Chill Factor (39 page)

It was a respectable driveway, curving and lined with
ornamental
chestnut trees to hide the house until the last
dramatic
moment. A sign pointed left to the museum and car-park, with the information that it was only open at weekends and bank holidays. I went straight on, through an archway in a high wall, to where I could see several parked vehicles.

Denver’s car was parked at the end of the line and I turned towards the space alongside it, gravel crunching under the tyres, making the steering feel heavy and
imprecise
. Away to the right a group of people turned to see who the new arrival was.

I was in a courtyard, with the house facing me and
outbuildings
down the adjacent sides. The sun was out and I
felt as if I’d wandered on to the set of
Brideshead Revisited
. Denver had reversed into his parking place, but I drove straight in, so my driver’s door was next to his. Why
people
reverse into parking places mystifies me, unless it’s so they can make a fast getaway. I climbed out and stretched upright. The little group of them – I counted six – were still looking towards me, over the roofs of the other cars in the line. Denver was there, and so was Prendergast, which was a surprise. I didn’t know the others.

I glanced down into Denver’s car and saw his mobile phone on the passenger seat, plugged into the cigar lighter to have its battery recharged. I also noticed that his keys were dangling from the ignition lock. It’s a funny thing about Fords. Because of the activities of some of the younger members of our society, they, along with all the other
manufacturers
, have spent millions of pounds trying to protect our beloved vehicles against theft. War, they say, brought about vast improvements in the field of aviation. Little scrotes like Jamie What’s-his-name initiated the
development
of the car alarm and immobiliser, thus creating thousands of jobs in the security market. Thanks to him and his friends, the key I held in my right hand had a minute electronic chip built into it. It would only open a lock that had a certain combination of signals, and there were two
hundred
and fifty thousand possible combinations. My mind boggled at the thought of it. A thief had a 1-in-250,000 chance of his key starting my car, which made the odds against him guessing my pin number and emptying my bank account, at a mere 1-in-9,999, look a good bet.

What they don’t tell you is that any Ford key will
lock
any Ford car. When it comes to locking the car, they’re all the same. It was Sparky’s sixteen-year-old son, Danny, that told me that. His dad had just bought an Escort, and Danny bet me a pound that his dad’s key would lock my car. I lost the bet. That’s what they teach them at school, these days.

The little group were still looking my way. Without taking
my eyes off them I felt for the lock of Denver’s car with the tip of the key for mine. Years of practise, opening the car day after day, give you an instinct for it. The key slipped home and I turned it away from the steering wheel. I heard the whirr of electric motors and the
chunk
of the bolts slamming across as a glow of satisfaction welled up inside me. Denver was locked out, and that was the best quid I’d ever lost.

Two of them were TV people. Freelancers, armed with cameras and sound equipment and presumably hired by Denver. The other two were wearing blue overalls with
Avecaster Motor Museum
embroidered on the breast pocket. The taller of them had a gaunt face and was puffing on a
cigarette
stub, the other had a handlebar moustache and the complexion of an outdoor man who enjoys a tipple. The type who never hunts south of the Thames nor services the wife in the morning in case something better presents itself in the afternoon.

“Mr Burgess-Jones?” I asked.

“That’s right,” he replied. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure…”

“Detective Inspector Priest, of Heckley CID.” I looked beyond him. “And that,” I added, “is presumably the lady who brought us all here.”

It was the MG, standing there gleaming in the sun. Flame red, black and chrome, pampered and aloof, like a
thoroughbred
at Crufts or Ascot. She looked good.

“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?”

“One take, beginning to end, starting and finishing with the time?”

“That’s it.”

“You goddit, no problem.”

“Do we have sound recording?”

“Sure do.”

“Right. In that case, I’ll do the talking. Let’s go.”

I felt Burgess-Jones tug my sleeve and turned to him. “Nobody goes anywhere without some protection for their eyes,” he said, placing a pair of safety spectacles in my hand. I put them on and the film crew found their Oakleys.

“OK, gentlemen,” Grateful Dead said, taking over the role of director because he realised that it was the only way to get things done, “let’s have you all together, at the side of the car. Take one, of one.”

Burgess-Jones picked up the angle grinder and we stood there as the camera zoomed in at the watch and then
encompassed
us all in its impartial gaze. I introduced myself,
feeling
foolish, and invited the others to do so. Burgess-Jones’s assistant was called Raymond, and he said he was chief mechanic and brother-in-law of the proprietor. He’s married well, I thought.

“We will now lift the bonnet and attempt to establish its original colour, before any restoration work was done on it,” I said, and Raymond reached inside the car and released the catch.

We all stepped back to allow him to walk round to the front of the car. He poked his fingers inside the front grill for the lever and lifted the bonnet. I could see pipes and wires, a drive shaft and exhaust pipe, all pointing towards a big void where most cars have an engine.

“There’s no fuckin’ engine!” Denver gasped. He turned to Burgess-Jones. “Hey! There’s no fuckin’ engine. You
never said it didn’t have an engine.”

“I told you it was a museum piece,” Burgess-Jones replied.

“Six fuckin’ grand!” he ranted. “I just gave six fuckin’ grand for a car with no fuckin’ engine.”

“Let’s have a look at the underside of the bonnet,” I said, and Raymond held it upright so the camera could zoom in. Burgess-Jones pressed the trigger on the angle grinder and applied it to the paintwork.

He moved it gently back and forth and we watched as the scarlet paint shrivelled and flew off in a spray of debris and smoke. First a grey undercoat was revealed, then a dark colour and then more primer. He stood back and the machine in his hand whined to a standstill.

“That should do it,” he declared. “BRG, I’d say. British racing green.”

Raymond stooped to look under the bonnet. “Yep, BRG,” he confirmed.

Denver and I looked and agreed that the original colour was green. Prendergast declined.

“OK,” I said. “Now lets have a look at the outside.” Raymond slammed the bonnet shut and Burgess-Jones stepped forward, brandishing the Black and Decker.

Denver restrained him with an extended arm and
positioned
himself in front of the MG, facing the camera. “This,” he began, “is a simple test upon which the life, the freedom, of a man depends.”

I was standing alongside Grateful Dead, who glanced sideways at me. Had I tried to stop Denver it would be
captured
on film, and he knew it. “Keep filming,” I told him through gritted teeth.

“Tony Silkstone,” Denver continued, “stands accused of a series of crimes – rape and murder – going back eighteen years. Some would say the police have been over-zealous in their pursuit of Silkstone, their enquiry based entirely on the suspicions of one officer. Whilst we wish our police to be
diligent and thorough, there comes a point when these
qualities
become vindictive and mean spirited. Hounding the innocent should not be part of the police’s role.”

I thought he’d finished, and took a step forward. Denver shot me a glance then looked back at the camera. “The
bonnet
of this car might hold the clue to the killer who
murdered
and raped sixteen-year-old Caroline Poole back in 1983, and who had sexually assaulted young Eileen Kelly two years previously. Eileen says her attacker drove a Jaguar car. The police, or, more accurately, one police officer with a reputation for irresponsible action, say that the car was an MGB, similar to this one behind me…” he stepped to one side and gestured, “…that belonged to Tony Silkstone at the time in question. This officer says that Silkstone had fitted a Jaguar mascot to the bonnet of the car, thus causing Eileen to believe the car she was abducted in was of that make. Silkstone denies it. The proof, ladies and gentlemen, is awaiting discovery. If this car ever had the Jaguar mascot
fitted
, there will be evidence of two holes, somewhere about here.” He touched the appropriate place. “Let’s see, shall we?”

I thought about going out in a blaze of glory. They’d have put it down to post-traumatic stress, or something, and given me a full pension. And it would certainly have made good television, as I demonstrated how to reshape the front of an MG by battering it with a journalist’s head. They might even have given me my own chat show. Instead, I just turned away and took a few deep breaths. I’m growing either old or soft, or both.

Burgess-Jones stepped forward again and the grinder in his hands leapt from zero to three thousand revs per minute with a yelp like a kicked dog. “About there,” Denver instructed him, pointing to a spot just behind the MG badge. I walked forward to have a closer look.

He moved the spinning wheel across the pristine surface, barely skimming the top layer away. We smelt burning paint
and saw flakes of it melt and then fly off. He gradually enlarged the patch, revealing the grey undercoat and a
darker
primer edging the scar, like woodgrain, or an aerial view of a coastline.

Sparks flew when he touched metal. The patch of bare metal grew as he moved the wheel across it. Silver steel, that’s all. “Back a bit,” I shouted to Burgess-Jones above the whine of the grinder, and he expanded the area he was attacking. The patch grew longer, but it was blank and
inviolate
.

There was one aesthetically pleasing spot where you could fix the jaguar, and we’d covered that. Anywhere else and it would have looked wrong. Too far forward and the cat would have been leaping downhill, too far back and it would cease to be a bonnet mascot. But Silkstone knew nothing about aesthetics, and I clung to that fact.

“Keep going,” I said.

Denver gestured to Grateful Dead for him to move in with the camera and get a good close-up of the metal. Burgess-Jones was nearly halfway back to the windscreen when I saw him tense and stoop more closely over the car. “There’s something here!” he cried.

There it was. A dissimilar metal, to borrow a phrase from my schooldays, peering out from under the paint and
growing
by the second. First one brass-coloured disc was revealed, then another an inch behind it, like twin suns
blazing
in the silver sky of a distant planet. Burgess-Jones enlarged the sky, gave it a neat finish, then stepped proudly back.

“You did it,” I said to him. “You did it. Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

“My pleasure,” he replied, a big smile across his face.

Denver looked at where the holes had been, before some craftsman had filled them with braze and made the bonnet as good as new. “Are they the right size?” he asked.

“Yes,” Burgess-Jones told him. “About a quarter inch
diameter at one inch centres. Exactly right, I’d say.”

“Wow!” Denver exclaimed, recovering his equilibrium and doing a U-turn that would have overturned a Ferrari but didn’t make his conscience even wobble. “Wow! Do I have a story! Do I have a fuckin’ story!” He patted his pockets, feeling for his phone, then remembered it was in his car, being recharged.

Grateful Dead zoomed in at my watch and asked me if that would do. I nodded and he said: “Cut!” and stopped the camera.

Denver was heading towards the cars, so I followed him. When I arrived he was emptying his pockets, piling coins and mints and tissues on the roof of his Ford. Everything but keys. I unlocked mine and reached into the glove box for my mobile phone. “I’ve lost my keys,” Denver muttered. “I’ve lost my keys.”

I tapped out the Heckley nick number and pointed inside his car, asking: “Are they them?”

Denver stooped to look inside, pulling at the door
handle
. “Aw fuck!” he cursed. “I’ve locked them in. I’ve fuckin’ locked them in. How’d I do that? I thought it was
impossible
. How’d I do that?”

“It’s DI Priest,” I said into the phone. “I want you to do two things for me. First of all I want an all ports warning issuing for the arrest of Tony Silkstone, and then I want to talk to the press department. I want a story circulating to Reuters and Associated Press, as soon as possible.”

Denver had decided to enlist help. “Mr Burgess-Jones!” he called, turning and jogging back to the others. “Mr Burgess-Jones, can you help me, please?”

A voice on the phone said: “Heckley police station, how can I help you?”

“Hello George,” I replied. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been talking to myself.”

“Feeding the cat, Charlie. Where are you? That’s more to the point.”

“I’m down in Lincolnshire.”

“It’s all right for some.”

“Work, George, work. Listen, there’s two things. First of all I want an APW issuing for Tony Silkstone, and then I want to speak to the press officer.”

“Silkstone?” George replied. “You got enough on him, have you?”

“Yes, George, I think we have. I really think we have.”

After that, I got mean. I made Denver sit in my car and when Prendergast started making objections I reminded him that he represented nobody there and threatened to chuck him in the duckpond, whereupon he made an excuse and left. Burgess-Jones thought it all a hoot. I rang the local CID and eventually handed everything over to them, including Denver. The AA arrived with a set of Slim Jims, as used by the more professional car thieves, and opened Denver’s car. Inside it we found the record card for Silkstone’s MG, as made out by Smith Brothers and showing that it had been sold to Mr Burgess-Jones, so the chain was complete.

All the papers carried the story next day, but the
UK News
still claimed it as a world exclusive, even though we gave some of the best bits to the others. Lincolnshire police let Denver go, on their bail, and a week later he was given an official caution. No chance there of him claiming that we were heavy-handed with him.

Silkstone had made a run for it, as we thought. He
panicked
, and followed an elaborate plan to make it look as if he’d killed himself by driving the Audi over Bempton cliffs. Unfortunately several eye-witnesses and a few second’s video footage revealed that he’d driven his late wife’s Suzuki Vitara to York, travelled back to Heckley by train, taken the Audi to Bempton where he’d sent it over the edge, and then found his way back to York again and, he hoped, freedom. We picked him up two days later, lying low at a caravan site near Skegness. Dave and I went to fetch him – sometimes, I
indulge myself.

Afterwards, in the in-between hours which are neither night nor day, I thought that perhaps it might not stick. A clever brief might cast doubts on my methodology, declare some evidence inadmissible, get him off. It would all be down to the jury, but I didn’t care. The first time DNA
profiling
was used in a murder case it indicated that the person under arrest was innocent, even though he had made a full confession. The local police were outraged and Alec Jeffreys, the scientist who developed the technique, must have been devastated. But he stuck to his guns, had faith in the system, and eventually the real murderer was caught.

Looking back on it, freeing that innocent man must give Sir Alec much more satisfaction than pointing the finger at a guilty one. About a fortnight after Silkstone was
committed
for trial I received a letter from Jean Hullah, matron of the Pentland Court Retirement Home. She said that Mrs Grace Latham, mother of Peter, had died, but she was aware that her son had been cleared of suspicion of murdering Mrs Silkstone and had wanted to write and thank me. And young Jason Lee Gelder was off the hook too. He was too dense to realise how close he’d been, but now he was free to earn his living skinning dead cows and spend his earnings on evenings of passion in the brickyard. Even if Silkstone walked, and I didn’t think he would, it was still a result.