Stuart Pawson - Chill Factor

“The police, did you say?” Burgess-Jones was asking.

“Yes Sir. I’m afraid you’ve been mixing with some bad company.” I turned to the others and pointed at Denver. “This gentleman here is under arrest for impersonating a police officer and interfering with an investigation. He also impersonates a journalist, but that’s not an offence. And this gentleman…” I looked at Prendergast, “…is a solicitor.”

Everybody spoke at once. Denver wanted to know why he was under arrest, Prendergast didn’t know why he had been invited and Burgess-Jones was completely bewildered. I raised a hand to silence them. “I don’t know what you were planning to do,” I told them, “but whatever it was, it’s off. That car is evidence in a murder investigation and I am seizing it.”

“Hey man,” one of the TV people said. “We still want paying, y’know.” He looked like one of the guitarists from Grateful Dead.

“The question is,” Denver stated, “what will you do with the car?”

“We’ll take it away and give it a thorough examination,” I replied.

“For holes in the bonnet,” he said, “where you say Silkstone fitted the Jaguar mascot?”

“That’s right.”

“In secret, and you’ll fix it to suit your own ends.”

“That’s not true. Everything will be done in the presence of independent witnesses.”

“Rubbish! You’ll rig it.”

I ignored him and turned to Burgess-Jones. “I’d be grateful, Sir,” I said, “if you could move the car back into its garage until I can arrange for it to be either collected or examined here. You’ll be fully compensated for any damage done to it.”

“Not my problem,” he replied. “Just sold it to Mr Denver for a very good price. It’s his, now.”

Denver smiled smugly. I resisted the urge to thump him and walked over to the MG. A Black and Decker angle grinder lay on the ground in front of it, ready to do business, with a bright orange cable snaking off into an outbuilding. I stooped to look inside the car and saw a thick photo album sitting on the passenger seat. “Is that a record of the restoration?” I shouted to Burgess-Jones.

“That’s right,” he replied, strolling towards me. “We do a full photographic history of the entire process.”

“You built this car from two others, I believe.”

“Yes. This one had a damaged front end, so we grafted the front of the other on to it.”

“Is it roadworthy?”

“I think our work would be frowned upon now, but at the time it was common practise. We’ve never tried to register it.”

“Do the pictures show the other car at all?”

“Oh yes. It’s all there.”

“Was the bonnet from the other car? It’s only the bonnet we’re interested in.”

“It looks like it. It was a green one, so we must have resprayed it. I vaguely remember, but not the details.”

“Will there be any evidence of the original colour still there?” I asked.

“I would imagine so,” he replied. “We’d fully strip all the top surfaces, but not underneath. The green paint should still be there, under the red, if it is the bonnet from the second car.” The paintwork was superb, glowing like rubies in the afternoon sun. He obviously employed a craftsman.

Denver had joined us. “So let’s do it,” he suggested.

Grateful Dead shouted: “Look, you guys. We appreciate being here, an’ all that, but we got places to go. Are we doing the fuckin’ shoot, or what?”

“What’s Prendergast doing here?” I asked Denver.

“I invited him.”

“Why?”

“Because I decided to. We’re not a police state yet, you know.”

“You mean because you’d also invited Silkstone.”

“So what. He’s a right to be here.”

“And it would have made a better story. Statements all round, from the injured party and his hot-shot lawyer. So where is he?”

“Don’t know. Should have arrived an hour ago. We thought you were him.”

“I’ll tell you where he is. Collecting whatever money you paid him and waiting for a ferry to warmer climes. The next time you see Silkstone he’ll have a coat over his head.”

“So let’s do it then, if you’re so sure.”

“We’re doing nothing. Go home. The show’s over.” I shouted it, for the benefit of everyone: “That’s it folks. Go home, the show’s over.”

“So what’ll happen to the car?” Denver demanded.

“I’ve told you. We’ll have it examined.”

“So why not do it now? You’ve got independent witnesses. There’s Mr Burgess-Jones, and Mr Prendergast. What more could you want? And the crew can film the whole thing. What are you scared of, Priest? The truth? That you’re hounding an innocent man? Or are you just scared that you won’t be able to fix it, like you did when you shot someone?”

“It’s the truth I’m after, Denver,” I told him. “I’m not interested in a media circus and all this the public’s right to know bullshit that you hide behind.”

“Then do it.”

“When we do it we’ll do it properly, in the presence of a magistrate.”

Burgess-Jones coughed and took a step forward. “Um, I’m a JP,” he announced. “Been on the bench twenty-three years, if it’s any help.”

The expression painted himself into a corner flashed up in my mind. Strange thing was, Denver was right. This was the perfect opportunity to put the hypothesis to the test. The big problem was that if I was wrong, it was in public. I wouldn’t have twisted the evidence in any way, but I’d have sneaked off like a defeated stag and licked my wounds in private. What was my chief concern: the truth about Silkstone and the car, or my reputation? I remembered Sophie, and how I’d been scared to ask the right questions because I’d doubted her. Was I doubting myself, now? Everybody was looking at me.

“OK,” I said. “We’ll do it.”

“Right!” Denver proclaimed triumphantly. “Right! You lot ready?”

“We’ve been ready a fuckin’ hour,” Grateful Dead told him.

“Not so fast,” I said. “There’s conditions.”

“Conditions?” Denver echoed.

“Jesus H fuckin’ Christ!” Grateful Dead cursed, throwing his hands in the air.

“That’s right. Conditions. First of all, it won’t be a TV show, with you doing the narration. We do it from a forensic point of view, for use in court.”

“Well, fair enough,” Denver conceded.

“And secondly,” I added, “you pay, so the tape is yours, but I’m impounding it until it can be copied. OK?”

“It’s a deal,” he said. “Let’s get on with it.”

Prendergast, who hadn’t spoken so far, decided to earn his fee. “Gentlemen,” he said. “I really do think this has gone far enough. As my client isn’t here I have to say, on his behalf, that we do not accept the entire premise upon which this allegation is based. Whatever is found on the car, it can have little bearing on what happened twenty years ago. Who knows who has tampered with things since then.”

Burgess-Jones said: “Nobody has tampered with things, as you put it, Sir. Everything is as it was or as recorded in the photograph albums.”

“Good try, Prendergast,” I told him, “but over-ruled. We’ll tell Silkstone you did your best.” I turned to the film crew. “Listen up,” I said, slipping my watch off my wrist. “This is how I want it. Can you focus down on that?” I propped the watch behind one of the windscreen wipers and stood back.

“No problem,” Grateful Dead assured me.

“Good. I want to start and finish with a shot of the watch, close up. Then I want a wide angle, to include everybody present. After that you can zoom in and out as you like. The main thing is that I want the entire thing to be seamless, with one camera and no stops and no editing. Can you do that?”