Chill Factor

by Stuart Pawson

  Denver shook his head and laughed. “Kick a dog while it’s down, eh, Priest?”

  “He was besotted with Caroline,” I went on, “after he saw a photograph of her in the local paper, as a twelve-year-old. He saved the photo, bought a glossy print from the paper and kept it as a souvenir, until he planted it in Latham’s bedroom to throw suspicion on him.”

  Denver said. “Let’s face it, Priest, you’ve got Tony for doing a scumbag like Latham and now you’re trying to pin every unsolved crime on your books on him. Makes your figures look good but meanwhile the real killers go free. A confession for manslaughter isn’t good enough for you, is it? No glory in that for Charlie Priest the Killer Cop, is there? You’ll have to do better than that, Squire, you really will.”

  “We’ll see,” I replied, standing up to leave.

  “You haven’t finished your lager,” Denver said, eagerly gesturing for me to sit down again. He wanted more.

  “I’d rather drink from the drip tray at the path lab, where I have to watch the results of his handiwork being dissected. You deserve each other.” I turned, then turned again. “Think about this,” I said. “Their marriage was on the rocks. Maybe he wanted to leave Margaret. Perhaps, just perhaps, she didn’t want him to go. She suspected he’d done the Caroline job and was threatening to confess to lying about it if he did leave her. That makes another good reason for wanting her dead.” I found my car key in my pocket and pointed it at Denver. “And just for the record,” I added before striding away from them, “the first two pints were non-alcoholic, and they tasted like piss.”

  On my way out I winked at the only other customer, sitting at a table near the door. Rodger, the shift tec’ gazed implacably through me as he lifted a square of gammon towards his mouth. Outside, the rain had started again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Peddling drugs is a serious offence, as serious as it gets, and some people believe that tobacco is as pernicious as any. Jeff Caton posed as a buyer of King Edwards and brought their advertiser back in with him. We sat him in a cell for an hour and decided to let him off with a caution, this time. Selling tobacco isn’t illegal but importing cigars, other than for your own consumption, is. He’d brought a thousand back from Spain and was a non-smoker.

  I put on my jacket, straightened my tie, and went downstairs to give him his bollocking, arranging my expression to one of suitable solemnity. He stood to make about a tenner per box of fifty, which would give him a grand profit of two hundred pounds. Somehow, I just couldn’t take it seriously. I told him that he was robbing the exchequer of their cut, reminded him that if he was prosecuted we could seize his assets, and suggested he didn’t waste my time again.

  “What about the rest of the cigars?” he asked. He was a real professional.

  “How many do you have left?”

  “Four boxes.”

  “Well put them on the compost heap.”

  Somerset Bob had left a message for me when I arrived back in the office. I tried his number but he’d gone out. “After the Eileen Kelly attack,” I asked him, when we finally crossed wires on Wednesday afternoon, “was the information released that you were looking for a Jaguar?”

  “Um, not sure,” he replied. “I’ll have to check the cuttings. Why do you need to know?”

  I told him about my little talk with Silkstone. “He clammed up as soon as I mentioned the mascot, as if he knew it had been a mistake. If he saved it, afterwards, we never found it when we searched his house.”

  “I’ll check. Want to know what I’ve dug up?”

  “Yes please.”

  “OK,” he began. “I’ve checked his insurance records and discovered a bit about the accidents. It wasn’t easy – they’ve had several take-overs since the time we’re talking about. The Jag was written off and sent to the crusher. Apparently it was vandalised after the accident and set alight. The MGB went to somewhere called Smith Brothers Safe Storage, which is one of those places where insurance cases are stored until a settlement is made. They’re at Newark. Silkstone’s occupation is down as area manager with a company called Burdon Developments and he covered the Midlands, which is probably why he was over there.”

  “Bet it wasn’t his fault,” I said.

  “No,” Bob agreed. “He was dead unlucky. An old lady stepped off the pavement right in front of him and he skidded on loose gravel avoiding her. Lost control and sideswiped a telegraph pole.”

  “Another write-off?” I asked.

  “No, the electricity board straightened it up and dabbed some creosote on and it was as good as new.”

  “That’s a relief. And what about the MG?”

  “Oh, that was a write-off. Bent the chassis beyond repair.”

  “It could happen to anyone. Have you taken it further?”

  “Haven’t managed to raise anyone at Smith Brothers, but I’ll keep trying.”

  “Do that, please, Bob,” I told him. “Who knows, somebody may have bought the wreck and rebuilt it. We’re getting warm, I can feel it.”

  Nigel had a date with a sister from St James’s, so he wasn’t at the Spinners that evening. I assumed he meant the hospital, but with my luck she’d probably be from a convent of the same name. Dave brought Shirley to make up the number, and we sat looking miserable, hardly speaking. On the Saturday they were taking Sophie and her belongings to Cambridge in a hired Transit, hence their gloom. I had no excuse. I told them that Annette and I had decided not to have a future together, but didn’t mention her other boyfriend; the one with the two daughters. I said that she wanted to stay with the CID and being linked romantically with the boss might not be a good career move. They made sympathetic sounds and Shirley said: “Oh, Charlie, what are we going to do with you?”

  I smiled, saying: “Looks like I’ll just have to wait for Sophie getting her degree,” and was rewarded with a growl from Dave as he picked up his glass. I’d touched his weak spot.

  Bob rang me in the middle of Thursday morning, in a state of high excitement. “The Smiths’ve still got records, Charlie,” he told me, “after all these years. I talked to the son of the original proprietor. He found the file, eventually, and it said that the MGB was sold as scrap to someone called Granville Burgess-Jones, who owns a small motor museum just outside Newark. He’s a regular with them, builds and restores vehicles. Sometimes they’re not always roadworthy, or might not have an engine in, but they look good. Most of them are just for show. We might be in with a chance, Charlie. You know what these collectors are like – never throw anything away. If the bonnet wasn’t damaged,” he gushed, “he might still have it.”

  “That’s fantastic,” I agreed. “Any chance of you getting over there?”

  “It’s a bit awkward for me,” he began, “and you’re quite a lot nearer…”

  “I understand, Bob,” I told him. “Give me all the names and numbers and leave it with me.”

  “There’s a couple of other things.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, after the Eileen Kelly assault we issued a statement saying that her attacker drove a dark sports car, possibly a Jaguar, so Silkstone would have known what we were looking for.”

  “And destroyed the mascot.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Mmm. Did you say a couple of things?”

  “Yeah. I’ve been thinking. Even if we find the actual bonnet, it won’t have a serial number on it, or anything. The only link between it and Silkstone is the paperwork. It’s vital we maintain the integrity of that.”

  “God, you’re right,” I told him. “Good thinking. OK, here’s what we do. I’ll set off for Newark in about, oh, an hour. Any chance of you ringing the local police and having someone meet me at the Smith Brothers’ yard, just to witness things? It’ll take me about two, two and a half hours to get there.”

  “No problem. Good luck, and let me know what you find.”

  “Thanks, Bob, you’ll be the first to know. Meanwhile, I’ve another job for you. Put it all down in w
riting, particularly this conversation. Make it read as if we have a hypothesis, and all we have to do to prove it is examine the bonnet of that MG. That’s what our entire case revolves around.”

  Five minutes with the map can save you fifty on the road. I just made that up. It needs working on, but it’s true. Head for the M1, A57 at J31 and then the A1 down into Newark. Smith Brothers were on a trading estate on the south side, as you left town, I was told. I memorised the route and set off.

  I reached my destination half an hour earlier than expected thanks to clear roads and a reckless disregard of speed limits, but I was still overtaken by a procession of expensive cars on the motorway, heading for the next appointment. They can’t all have believed that they’d be able to sweet-talk the traffic cops because they were on their way to nail a murderer, but they drove as if they did.

  I lost the half-hour looking for the yard. It was well outside town, at an old World War II bomber station, and the business was based on the storage capacity of three huge hangars. There were wrecked cars everywhere: piled in heaps outside; stacked neatly on pallets inside. Multicoloured conglomerates of twisted metal, chrome and glass; each one, I thought, bringing misery to someone. About ten people a day are killed on our roads, dotted about the country like a mild case of chicken pox, but this was where the evidence came together in one great sore. Some were hardly damaged, awaiting the assessor’s go-ahead to repair; others – many of them – were unrecognisable, and you knew that people had died in there. Once these hangars had housed the bringers of carnage, now they housed the results. A corner was reserved for bent police cars, gaudy in their paintwork but strangely silent, like crippled clowns. Wandering down the first aisle, between the neatly shelved wrecks, I saw abstract images, paintings and photographs, everywhere I looked. I tore myself away and knocked at the office door.

  A uniformed PC was inside, drinking tea with a man in a blue shirt and rainbow tie. A woman in a short skirt with a ladder in her tights, a small-town siren, was typing in the corner. “DI Priest,” I announced to all present, “Heckley CID. Hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

  The PC stared at me, open mouthed, and the man in the shirt coughed into his hand. “Lost your tongue?” I asked the PC.

  “No, er, Sir,” he mumbled, reaching for his hat.

  “Never mind that,” I said, turning to the other person and asking: “Mr Smith, is it?”

  “Um, yes,” he replied uncomfortably.

  “Good. I understand you have some records for an MGB that was brought into here back in 1982.” I told them the registration number and continued: “A colleague in Somerset has rung you, hasn’t he?”

  The PC unwound himself from the chair and stood up. He was only about twenty-two, but even taller than me. “Could I, er, see your ID, Sir, if you don’t mind, please?”

  “Sure.” I already had it in my hand. He took it from me, studied it carefully, then said: “Oh, heck.”

  I pushed some papers to one side on a desk against the opposite wall and perched my backside on a corner of it, saying: “I think you’d better tell me all about it.” I folded my arms in the pose of a patient listener and waited, except my patience was rapidly evaporating.

  “I’ve just arrived, Sir,” the PC stated, and introduced himself. “I came straight here when I received the message, but thought I must have missed you. Mr Smith had better explain.”

  I turned to Mr Smith. When Bob had described him as the son of the proprietor I’d immediately formed an image of a young man barely out of college, but he was probably in his late forties. Another reminder of the passing years.

  “Well,” he began. “I, er, received this telephone call, yesterday, I believe it was, from the police about the MG. Nothing new in that, it’s always happening, except usually it’s about something that came in recently, not twenty years ago. I said that we kept all the record cards and that we would probably have it somewhere if he gave me the dates.” He turned to the woman, who had stopped typing and was listening to our conversation. “Glynis here found it, didn’t you, duck?”

  “Got black bright,” she complained. “It’s filthy in there, that far back.” She was wearing false eyelashes that a Buddhist monk could have raked the gravel with.

  “And then what?” I asked.

  “I was saving it,” Smith continued, “here in my drawer. He rang me again this morning. Twice, in fact. First time I told him we’d found the card, second time he said that you,” – he showed me the pad he kept alongside his telephone, with my name written on it – “would be calling to collect it. Then, about five minutes later, this man came in. Blimey, I thought, that was quick. Thought he’d said you’d be coming down from Yorkshire. This feller asked about the MG, gave me the number, and I said: ‘Are you DI Priest?’ and he said he was, so I gave him the card.”

  “Can you describe him?” I asked.

  “Well, he wasn’t very tall. Didn’t look like a cop, now you mention it. Dark hair, slim build, wore a leather raincoat.”

  “I know him,” I said. “He’s a reporter.”

  “A reporter!” Glynis exclaimed, clasping her hand to her mouth, as if I’d announced that the Son of Beelzebub had walked amongst them. I couldn’t imagine what she might have told him.

  “Did you ask for a receipt for the card?” I asked.

  “No, I’m sorry,” he replied.

  “Or make a photocopy?”

  “No, sorry. After all these years…”

  “Nothing for you to be sorry about, Mr Smith,” I interrupted. “You were trying to be helpful and he took advantage. That’s how he earns his living. He definitely said he was me, did he?”

  “Yes. I said: ‘Are you DI Priest?’ and he said: ‘Yes, that’s right,’ just like I told you.”

  “Can you remember what it said on the card?”

  “No, not really, except that I remember telling the other policeman, the one who rang, that Mr Burgess-Jones had bought the MG from the insurance company. He’s at Avecaster, on the Sleaford road, about fifteen minutes from here. Has a museum of vintage and classic cars. Used to buy a lot of stuff from us, but not so much these days.”

  “OK,” I said, “here’s what I’d like you to do. Our young friend here,” – I gestured towards the PC – “will take a statement from you, putting in writing exactly what you’ve just told me, and anything else you remember. I’ll be grateful if you could do that for me.”

  “Yes, glad to,” he agreed.

  I stood up to leave. “And Glynis can make a contribution, if she has anything to add. Towards Sleaford, did you say?”

  “That’s right.”

  “It’s just off the A17,” the PC explained.

  “Then that’s where I’m headed.”

  It’s a different landscape to the one I live in: kinder to its inhabitants but two-dimensional and undemanding. Neat and fertile fields stretch away into the distance, outlined by lush trees, and in every direction a church steeple punctures the sky. Underneath the signpost pointing to Avecaster was one for Cranwell, home of the famous RAF college. I’d considered going there, once upon a time. The thought of roaring up and down the countryside in the latest fighter plane, silk scarf blowing in the wind, had a great appeal to me, but they changed the uniform and I lost interest. Avecaster was a typical Lincolnshire village: yellow stone houses; ivy-clad walls and an understated air of prosperity. Close-cropped verges fronted walled gardens. In the main street the houses crowded the road but on the outskirts they stood back from it: some quite modest; others with stable blocks jutting out to balance the triple garage at the other side. Mr Granville Burgess-Jones and his museum were at Avecaster Manor, probably known locally as the Big House. The gates were open so I drove in.

  It was a respectable driveway, curving and lined with ornamental chestnut trees to hide the house until the last dramatic moment. A sign pointed left to the museum and carpark, with the information that it was only open at weekends and bank holidays. I went straight on, through
an archway in a high wall, to where I could see several parked vehicles.

  Denver’s car was parked at the end of the line and I turned towards the space alongside it, gravel crunching under the tyres, making the steering feel heavy and imprecise. Away to the right a group of people turned to see who the new arrival was.

  I was in a courtyard, with the house facing me and outbuildings down the adjacent sides. The sun was out and I felt as if I’d wandered on to the set of Brideshead Revisited. Denver had reversed into his parking place, but I drove straight in, so my driver’s door was next to his. Why people reverse into parking places mystifies me, unless it’s so they can make a fast getaway. I climbed out and stretched upright. The little group of them – I counted six – were still looking towards me, over the roofs of the other cars in the line. Denver was there, and so was Prendergast, which was a surprise. I didn’t know the others.