Chill Factor dcp-7

by Stuart Pawson

  “One week before Margaret Silkstone died,” I stated.

  “And probably the day Silkstone came home early and caught them together,” Annette added.

  “Debbie,” I said, turning to her. “What you have told us may be very important. Do your parents know you are here?”

  “Yes. My mum told me to come. She wanted to come with me, but I said it was all right.”

  “Good. I’m really pleased you did but I’d be grateful if you’d not discuss this with anyone else, OK?”

  “Yeah, no problem.”

  “Smashing. And meanwhile, DC Brown — Annette — will take you on a tour of the police station before driving you home. If you’re hungry she might even call in McDonalds and treat you to a burger.”

  “Great!” Debbie said, beaming one of her gorgeous smiles at me and uncurling those sapling legs.

  I stopped at the front desk and dialled Mr Wood’s number. “It’s Charlie,” I said when he answered. “Is Mr Pritchard still with you?”

  “No, he left about half an hour ago. Why?”

  “There’s been a development. Give him a ring, please, Gilbert. Tell him Charlie Palooka is back on the case.”

  I rang my DI friend in Somerset and asked him to oil a few wheels for me. I wanted to see the file for the Caroline Poole murder, and then I wanted the files on all other associated cases. In a crime like that there are always similar offences which may or may not have been perpetrated by the same person. Caroline’s death stood alone, shocking an otherwise safe community, but rapists and murderers go through a learning process, and usually have a few false starts before they hit the big time. I needed to know who might have had a lucky escape while the killer was developing his technique, and from them I needed a description.

  Caroline’s death pre-dated DNA fingerprinting by a couple of years, and there were no samples from her attacker that could be resurrected and tested, but the thought of sticking Silkstone in a line-up excited the Somerset DI. “When were you thinking of coming down?” he asked.

  “It will have to be Saturday,” I told him.

  “Damn! I’m a bit tied up. I’ll have to let you have Bob. You remember Bob?”

  “I don’t need any help,” I protested. “Sit me in front of the files and I’ll work my way through them.”

  “No disrespect, Charlie,” he replied, “but I’d like us to keep abreast of this one. We already have Caroline’s file here in the office. I’ll let Bob spend tomorrow on it and he’ll identify the associated files and have them brought to Frome from HQ. He knows his way around them; with a bit of luck he’ll have it done for you. What time will you be here?”

  “Umm, ten o’clock,” I said, thinking that I’d work out the details later.

  “Right. He’ll be waiting for you.”

  When I looked at the map I wished I’d said twelve noon. If I’d had the gift of second sight I’d have said: “Make it Monday,” but I don’t, so I didn’t.

  It was microwave chicken casserole for tea, with pasta and green beans. After doing two-days worth of washing up I ran the car through the car wash and checked the tyre pressures and oil and water levels. My energy level was high, things were moving, looking good. I had a shower, put some decent clothes on and went out. It was nearly dark.

  I drove to the brickyard, where the lovers meet. It was early for the normal trysts, but one car was parked up, windows grey with condensation. I drove to the opposite corner and parked so I could see it in my mirrors. It was a Vauxhall Vectra, brand new, with a mobile phone aerial on the back window. Later, after the pubs closed, the cars would be cheap Fords and Peugeots owned by the youth of Heckley who had no homes worthy of the name to go to, nobody to ask questions. Right now, it was the time for married men, having a drink with the boys or working late at the office.

  I saw the interior light come on as a back door opened. A right-angle of white leg reached out, testing its strength before trusting it with the full weight of the attached body. Sex does that to your legs. A pale dress, flash of peroxide hair as she transferred to the front seat and made herself comfortable behind the steering wheel. Ah well, I’d got the details wrong. The man extricated himself from the back, glanced over towards me as he adjusted his clothing and took his place next to the woman.

  They drove away, back to their respective partners. “Had a hard day, Darling?” “Yes, you could say that.” Unless they were married to each other of course, and trying to recapture love’s young dream. Whatever turns you on, I say. I didn’t check to see if he’d dropped anything in the grass. I drove straight into town, not knowing why I’d been there, wondering if sometimes I take my job too seriously.

  I couldn’t park in my usual place because next week was Statis week. In mediaeval times it was the annual thanksgiving and excuse for a piss-up in celebration of another successful year’s wool harvest. When nobody needed an excuse any more it fell out of favour for a while, but has recently been revived as part of the culture boom. The fair has been relegated to the park and the town square now hosts a series of open-air concerts, sometimes followed by a firework display across the canal. It brings money into the town and causes traffic havoc, but this is how they do things in Europe and our councillors like to show how cool and young- at-heart they are. Council workmen were busily erecting a stage and seating where I normally park, so I drove into the multi-storey. All leave would be stopped for the woodentops this weekend.

  Buddy Holly was still on the door at the Aspidistra Lounge but his hair was growing again, and the ticket girl hadn’t finished her gum. I paid my money, picked up my change and waited for him to open the door.

  The steady boom-boom I’d heard outside threatened to do me brain damage now I was in. Blue whales in the South Atlantic probably had their flippers over their ears. The place was as empty as usual and Georgie was behind the bar, surveying his monarchy. In his position, I’d have considered abdication.

  “My my, it’s Mr Priest,” he said. “Your usual, is it?” I nodded and he reached into the chiller cabinet for a Foster’s Ice. He flipped the top off and slid the bottle towards me. “This is getting to be a habit, Mr Priest,” he went on. “Your little friends are in, not that they’re little, of course. Young, perhaps, but not little. Like them young, do you, Mr Priest?”

  “Glass,” I said, and he lifted one down from the rack above the bar. I carefully poured the over-priced, over-rated lager into it.

  “Personally,” he said, “I prefer them slightly older. More mature. But I can see what the attraction is. At their age they still have that innocence, don’t you think? That openness, like a blank page that’s waiting to be written on. I can understand how that might appeal to someone like yourself, Mr Priest.”

  “George,” I began. “I’d like you to know that you’re talking family. If ever you or one of your goons as much as makes an approach to any of them, you’ll be taking your sustenance through a tube for the next month.”

  “Ooh, I love it when you talk tough,” he said.

  I picked up my change and turned away. He called after me: “You know what they say, Mr Priest, vice is nice, but…” The rest of it was lost in the mindless drumbeat, but I knew what he meant: Vice is nice, but incest is best. It rhymes, which is the sole reason for its memorability.

  There were only three of them. Shani saw me first and waved, causing Sophie to look up from her glass and give me a smile that did more for me than the lager ever could.

  “Who’s missing?” I asked, sitting down.

  “Josie,” Sophie told me. “She’s doing a year in Italy before university.”

  “And next week you’ll all be gone, will you?”

  “Week after is Freshers’ week for me,” she explained. “But this is our last night out.” Shani was going to London and the other girl, Frances, to Keele.

  “Looks like I’ll be here on my own, then,” I said, pulling a face.

  “Aw!” they cried, in sympathy, and Shani reached out and put her hand on m
ine. “We’ll make a special point of coming to see you during vacation,” she promised.

  Sophie thanked me for the microwave and I mumbled something about having a new one. I offered to buy drinks but they said it was their turn and Frances went to fetch them. While she was gone Shani said: “We’re sorry about what it said in the papers, Charlie. They don’t care what they print, as long as it sells.”

  Sophie looked at me, blushing slightly. “I told them what happened,” she began, “when you and Dad…you know.”

  “That’s all right, Sophie,” I told her. “They have to print something.”

  “But it doesn’t seem fair,” Shani said.

  “Fair!” I retorted with mock indignation. “Fair! What’s fair got to do with it? It isn’t fair that you’re all going to university while I have to stay here. It isn’t fair that you have looks and brains, while I have to make do with just looks. And you’re ten years younger than me. What’s fair about that?”

  We had a dance and another drink, staying longer than before because it was a special occasion. I politely asked if I was in the way, offering to leave them to it, but they glanced round at the local talent and begged me to stay, hanging on to my arms, making a production of it. We left when they started playing something called garage music, recorded in the panel beating shop by the sound of it.

  It was the obligatory hot dogs at the stall outside, smothered in ketchup and mustard. I declined, sitting on the wall upwind of the smell until they’d finished. I watched them as they told stories about their teachers and boyfriends, and threw their heads back in girlish laughter.

  We dropped Frances off first. She was a shy, polite girl, and thanked me for the drink and the lift. I wished her well at Keele and told her that if she ever needed anyone sorting out she’d to let me know. She smiled and said she would.

  Shani lived less than half a mile from Sophie. Outside her house she gave me a kiss on the cheek and said: “I hope you catch ’em, Charlie, whoever they are.”

  “Good luck, Shani,” I replied, “and keep in touch.” I waited until she was safely inside before driving off.

  We didn’t speak for the last leg of the journey, both probably engrossed in our thoughts. At the top of Sophie’s street I switched off the engine, doused the lights and coasted like a Stealth bomber towards her home, which was in darkness. I slowed on the brakes, very gently, and came to a silent stop outside her gate. I pulled the handbrake on and turned to face my passenger, my best friend’s daughter, my goddaughter.

  I could smell her perfume. It was Mitsouko by Guerlain, as used by Annabelle, my last love. Annabelle was accepted for Oxford when she was Sophie’s age, but went to Africa instead and married a bishop. Sitting there, in the dark, it could have been Annabelle next to me.

  “Sophie,” I began. She turned to face me, leaning her head on the back of her seat. I reached out and her hand found mine. I heard myself exhale a big breath, not knowing where to begin. “Cambridge, next week,” I tried.

  Sophie nodded. “Mmm,” she mumbled.

  “I just want to say that, you know, it’s a whole new world for you. It is for anyone. If you have any, you know, difficulties…”

  “If I have any problems,” she interrupted, “if anyone gives me any hassle, let you know and you’ll come down and sort them out.”

  “Well, that’s part of it.”

  “It’s all right, Charles,” she continued. “Nobody will give me any hassle, and Dad’s said the same thing to me already.”

  “It’s not just that,” I told her. “What I really meant was, well, money’s bound to be tight. Impoverished students, and all that. Don’t do without, Sophie. And don’t keep running to your dad. I wanted to buy you something special, but I didn’t know what. There’ll be books you’ll need, and other things. You’re my family, too, you know, all I’ve got, so come to me first, eh?”

  She bowed her head and put her other hand on mine. After a few moments she looked up and said: “That’s really lovely of you, Charles. Dad had told me that, too, but…”

  “What?” I interjected. “He told you to come to me if you were short of money? Wait ’till I see him…”

  She squeezed my fingers, saying: “No, silly, he told me to go to him first, not Mum.”

  We sat smiling at each other in the dark, our fingers intertwined. After a while Sophie asked: “Is it true you saved Dad’s life?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “He told Mum you did. She said he won’t talk about it but that’s why you are such good friends.”

  “I hope we’re good friends because we get on well together,” I replied. “We’ve had a few adventures, like all policemen, that’s all.”

  “She said it was a long time ago, when you were both PCs.”

  “Oh, I remember,” I declared. “Yes, it was when we were both PCs. We were at Leeds Town Hall Magistrates’ Court, and your dad had to go in the witness box to give evidence. Someone pinned a note on his back that said: I am a plonker. Everybody would have seen it when he went to the box, so I told him about it. He said: ‘Thanks, Charlie, you saved my life.’ That must be what he means.”

  Sophie squeezed my fingers. “I don’t believe you,” she giggled.

  “Well it’s true.”

  “Charles…”

  “Mmm?”

  “I…I love you.”

  It was a tiny, hesitant voice, but the words were unmistakable, what we all long to hear: I love you. What do you say: “Don’t be silly” or “You’ll get over it”? I never subscribed to the views that babies don’t feel pain, or that the emotions of the young are less valid than those of their parents. Love at eighteen is probably as glorious — or as agonising — as it gets.

  “Yes, I know,” I replied, softly, aware that I hadn’t used the words myself for a long time, not sure how they would sound. “And I love you.” There, it was easy, once you took the plunge. The pressure of her fingers increased. “I loved you when you were a baby,” I explained, but it was not what she wanted to hear and her grip loosened. “And when you were a moody teenager.”

  “I was never a moody teenager,” she protested.

  “No, you weren’t. You’ve never been anything less than delightful. And I love you now, as a beautiful young woman. Love changes, and it’s a different sort of love.” She was squeezing my fingers again.

  “But,” I went on, “this is as far as it can go. You realise that, don’t you?”

  She looked at me and nodded. We held each other’s gaze for a few moments until, as if by some secret signal, we both moved forward and our lips met.

  We pressed them together, held them there, and then parted. I disengaged my fingers from hers and sat back. Her mouth had stayed closed, no tongue sliding out like a viper from under a stone to insinuate its way into my mouth and check out my fillings. She was still her daddy’s little girl. “That was nice,” I whispered.

  “Mmm.” She agreed.

  “Remember what I said.”

  “Yes.” She reached for the door handle, then turned, saying: “I think Annabelle is a fool.” From the pavement she added: “And I hate her,” and reinforced her words by slamming the door so hard that the pressure wave popped both my ears. Why do women do that? I watched her into the house and drove home. I don’t know why, but there was more joy in my heart than I’d felt in a long time.

  Somerset Bob rang me Friday morning and I told him what I wanted. He was pleased and eager to be on the case and suggested I come down the A420, M4, and A350, but not the A361. I began to worry that we’d spend most of Saturday discussing the merits of the motorway versus those of A-roads, in which case I’d have to remind him of why I was there, but he was just being helpful and I needn’t have worried. He invited me to stay the night with himself and his wife if we had a long day and I couldn’t face the journey home, which was thoughtful of him.

  I pulled everything that might be useful from the Silkstone file and made copies for Somerset. I was extricat
ing details of his early life in Heckley from the photocopier chute when Annette joined me, holding a letter she wanted duplicating.

  “What’s all that?” she asked.

  “Stuff about Silkstone, for Somerset,” I replied. “I’m going down there tomorrow to look at their files.”

  “There looks to be a lot.”

  “There is.”

  “Why didn’t you ask? I could have done it for you.”

  “Because: a, you were busy; and b, you’re a detective, not a clerical assistant.”

  “Sorry,” she replied. “Put it down to a hundred thousand years of conditioning.”

  “Pull the other one,” I responded, lifting the original off the bed and gesturing for her to put her document on it.

  “Thanks, I only want one copy.” I pressed the button for her. “Are you driving down?” she asked.

  “’Fraid so. Early start, about six o’clock.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  The light tube moved across and back again, and I lifted the lid. “Why?” I asked. “Aren’t you going to York?”

  “No. He’s taking the girls to see their grandma. It’s her birthday, and I’m not invited.”

  “Damn!” I cursed. “I wish I’d known. I’ve arranged to stay the night at Bob — the DC’s — house. It would have been a good day out, and you could have shared the driving.”

  “Tell him there’s been a change of plans.”

  I thought about it. “How were you going to spend the day?” I asked.

  “Shopping in Leeds, and a hair-do,” she replied.

  “Harvey Nick’s? House of Fraser?” I suggested.

  “That’s right.”

  “Treat yourself?”

  “You bet!”

  “Made an appointment for the hair-do?”

  “Yes. What’s all this leading to?”

  “No,” I said. “Thanks for the offer, Annette, but you have your day out in town. You’ve probably been looking forward to it, and you deserve it.”

  “I don’t mind cancelling,” she offered.

  “No, but there is one thing.”