Chill Factor (28 page)

“Yeah,” he agreed with a grin. “What we need is a nice juicy interview, to brighten it up.”

“I’ll see what I can arrange, Mr Nasty,” I said.

“I’ll wait for your call, Mr Nice,” he replied.

Jeff attended the briefing while I read the night reports. He was wearing blue trousers with a logo tab sewn to a pocket, a short sleeved white shirt and a green tie with
multicoloured
triangles in a random pattern. Annette waved a coffee mug at me across the office and I nodded a
Yes please
at her. She was wearing a lime green T-shirt that managed to look expensive, black trousers with a slight flair and
chunky-heeled
granny boots. She looked sensational and I let my eyes linger on her, catching the curve of her breasts as she reached to plug in the kettle. Jeff, in contrast, looked quite ordinary.

Just before ten, front desk rang to say that Mr Silkstone and Mr Prendergast had arrived and were now in interview room number one. We gave them five minutes to decide where they were sitting and went down to join them. Silkstone looked leaner than I remembered him, and had
worked on his tan. He was wearing a stone-coloured
lightweight
suit that was inappropriate for the weather and made him look like Our Man in Havana. Prendergast was in
solicitor
blue, and two large umbrellas leaned in the corner, each standing in a small puddle. I wondered if they had licences for them.

“Nasty morning,” I said, brightly, as I sat opposite Silkstone. They both glanced at me without replying, Silkstone giving me the look he normally reserved for flat tyres and dodgy oysters. Dave placed two cassettes in the recorder and announced that we were off.

I thanked them for coming and did the introductions, adding that DS Sparkington would have to leave us in a few minutes to make a phone call. “The principal reason we are here,” I continued, “is to make what we call a definitive activity chart of Mr Silkstone’s exact movements through the house on the day that Mr Latham died. It’s not a new idea, but the prosecution service has started asking for it in all cases. Up to now we’ve only done one if we thought it relevant. I know you have told us most of it before, but I’d be very grateful if we could run through it again.” I
extracted
a plan of Latham’s house at West Woods from the papers on the table in front of me, and slid it towards Dave. He squared it up and laid a pencil across it. “So,” I went on, “if you can describe your movements from when you parked on his drive to when the police arrived, DC Sparkington will mark them on the diagram.”

Prendergast looked as if I were trying to sell him a
timeshare
in Bosnia, which is about how I felt, but he stayed silent. Silkstone didn’t know any better and leaned back in his chair, rehearsing his words as he drew on a cigarette. He had nothing to hide. He was the first person I’d met who could swagger sitting down.

“Er, Boss,” Dave said.

“Mmm?”

“Don’t you think we ought to start before then?” he
asked.

“Like when?”

“Well, when Mr Silkstone went home and found Latham with his wife.”

“You mean a week earlier, at Mountain Meadows?”

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

“Because CPS will ask for it. It might not be relevant, but it’s all part of the big picture. And then we want another one for a week later, when he found Mrs Silkstone’s body. After that we can go to Latham’s place.”

I clenched my fists and stared down at the desk,
breathing
deeply. After a few moments I said: “OK, OK, if you say so. Do we have drawings of Mr Silkstone’s house.”

“It’s The Garth,” Dave replied. “There should be some in there.” I found one and pushed it towards him. “Sorry about this,” I said to the other two, “but my DC likes to do things by the book.”

Dave turned towards the tape recorder and said: “I am now looking at a drawing of The Garth, Mountain Meadows.” He announced today’s date and the date that Silkstone first went home early, writing them both on the diagram. “Right,” he declared, looking expectantly at me and then at Silkstone. “Let’s go.”

“Where did you park the car?” I asked, and Silkstone leaned over the table and showed Dave exactly where he’d left his £40,000 Audi A8.

“And by which door did you enter the house?”

“The kitchen door.”

Dave traced a straggly line down the drive, around the corner to the side door.

“And then?”

“I walked through into the lounge,” Silkstone informed us, exhaling a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling, “to where Margaret and Peter were sitting.”

“Which was where, exactly?” I asked.

“Margaret was on the settee and Peter in the easy chair nearest the fireplace.”

“And did you join them?”

“No. I was bursting to go to the toilet. That was mainly why I’d gone home. I put my briefcase down and went for a piss.”

“Which bathroom did you use?” Dave asked, his pencil hovering over the plan.

Prendergast yawned and twisted in his seat, trying to see out through the little window. Relax while you can, I thought. We’ll brighten up your morning in a minute or two.

“Upstairs,” Silkstone replied. “The family bathroom.”

“Why not the one downstairs,” I asked, “if you were so desperate?”

“Never occurred to me,” he said. “We only use that one when we entertain, and I don’t suppose I was that desperate. Generally speaking, I use the family room all the time, and Margaret uses – used – the
en suite
one. I just went up there out of habit.”

“Inspector…” the lawyer began, his face twisted by a pain that expressed his disdain for what we were doing. “Is this really necessary?”

I turned to Dave, saying: “Isn’t it about time you made that call, Sunshine?”

“Yeah,” he replied, pushing his chair back and standing up. “’Scuse me.”

“DC Sparkington leaves the room at ten thirteen,” I said, as if anyone cared, but it sounded professional. I reached for the incomplete diagram and turned to the brief. “My DC is right,” I told him. “It might all look unnecessary, but we have a list of forms to fill in and if any are missing the CPS start chasing us. It’s nice if we can get it right first time: saves us having to bother you again. So, Mr Silkstone, you presumably came downstairs again and joined the others?”

I convinced them, I’m sure of it. We join the police because we are honest, but it’s a licence to lie through our
teeth. You have to be careful, though. Evidence obtained by trickery is inadmissible, like almost anything else that works against the defendant. I don’t care. Silkstone might get away with having been there when his wife died, and God-knows what else, but the newspapers would have a field day when they saw the pile of shit I’d bulldoze into court.

I galloped through the rest of his movements and was just at the point where he stabbed Latham when Dave returned. He handed me a manila envelope and I told the machine that he was back. When we’d finished we asked Silkstone to sign the diagrams and told him that he would be given photocopies, along with the tape.

“And finally,” I said, “there’s just a little matter of this.” I pulled the warrant from its envelope and slid it across the table.

“What is it?” Predergast asked, as they both leaned
forward
.

“A warrant to search The Garth, Mountain Meadows, and make certain tests. A team of officers is there at this moment, waiting to start. You may go along to witness things, Mr Prendergast, but there is also a codicil to Mr Silkstone’s bail conditions, saying that he must stay out of The Garth while these tests are being made. It expires at four p.m. today.”

Silkstone looked as if the MD had just had him in to say that from now on the company’s cars would be Reliant Robins, and Prendergast did a passable impression of an oxygen-starved koi carp.

“This is preposterous!” the brief eventually opined.

“It’s legal,” I stated, rising to my feet.

Dave said: “I’ll tell them to get on with it.”

“Yes, please,” I affirmed, and he left the room again.

“What you are doing, Inspector,” Prendergast
spluttered
, “is…is…highly irregular and…and…of doubtful validity. First of all, there is the question of security.” He was getting himself back together. “It is normal procedure
for a responsible representative of the defendant be present when a search is made. My client may have large sums of money, or other valuables, in the house. And then there’s the question of the admissibility of any so-called evidence your men may purport to have discovered. The situation is outlandish and should not have been sprung upon us in such a precipitate manner. I feel obliged to take this up with your superiors, and am considering a formal complaint. The whole thing is completely out of order.”

I turned to Silkstone. “Are there any large sums of money in the house?” I asked, and he shook his head before Prendergast had time to advise him otherwise. “My men, as you call them,” I continued, “are accompanied by several civilian scenes of crime specialists and one of Her Majesty’s scientists. I am confident that they will conduct themselves with their normal integrity and impartiality. As I have said before, their findings may corroborate your story and you will have full access to them. If you are concerned about your property you may go along and watch, but you will not be allowed in the house.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Silkstone demanded. “Stand in the garden in the rain?”

“I suggest you go about whatever you intended to do. Now, if you’ll follow me to the front desk I’ll sign a copy of the tape and photocopies of these diagrams over to you. Don’t forget your umbrellas.”

Prendergast complained all the way there and was still berating the custody sergeant as I danced up the stairs, three at a time, towards my little kingdom and a well-earned pot of Earl Grey. All we needed now was some evidence.

Jason Lee Gelder said that the food at the remand centre was really good. It was next door to Bentley prison, catering expressly for under-twenty-ones, and still came under Gwen Rhodes’ authority. They had sausages and beans for
breakfast
and something different every day for dinner. He shared
a room with another youth and they got on well together. The duty solicitor joined us, complaining about his beaker of tea, and I said: “Right, Jason. Let’s talk about this
girlfriend
of yours. Have you remembered her name?”

“No,” he replied.

“Have you tried to?”

“A bit, but I can’t.”

“I’ve checked the families of every police officer at Heckley,” I told him, “and nobody has a daughter of that age who goes in the Aspidistra Lounge. Your girlfriend
definitely
wasn’t a cop’s daughter, so you have nothing to fear there. You are wrong about that, Jason, so who is she? Either you are lying to me or she was lying to you. Which is it?”

“Actually,” he could have said, “it’s you who are lying to me,” but he wasn’t to know that. Instead he coloured up and shrank into himself, like a child scolded by a grown-up.

I eventually broke the silence by saying: “Come on, Jason, start telling me about her. It can only help your case.”

“Tell the inspector what you know,” the solicitor urged.

“Let’s start with a description,” I suggested, rising to my feet. “How tall was she. You danced with her, so where did she come up to?” I took hold of his arm and helped him stand up. “Up to here?” I said. “Or here?”

“’Bout ’ere,” he told me, holding his hand, palm down, level with his Adam’s apple.

“About five feet four,” I said. “Well done, that’s a start. And what about her build? Was she slim, overweight, or in between?”

“She was a little bit fat.”

“Good. What colour was her hair?”

Simple questions that he could answer, that would have saved me a sleepless night if I’d asked them earlier. Sometimes even the toppest cops get the basics wrong. After they’d had sex he took her home, which was somewhere in the Sylvan Fields estate. Not right to the door, because she was afraid that her dad would see her coming home in a car
and cause some grief. And he was glad to oblige because dad was a cop, wasn’t he?

We went through the whole sordid scene, and little
flashes
came back to him. She had a tattoo on her shoulder. He couldn’t see it properly in the dark, but she said it was a
spider
. Her favourite group was Boyzone and her previous boyfriend drove a Mazda, but it was stolen and he lost it. She didn’t go in pubs but went to the football, sometimes. Her mam and dad were always fighting and kept breaking up. She didn’t think he’d stay much longer. They did it twice, and she helped him the second time. He only had one condom with him, but it was OK because she had one. Everything but a name. I could have asked him what I wanted to know, what I
really
wanted to know, but it would sound better coming from someone else.

“So you sat and talked for a few minutes before she got out?” I repeated for the third time.

“Yeah, a bit.”

“What about?”

“Dunno. This and that. What I just told you, I s’pose.”

“Did you arrange to meet again?”

“I told you, yeah.”

“Tell me again.”

“At the club, I think.”

“You just left it loose. You had brilliant sex with this girl and then you said: ‘OK, perhaps I’ll see you again
sometime
.’ I don’t believe you Jason. I don’t believe that you are getting it so often that you can afford to be choosy. I think you desperately wanted to see her again, as soon as possible, and you arranged to do so. Maybe you promised to phone her. Was that it? Did she give you her phone number?”

Jason slowly straightened in the chair, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed. He had the looks of a film star, but he’d have needed a stuntman to do his dialogue. “Yeah,” he said, the light of remembrance lighting his countenance with all the illumination of a male glow-worm. (It’s the females that
glow, wouldn’t you just know it.) “Yeah, that’s what she did, she gave me her phone number.”

“Great,” I said. “That’s great.” Now all I had to do was prise it from him. Given the choice, I’d have preferred
trying
to take a banana from a rabid baboon. “So did she write it down for you, or did you try to remember it?”