We wandered around his home from room to room, looking in drawers, feeling through the pockets of his suits, like a couple of vultures picking over a carcass. Wilbur Smith’s Elephant Song was lying on a shelf within reach of his easy chair, with a bookmark at about the halfway point. In the smallest bedroom, filled with junk, there was a big bag of fishing rods and a box of tackle. I hadn’t marked him as a fisherman.
On his fridge-freezer door, held in place by a magnetic Bart Simpson, was a postcard showing a painting that I recognised. I eased it off and looked at the back, but it was blank. “Gauguin,” I said, flapping the card towards Dave.
“You’d know,” he replied.
I replaced it exactly where I’d found it and opened the fridge door. He ate ready meals from the supermarket, supplemented with oven chips, and was seriously deficient in vegetables.
“He didn’t eat properly,” I said.
“You’d know,” Dave repeated.
I was drawn, as always, to the bedroom. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at the two photographs, when Dave joined me.
“Who do you reckon she is?” I asked.
He looked at the picture of the young girl without handling it. “Mmm, interesting,” he mused. “Taken a while ago. Could be his wife, assuming that’s them in the other picture. Is it, er, a bit on the salacious side, or is that just me?”
“It’s just you,” I told him, untruthfully.
“I don’t think it’s a daughter or niece,” he continued.
“Why not?”
“Well, I wouldn’t frame a similar picture of our Sophie and have it on display, and she’d certainly have something to say about it if I did. I reckon it’s his wife, when she was at school. They keep it there for a laugh, or a bit of extra stimulation. I don’t know, you’re the one with all the experience. I’m just a happily married man.”
“The SOCO reckons it was taken about the same time as the wedding photo,” I said, “which means it’s not the wife.”
“Fair enough,” he replied, adding: “Maybe all will be revealed at the meeting, when we learn something about his background.”
“Let’s hope so,” I said. We left, locking the door behind us, and told the PC on duty that we still wanted the crime scene maintaining.
In the car Dave said: “That photo.”
“Mmm.”
“Of the young girl.”
“Mmm.”
“Maybe it’s just a curio type of thing. The sort of picture you might pick up at a car boot sale, or something. Know what I mean?”
“I think so,” I said. “A collector’s item. Like some dirty old Victorian might have drooled over.”
“Yeah. Voluptuous innocence and all that crap.”
“Lewis Carroll and Alice,” I suggested.
“Exactly. He used to photograph children in the nude, you know.”
“Crikey,” I said. “So where did he keep his spare films?”
We’d told the Latham team to assemble at three, but the Mrs Silkstone investigators were there too, keen to learn the big picture. Annette and Iqbar were sitting in the front row, and she passed me a foolscap sheet of the PM findings. That was what I’d wanted most of all. I perused it as everybody found seats and joshed with each other. The small conference room doubles as a lecture theatre, and is equipped with all the usual paraphernalia like overhead projectors and CCTV. At one minute to three I picked up the wooden pointing stick and rattled it against the floor, calling out: “OK, boys and girls, let’s have some order.”
As the hubbub died down Mr Wood entered the room. “Keeping them entertained, Charlie?” he said.
“Just doing a few quick impressions, Boss,” I replied.
“I see. Any chance of you impersonating a police officer for the rest of the day?” He has a vicious tongue, at times.
Gilbert told the troops that HQ had sanctioned their overtime payments, which is what they wanted to hear, and thanked them for their efforts before handing over to me. I started by adding my appreciation for their work. A murder enquiry is always disruptive to the private lives of the investigators, as well as the principal characters. “This is a double murder enquiry,” I told them, “and the eyes of the world are upon us, so it’s important that we show them what we can do. As always, you have responded to the challenge, and we are grateful.” I outlined the bare bones of the case, and then asked about the identity of the first body.
Inspector Adey said: “First body confirmed to be that of Peter John Latham. We contacted his ex-wife — he’s a divorcee — who lives in Pontefract. She was reluctant to come over to ID him because she has young children, and showed little interest in knowing when the funeral might be. Eventually we asked a neighbour, Mrs Watson, who was friendly with him, and she positively identified him.”
“Any other next of kin?” I asked.
“His mother in Chippenham, if she’s still alive. She vacated her last known address to move into a nursing home, but we’re trying to find her.”
“Thanks Gareth. We might as well do the other one now,” I said. “Any volunteers?”
A uniformed constable raised his hand and uncoiled from his chair. He’d taken Mr Silkstone to the mortuary at the General Hospital, he told us, where Silkstone had positively identified the body of a woman as being that of his wife, Margaret. I thanked him and he sat down.
“Was he suitably grief stricken?” I asked him.
“Yes sir.”
Gareth Adey rose to his feet, saying: “Point of order, Mr Priest.”
I was expecting it. Asking a murderer to identify an associated body was a trifle unusual, if not bizarre. “Yes, Gareth,” I said.
“Do you not think, Mr Priest,” he waffled, “that we might be leaving ourselves open to criticism by inviting the accused to ID a body allegedly murdered by the victim of his revenge killing?”
“Good point, Gareth,” I told him. “We need a second opinion. Could I leave that with you, and I’d be grateful if you’d do the usual with next of kin.”
He smiled contentedly and sat down.
“Cause of death,” I said, pointing to Annette.
She was wearing jeans and a white blouse, her jacket draped over the back of the chair. She stood up, unsmiling, and brushed her hair off her face. “Peter Latham was killed by a single knife-wound to the heart,” she told us. “The knife found in him would be identical to the one missing from the set in his kitchen. The blade entered his chest between the fifth and sixth ribs on an upward trajectory, puncturing the left ventricle. This indicates an underhand blow from someone of approximately the same height. Latham was only a hundred and sixty-eight centimetres tall. That’s five feet six inches. The blade missed the ribs and unusual force would not be required.”
“Time of death?” I asked.
“Between three and six p.m.,” Annette replied.
“We can narrow that down,” I declared. “Silkstone rang nine-double-nine at seventeen ten hours, saying he’d done it. Let’s call it between three and five.” Doc Evans had said between four and five, I remembered, and he was on the scene quite quickly. The professor was working from a cold cadaver, sixteen hours after the event. “On second thoughts, make it between four and five,” I told them. Sometimes, knowing the precise time of death can be crucial.
Annette had taken her seat again, but I said: “Go on, Annette, you might as well tell us about the other one.”
She rose, brushing the offending hair aside, and launched straight into it. She was a young attractive woman, one of only four in a room with thirty men, and I wondered if I’d been fair, sending her to the post-mortems. She said: “Margaret Silkstone died as a result of strangulation. There was a pair of tights knotted around her throat but there was also bruising caused by manual strangulation, apparently from behind. She’d recently had anal and vaginal intercourse, and semen samples have been recovered and sent for analysis.”
“How recently,” I asked.
“At about the time
of death,” she replied. “The professor’s preliminary conclusions are that vaginal intercourse took place before death, and anal possibly after, but he wants to do a more considered examination.”
“And when was the time of death?”
“Between two and six p.m.”
“Right. Thanks for doing the gory stuff, Annette,” I told her. “I appreciate it.”
She gave me the briefest of smiles and sat down. After that I invited the team to let us know what they had discovered about the background of the deceased.
They all came from Gloucestershire. Silkstone had been a big wheel in a company based in Burdon Manor, variously known as Burdon Home Improvements, Burdon Engineering and Burdon Developments; and Latham was one of his salesmen. Back in 1975 they’d married two sisters but neither marriage had lasted. When the receiver finally pulled the plug on Burdons, Silkstone went to work for the now-defunct Oriental Bank of Commerce, or OBC, a name that sent a chill up the spine of every financial manager in the world. Now he was Northern big-cheese for a company called Trans Global Finance, and had been married to the late Margaret for ten years. Silkstone had five speeding convictions and two for careless driving. Latham had one for OPL and Margaret was clean.
“So now,” I told the throng of eager, upturned faces, “you know all about them. Any questions?”
“Yes Sir,” someone said. “Will you have the DNA results tomorrow?”
“No. Saturday,” I replied.
There was nothing else, so I terminated the meeting. Someone brewed up in the big office and I carried a mug of tea into my little den in the corner. I opened an A2 drawing pad and divided the sheet into several boxes. Dave came in, followed by Annette. In Box 1 I wrote:
Silkstone telling truth. Latham killed Margaret, then Silkstone killed Latham, in a rage.
“What next?” I asked.
“Three in a bed romp,” Dave suggested. In Box 2 I wrote:
Sex game gone wrong. Latham and Silkstone killed
Margaret. Silkstone killed Latham to cover his tracks.
“Hmm, that’s interesting,” Annette said.
“Charlie’s idea,” Dave told her. “I don’t know about such things. What next?”
In Box 3 I wrote:
Margaret and Latham having an affair.
Silkstone killed them both in a jealous rage.
Dave said: “I reckon that’s the obvious explanation.”
“It’s the favourite,” I agreed, “but how about this?” I wrote:
All a plot by Silkstone and numbered it Box 4.
“What, like, cold blooded?” Dave asked. “You think he planned it all?”
“I don’t think that. We just have to consider it. What if Silkstone killed Margaret for personal reasons and threw the blame on Latham? The whole thing might be a pack of lies. We need to know if he gains financially in any way.” I turned to Annette. “That’s a little job for you, Annette. Find out if he had her insured. How much do they owe on the house and will the insurance company pay out for her death, if you follow me?”
“You mean, if they had a joint life policy,” she replied.
“Do I?”
“She’s a clever girl,” Dave said.
Annette picked up her still steaming mug of tea and walked out. I gazed at the door she’d closed behind her and said to it: “I didn’t mean right now!”
I wrote M, O and F in each box, meaning motive, opportunity and forensic, and ticked them where appropriate. I didn’t bother with W for witnesses, because the only one we had was Silkstone himself. “That’s as far as we can go, Sunshine,” I declared, “until we get some results from the lab and find out who spread his seed all over the crime scene.” The phone rang before I could put cornices on all the capital letters and generally titivate the chart. It was the professor, replying to the message I’d left for him earlier in the day.
“It’s The Garth, Mountain Meadows,” I told him.
“What, no number?”
“No, but there’s only seven houses.”
“Pretentious twats. I’ll see you there at five. You can have half an hour.”
“Great, Prof. I appreciate it.”
Annette came in as I was replacing the phone. I looked at her, bemused by the rapid departure and return. She said: “Silkstone paid nearly two hundred thousand for the house, and still owes over a hundred and fifty K on it. And yes, the mortgage is insured joint life, first death, so if he didn’t kill Margaret himself they’ll have to pay out.”
It took me a few seconds to speak. Eventually I asked: “How did you find all this so quickly?”
“I went down and asked him,” she replied, smiling. “Took him a cup of tea. It’s not secret information. As he said, joint life is fairly standard practice, not necessarily sinister, but yes, he does come in for a handy payout.”
“Told you she was a clever girl,” Dave declared. He drained his mug, adding: “I’ll leave you to it; there’s work to be done.”
When he’d gone Annette said: “And I’ve had a word with the Met. Asked them to contact the head office of Trans Global Finance just to confirm things.”
“Brilliant, we’ll make a detective of you yet.” I told her about the call from the prof., and as Dave had vanished I suggested she come along with me to hear what he had to say. She seemed pleased to be asked, and went off to do her paperwork.
At twenty to five I gathered up a set of photographs of the Mountain Meadows crime scene, plus my new chart of possible scenarios, and let Annette drive us there in her yellow Fiat. The professor arrived at about five past. He greeted Annette like a long-lost relative, then said: “Right, let’s get on with it.”
I laid out a set of photographs on the worktop in the kitchen, telling him what we’d found but not passing any opinions nor making any speculations. The professor nodded and sniffed a few times, peering at the photos through his half-spectacles, and asked to be shown the bedroom.
The bed was made up with a duvet in a floral pattern, but still bore the impression of the action that had taken place there, highlighted by the SOCO’s little arrows. In the twenty-four hours since the killing the smell of neglect had pervaded the room. The cocktail of perfumes: her make-up, somebody’s sweat and other fluids, flowed uneasily through the nostrils. I breathed through my mouth to avoid it. We had a preliminary report from the scientific boys, saying what had been found where, but no definitive DNA evidence to say from whom it all came. The professor examined the sites marked by the arrows, checking with the report after each one.
“We’ll leave you to it,” I said, and led Annette downstairs. It was the first time she’d been in the house and her eyes scanned everything, sweeping over the furniture, pausing to examine the decorations more closely. Partly, I supposed, from the professional point of view, partly as a woman in another woman’s house. “Have a good look round,” I invited, seating myself on a leather settee that was as hard as a park bench.
A coffee table book about Jaguar cars was propped in an alcove adjoining the fireplace. I reached for it and flipped through until I found the E-type. They’d photographed a red one, same as mine, from low down at the front. I’m not a car person, but the E-type was special and I felt a pang of regret for selling it.
“I had one like that,” I said to Annette as she returned, holding the double-page spread open for her to see.
“What? An E-type?” she exclaimed, smiling wider than I’d ever seen her.
“Mmm.”
“Cor! I wish I’d known you then.”
“Everybody said it was a good bird-puller.”
“And was it?”
I smiled at the memories. “I suppose so. My dad bought it as a pile of scrap and restored it. When he died it came to me.”
“I’m sorry,” Annette said, sitting in an easy chair.
“Sorry?”
“About your dad. He was a policeman, wasn’t he?”
“That’s right. A sergeant at Heckley. He was a nice man.”
/> “Yes, I can imagine.” She stood up abruptly and walked over to the window. I watched her, wanting to join her there. It would have been the most natural thing in the world to slip my hand around her waist and stand with her, looking out over the garden. It might also have earned me a knee in the groin. Her hair was tied in a wild bundle behind her head. Difficult to manage, I thought, and smiled. “What’s the verdict on the house?” I asked.
Annette turned to face me. Her cheeks were pink. “This house?”
“Mmm.”
“The house is OK. Not sure about the occupants.”
“I really meant the occupants.”
“Right. The place speaks volumes about them. I’d say they were well off, but lacking in taste. He’s a control freak, hasn’t grown up yet. What sort of man…”
The professor was clomping down the stairs and Annette stopped speaking. He came into the room with a worried expression on his face, which meant nothing because his features were set that way. Anybody’s would be, with his job. He pulled his spectacles off, wiped his eyes with a big white handkerchief, and flopped onto the other Chesterfield. It flinched slightly and creaked under his weight.
“Fancy a coffee, Prof.?” I asked.
Annette said: “I’ll make us…”
“No, no,” the professor insisted, flapping a hand. “Kind of you, but I’d rather not. Too busy.”
“Right. So what can you tell us?”
“Not a great deal,” he began. “Without the DNA results we’re barking into the dark somewhat. She was killed on the bed, either during or just after sexual intercourse; and that’s about it. You can definitely rule out her being killed elsewhere.”
“One man or two?”
“Dunno. The lab should be able to tell us, though.”
“Up to the point of death, was she a willing participant?”
“Good question. Apparently so, or to put it another way, she wasn’t dragged kicking and screaming into the room. That doesn’t mean that there wasn’t some duress applied.”
“Like, at knifepoint, for example?”
“Yes. Precisely.”
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