Stuart Pawson - Chill Factor

“Is she enjoying her lectures?”

“She says she is. It’s hard work, but she’s coping.”

“And the flat’s OK?”

“Hmm, bit of a problem, there. She says the place stinks of garlic. The previous tenant must have eaten nothing else but.”

I remembered the microwave I’d given her, and the exploding chicken Kiev. “Students,” I said, by way of explanation.

“Yeah, students.”

We rode the rest of the way in silence, apart from the hiss of the tyres on the wet road and the swish of the wipers. “I reckon you missed your way there, Chas,” Dave said as we turned into his street.

“Where?”

“With Annette.”

“Oh. No, not my type.”

Rain, carried by a wind straight off the hills, was lashing at the windows as he slammed the car door and dashed for the shelter of his house. I gave the driver new directions and he took me home.

I over-tipped him and turned up my collar as he wished me goodnight. The postman had left the gate open and the bulb had failed again in the outside light. I’m sure they don’t last as long now that we get our electricity from the gas people. I found the right key by the light of the street lamp then plunged into the shadow at the side of the house, shuddering with cold.

What was it to be, I wondered: a hot bath; some loud music; a couple of cans with my feet on the mantelpiece; or all three? Silkstone would probably be tucked up in bed in his nice centrally heated cell. Jason would be having it away with some totty he’d picked up at the Aspidistra Lounge. And what about Chilcott — the Chiller — where would he be? In a bar in a warmer clime if his luck had held. Somewhere where you can live like a lord on ten grand a year. Cuba, or Mexico.

Unless, of course, he was still out there, wondering about fulfilling his last contract. I doubted it, but it gave life a certain piquancy, knowing that somebody thought enough about you to pay money to have you killed. I was a cop, so I must be doing something right. The key found the keyhole third attempt and I turned it. I pushed the door open and reached inside for the lightswitch. No doubt Mexico’s fine, but there’s no place like home.