Wednesday I decided to go in early and start the day with breakfast in the canteen. I wasn’t sleeping well, too much on my mind, and it’s a good atmosphere in there, early in the morning. The place is warm and steamy, loud with banter and fragrant with the smells of crispy bacon, sausages and toast. It’s a good way of meeting the troops – the PCs who do all the real policing – and I always leave with high blood-sugar levels and a smile on my face, armed with a couple of new jokes to tell the boys. Except it didn’t work out that way.
I was still at home, having a mug of tea and listening to Classic FM when the phone rang. It was Sparky. Sparky ringing me at six thirty means only one thing: he can’t sleep, either. “Tell me all about it,” I sighed.
“You seen TV AM this morning, Charlie?” he asked.
“No.” Sad though my life was, I still had a bit left before I was that low.
“Just before the news headlines they do a round-up of all the papers,” he explained. “I usually watch it, just to catch up.”
“And…” I prompted.
“Well, this morning, you’re all over the front page of the UK News.”
“Eh? Me? Why, what does it say?”
“I’ll see you in the office, and bring one in with me.”
“I could collect one at…”
“No,” he interrupted. “You’d better go straight in. Believe me, it’s not nice.”
Chapter Thirteen
There was a sprinkling of early birds in the office when I arrived. They raised their heads from their newspapers and followed me to my little enclave, where Dave was waiting. He closed the copy of UK News that he was perusing and spun it round for me to read.
One photograph took up most of the page. It was of Tony Silkstone, head bowed, tears glistening on his cheeks. But it was the caption that caught my attention. In the biggest typeface that the page could accommodate it said:
HOUNDED BY KILLER COP
Inside was a photograph of me, taken when I left the office, Monday evening, with World Exclusive emblazoned across my forehead. A panel in large print informed the nation that I once shot dead an unarmed man, and now I was persecuting Tony Silkstone, the hero who did what the police had failed to do by ridding society of scumbag sex murderer Peter Latham, also pictured. On the next page but one, after a full-page special of a naked seventeen-year-old girl nibbling at a Cadbury’s Flake, the editorial called me a renegade and a vigilante. Is this the kind of police force we want? it asked.
“The bastards,” I heard a voice behind me say.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “The bastards.” I turned back to the photo of me and carefully folded the paper. “Look,” I said, holding it towards the speaker. “They didn’t even get my best side.”
Willy O’Hagan was no-hoper mixed up in a drugs ring that we investigated. We raided a doss house one morning and he fired at me with a shotgun. Foolishly, I was alone at the time, and armed only with a little Walther two-two. There’s a maxim among security forces that says minimum violence requires a maximum show of force. I got it wrong. I thought I knew best, but I got it wrong and I’ve reminded myself of that mistake almost every night since. O’Hagan swung his gun my way and blew a great chunk out of the chipboard wardrobe I was trying to hide behind, inches from my face. I loosed off three quick shots at him and he died a few minutes later. Then we noticed that his shotgun only had one barrel, and it wasn’t a repeater. I’d killed an unarmed man.
The inquest was a whitewash, but I went along with it. He’d fired first, at an un-named police officer and that officer had returned fire. Lawful killing, justifiable homicide, call it what you will. I thought I’d heard the last of it, apart from the voices in the night, but Prendergast had done his homework. Like I said, they were fighting dirty.
Notoriety has its compensations. I laid low for the rest of the day, drinking coffee, catching up on paperwork and talking to our press office. They issued a statement, putting my case forward, and released a photograph that was used at the inquest, showing a uniformed PC standing where I’d been standing in O’Hagan’s bedroom, with the corner blown off the cheap wardrobe. I blinked when I saw it, feeling the sting of debris hitting my face and eyes, seeing O’Hagan’s form swimming before me, then falling to the floor.
I had a night in and watched the England game on TV, a couple of cans of Newcastle Brown at my elbow, like any good detective would do. The beer went down better than the football. With no goals scored and ten minutes to go our golden boy striker booted their dirty sweeper right in the penalty area and was sent off. One-nil to them, and that’s how it ended. I bought a UK News on my way in next morning, but it was all football and ladies’ chests; nothing at all about the Killer Cop. We were yesterday’s news.
There was a big pink envelope on my desk, and the office was full. Was I missing something? I opened it and pulled out the card it held. It said: Congratulations on your 100th birthday. Inside, someone had written in a decent italic script: To Charlie, just to let you know that we’re all with you, and everybody in the station had signed it. I walked out into the big office and flapped it at them. “Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate it.”
“Did you organise this?” I asked Annette, after the briefing and morning prayers, when she brought me a coffee. The big card was propped on my windowsill.
“Not guilty, Sir,” she replied.
“Well it was good of someone to go to the trouble. Tell whoever it was I said so, will you?”
“Will do.”
“Fetch your coffee and join me, please,” I said. “I need some company.”
She came back and sat in my visitor’s chair, crossing her legs at the ankle, like any well-brought-up girl should. She was wearing a pinstripe suit with a knee-length skirt and a white blouse but no jewellery. “Don’t suppose you watched the football last night?” I asked.
“No,” she laughed. “Did you?”
“It was pathetic.” After an awkward silence I added: “But at least it kept us out of the papers.”
“Charlie…” Annette began. I looked at her, inviting her to continue. “Are you all right? We all know the truth about what happened, but it doesn’t seem fair that…you know, that only one side of it gets published.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I half hoped that there’d be a more balanced report this morning, but I should have known better. Never trust the press, Annette. Never.”
“What you need,” she told me, “is a really hot curry, with a few lagers to cool it down. It’s Thursday – my treat, my car. OK?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry,” I replied, “but I’ve something on tonight.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, never mind. Some other time, perhaps.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Some other time.”
We finished our coffees and she picked up the mugs. As she left I said: “The Deputy Chief Constable’s coming to see me at eleven, so spread the word. Either be busy or be gone.”
I was waiting in Gilbert’s office when the DCC arrived, a great bundle of newspapers under his arm. “This is a pretty pass, Charlie,” he said, unrolling them on to Gilbert’s desk. At least I was still Charlie.
“Anything in them?” Gilbert asked.
“Not a bloody sausage from our point of view. All flaming football in the tabloids and a couple of the broadsheets have picked up on the UK News’s original story. The Mirror and the Sun will pretend it never happened, because they didn’t get there first, and the others might eventually print something if there isn’t a more important scandal on offer, like a pregnant soap star.”
I grinned, saying: “You have a highly jaundiced view of our free and fearless press, Mr Pritchard.”
“From years of experience dealing with ’em, Charlie. Now, what are we going to do?”
Don’t you just love it when they ask you before telling you? He was retiring in a few weeks, so could afford to be generous and one of the boys. He’d come to the odd reunion or retirement party, but his authority would have
gone and any influence he may have held would soon evaporate. What he’d like, all that he could hope for, was that people like me would talk about him with respect. “He wasn’t a bad old stick;” “You always knew where you stood with him;” “He was firm but fair;” or perhaps even: “We could do with him back.”
He didn’t take me off the case, he just destroyed the case. I’d done a good job, he said, had seen possibilities that were not immediately evident to other officers and pursued them with my usual diligence. The story, as I had related it, certainly had credibility. But the time had come to draw back, reconsider our position. Without forensics to link Silkstone with the death of his wife and Marie-Claire, we were leaving ourselves open to criticism. Silkstone had killed Latham, a known sex offender, and a vociferous amount of public opinion was behind him. We needed to channel that opinion so that it was with us, the police service, and not provoke it.
“We can only do our job with the consent of the people, Charlie,” he said. “Never forget that.” I think he read it on a fortune cookie.
“So what do you want to do? Close the case?” I asked.
“Close is rather an extreme way of putting it,” he replied. “Why not allow things to settle down somewhat and see what transpires, eh?”
“Put it on the back burner?” Gilbert suggested.
“Yes, put it on the back burner. And then, if anything else turns up, you can always re-open the investigation. But keep a low profile, the next time. I always find that the softly-softly approach has a lot going for it.”
“How long would you suggest before we looked at it again?” I asked.
“Oh, a couple of years?” he replied.
“And what about Jason Gelder?”
His smile turned sour for a moment, then returned in all its supercilious smarm. “I think we should leave that for Mr Isles to sort out, don’t you?”
I clumped down the stairs one at a time, dragging my hand on the polished banister, banging each foot on to the next step. I was hoping a friendly face would come the other way so I could shout at them, yelling: “What’s it got to do with you how I am?” but none came. I thrust my hands deep in my pockets and skulked back to the office.
Jeff Caton was the only person there, his head deep in that morning’s Gazette. “That all you’ve got to do?” I asked.
“Hi, Chas,” he said, looking up. “Nothing in it, I’m afraid. Nothing about us, that is. The release will have gone out too late for this edition.”
“But?”
“But there’s something in the free ads that might be worth looking at. Bloke selling a box of fifty King Edward cigars for fifty quid. Says they’re an unwanted gift.”
“Maybe he’s stopped smoking.”
“Maybe, but it’s the seventh week the advert’s been in.”
“Really? What are they worth?”
“About twice that.”
“I’m convinced. Let’s go round in the morning and kick his door down. On second thoughts, let’s go round now, just the two of us. I feel like some aggro.”
Jeff laughed. “I’ll call round later, posing as a buyer. What’s brought this on?”
“Oh, Pritchard,” I told him. “Wants me to drop chasing Silkstone. He hasn’t taken me off the case, but I’ve to leave him alone. It’s back to keeping the fair streets of Heckley safe enough for decent people to go about their business. Who cares if one of them just happens to be a psychopath?”
“Maybe he’s a fellow lodge member.”
“No, it’s just bad public relations. I’m the ugly face of the police force.”
I went into my office and gathered up all the papers on my desk, piling them in the in-tray. I slumped in my chair and put my feet on the desk, pushing the chair back until the angle was just right. You can make yourself surprisingly comfortable like that. I checked the position of the big hand on the clock and closed my eyes. With a bit of luck the phone wouldn’t ring for ten or eleven minutes.
Three minutes, but it was Annette, so I didn’t mind. “Boss, I’m at the front desk,” she said, sounding breathless.
“Well, you see those stairs on your left? Go up the first flight and your…”
“I’m interviewing a girl in number two,” she interrupted. “Says she was followed by a stalker. I think you should come down and hear what she says.”
“I’m a bit busy,” I lied. “Can’t you deal with it?”
“I can deal with it, no problem,” she replied, “but I think you’d like to hear it for yourself. Believe me, Boss, you would.”
“OK, I’m on my way.” I swung my feet down on to the plain but functional carpet and reached for my jacket.
She was a big girl, with a bright, open face. Her hair was swept straight back into a ponytail and her complexion wasn’t too good, but she had a nice smile and that makes up for a lot. Her school skirt was short, stretched tight around her crossed thighs, and she wore a blue V-necked pullover with a school badge on it. Apart from all that, she was sitting in my chair. I smiled at her and moved round the table to where the prisoner usually sits.
“This is Debbie Collins,” Annette said, “and this is Inspector Priest. He’s in charge of the case.”
“I know,” Debbie replied. “I saw your picture in the paper.”
“That’s me,” I told her. “Now what can I do for you?”
Annette answered for her: “I’ve recorded an interview with Debbie, but she said she doesn’t mind going through it again.”
“OK. Let’s hear it, then, Debbie, in your own words, at your own speed.”
She leaned forward, placing one hand on the table. “It was one morning last June,” she began. “I was going to school.”
“Which one?” I interjected.
“Heckley Sixth Form College. This man waved to me, from a car. I waved back, sort of instinctively, if you follow me. But when I thought about it I hadn’t a clue who he was.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “Somebody waves and you wave back. It happens to all of us.”
“Yeah, well, a few mornings later I saw him again. I was waiting to cross the road and he drove by. This time he smiled and gave a little wave, like that.” She raised a hand, as if off a steering wheel. “I didn’t smile back, I don’t think. Next time I saw him was in the afternoon, as I walked home, and he smiled again.”
“Did you take his number?” I asked.
“No, sorry. I didn’t think too much about it. Then, a couple of weeks later, after we’d had our French exam, he stopped his car. I was smoking a cig. I don’t normally, it’s a stupid habit, but we were in the middle of exams and I was nervous. I took one of my dad’s to school with me, to have afterwards, and I was smoking it on the way home and he asked me for a light.”
“He stopped the car and asked you for a light?”
“No, not quite. I saw him drive past and he pulled into the shopping precinct and dashed into the newsagents. He came out with a new packet of Benson and Hedges, and that’s when he asked me. He sort of pretended he wasn’t in a car and walked out on to the path, in front of me. Said he’d lost his matches and could he have a light.”
“Were you frightened?” I asked.
“No,” she replied. “I was bigger than him. I’d’ve socked him if he’d tried anything.” Her face lit up in a smile, and she looked lovely.
“Did he say anything else?”
“Well, just something, you know, suggestive.”
“He propositioned you?”
“Not quite. He held the cigs out and said: ‘Can I give you one?’ but it was obvious he didn’t mean the fags.” She smiled again and this time Annette and I joined her. She’d done the right thing, coming to us, but fortunately her experience, if this was all there was, hadn’t troubled her.
“And what happened next,” I asked.
“Nothing. I said no and he went off. After that I started walking home with some other girls. I saw him once, the following week, but I ignored him.”
“Wo
uld you recognise him again?” From the corner of my eye I saw Annette smile.
“Oh, yeah,” Debbie replied, sitting up. “I’d recognise him all right. It was him in the paper, with you, yesterday. Him who did that murder.”
“Oh,” I said, caught off guard. I hadn’t expected this. I sat up straight and placed both hands on the table. It shows that I’m being honest and concerned. “That must have been quite a shock for you.”
“It was.”
“Well, I’m pleased that your ordeal doesn’t appear to have frightened you too much, Debbie, although it must have been pretty scary at the time. You handled the situation very well, but if it does start to bother you at all, have a word with us. Come and see Annette or myself, anytime. Meanwhile, as you know, he can’t hurt you now, because…well…he’s dead.”
Her eyes widened and I heard Annette clear her throat. “No!” Debbie insisted. “Not him! Not Peter Latham. It wasn’t him who followed me, it was the other one: Tony Silkstone.”
I sat looking at her for an age, she returning my gaze from small blue eyes and her cheap scent spreading out across the rickety table. I glanced at Annette, whose grin looked as if it might bubble over into joyous laughter at any moment.
“When?” I managed, eventually. “When did you see him the first time? You said it was June. June the what?”
Annette said: “Debbie has checked when her French exam was, and believes it was on June the ninth.”
“One week before Margaret Silkstone died,” I stated.
“And probably the day Silkstone came home early and caught them together,” Annette added.
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