I blamed the traffic for being late. Bob asked if I’d come down the Fosse Way or Akeman Street, but I said: “Oh, I don’t know,” rather brusquely and asked him what he had for me. I realised later that it was an office joke, probably imitating one of the traffic officers who always swore that the quickest way from A to B was via Q, M and Z.
Plenty was the answer. I wanted to see the basic stuff first and then move on to the specific. I asked myself, as I looked at the ten-by-eights of poor Caroline’s body, if this was necessary. Couldn’t I have gleaned the information I wanted from someone’s report? No doubt, but this way was quicker. Caroline had been strangled and raped, from the front and not necessarily in that order. Also, the deed was done outdoors. Serial rapists develop a style, like any other craftsman. Some, who often have a record for burglary, prefer to work indoors. Others, quicker on their feet, strike in parks and lonely lanes. If Silkstone was our man he’d changed his style. Caroline’s body was left in a shallow stream and not discovered for two days, hence the lack of forensic evidence.
Bob had extracted a list of statistics from the pile of information, to show how extensive the enquiry had been: fifteen thousand statements; twenty thousand tyre prints; eighteen thousand cars. He fetched me a sandwich and percolated some decent coffee while I read the statements made by the officers who had interviewed the Famous Four: Silkstone, Latham, Margaret, and Michelle Webster. What could they have said to differentiate themselves from all those thousands of others, short of: “I did it, guv, it’s a fair cop?”
But they didn’t, and were lost in the pile of names just like others before them and a few since.
“Cor, that’s good,” I said, taking a sip of the coffee. “Just what I need.”
“Late night?” Bob asked.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“Working?”
“No, er, no, not really. It was, um, a promotion bash. Went on a bit late.” I liked that. A promotion bash. He was a detective, so he could probably tell that I was smiling, inside.
There were twenty-one reported attacks on women in the previous ten years that may have been linked to Caroline’s death. Seventeen of them were unlikely, two looked highly suspicious. I started at the bottom of the pile, working towards the likeliest ones. Had I done it the other way round I might have become bogged down on numbers one and two. Some had descriptions, some didn’t. He was tall, average height — this was most common — or short. Take your pick. He wore a balaclava, was clean shaven and had a beard. There were three of them, two of them, he was alone. He spoke with a local accent, a strange accent, never said a word. He had a knife, a gun, just used brute force. He was on foot, rode a bike, in a car.
Which would the good people of Frome prefer, I wondered? A serial rapist in their midst or twenty-one men who’d tried it once, for a bit of fun? Most of the attacks occurred on the way home from a night out, after both parties had imbibed too much alcohol. Some of the reports appeared frivolous, some hid tragedies behind the stilted phrases of the police officers. This was fifteen plus years ago, when the courts believed that a too-short skirt and eye contact across a crowded room meant: take me, I’m begging for it.
I’d placed the four favourites to one side. I untied the tape around the top one and started reading. She was a barmaid, walking home like she did every night. Someone struck her from behind, fracturing her skull, and dragged her into a field. She survived, after a December night in the open and three in intensive care, but never saw a thing of her attacker. One year, almost to the day, before Caroline.
Bob was busy at another desk. I raised an arm to attract his attention and he came over. “He had full penetrative sex with this one,” I said. “Do we know if she became pregnant?”
Bob lifted the cover of the file to look at the name. “The barmaid,” he said. “On the Bristol Road. She nearly died. Of these four she was the last and the only one where he managed it. We’ve thought of that so she can’t have been.”
I didn’t curse. I felt like it, but I didn’t. It was good news for her. All the same, if he’d made her pregnant and she’d gone full term we could have done a DNA test, introduced someone to his or her daddy, perhaps.
The next one I looked at happened eighteen months earlier, in the summer of 1981, and he drove a Jaguar. “Bob!” I shouted across the office.
“What is it?” he asked, coming over.
“This one,” I told him, closing the folder to show the name on the front. “Eileen Kelly. In her statement she says that the car she accepted a lift in was a Jaguar. On the wall of Silkstone’s bedroom is a photograph of him posing alongside a Mk II Jag. You can read the number and it’s in the file somewhere.”
“I’ll get on to the DVLC,” Bob said. “When are we talking about?”
“She was attacked in August, ’81.”
He went back to his telephone and I read the Eileen Kelly story. She was sixteen, and had just started work at the local egg-packing factory. At the end of her second week the other girls invited her out with them to a disco. They met in a pub and Eileen was disappointed to discover that they stayed there, drinking, until closing time. As soon as they entered the disco the other girls split up, each appearing to have a regular boyfriend, and Eileen was left on her own. The last bus had gone and she didn’t have enough money for a taxi. The thought of rousing her parents from their bed to pay the fare didn’t appeal to her.
An apparent knight in shining armour appeared on the scene and after a few dances offered her a lift home, which she gratefully accepted. Except he didn’t take her home. He drove almost thirty miles to a deserted place called Black Heath, on Salisbury plain, and dragged her from the car.
Eileen put up a fight and escaped. He chased her, but some headlights appeared and her attacker changed his mind and fled, leaving her to walk two miles down a dirt track in her stocking feet. She survived, and he graduated to the next level of his apprenticeship. He was on a learning curve.
The description she gave was fairly non-committal. It’s broad terms certainly included Silkstone, who would have been twenty-five at the time, but it could equally have been anyone that you see at a football match or leaning on a bar. She was certain about the car, though: it was Jaguar.
“Bad news,” Bob said, placing a sheet of paper in front of me. “Anthony Silkstone owned a Mk II Jag from September ’76 to December ’78, which is over two years too early for us.”
“Bugger!” I exclaimed.
“Steady,” Bob protested, “I’m a Methodist.”
“Well sod and damn, too.”
“Maybe…” Bob began.
“Go on.”
“He’d be what, in his early twenties?”
“When Eileen was attacked? Twenty-five, maybe twenty-six.”
“But he’d only be…what, twenty-one…when he bought the Jag?”
“That’s right.”
“A bit young, I’d say, for a car like that, expensive to run. Maybe he couldn’t afford it, and sold it to a friend, Latham perhaps, but still had access to it. And if you were up to mischief it would make sense to use somebody else’s car, wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I’m just a simple Yorkshire lad. Find out what happened to it, Bob, please. He may even have traded it in for another Jag. We need a rundown of every car he and Latham have owned, and a full history of the Jag after he sold it. Let’s see if we can get some justice for Eileen, we owe her that much.”
I carried on with the file. Poor Eileen had been taken and seated in the passenger seat of every model that Jaguar, formerly Swallow Sidecars, had made. They changed their name at the outbreak of World War II, because SS, the abbreviated form, wasn’t good PR in 1939. Eileen couldn’t identify the actual model, but was adamant it was a Jag because it had the famous mascot on the bonnet and when she was little she’d seen a Walt Disney film about the animal.
I closed my eyes and leaned back in the chair. We were in the main CID office, but the place was deserted on a Saturday afternoon. I’d thanked Bob for his consideration but told him that I’d prefer to go home if we finished at a reasonable hour. Staying overnight would take another big chunk out of the weekend. Barber’s Adagio is one of those tunes that I can hear in my head but can’t reproduce with a whistle or hum. I imagined it now, with its long mournful descants and soaring chords. I saw a car, a Jag, revolving on a plinth. First it was sideways on, sleek and elegant; then it slowly turned to three-quarter view, radiating power and aggression with its rounded air intake and fat tyres; and then nose on, looking like it was coming at you from the barrel of a gun. People fall in love with their Jags, and I could understand why. Parting with it must have broken Silkstone’s heart.
I collected Bob’s mug and made us another coffee. He was talking on the phone and scribbling on a pad. I placed the replenished mug on his beer mat and tried to make sense of his notes.
“Thanks a lot,” he said. “You’ve been a big help. I’ll come back to you shortly.”
He pushed himself back and turned to me, throwing his pencil on the desk. “According to Swansea the Jag was written off,” Bob told me. “After that he owned an MGB, presumably bought with the proceeds, but three years later that was written off, too.”
“Writing off one sports car is unfortunate,” I said. “Writing off two is downright careless. So he had an MGB at the time of the Eileen Kelly attack?”
“That’s right.”
“According to the file she was shown and seated in every Jag produced, but couldn’t recognise the precise model. I wonder if she was shown an MGB?”
“I don’t know,” Bob replied, “but we’ll be on to it, first thing Monday.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“We’ll find her.”
I pulled a chair closer to Bob’s desk and took a sip of coffee. He shoved a sheet of paper towards me, to stand my mug on. “I used to have a Jaguar,” I began. “An E-type. My dad restored it and it came to me when he died. It was a fabulous car, but wasted on me. I like one that starts first time, and that’s about it. We used to go to rallies, and I was amazed at the attention and devotion that some owners lavished on their vehicles. Love isn’t too strong a word.” I paused, remembering those good days, some of the best I’d ever had. “Imagine, if you can,” I continued, “that you are in your early twenties and you own your dream car. It’s fast and desirable, it turns heads and it pulls birds. What more could a young lad want? Then, one day, you write it off. It’s beyond repair, a heap of scrap. What would you do?”
“Look for another, I suppose,” Bob replied.
“There isn’t another. They’ve stopped making them and those who own ’em aren’t parting.”
“Look for something similar, then.”
“Yes, but what about the old car. How would you remember it?”
“Photographs?”
“Perhaps. What about something more substantial?”
“You mean, like a momento?”
“That’s right.”
“The jaguar!” he exclaimed. “The mascot off the bonnet. I’d save that.”
“Good idea,” I told him. “And if you just happened to own an MGB? It’s a very nice car, but not quite in the same class as the Jag you once had. Might you not be tempted to…you know…so you could relive your dreams…?”
“Put the mascot on the MG,” Bob suggested.
“Exactly. And Eileen Kelly said the car was a Jag because of the mascot on the bonnet.”
“Fuckin’ ’ell, Charlie,” he hissed. “It’s a bit far-fetched, don’t you think?”
“I thought you were a Methodist,” I reminded him.
“Only in leap years.” We drank our coffee, reading the notes he’d made. “A more likely explanation…” Bob began, “…is that it really was a Jaguar, driven by someone unknown to us.”
I nodded and placed my empty mug on his desk. “I know, Bob,” I agreed. “But humour me, please. We can either go back to the beginning and start all over again, which will take us nowhere all over again, or we can run it with Silkstone in the frame. So let’s do it, eh?”
“That’s fine by me, Chas.”
“Thanks. I’m going home.”
Sunday I stayed in bed until after ten, had a shower and went out for a full English breakfast. I brought a couple of heavies back in with me and spent the rest of the day catching up on the latest hot stories, a neverending supply of tea at my elbow. Heaven. Annette had said she might go to her mother’s, in Hebden Bridge, and I’d said that I might stay overnight with Bob, so there was no answer when I tried her number. Another communication breakdown. The weather system had swung right round and the day was warm again, with just enough threat of rain to put me off doing some gardening. A quick run-around downstairs with the vacuum cleaner gave me sufficient Brownie points to justify an evening watching television and listening to music. I brought the Chinese painting in from the garage and propped it in a corner, where it caught the light, so I could study it. You are supposed to leave oil paint for about a year to dry before varnishing it, but a month or two is usually enough. A few touches of black contour, I thought, on some of the images, and that would be that. I can’t justify black contours, but they can transform a picture, and V. Gogh did it all the time so why shouldn’t C. Priest? I was pleased with the painting and it was good fun having a whole day to myself. At nine o’ clock I gave Annette’s number another try, and this time she answered.
“You were lucky to catch me,” she said. “I’ve only been in two minutes, and I’ve put my waterproof on to go straight out again.”
“Fate,” I told her. “Fate, working in sympathy with our circadian rhythms as part of some great master plan to bring us together. On the other hand, I could have tried your number every minute for the last two days.”
“Oh, and which was it?”
“Fate, definitely fate. So where are you going, young lady, at such a late hour. Didn’t you know that the streets are not safe in this town?”
“It’s the start of Statis week,” she reminded me. “There’s a concert in the square, followed by fireworks. Why don’t you come? I could see you there.”
“Who’s playing?” I asked, as if it mattered.
“It’s an Irish band, called Clochan. They’re pretty good.”
“Right. Great. Where shall I meet you?” I like Irish bands, but I’d still have gone if it had been Emma Royd and the Piledrivers.
Annette was standing at the edge of the audience, near the Sue Ryder shop as arranged, with the hood of her waterproof down even though it was raining. She looked pleased to see me, and I kissed her on the lips and put my arm around her.
“Good weekend?” I shouted into her ear, in competition with ‘Whiskey in the Jar.’
“Mmm,” she mouthed in reply. “And you?”
“So so. They are good, aren’t they.” I sang along with them, to show how hip I’d once been: As I was going over the Cork and Kerry mountains, I met Captain Farrel…and I shot him with my pistol.
We caught the last three songs, finishing with a tour de force rendition of ‘Marie’s Wedding’ that slowly built-up and carried the audience along with it: first swaying to the tune; then clapping and foot-stamping; and eventually dancing wildly, arms and legs flailing. Annette and I looped arms and dozey-do’d, exchanging partners with the couple next to us, until the music stopped and we all ground to a breathless halt. I stood with my arms around her and the rain running down my face as she and the others applauded them from the stage. If the devil really does have all the best tunes he must be a Celt.
The bang startled me. I spun round, heart bouncing, but all I saw was a sea of upturned faces, washed in pink and then lilac as the firework filled the sky with spangles. Annette joined in the chorus of “Ooh” and “Aah” as chandeliers of fire blossomed above our heads, each burst of light a giant chrysanthemum, illuminating the smoke trails of its predecessor until it faded to make way for something even brighter. I looked around at the jostling crowd, their eyes shaded by hoods and hats, as explosions rippled and crackled through the sodden sky. The noise of a machine gun, never mind a. 38, could easily have gone un-noticed amongst all that cacophony.
A single desultory bang signified the end, leaving us with fading images on our retinas and the smell of cordite in our nostrils. “Thank you for the dance,” I said to the complete stranger that I’d been whirling around two minutes earlier.
“I’ll save one for you next year,” she laughed, and her husband looked embarrassed, as if he couldn’t believe it had all happened.
Annette and I picked our way through the crowd heading towards the car parks until I eased her into a side street and steered a course down towards the canal, where it was quieter. “I’m in the multi-storey,” I explained. “But let’s take the romantic route.”
“I’d hardly call Heckley Navigation romantic,” she laughed.
“I know, but it’s the best I can do. I think hot cocoa at your place is called for. How does that sound?”
“It sounds very inviting,” she agreed, squeezing my hand.
The alley down to the canal is the one where Lockwood and Stiles had come to grief, four months earlier. As we approached the end I sensed Annette looking around her, realising where we were.
“This is Dick Lane, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Mmm,” I replied.
“Where Martin Stiles got the panda stuck?”
“That’s right.” Through the day it is blocked with delivery vehicles servicing the shops that back on to it, but at night only courting couples and glue sniffers use it, sheltering in the doorways and behind the dumpsters. Tonight the rain had kept them away, but it was still early. We’d reached the iron posts that prevent the egress of anything wider than a stolen Fiesta. “And these,” I said, fondling one of the rounded tops, “are the items in question.”
“Oh God!” Annette giggled, letting go of my hand.
“What?” I laughed.
“I just…I just…”
“What?”
She shook her head and made gurgling noises.
I put my hand on her shoulder to steady her. “You just what?”
“Nothing!”
I engulfed her in my arms and felt her body shaking as she tried to control her giggling. It was a pleasant experience. “What?” I demanded, turning to shelter her from the rain.
“I just…I just…”
Now I was giggling. “You just what?”
“I just realised…I just realised why they call it…Why they call it…”
I completed the sentence for her. “Why they call it Dick Lane? It was named after the Methodist minister who built this church.” I flapped a hand at the building to my left.
A respectable stream was running down the middle of the alley, and up at the top the cobbles shone yellow and orange with the lights from the square. Halfway along a movement caught my attention, so brief that I wondered if I’d imagined it. A figure stepped out of the shadows and stepped straight back into them.
“If you say so,” she replied, finding a tissue and blowing her nose. “But I don’t believe it.”
“I’m appalled,” I told her. “I can’t imagine what sort of people you mix with. C’mon, I’m soaked.” I grabbed her hand again and pulled her towards the towpath.
The canal was a black hole, devoid of movement or form apart from where an occasional rectangle of light fell on to it and the surface became a pattern of overlapping circles, piling on to each other as the rain increased in force. I stepped into a puddle and said: “I think this was a mistake.”
Annette stopped, saying: “That’s where Darryl Buxton lived, isn’t it?” She was looking at a mill across the canal, converted into executive flats. Buxton was a rapist that we jailed.
“That’s right,” I agreed, looking behind us. I hadn’t imagined it. A figure stepped cautiously out of the end of Dick Lane and merged into the shadows again. He was hugging the wall, gaining on us, and the next opening was nearly a hundred yards away. “Do you have plenty of milk?” I asked, tugging at her arm.
“Milk?”
“Mmm. You know, comes from cows. I like my cocoa made with milk.”
“Oh, I think we’ll be able to manage that. Except mine comes from Tesco.”
“That’ll do. C’mon.”
“The canal looks spooky, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. Not as romantic as I’d thought. Perhaps I was confusing it with Venice.”
“How deep is it?”
I looked back but couldn’t be sure if he was there. “I don’t know.”
“Did you swim in it when you were a child?”
“No.”
“You didn’t?”
“No. We went to the baths.” This time I saw him, and he was much closer, moving purposefully but still keeping to the shadows. I stopped to pick up a stone and tossed it towards the water. It splashed somewhere out in the blackness. When I looked, he’d stopped too.
We were nearly at the end of the next alleyway, similar to Dick Lane but without the dicks. It was another service road, cobbled and narrow, and not illuminated. I patted my pockets, feeling for my mobile phone, knowing I wouldn’t find it. “Do you have your phone with you?” I asked, but she didn’t.
“Listen, Annette,” I said as we approached the end of the wall. “When we reach this corner I want you to do exactly as I say.”
She sensed the urgency in my voice. “What is it, Charlie?” she asked.
“Just do as I say. When we get round the corner I want you to run as fast as you can towards the town centre. There’s a pub called the Talisman at the top of the street. Go in and go straight to the ladies’. Lock yourself in for five minutes. Then come out and order two drinks at the bar. I’ll join you about then.”
“What are you talking about?” she demanded.
“Just do as I say.”
“Why? What is it?”
“We’re being followed.” We reached the corner and turned it. Two big green dumpsters were standing there, just as I’d hoped. “Now run!” I hissed, pushing her towards the lights.
“And what are you doing?” she asked.
“Just run!”
“I’m not running without you.”
I heard the tch tch of his trainers on the wet floor, fast at first, as if he were jogging, then slower, cautious, as he reached the corner. I grabbed Annette’s arm and pushed her behind the dumpster, bundling her deep into the corner. A rat squealed a protest and scuttled away.
The footsteps paused as he surveyed the empty street, then started again, striding out. I heard his noise, sensed his shadow as I anticipated his position, predicting the exact moment he would emerge. As he passed the dumpster I took two rapid strides forward and hurled myself at him.
Priority was to stop him finding his gun. I threw my arms around him in a bear hug and knocked him to the ground. He kicked wildly and we rolled over, first me on top, then him, followed by me again. As he rolled over me I felt water running down my neck. He shouted something I didn’t catch and Annette joined in, flailing at him with her fists, trying to hold his head. Next time he was on the bottom I risked letting go with one hand for sufficient time to smash his face against the cobbles. He jerked and went limp.
Neither of us had handcuffs with us. I felt his clothing for a gun but he was unarmed. I rolled him over and moved to one side so my shadow wasn’t on him. His lips were moving and a trickle of blood ran from his forehead until the rain diluted it to almost nothing.
“Oh shit!” I said.
“It’s me,” he mumbled. “It’s me, Mr Priest.”
“Do you know him?” Annette asked.
“Yeah, I know him.” I grabbed his lapels and pulled him, still mumbling, into a seated position. “I know him all right. I’d like you to meet Jason Lee Gelder: until recently chief suspect in the Marie-Claire Hollingbrook case.”
It was Les Isles’ fault. We led Jason to where there was more light and cleaned him up. He was more apologetic than I was, and refused to be taken to Heckley General for a check-up. He wouldn’t even let us give him a lift home. “It’s my fault, Mr Priest,” he kept insisting. “I shouldn’t have followed you like that.”
When they’d decided not to oppose bail, poor old Jason had interpreted this as implying that he was no longer in the frame for Marie-Claire’s murder. He’d attempted to thank Les, who’d said: “Don’t thank me, thank Inspector Priest,” and told him that he owed me a pint. Jason took him literally. When he saw us at the fireworks he thought he would pay his debts, and followed us into Dick Lane. He said he was going to catch up with us there, but when we stopped “for a snog” he thought better of it and waited.
I believed him. Jason wasn’t a crook, but he certainly qualified as a client, and some of them get funny ideas. They come into the station and see us in court, and start to see themselves as part of the organisation. We see them as the enemy, they regard themselves as our colleagues. I told Jason to call into the nick tomorrow and report the incident. He said it didn’t matter, but I insisted. I’d do a full report, to keep myself and Annette in the clear. He was slow but well-meaning, and destined for a lifetime of holding the dirty end of whatever stick was offered him. I imagined him at the slaughterhouse, doing every obscene job that his sick workmates could find, and felt sorry for the Jasons of the world.
It was only a five-minute drive to Annette’s, and we did it in silence. I doused the lights outside her flat and turned to face her. She stared straight ahead, unsmiling and pale in the harsh light. Under the street lamps the rain was falling like grain out of a silo.
“You’re soaked,” I ventured, and she nodded in agreement.
“The, er, evening didn’t quite turn out as I intended,” I said.
“No,” she replied.
“But the music was good. I enjoyed that.” Annette didn’t respond, so I went on: “We used to go to the Irish Club, years ago. Had some great nights there. It was the headaches next morning that put a stop to it.”
She turned to face me, and said: “You thought it was him, didn’t you?”
“Who?” I asked, all innocence.
“Him. Chilcott. The Chiller, whatever you call him. You thought it was the Chiller following us.”
“No I didn’t.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I thought he was a mugger. He’d seen us and decided we’d be easy prey, so he followed us. I thought we’d give him a surprise.”
“So I had to run as fast as I could to the pub and lock myself in the toilet? For a mugger? I don’t believe you.”
“Yeah, well,” I mumbled.
“I saw the look on your face, Charlie,” she told me. “When we were behind the bins. You were…eager. You were enjoying yourself. You were about to tackle someone you thought had a gun, who wanted to kill you, and you were enjoying yourself.”
“I wasn’t enjoying myself,” I protested. “I was scared stiff and I was worried about you.”
“But you admit that you thought it was Chilcott?”
“It crossed my mind, Annette, in the heat of the moment. But now I see the idea as preposterous. He’s a long way away and I’m just history to him, believe me.”
“I don’t know what to believe.”
After a long silence I said: “Shall we cancel the cocoa?”
“I think so,” she replied. “If you don’t mind.”
I shrugged my shoulders. I minded like hell. I minded like a giant asteroid was heading towards Heckley, and only a cup of cocoa in her flat, listening to George Michael CDs, would save the town. But who was I to make a decision like that?
As she opened the door I said: “You’re upset, Annette. It was a frightening experience. Go have a nice hot bath and stay in bed until lunchtime. I’ll make it right. Have the whole day off, if you want.”
She looked at me and sighed. “I think it’s you who needs some time off, Charlie,” she said, opening the car door and swinging her legs onto the pavement. “I’ll be there,” she stated. “Bright and early, as always.”
I braced myself for the inevitable door slam, but it didn’t come. She held the handle firmly and pushed it shut, so it closed with a textbook clunk. She didn’t slam it. I watched her sashay across the little residents’ car-park and punch her code into the security lock. A light came on and she went inside. She didn’t slam that door, either, but turned and held the latch. For a few seconds I could see her shape through the frosted glass and then she faded away, as if she were sinking into a deep pool. She didn’t slam the door, and that’s the moment I fell in love with her.
On Tuesday afternoon, when Somerset Bob sat her in an MGB, Eileen Kelly went bananas. The poor woman had never really recovered from the attack and had drifted from one unhappy relationship to another. At the moment she was alone, living in rented accommodation and working in the kitchen of a department store in Bath. He said that she was pleased, at first, to have a change in her routine and go along with him to the house of a Bath traffic cop who had a much-cherished model of the car. On the way there she reiterated her story, glad that at last someone was listening, and no doubt encouraged by the change in attitude over the last eighteen years.
Her attacker’s car had been parked at the roadside, and she hadn’t realised which it was until he opened the door for her, so she never really saw it from the outside. Bob said he opened the passenger door and beckoned her to get in. As soon as she dropped into the low seat she started shivering and shaking. He climbed in next to her and saw that she had turned white, her wide eyes taking in the instrument panel, glove box and everything else.
The traffic cop’s wife made them tea and Eileen slowly regained her composure, sitting in their kitchen. “I’m sorry,” she’d sobbed, blowing her nose.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Bob had assured her. “What can you tell me about the car?”
“It was one of them,” she’d declared. “Definitely, but it had a little animal on the front, like a Jaguar does.”
“Find it, Bob,” I ordered, when he finished his story.
“Might not be easy, it was written off.”
“Well find where the bits went. We need that car.”
There was a note on my desk from the twilight detective, who just happened to be Rodger. Two of them alternate, afternoons and nights, because their wives work shifts at the General Hospital, and it suits them. I’d asked for a watch to be kept on Silkstone, when times were slack, and the note said that he’d fallen into the habit of strolling along to the Anglers for a meal, usually between six and seven. I grow restless when a case stagnates, like to jolly things along a little. It was time to go pro-active, I decided. We’re big on proactive policing at the moment. First thought was to take Annette with me, but I changed my mind. It would be better if I was alone, my word against his. Except I would have a witness. I rang our technical support people and asked to borrow a tape recorder.
Annette came into my office just before five, carrying a coffee. “Hi, Annette,” I said, pointing to the spare chair. “Sit down and talk to me.”
“Coffee?” she asked.
“No thanks.”
“You’ve been after me.”
“Yes,” I replied. “I rang you because I’m going to accidentally — on-purpose bump into Silkstone, in that pub near his place, and I thought it might look more natural if you were with me.”
“No problem,” she replied. “What time?”
“It’s OK, there’s been a change of plan. I’ve decided to be alone, in the hope that I can tempt him into the odd indiscretion.”
“But it won’t be worth a toss,” she informed me.
“I know, but if it were he wouldn’t say it, would he? We could have a drink after,” I suggested.
“Socially?”
“I suppose so. You’ve been avoiding me since…since the weekend.”
“I don’t think so, if you don’t mind, Boss.”
“It’s Boss again, is it?” I said.
“I’m sorry, Charlie,” she replied, shaking her head. “I don’t know what to think.” She looked more unhappy than I’ve ever seen her.
“I cocked-up on Sunday,” I admitted. “I know I did. Something just happened inside me. I was scared, but for you, not myself. I thought I’d got you into something. Maybe it was the music, or the words of the songs. I don’t know. We need to talk, but this isn’t the place. Let me come round to your place, later.”
“I don’t know.” More head shaking, her hair covering first one half of her face, then the other, as it tried to keep up. I glanced out of the window across the big office. Nobody was watching us, trying to decipher the touching scene between the DI and the attractive DC.
“Friday night,” I began. “I thought it was rather special. I thought that, you know, it said something about how we felt for each other.”
“So did I, but…”
“But what?”
She gave a violent shake of the head and started sobbing. I looked out and caught David Rose glance across. He quickly looked away. “I’m sorry, Annette,” I said. “Maybe I read too much into it. OK, it’s back to strictly a working relationship, if that’s how you’d prefer it. I don’t want to lose you as an officer and I can switch it off, live a lie, if you can. Shall we just…call the whole thing off?”
She sniffed and looked at me for the first time. “Yes, I think we should,” she replied.
“Right.”
“I’m sorry, Charlie.”
“Me too, Annette. Me too.”
I did paperwork until just after six, then hared off to the Anglers. In the car park I tested the tape recorder, running the tape back to the beginning and pressing the play button.
Male voice: “Hi, Annette. Sit down and talk to me.”
Female voice: “Coffee?”
Male voice: “No thanks.”
Female voice: “You’ve been after me.”
Male voice: “Yes, I rang you because…”
I pressed the stop button and ejected the cassette. There was nothing there that I wanted to save for posterity; nothing I could play back to her later, and watch the colour rise in her cheeks until I reached out and cooled them with my fingertips. I hooked a thumbnail under the tape and pulled it from the spools, heaping it on the passenger seat until no more was left and ripping the ends free. I clicked the spare cassette into position and concealed the tape recorder in my inside pocket. The microphone was under my tie. It worked, and that was all that mattered. I locked the car and went into the pub.
I tried the steak and kidney pie but didn’t enjoy it. I was stabbing a perfunctory chip with my fork — there’s something oddly irresistible about a plate of cold chips — when a movement outside caught my eye. Another Ford Mondeo had joined mine in the car-park, and it was closely followed by a Peugeot. The place was getting busy. My phone rang and I grabbed it from my pocket. “Charlie,” I whispered into it.
“He’s with someone,” I was told, “in a Ford like yours. I’ve done a vehicle check and it’s owned by a Julian Maximillian Denver.”
“Cheers, I know him.” I looked up at the door as I slipped the phone back into my pocket and saw Silkstone, accompanied by Max Denver, ace reporter of the UK News, heading my way.
Denver, a grin on his face, was all for joining me, but Silkstone didn’t want to. I’d never been formally introduced to Denver, but recognised him as the character who’d confronted me outside the station a week ago, and his name was plastered all over the articles. He was wearing a belted leather coat a size too big, faded jeans and a slimy smile on one of those faces that has punch me writ large across it. I scratched my armpit and switched the tape on. If Mohammed wouldn’t come to the mountain…
They ordered drinks and food at the bar and took a table several places away from me. I waited until they were settled and wandered over, glass in hand.
“Well well,” I said, pulling a chair from an adjoining table and placing it at the end of theirs. “I’d have thought this was a bit downmarket for a pair of hotshots like you two.”
“I was thinking the same myself,” Silkstone sneered.
“Sit down, why don’t you,” Denver invited, somewhat superfluously as I already had done.
“Thanks. On the other hand, in your reduced circumstances, Silkstone, I’d have thought you’d have taken advantage of the two-for-one, before six o’clock.”
He turned to Denver, asking: “Do we have to listen to this?” but Denver would listen to anyone, and the more aggro the better.
“Or is this little treat on your new-found friend’s expense account?” I asked. “Signed a contract with him, have you?”
Denver said: “Killed any unarmed men today, Priest?”
“No,” I replied, “but there’s time.” I turned back to Silkstone. “How much is he paying you then? Enough to replace the fifty thousand you donated to the Kevin Chilcott holiday fund?” A red shadow spread from Silkstone’s face, stopping as it reached his bald head, like the British Empire on an old map of Africa. Denver looked from me to Silkstone and back again, his brow beetled in mystification. “What!” I exclaimed, “hasn’t he told you about the fifty thousand?”
“Because it’s a pack of lies,” Silkstone hissed. “Another of the stories you invented to blacken my name because…because…because you haven’t got a leg to stand on and you know it. Why don’t you leave me alone and…and…”
“And go out and catch a murderer?” I suggested. I drained my glass and placed it on their table. Denver twisted in his seat and raised a hand to the girl behind the bar, but she turned away because they don’t do waitress service.
“Ah, maybe you’re right,” I conceded. “It’s this job.”
Denver got to his feet and shouted to the barmaid, asking if he could order some drinks, but she ignored him again. He wanted a drink in my hand, but he didn’t want to leave my side, in case he missed something. “Don’t worry,” I told him, “I’ll get it.” I strolled to the bar and ordered myself another pint.
“You know,” I began, when I’d rejoined them, “I took an instant dislike to you, Silkstone.” I looked at his companion and explained: “You have to, when you’re investigating a murder. But then, as I looked around your house, I decided that you had at least one redeeming feature.” I picked up my glass and drained nearly half of it, licking my lips and pretending it wasn’t as unappetising as the cold urine it resembled.
“And what was that?” Denver prompted.
“He’s a Jaguar man,” I replied. “Had a 1964 Mark II. Great car, highly desirable.” I had another drink, before adding: “Can’t be much wrong with a man who owned a car like that, I said to myself.”
“It hasn’t stopped you persecuting me,” Silkstone declared.
“Top brass,” I told him. “You know how it is.” I finished my drink and Denver snatched up the glass almost before my fingers had left it.
“Another?” he asked.
“Why not?” I replied.
“Lager?”
“Please.”
“Which one?”
“Labatt’s.”
He dashed off to the bar as I said to Silkstone: “Once upon a time I had an E-type. A three-point-eight. Fabulous car. I loved it. Drove it to southern Spain, once. Boy, did that machine turn heads. And pull birds. Felt like a bloody film star when I was in it.”
Denver placed the replenished glass in front of me and I thanked him. “I was just telling Mr Silkstone that I owned an E-type Jag, a long time ago. It nearly broke my heart when it was stolen. A scrote from Sylvan Fields took it and torched it. I’d have strangled the little bastard if I’d got my hands on him.” I took a sip of the Labatt’s. It was a big improvement. I’d sold the car when prices were at their highest and made nearly ten grand profit, but they didn’t need to know that. “What happened to yours?” I asked.
“I crashed it,” Silkstone informed me.
“Crashed it? Were you hurt?” Some men are embarrassed if they have the misfortune to crash their car, see it as a mistake; others never accept the blame and enjoy relating all the gory details. I had little doubt which group our friend belonged in.
“No. I was lucky.”
“What happened?”
“Hit a patch of black ice on the A37. The gritters hadn’t been out.”
“And it was written off?”
“Yeah. I rolled it over three times. Would have cost too much to repair, so it went for scrap.”
“And you walked away from it?”
“Without a scratch.”
“Blimey.” I had another drink.
“So what’s the state of the investigation now?” Denver asked, trying to drag the conversation back to something he might be interested in.
“The file’s with the CPS,” I told him. “It’s up to them.”
“But aren’t you following any lines of enquiry?”
“No,” I lied. “It’s up to them, now,” and I gave a little belch, for emphasis.
“Why don’t you charge Mr Silkstone?” Denver challenged me.
“What with?” I asked.
“You’re the one making all the wild accusations. Saying he murdered his wife and that woman in Halifax.”
“Marie-Claire Hollingbrook.” I said. “She has a name, Denver — God knows, you’ve typed it often enough.”
“So why don’t you charge him?”
“I told you, it’s the CPS’s decision. Me, I’m just here for a quiet drink. Can I remind you that I was here first. But as we’re all together I thought that talking about cars might be a pleasant diversion. I thought that was what people like us were supposed to do. You know, lads’ talk. Did Silkstone ever tell you that he had an MGB after the Jaguar?” I turned to him saying: “That’s right, isn’t it?”
“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.