Chill Factor

by Stuart Pawson

  “I thought you might have mentioned, for some reason, that your father was a policeman. Did you?”

  Her podgy face turned the colour of my white socks after I washed them with my goalie sweater, and one hand went to her mouth to have its nails nibbled.

  “It’s not a crime, Dionne,” I assured her. “You’re not in trouble for it, but I’d like to know what you told him.”

  “’E’s a bit dense, isn’t ’e,” she stated. “Jason? Yes,” I agreed, “he does have a few problems in the brain department, like not being able to find one. Go on, please.”

  “Well, it were like this. We were just passing ’Eckley nick – the cop station – an I said: ‘Me dad’s in there.’ Someone, a cop, ’ad rung me mam, earlier that night to say that ’e’d been done again for drunk and disorderly an’ they were keeping ’im in t’cells until ’e sobered up. ’E was jumping up an’ down in t’fountain, or summat, but I didn’t tell ’im that.”

  “And what did Jason have to say?”

  “’E got right excited, daft sod. ‘What, your dad’s a cop?’ ’e said. ‘Yeah,’ I told ’im. ‘’E’s a detective.’ ‘Blimey!’ ’e said. That’s all. I think it…you know.”

  “Know what?”

  “Nowt.”

  She clammed up, and I knew she’d reached some indeterminate limit that I wouldn’t push her past no matter how hard I tried. Everybody has one. I could only guess what she’d been about to say. That Jason became excited at the thought of shagging a detective’s daughter? Probably.

  “That’s very useful, Dionne,” I told her. “And then you went to the brickyard, I believe.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Right. Now this is where it gets a bit personal, I’m afraid. Not to put too fine a point on it, Dionne, and not wanting to pry into your private life, I have to ask you this: did the two of you make love that night, at the brickyard?”

  “Yeah,” she replied, as readily as she might admit to sneaking an extra chocolate biscuit. “We did it in the front of ’is car.”

  “Right,” I said, nodding my approval at her answer, if not her morals. “Good. And can I ask you if he wore a condom?”

  “Yeah, I made sure of that.”

  “Good. I don’t suppose you remember if you did it more than once, do you?”

  “Yeah, we did it twice. ’E was dead eager.” I swear she blushed again at the memory, or maybe the gas fire was reaching her.

  “And he had two condoms with him, had he?”

  “No just one, but I ’ad one. We used mine the second time.”

  “Very wise of you to carry one,” I told her. “You can’t be too careful, these days.”

  “You’re telling me,” she said, swinging her legs off the settee and facing me. “You won’t catch me risking it. Did you know,” she asked, “that when you ’ave sex with someone it’s like ’aving contact with everyone that they’d ever ’ad sex with? Miss Coward told us that in social health education. Put the wind up me, it did. So if you ’ave sex with, say, ten people, its like you’ve really ’ad it with a ’undred.”

  “Gosh!” I exclaimed.

  “An worse than that, if you did it with twenty, that’s like doing it with four ’undred. Four ’undred! In one go! Can you believe that?”

  “No,” I admitted. “It’s frightening. But I’ll say this, Dionne: you’re good at maths.”

  “Yeah, ’S’my best subject. Nobody cheats me.”

  “Good for you. So, when you’d finished, you know, doing it, what did Jason do with the condoms?”

  “What did ’e do with them?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Well, what d’you think?”

  “You tell me.”

  “’E just dropped ’em out of the window, that’s all.”

  And when you’d gone, I thought, somebody waiting in the shadows picked them off the dew-laden grass, and the following day he smeared their contents on the rapidly cooling thighs of Marie-Claire Hollingbrook.

  “Thanks, Dionne,” I said, rising to leave. “You’ve been a big help.” I couldn’t dislike her, or feel anything bad about her. Just sorrow for the world she’d grown up in. At the door I said: “These condoms you carry. Are you embarrassed when you buy them, like I am?”

  “No,” she replied. “I pinch them out of me mam’s ’and-bag.”

  I smiled and flapped a wave at her, and walked back to the car, wondering how on earth I could have confused her with Sophie, my beloved Sophie. Cursing myself, hating myself, ashamed of myself. Les Isles wasn’t surprised when I phoned him to say that he probably had the wrong man. He’d wondered about something like this, but Jason was still number one in the frame. “Let’s just say that our enquiries are continuing,” he admitted.

  I could help you there, I thought, but I held my tongue. Instead, I drove all the way back to Halifax, to the street where Angus Hollingbrook expected to live happily-ever-after in a dream home, until his wife was murdered. He’d removed their name from the little space at the side of the bell, but there were only two of them and I assumed that the top one was for the upstairs flat. Sometimes you have to make these judgements.

  I pressed the button several times, retreating to the gate after each burst and looking up at the windows. Eventually I saw a face and he gave me a wave of recognition. “Sorry to trouble you, Angus,” I told him when he opened the door, “but a thought occurred to me. Can we have a word?” His eyes were rimmed with red and he was wearing a dressing gown over a T-shirt and jeans.

  “I was having a snooze,” he said. “Come in.” Halfway up the stairs he turned to say: “It’s a bit of a mess. They allowed me back in a week last Monday, but I haven’t done anything. I’m still finding grey powder all over the place.”

  He opened a door and we moved into a big white-walled room that could have been the annex to a gallery. Half of the wall opposite the window was covered with a hanging that had me spellbound. It was a kaleidoscope of textures in all the colours of the moors, changing and drifting as cloud shadows passed over the earth’s surface and the wind stirred the heather. “That’s gorgeous,” I whispered as I stood before it, smelling the wet peat, hearing the call of a curlew.

  “That’s all I have of her now,” he said. “That and some photographs.”

  “Your wife was a very talented lady,” I told him, relieved that we’d brought her into the conversation but hating myself for it.

  “Would you like a coffee, Inspector?” he asked.

  “No thanks, Angus. I’ll just ask you a couple of questions, then get out of your way.” He gestured for me to sit down and I sank into a chromium and leather chair that was surprisingly comfortable. How it would feel after an hour was another matter, because there was nowhere to hook your leg, loll your head or balance a glass. The room didn’t have enough stuff in it to look untidy. Everything was cleancut almost to the point of being clinical, but they’d started from scratch and stayed with a style. Only the wall hanging brought a touch of softness to the room, and I suspected the contrast was deliberate, to increase its impact.

  “The grey stuff you keep finding is aluminium powder,” I explained, glad to be on familiar territory. “The fingerprint people use it. The particles are flat, like tiny platelets, so they don’t distort when it’s lifted with sticky tape.”

  “I thought it must be theirs,” he said, lowering himself onto a matching chair. “So, er, what is it you wanted to ask me?”

  “When we were sitting in the car,” I began, “you said that you and Marie were considering buying this place. I’d like to know how far you went along that route.”

  He looked puzzled, shrugged his shoulders, opened his mouth to speak and closed it again. He was upset because another cop was bandying his wife’s name – his dead wife’s name – as if he’d known her for years. I’m afraid there’s no way around that one. “It was Marie’s idea,” he said. “I wasn’t keen because I’m not earning much, just expenses, and Marie’s earnings were erratic, so we weren’t a g
ood risk for a mortgage.”

  “So who did you approach?” I asked.

  “Well, we, er, tried all the building societies,” he told me, “but they didn’t want to know.”

  “Here in Halifax?” I asked. Home of the daddy of them all. Once they were a mutual society, existing for the benefit of members, whether they be investors or borrowers. Now they are part of the big conspiracy, doing it for shareholders

  and the Great God Profit.

  “Yeah.” He gave a little smile at the memory. “You know how it is,” he went on, “these days they’ll give you a loan to have the cat neutered, as long as they’re sure they’ll get their money back, or that you don’t really need it. Everybody was very polite, but they were all sniggering behind their hands. We wanted a repayment mortgage, because of all the trouble we’d read about with endowment policies, but nobody would give us one. ‘Open an account and come back in two years’ was the best offer we had.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “Nothing. Marie cut some adverts out of the papers and sent away for an application form, but when I explained to her that a secured loan meant that it was them that were secure, not us, she lost interest.”

  “Who was that with?”

  “No idea. Some company I’d never heard of.”

  “Which papers do you take?”

  “The Telegraph, usually, but I switch around a bit. Oh, and the Gazette.”

  “The Halifax edition of the Gazette, I presume.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “No tabloids?” I asked.

  “No, not usually.”

  “And did she receive the application form?”

  “Yes. I didn’t want to send it back, but Marie said it couldn’t hurt to find out what they offered.”

  “And would they give you a mortgage?”

  He shook his head. “We didn’t hear back from them, and then…”

  And then all this happened. “Do you still have any covering letter that came with the application form, or the advert from the paper?” I asked.

  “I imagine so.”

  “I’d be grateful if you could find them for me.”

  “Why, Inspector? What’s it all about. You’ve caught the…the person who killed my wife, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “A young man has been charged, as you know. Let’s just say that I’m following a certain line of enquiry. These days it’s not enough to prove who did the deed, we have to show that nobody else could have done it. We have to pre-empt any suggestions by the defence that another party, a mysterious unknown party, could be involved. You’d never believe the stories they’ll concoct to sow a few seeds of doubt in the jurors’ minds.” And I’m not bad at concocting a few of my own, I thought.

  He believed me and went to find the documents. I wondered if there was a room next door where they kept everything: piled up to the picture rail with cardboard boxes, overflowing bin liners and bulging suitcases, but he was back in thirty seconds, carrying a thin file. “They should be in here,” he said, pulling a sheaf of papers from it.

  They weren’t. I recognised a couple of bank books, an insurance policy and what looked like their tenancy agreement, but there was nothing relating to a mortgage application. “Sorry,” he said. “Marie must have thrown it away. Like I said, I tried to discourage her.”

  As I walked back to the car I saw another Heckley bus leaving the kerbside, the front of it swinging out only inches from the car parked adjacent to the stop. I caught up with it on the climb out of town, and tucked in behind.

  It did the grand tour, leaving the main road to call at every village, dropping off pensioners who’d strayed past the cheap fare deadline, picking up schoolchildren who had stayed behind and office workers carrying briefcases and shopping. When the bus stopped, I stopped. When it crawled up hills, I dropped into first gear and followed it. When it swooped down into the valley, swaying wildly and leaving a cloud of dust and gutter debris billowing in its wake, I hung back, waiting for the disaster that never came.

  It took nearly an hour to reach the outskirts of Heckley, where I abandoned the chase, turning off the ring road near a fast bend where a tattered bunch of plastic flowers and a teddy bear marked the spot where young Jamie What’s-his-name died, three months ago. Why would anyone want to commemorate such a place? It’s one of those little mysteries that haunt my sleepless nights, like why do Volvo cars have their lights on during daylight hours, but Volvo lorries don’t? I parked in a lay-by, near a fingerpost that said: Footpath to Five Rise Locks. It was twenty-five minutes past five, but good ol’ Dave Sparkington was still at his desk when I rang him. A little bit of me was wishing that Annette would answer the phone, but it was Dave I needed right then.

  “It’s past your home time, Sunshine,” I said. “What are you up to?”

  “I’m doing police work. What are you up to is more like it.”

  “You’d never believe me. Listen, I’m at Five Rise Locks and could be in that pub called the Anglers in five minutes. It’s two for the price of one before six. Did I hear you say that Shirley had gone to her mother’s today?”

  “I’ll be about half an hour. See you there.”

  Evidently she had. “What about the kids?” I asked.

  “Never mind them, I’m on my way.”

  “OK, but don’t be late, I’m famished.”

  “I’m coming.”

  I strode up the hill to the canal side, where five locks in rapid succession lift the waterway a hundred feet, and crossed over by the footbridge. A narrow-boat was waiting for a companion, before moving up to the next level and sending ten million gallons of water in the opposite direction. The people on the boat wished me a good afternoon and the smell of their cooking made me feel even hungrier. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Turn left to the Anglers, a hundred yards away, right towards Mountain Meadows, home of Tony Silkstone, less than half a mile up the towpath. I looked at my watch and headed right.

  There were two pot-bellied ponies in the paddock between his house and the canal, and one of his neighbours was using a strimmer or a chainsaw, or some other implement with an engine that made more noise than horsepower. Further along, four cormorants were perched in a dead tree, one of them spreading his wings to catch a brief burst of afternoon sun, the others hunched like judges. The fishermen are always writing to the Gazette to complain about the cormorants eating all the fish. The birds have been driven inland because there is nothing left for them in the coastal waters, their natural habitat, and the anglers are too dumb to realise that if there were no fish in the canal the cormorants would leave. The birds are just better at catching them than they are. I think they’re cormorants, but they might be shags. I checked the time again and started back towards the pub. Halfway there I saw Silkstone’s car coming up the lane at the other side of the field. Maybe he’d join us, I thought.

  Dave pulled into the carpark at the same time as I arrived, and uncurled his bulky frame from the car. “What’s the difference between a cormorant and a shag?” I asked him as we walked in together.

  “A cormorant and a shag?”

  “Yep.”

  “Um, is it that you don’t feel like a cigarette after a cormorant?” It was gloomy inside, but warm and friendly, even though

  it was a large place, recently given a makeover, and we were the only customers. A young woman in uniform blouse and skirt greeted us as if we were an endangered species and asked what we’d like. Here to serve you said the badge on her blouse and a blackboard behind the bar told us that the guest beer was Sam Smith’s.

  “Pint of Sam’s?” I suggested, and Dave nodded his agreement. “Make that two, please,” I said, and she started pulling the pints, lifting them on to the bar after a few moments while the froth subsided.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” she asked.

  I studied the chalked-up menu. “Yes, please. We’d like to order some food. Is it still two for one?”

 
The young woman looked at the clock. “Yes sir. Which table are you at?”

  As we’d just walked in and were standing at the bar, I wasn’t sure of the answer to that one. Dave came to the rescue. “Over by the window,” he said, pointing, and the girl said it was table number twelve.

  “Twelve,” I repeated. “Remember that, Dave. Number

  twelve.”

  “Twelve,” he said. “Right. Twelve.” “What would you like, Sir,” she asked, still smiling.

  “Er, I think the gammon and pineapple,” I said, “with a jacket potato, and, um, the half a chicken, again with a jacket potato.”

  She tapped the order into the till. They don’t have numbers on the keys, these days. Instead it says: chicken and chips, egg and chips, ham and chips, ham eggs and chips, and so on.

  “Is that everything?” she asked, her finger poised over the give them the bill key.

  “No,” Sparky interjected. “I’d like some food, too. I’ll have the steak and kidney pie and…oh, half a chicken, both with chips.”

  It’s hungry work, being a cop, and we’re growing lads.

  Saturday morning we told Silkstone that we’d be interviewing him again on Monday, so come prepared. I had long conversations with Mr Wood and Les Isles and they both agreed with what I was doing. Les wanted to be present, but we haven’t worked together since we were constables and I gave it the thumbs down. Besides, I wanted Dave with me. Dave and I go together like rhubarb crumble and custard, or mince pies and Wensleydale cheese. Mmm! There’s none of this nice and nasty routine with us; we’re both our normal, charming selves, most of the time. In the file I found an advert for Silkstone’s company, Trans Global Finance, clipped from the Gazette. It said: Can’t get a mortgage? Low earnings? County court judgements? No problem! Secured loans available on all types of property. Send for an application form. Now! More or less what I’d expected.

  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.