Chill Factor (31 page)

Sunday I went through it all, over and over again. Sometimes in my mind, sometimes scrawling on an A4 pad. I don’t have hunches; I don’t follow lines of enquiry. Not to start with. I gather information, everything I can, without judgement, as if I were picking up the shattered pieces of an ancient amphora, scattered on the floor of a tomb. Some bits might link together, others might be from a completely
different
puzzle. When I’ve gathered them all in I join up the obvious ones, like the rim and the handles, and then try to fill in the gaps until I have something that might hold water. Ideally, when I have a possible scenario in mind, it would be possible to put it to the test, devise an experiment, like a
scientist
would. But liars and murderers are not as constant as the laws of physics, and it’s not always possible. Instead, we
turn up the heat and hope that something cracks.

“Did you know, Mr Silkstone,” I said as Dave and I breezed into interview room number one, ten o’clock Monday morning, “that you have very good water pressure at Mountain Meadows?”

Prendergast looked up from the pad where he was adding to his already copious notes, shook his head and continued writing. Silkstone, sitting next to him, looked bewildered and reached for his cigarettes.

Dave removed the cellophane from two cassettes and placed them in the machine, watching them until the leader tape had passed through and nodding to me to say we were in business. I sat diagonally across from Silkstone and did the introductions, reminding him of his rights and
informing
him that he was still under caution. When prompted, Prendergast said that they understood.

“Let’s talk about Margaret, your late wife,” I began. “Word has it that you quarrelled a lot. Is that so?”

Silkstone drew on his cigarette and sent a cloud of smoke curling across the table. “No,” he replied. “We had an
occasional
argument – what married couple doesn’t? – but that was all.”

“What, no vicious slanging matches? No slinging your clothes out of the bedroom window?”

“Inspector,” Prendergast interrupted. “This sounds like hearsay to me.”

“Of course it’s hearsay,” I agreed. “We talked to the neighbours: they heard it and they said it. It’s a simple enough question, let Mr Silkstone answer.”

Silkstone sucked his cheeks in and licked his lips. “That was nearly two years ago,” he replied. “It only happened once, like that.”

“What was it about?”

“Money.”

“You were having problems?”

“No, not really. We just had to be a bit more careful than Margaret was used to.”

“But it’s true to say that you stand to prosper by Margaret’s death, is it not?”

Prendergast shook his head vigorously and banged his hands on the table. “That’s a preposterous thing to say, Inspector,” he exclaimed. “My client did not profit in any way from his wife’s untimely death.”

Addressing Silkstone, I said: “But your mortgage will be paid off to the tune of a hundred and fifty thousand pounds, won’t it?”

“Yes,” he hissed, “but that’s perfectly normal practice.”

“Indeed it is,” his solicitor affirmed. “My own mortgage is covered by a joint life, first death policy, as is anyone else’s if they have any sense. You can’t call that evidence.”

“No,” I agreed, “but we can call it motive.”

“In that case, we all have motives to murder our spouses, and they us.” He sat back in triumph.

“Would you say, Mr Silkstone,” I asked, “that you and Margaret had a normal sexual relationship?”

He looked straight at me, then said: “I don’t know, Inspector. How would you define a normal sexual
relationship
?”

“OK, let me put it another way. Were you and Peter Latham having joint sessions with your wife, three in a bed, that sort of stuff?”

“No.”

“You married sisters, didn’t you? And you shared
girlfriends
, in the past. Latham had known your wife as long as you had. Was he the one who used to pull the birds, and you always ended up with the friend? Were you sharing her – Margaret – with him?”

“No,” he said, and crushed his cigarette stub into the
ashtray
.

Prendergast leaned forward, saying: “This sounds like pure conjecture on your part, Inspector. Have you any
evidence
to corroborate these suggestions?”

“Evidence?” I replied, shaking my head. “No. Not a shred.” I pulled the report that the lab scientist had done for me from its envelope, pretended to read the introduction, then pushed it back inside.

“No,” I repeated. “We don’t think you were having a three-in-a-bed sex romp that went wrong. It was a theory, but we have no evidence to support it.” I glanced sideways at the big NEAL recorder on the wall, seeing the tapes inside relentlessly revolving, making a copy of the words that passed between us. I’m a student of human behaviour, body language. When people lie they resort to using certain
gestures
: hands fidget and often cover the face; legs are restless; brief expressions are quickly suppressed. But Silkstone was chain smoking, and that has a language all of its own,
disguising
his real expressions. I was relying on the tape to unmask him.

“We have another theory now,” I began. “And this time we do have some evidence. This one says that Peter Latham wasn’t present when Margaret died. He’d left, shortly before. This one says that you, Anthony Silkstone, killed her all by yourself.” They were both silent, stunned by the new accusation, wondering what the evidence could be. Sadly, it wasn’t much. Prendergast shifted in his chair, about to come out with some double-speak, but I beat him to it. “Let’s go back a week,” I continued, “To when you came home and found Latham and Margaret together. You are on record as saying that you went straight upstairs to the bathroom. Is that correct?”

“That’s what I told you,” he replied.

“The family bathroom?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you do there?”

“I had a piss, washed my hands and went back
downstairs
.”

“Really? Are you sure you didn’t see something floating
in the water in the toilet, Mr Silkstone?”

He reached for his cigarettes and made a performance of lighting one. It wasn’t a smooth performance, because the flame from his lighter was flickering about, magnifying the shaking of his hand.
My
hand would shake if I were being grilled for a murder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied.

“Are you sure you didn’t see a used condom in there, Mr Silkstone? The one that Peter Latham had discarded and tried to flush away after having sex with your wife, earlier that afternoon?”

“Inspector,” his brief said, interrupting. “You mentioned evidence. Will you be offering any, or is this another fanciful tale without any substance?”

I pulled the report from its envelope again. “I talked to someone,” I said. “A life-long philanderer, and he told me that when you deposit a French letter down the bog you have to be very careful to ensure that it goes right round the bend. He went into great detail on how to do it.” I smiled and said: “We meet some terrible people in this job.” I
didn’t
mention that I was talking about a fellow DI. “So,” I
continued
, “we did some tests. Last Thursday, while you were here, we dropped a condom down the toilet in your upstairs family bathroom and flushed it. Then we repeated the
experiment
a hundred times. To simulate used condoms we squirted a couple of shots of liquid soap into each one.” I slid the report across the desk. “That’s your copy. As you will see, it takes one minute and forty-three seconds for the cistern to fill again. That’s very good. Each of the condoms went out of site, round the bend, but then, lo and behold, a few seconds later thirteen of them popped back into view. Just like the one that Latham had used did.”

Prendergast looked across the table as if he’d just
witnessed
me kick an old lady. A very old lady. “Is
this
what you call evidence?” he asked, waving the report. “
This
!”

“It’ll do for the time being,” I replied.

“May we go now?” He rose to his feet. “Or have you some other fairytale to amuse us with?”

Silkstone blew another cloud of smoke across the table. I held his gaze and refused to blink, although my eyes were watering. “Sit down,” I said. “I haven’t finished.” Prendergast scraped his chair on the floor and sat down again.

“What did you do with it?” I asked Silkstone.

“Do…with…what…Inspector?” he asked, enunciating the words, chewing on them and enjoying the taste. He was growing cocky.

“The condom.”

“There was no condom.”

“I think you took it downstairs. After drying it off, of course. You wrapped it up in, say, cooking foil, and placed it in the fridge. At the back, behind the half-eaten jar of pesto and the black olives.” There was a flicker of recognition across his face as I recited the contents. I do my research. “At that stage all it meant to you was proof of your wife’s unfaithfulness. Maybe you were pleased to have the evidence or maybe you were devastated by it. Which was it? Pleased or devastated?”

“It didn’t happen.”

“But as the days passed,” I continued, “you thought of a better way to use it, didn’t you? And a week later, after Latham had gone home, you murdered your wife, did things to her that she wouldn’t let you do when she was alive – maybe you
couldn’t
do them while she was alive – and then went round and stabbed Latham to death. After, of course, leaving the contents of the condom on Margaret’s body. That’s what happened, isn’t it?”

Now he looked nervous, scared, drawing on the cigarette before deciding it was too short and fumbling in the ashtray with it. Prendergast said: “Your theories become more
fanciful
by the minute, Inspector. Now, if you have nothing to offer that bears the imprimatur of the truth, I suggest we
bring this farce to an end.”

I gave Dave the slightest of nods and he leaned forward, elbows on the table, thrusting his face towards Silkstone. “Tell us about Marie-Claire Hollingbrook,” he said.

“Never heard of her,” Silkstone replied, switching his attention to his new adversary.

“She was murdered in circumstances remarkably similar to Margaret’s death. A month ago, on the Saturday before you did your sales conference.”

“I’ve read about it, that’s all.”

“Bit of a coincidence, though, don’t you think. Latham couldn’t have done this one; he was dead.”

“Sergeant,” Prendergast interjected. “The modus
operandi
of Mrs Latham’s murderer was in all the newspapers. As you know, certain sick individuals often emulate murders they have read about.”

“It’s constable,” Dave said.

“I’m sorry. Constable.”

“That’s all right. And as you know, Mr Prenderville, sex offenders rarely stop after the first time. They get a taste for it, go on and on until they are caught.” He turned towards Silkstone. “Is that what you did? Get a taste for it? It was good was it, that way? You strangle them, I’m told, until they lose consciousness, then let them revive and do it all over again. And again and again. Is that what you did to Margaret, and then to Marie-Claire Hollingbrook?”

Silkstone looked at his brief, saying: “Do we have to
listen
to this?”

Prendergast said: “Let them get it off their chests. It’s all they can look forward to.” He wanted to know how much, or little, we knew. And maybe, just maybe, he had a wife and daughters of his own, and was beginning to wonder a little about his client. Not that it would interfere with the way he handled the case. No chance.

“You’d done the perfect murder,” Dave told Silkstone. “Got clean away with it. OK, you might have to do a year in
the slammer for killing Latham, but the nation’s sympathy was with you and it was a small price to pay for having all your problems solved.” He paused to let the situation gel in their minds, then continued: “But the urge wouldn’t go away, would, it? And when the application form from
Marie
-Claire plopped on your desk, it became too much to bear. What did it say? Name of applicant: Marie-Claire Hollingbrook. A lovely name, don’t you think. Makes you wonder if she’s as attractive as it sounds. Age: twenty-one; occupation: self-employed textile designer. Young and clever. It’s more fun humiliating the clever ones, isn’t it? Daytime telephone number and evening telephone number identical, so she must work from home. And then the same questions about her partner. Age: twenty-four; a student; and, would you believe it, not available during the day. You’d committed the perfect crime once, what was to stop you doing it again? Did you ring her at first, to see when her
husband
would be there? Or, hopefully, not there?”

“BT are checking all the phone calls,” I interjected.

“Or did you just visit her on spec? Which was it?”

“You’re mad,” Silkstone replied.

“She invited you in and you asked to see the letter you’d sent her, and the advert from the
Gazette
. You carefully
folded
them, placed them in your pocket, and then the fun
started
. Except it wasn’t much fun for that girl, because you were better at it by then, weren’t you? And when you’d finished, you left your trademark: the semen you’d collected the night before, from the brickyard.” Dave sat back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

I said: “On the day of the murder none of your
neighbours
saw you leave home in the car, but you were seen out walking. There’s a bus route from the other side of the canal to near where Marie lived. We’re tracing everybody who used the route that day. Also, we’ve appealed for anyone who was at the locks to come forward. Prints of your tyres have been taken and will be compared with those we found
at the brickyard. If you’ve ever visited there you’d be wise to admit it, now.”

They sat there in silence, Silkstone with one arm
extended
, his fingers on the table; Prendergast upright, hands in his lap, waiting. The smoke from his client’s cigarettes was
layering
against the ceiling, drawn there by the feeble extractor fan, and shafts of light from the little armoured glass
window
shone through it like searchlight beams.