Stuart Pawson - Chill Factor

I sent Sparky and Annette to talk to the house-to-house boys, collating whatever they’d discovered, and asked Jeff Caton to do some checks on the car numbers and the two people in the house. At just before ten the undertaker’s van collected the body. We secured the house, leaving a patrol car parked outside, and moved en masse to the incident room that Mr Wood had hopefully set up at the nick.

The coffee machine did roaring service. As soon as I’d managed to commandeer a cup I called them all to order. “Let’s not mess about,” I said. “With a bit of luck we’ll still be able to hit our beds this side of midnight. First of all, thank you for your efforts. First indications are that the dead man might be called Peter Latham. What can anybody tell me about him?”

Annette rose to her feet. “Peter John Latham,” she told us, “is the named householder for number 15, Marlborough Close, West Woods. He is also the registered keeper of the Citroen Xantia parked on the drive. Disqualified for OPL in 1984, otherwise clean. Latham’s description tallies with that of the dead man, and a woman at number 13 has offered to identify the body. She’s a divorcee, and says they were close.”

“Do you mean he was doing a bit for her, Annette?” someone called out.

“No, close as in living in the adjoining semi,” she responded, sitting down.

“Thanks Annette,” I said, raising a hand to quieten the laughs. “It appears,” I went on, “that Latham was killed with a single stab wound to the heart. We’ll know for certain after the post-mortem.”

“Arranged for eight in the morning,” Mr Wood interrupted. He was on the phone in his office when I’d started the meeting, organising the PM, and I hadn’t seen him sneak in.

“Thanks, Boss,” I said. “It doesn’t appear to have been a frenzied attack, but all will be revealed tomorrow. You OK for the PM, Annette?”

She looked up from the notes she was making and nodded.

“The man who claims to have done it,” I continued, “is called Anthony Silkstone. What do we know about him?”

Jeff flipped his notebook open but spoke without consulting it. “Aged forty-four,” he told us. “Married, comes from Heckley and has a string of driving convictions, but that’s all. His address is The Garth, Mountain Meadows, wherever that is.”

I knew where it was, but didn’t admit it.

“Yuppy development near the canal, on the north side of town,” Gareth Adey interrupted. “We’ve had a car there, but the house is in darkness and the door locked. Presumably the key is in Silkstone’s property.”

Jeff waited until he’d finished, then went on: “He shares the place with a woman called Margaret Silkstone, his wife, I imagine, and drives an Audi A8 with the same registration as the one parked outside the dead man’s house.”

“Nice car,” someone murmured.

“What’s it worth?” I asked.

“They start at about forty grand,” we were informed.

“So he’s not a police officer. OK. Number one priority is find Mrs Silkstone — we’d better get someone round to the house again, pronto — get the key from Silkstone’s property. Then we need next of kin for the dead man.”

“We’re on it, Charlie,” Gareth Adey said.

“Cheers, Gareth. And we need a simple statement for the press.” He nodded to say he’d take that on, too.

The door opened and the afternoon shift custody sergeant came in, wearing no tie and a zipper jacket over his blue shirt to indicate that he was off duty and missing a well-earned pint.

“Just the man,” I said. “Has our friend been through the sausage machine?”

“He’s all yours, Mr Priest,” he replied. “He’s co- operating, and beginning to talk a bit. Dr Evans says there’s no reason why he shouldn’t be questioned, and he’s not on any medication.”

“We think there’s a wife, somewhere. Has he asked for anybody to be informed?”

“No, Boss, just his solicitor. I’ve never heard of them, but apparently they’re an international firm with a branch in Manchester, and someone’s coming over.”

“Tonight?”

“That’s what they said.”

“They must be able to smell a fat fee.” I turned to the others. “Right, boys and girls,” I said. “Anybody short of a job, see me. Otherwise, go home to bed and we’ll meet again at eight in the morning. With a bit of luck we’ll have this sewn up by lunchtime.”

They drifted away or talked to the sergeants to clarify their tasks. Sparky found me and said: “Well that mucked up our nice quiet drink, didn’t it?”

“And I could use one,” I replied.

“If you get a move on we might manage a swift half over the road,” he said.

“You go,” I told him. “I’ll hang about a bit in case anybody wants a word.” I like to make myself available. They might be detectives, but some of them are not as forthcoming as others. There’s always someone who seeks you out to discuss an idea or a problem, or to ask to be allocated to a certain task. This time it was Iqbal, who was on a fortnight’s secondment with us from the Pakistan CID and who never stopped smiling. He was lodging with Jeff Caton, and apparently had come in with him.

“Where would you like me to go, Inspector Charlie?” he asked.

For over a week he’d followed me round like a bad cold, and I was tempted to tell him, but he outranked me and the big grin on his face made me think that his provocative phrasing was deliberate.

“Ah! Chief Inspector Iqbal,” I said. “Just the man I’m looking for. Tomorrow you can help me with the submission to the CPS. That should be right up your street.”

“The dreaded MG forms,” he replied.

“Precisely.”

Before I could continue Annette came by and said: “Goodnight, Boss. See you some time in the morning.”

“Er, we were thinking of trying to grab a quick drink at the Bailiwick,” I told her. “Fancy one? Dave’s paying.”

“Ooh,” she replied, as if the thought appealed to her, then added: “I’d better not. I don’t want to feel queasy at the PM. Thanks all the same.”

“The PM!” I exclaimed, as enlightenment struck me. “What a good idea. How do you feel about taking Iqbal along with you?”

Whatever she felt, she declined from expressing it. I don’t know how Iqbal felt about watching a body being cut open, but I suspected he’d rather eat a whole box of pork scratchings than be shown around by a woman. He tipped his head graciously and they arranged to meet at the General Hospital, early.

As they left us Sparky said: “Annette’s a nice girl, isn’t she?”

“She is,” I replied. “Very sensible. But she will insist on calling me Boss all the time.”

He grinned and shook his head.

“What did I say?” I demanded.

“Nothing,” he replied.

A couple of others came to clarify things with me and it was about ten to eleven as we walked along the corridor towards the front desk. Some of the team had already gone across to the pub. The duty constable was talking to a short man in a raincoat, and when he saw me he indicated to the man that I was the person he needed.

“This is Mr Prendergast, Mr Silkstone’s solicitor,” the constable told me, before introducing me as the Senior Investigating Officer. Prendergast didn’t offer a handshake, which was OK by me. I’m not a great shaker of hands.

He didn’t waste time with unnecessary preliminaries or pleasantries. “Have you charged my client?” he asked.

“No,” I replied. “We haven’t even interviewed him, yet.”

“So he is under arrest and the clock is running?”

“Yes.”

“Since when?”

“Since about six forty-five this evening. The precise time will be on the custody sheet.” He was a keen bugger, no doubt about it. I mentally slipped into a higher gear, because he’d know every dodge in the book and screw us if we made the slightest mistake.