tipple. The type who never hunts south of the Thames nor services the wife in the morning in case something better presents itself in the afternoon.

“Mr Burgess-Jones?” I asked.

“That’s right,” he replied. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure…”

“Detective Inspector Priest, of Heckley CID.” I looked beyond him. “And that,” I added, “is presumably the lady who brought us all here.”

It was the MG, standing there gleaming in the sun. Flame red, black and chrome, pampered and aloof, like a thoroughbred at Crufts or Ascot. She looked good.