Chill Factor dcp-7

by Stuart Pawson

  “It’s Charles, he’s my uncle,” Sophie told her friends, a big smile illuminating her face.

  “Hello, Uncle Charles,” they chorused.

  I introduced Annette to them, and Sophie rattled off three names that I promptly forgot. She and Sophie renewed their acquaintance.

  “You don’t do this for amusement, do you?” I asked, looking around at the decor.

  “We’ve been playing badminton at the leisure centre,” someone informed me.

  “We just come in for a quick drink and a dance,” another added.

  “It’s free before ten,” Sophie said.

  “Right,” I nodded. Apart from the price of the drinks, it sounded a reasonable arrangement. I gritted my teeth and asked them what they’d have.

  “Thanks, Uncle Charles,” they all said when I returned, six bottles dangling from between my fingers. One of the girls, dark-haired, petite and vivacious, said: “Can I call you Charlie, Uncle Charles? I already have an Uncle Charles.”

  “I’d prefer it if you all called me Charlie. Uncle Charles makes me feel old.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-eight,” I lied, glancing up at the ceiling.

  “Gosh, that is old.”

  They were in high spirits, the adrenaline still pumping after a couple of hours on court, and I began to wonder if joining them had been such a good idea. Four confident young women at the crossroads: left for marriage and a family; right for a career in whatever they chose; straight on for both. I didn’t feel old — I felt fossilised.

  The music paused, the DJ spoke for the first time, and when it started again the four of them jumped to their feet, prompted by some secret signal.

  “We dance to this.”

  “Come on, Annette. Can you dance, Charlie?”

  “Can I dance? Can I dance? Watch my hips.”

  I had a quick sip of lager, for sustenance, and followed them on to the floor. The difference in rhythm or melody was invisible to me, but this was evidently danceable, what had gone before wasn’t. I joined the circle of ladies, swivelled on one leg and wondered about joint replacements.

  The style of dancing hadn’t changed, so I didn’t make a complete fool of myself. The girls put on a show, swaying and gyrating, lissom as snakes, but I gave them a step or two. Fifteen minutes later the DJ slowed it down and the floor emptied again, faster than a golf course in a thunderstorm.

  We finished our tasteless beer and left. There was a street vendor outside, selling hot dogs. The girls’ ritual was to have one each then make their ways home. I couldn’t have eaten one if Delia Smith herself was standing behind the counter in her wimple. Just the smell of them made me want to dash off and bite a postman’s leg. We stood talking as they wolfed them down. Young appetites, young tastes, young digestive systems. Here we go again, I thought.

  Annette shared my views on hot dogs, and declined one. When we’d established that nobody needed a lift we left. “That was fun,” Annette said as we drove off.

  “It was, wasn’t it.”

  “Sophie’s grown up.”

  “I had noticed.”

  “The little dark one — Shani — took a shine to you.”

  “Understandably.”

  “And not a size ten between them,” she sighed.

  I freewheeled to a standstill outside her flat, dropping on to sidelights but leaving the engine running. “Thanks for the meal, Ms Brown,” I said.

  “You’re welcome, Mr Priest,” she replied. “I’ve enjoyed myself.”

  “Good. That’s the intention.”

  “Well it worked.”

  After a moment’s uncomfortable silence I asked: “Are you…are you going away, this weekend.”

  “Yes,” she mumbled.

  “Right.”

  She pulled the catch and pushed the door open. “Charlie…” she began, half turning back towards me.

  “Mmm?”

  “Oh just, you know…thanks for…for being, you know…a pal. A friend.”

  “A gentleman. You mean a gentleman.”

  “Yes, I suppose I do.”

  “Just as long as you understand one thing.”

  She looked puzzled, worried. “What’s that?”

  “That it’s bloody difficult for me.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.”

  Her smile made me want to plunder a convent. “Goodnight, Charlie,” she said.

  “Goodnight, Annette.”

  The house was in darkness, blind and forlorn. The outside light is supposed to turn itself on at dusk, but it looked as if the bulb had blown again. The streetlights illuminate the front, but the side door is in shadow. I avoided the milk bottle standing on the step and felt for the keyhole with a finger, like drunks do, before inserting the key. It was cold inside, because a front had swept in from Labrador and the central heating was way down low. I turned the thermostat to thirty and the timer to constant. That’d soon warm things up. I made some tea and lit the gas fire. I was too alert to sleep, too many thoughts and rhythms tumbling around in my head. The big CD player was filled with Dylan, but that wasn’t what I needed:

  I know that I could find you, in somebody’s room.

  It’s a price I have to pay: you’re a big girl all the way.

  Not tonight, Bob, thank you. I flicked through the titles until one flashed a light in my brain. Gorecki’s third; a good choice. Sometimes, the best way to deal with a hurt, real or imaginary, is to overwhelm it with somebody else’s sadness. I slipped the gleaming disc from its cover and placed it on the turntable.

  “What do some people get up to, behind the curtains?” I’d asked Annette. “Profiling isn’t evidence,” I’d said. They get up to everything you could imagine, and plenty of things you couldn’t, and that’s the truth. Read the personal column in your newspaper; look at the magazines on the top shelf in any newsagents; explore the internet; look at the small ads in the tabloids. That’s the visible bit.

  We don’t stop when we prove that someone committed a murder. We carry on until we prove that everybody else involved didn’t commit it. Sometimes, with some juries, nothing less will do.

  If it wasn’t for the evidence, we’d have arrested Silkstone for the murder of his wife. Everything pointed to him, except the evidence. That’s a big except. The evidence, and the witness, pointed to Latham. That witness, of course, was Silkstone, and Latham was in no position to defend himself. The obvious solution was that Silkstone killed them both after discovering that they were lovers, but that’s not what he said happened, and he was the only witness. Next favourite, for me, was that Silkstone killed Latham out of self-preservation, because they were both there when Margaret died, but, like the professor said, it would be a bugger to prove. Perhaps they did the Somerset job together, too. Sadistic murdering couples were usually a male and a female, with the male the dominant partner, but there were exceptions. Some people think the Yorkshire Ripper didn’t always act alone, and the Railway Rapist almost certainly had an accomplice. And even if they’re wrong, there’s got to be a first time. There’s always got to be a first time.

  My job is to catch murderers. It’s a dirty job, and dirt rubs off. Like the men who empty my dustbin, I come home with the smell of it following me. To catch a jackal you must first study its ways. Before you can look a rat in the eyes it is necessary to get down on your belly and roll in the dirt. Silkstone and Latham had known each other for a long time; married two sisters; committed adultery with two women who were friends. No doubt they’d shared a few adventures. Had they shared their women, too?

  How does it start? A casual boast, man to man, after a few pints? A giggled comment between the wives after one too many glasses of wine? Expressions of admiration, followed by a tentative suggestion? Jaded senses find new life, curiosity is aroused, objections dismissed. “If we all agree, nobody gets hurt, do they?” Next thing you know, you’re alone with your best friend’s partner, undoing those buttons that you’ve looked at so oft
en across the table, revealing the mysteries that they conceal.

  Is that what happens? Don’t ask me. I thought Fellatio was a character in Romeo and Juliet until I was thirty-two. I awoke to Dawn Upshaw in full voice, and on that pleasant note crawled up the stairs to bed.

  Monday morning I rang the clerk to the court who had granted Silkstone a variation to his bail conditions. “I believe he’s supposed to be speaking at a sales conference,” I said.

  “That’s what his solicitor told us in the application, Mr Priest.”

  “Did he say what time?”

  “Yes, I have the letter here. He’s speaking at two p.m., for half an hour, but he asked if he could spend the full day at the conference. We saw no reason to object and we’ve told him to report tomorrow, instead. It’s not our intention to interfere with his employment.”

  “No, that’s fair enough. And where is this conference, exactly?”

  “Um, here we are: the Leeds Winchester Hotel.”

  “Good. Thanks for your help.”

  “Is there a problem, Mr Priest? Would you have preferred it if we’d contacted you earlier?”

  “No, no problem at all. I was just thinking that I might go along and listen to him.”

  The troops had plenty to catch up on, and the super was more interested in his monthly fly-fishing magazine, so I didn’t tell him my intentions. Just before one I walked out of the office and drove to Leeds.

  The Winchester Hotel is part of the revitalised riverside area, to the south of town, near the new Royal Armouries. Leeds has an inner ring road, which is only half a ring, and something called the Loop, which doesn’t join up with it. I missed the hotel, drove into the city centre and came out again following the M1 signs, except that the M1 is now called the M621 and the new M1 is not what I wanted. I drove back into the city centre and tried again.

  This time I found it. The Winchester chain of hotels caters for business trade working to a budget. It’s roomonly accommodation, without the frills. No Corby trouser press, no complimentary shower cap. If you want to eat, there’s a restaurant on the ground floor. I pushed my way through the door at a few seconds before two, just as the tail end of a group of people disappeared into the lift. The doors closed, leaving me stranded. I looked around for a sign saying where the conference was being held, but there wasn’t one. Presumably it wasn’t necessary. Ah well, I’m not a detective for nothing. The illuminated indicator above the lift door had flicked through the lower numbers and was now stationary at number five. That must be it, I thought, pressing the button.

  There was a movement beside me and I turned to see a little man standing there, his face moist with perspiration. The indicator over the lift door to my left stopped at G, something pinged and the door opened. I gestured for the man to enter first. You never know, maybe there’d been a failure of electronics and the lift wasn’t really there. He didn’t fall to his death so I followed him in.

  “Five?” I asked.

  “Yes please.” He was seriously overweight and appeared to be wearing a skirt over his blue-check trousers. A name badge declared that he was called Gerald Vole.

  “Er, napkin,” I whispered, nodding towards his nether regions.

  “Oh God!” he exclaimed, snatching it from his belt. He managed a nervous smile, saying: “The service was terrible in the restaurant,” by way of explanation.

  “It always is,” I confirmed, airily.

  The door pinged and opened, and I gestured him forward. “Enjoying the conference?” I asked.

  “Yes, very much. There’s so much to learn, though. Are you with the company?”

  “Yes, for my sins,” I lied.

  “Sales?”

  “Head office,” I told him, adding: “Personnel,” because it felt good.

  “Gosh!” he replied, impressed.

  “Charlie Priest,” I said, offering him my hand.

  “Gerry Vole,” he squeaked as I crushed his clammy fingers. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Welcome to TGF, Gerry,” I said.

  The door we entered through was at the back of the room, fortunately. The conference facilities consisted of one side of the whole fifth floor being left empty, the space divided into three by sliding partitions. Trans Global Finance had booked the lot, so all the partitions were retracted. The place was nearly full, but we found chairs on the end of the back row and sat down. Gerry produced a typist’s pad from a pocket and rested it on his knee. I stared at row after row of shaven necks poking from blue suit collars. It could have been a Mormon revivalist meeting. Gerry’s checks and my sports jacket were the only discordant notes. Gerry would have to learn to conform; I make a speciality of not doing so.

  The door behind me closed with a bang and I took a sly peep back. A man and woman who would have looked completely at home on local-network breakfast TV were standing there, and he’d pulled the door shut. She had nice knees, and I’d seen her type a hundred times before. Sometimes she, or her sister, was in the precinct, handing out freebies for the local newspaper; other times she was there in her clingy T-shirt and Wonder Bra extolling the virtues of holidays in Cornwall or Tenerife. A promotions girl. Anxious to shake the dust of Heckley from her stilettos but not good looking enough to be a model, not bright enough to be a holiday rep. Promises of riches galore had brought her into the finance industry, and today she was a cheerleader.

  “Welcome back!” a voice boomed from the front. The owner had oddly luxuriant grey hair and could easily have done Billy Graham on Stars in Their Eyes. “And now for the session you’re all waiting for,” he proclaimed. “It’s my proud duty to introduce the man we all think of as the Prince of Closing. The man who can, literally, walk on water…”

  Boy, this I’ve got to see, I thought. Gerry Vole beside me was wriggling in his seat, trying to make himself taller.

  “Ladies and gentlemen…”

  “No! No! No!” Silkstone was there, waving his arms as he dashed on to the stage to interrupt the eulogy, but just too late, of course, and the rest of it was drowned by the applause. It started behind me in a burst of small explosions and rattled through the audience like machine gun fire. “Good afternoon!” Silkstone shouted.

  “Good afternoon,” we yelled back.

  “I didn’t hear you! GOOD AFTERNOON!”

  “GOOD AFTERNOON!” This time they heard us in Barnsley.

  “Right on!” I added as the reverberations faded away, and nudged Gerry with my elbow.

  “Yeah!” he shouted, recovering his balance and punching the air with a podgy fist.

  “What is that magical quality that converts a lead into a sale?” Silkstone demanded of us.

  “Closing!” The word jumped around the auditorium like a firecracker.

  “What are the three golden bullets in the salesman’s armoury?”

  “Closing, closing, closing.”

  “You don’t seem sure!” he shouted. “So I’ll tell you!” There was a table and chair on the low stage, with a glass and water jug on the table. Silkstone leapt up on to the chair and shouted: “Number one — closing!” Long pause for effect as he made eye contact with the front rows. “Number two — closing!” Another leap took him on to the table. “Number three — CLOSING!”

  Gerry, beside me and beside himself, was busy scribbling. He’d written: 3 golden bullets: 1 — closing, 2 — closing, 3 — closing!!!

  Silkstone, still up on the table, was launching into an anecdote about how Bill Gates got to be the world’s richest man. Presumably, I thought, because gates are good at closing. After five minutes I’d had enough. I reached out and took Gerry’s pad from him. On it I wrote: 4 — treat every client as if he might be an eccentric millionaire and winked as I passed it back. “I’m off,” I said, rising to my feet. “Good luck.” He read what I’d written and stared at me, eyes wide, mouth open, as if I’d just given him the co-ordinates of the Holy Grail.

  I yanked the door open and took a last look at Silkstone. He had one foot on the
floor, one on the chair when the movement at the back of the room caught his eye. He froze in mid-stride and fell silent as he recognised me. Other heads turned my way. I stepped out through the opening and closed the door behind me. “That’ll give him something to think about,” I mumbled to myself as I headed towards the lift.

  Gwen Rhodes played netball for England and hockey for Kent. I had trials with Halifax Town as a goalkeeper, but wasn’t signed up. I considered myself a sportsman, years ago, although I never reached the heights that Gwen did. We sit on a committee together, and have talked about the value of sport over a cup of coffee in the canteen. These days, the only place you can regularly see honesty, courage, passion is on the playing field. Out there, with the sting of sweat in your eyes and the taste of blood in your mouth, where you come from and who you know is of no help at all.

  So when I saw the note on my desk saying that she wanted me to ring her I didn’t wait. “The Governor, please,” I said, when the switchboard at Bentley Prison answered.

  “Who wants her, please?”

  “Detective Inspector Priest, Heckley CID.”

  “One moment.”

  I waited for the music, wondering what might be appropriate — Unchained Melody? Please release me, let me go? — but none came. “Hello, Charlie. Thanks for ringing,” Gwen’s plummy voice boomed in my ear.

  “My pleasure, Gwen. Long time no see. Shouldn’t we be having a meeting soon, or did you ring to tell me I’d missed it?”

  “Between you and me, Charlie, I think that committee has probably quietly faded away. We didn’t achieve much, did we?”

  “Lip service, Gwen, that’s what it’s all about. Make it look as if you are doing something. So what can I do for you? I’m available, Saturday morning, if you need a goalie.”

  “Oh, those were the days. I may have some information for you, Charlie, but first of all, an apology.”

  “Go on.”

  “You know that we monitor inmates’ calls, tape-record them for transcription at a later date.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Well, we’ve rather fallen behind lately, so this weekend I put one of my officers on to them, and he’s come up with something that might be of interest to you.”