Chill Factor

by Stuart Pawson

  Grateful Dead zoomed in at my watch and asked me if that would do. I nodded and he said: “Cut!” and stopped the camera.

  Denver was heading towards the cars, so I followed him. When I arrived he was emptying his pockets, piling coins and mints and tissues on the roof of his Ford. Everything but keys. I unlocked mine and reached into the glove box for my mobile phone. “I’ve lost my keys,” Denver muttered. “I’ve lost my keys.”

  I tapped out the Heckley nick number and pointed inside his car, asking: “Are they them?”

  Denver stooped to look inside, pulling at the door handle. “Aw fuck!” he cursed. “I’ve locked them in. I’ve fuckin’ locked them in. How’d I do that? I thought it was impossible. How’d I do that?”

  “It’s DI Priest,” I said into the phone. “I want you to do two things for me. First of all I want an all ports warning issuing for the arrest of Tony Silkstone, and then I want to talk to the press department. I want a story circulating to Reuters and Associated Press, as soon as possible.”

  Denver had decided to enlist help. “Mr Burgess-Jones!” he called, turning and jogging back to the others. “Mr Burgess-Jones, can you help me, please?”

  A voice on the phone said: “Heckley police station, how can I help you?”

  “Hello George,” I replied. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been talking to myself.”

  “Feeding the cat, Charlie. Where are you? That’s more to the point.”

  “I’m down in Lincolnshire.”

  “It’s all right for some.”

  “Work, George, work. Listen, there’s two things. First of all I want an APW issuing for Tony Silkstone, and then I want to speak to the press officer.”

  “Silkstone?” George replied. “You got enough on him, have you?”

  “Yes, George, I think we have. I really think we have.”

  After that, I got mean. I made Denver sit in my car and when Prendergast started making objections I reminded him that he represented nobody there and threatened to chuck him in the duckpond, whereupon he made an excuse and left. Burgess-Jones thought it all a hoot. I rang the local CID and eventually handed everything over to them, including Denver. The AA arrived with a set of Slim Jims, as used by the more professional car thieves, and opened Denver’s car. Inside it we found the record card for Silkstone’s MG, as made out by Smith Brothers and showing that it had been sold to Mr Burgess-Jones, so the chain was complete.

  All the papers carried the story next day, but the UK News still claimed it as a world exclusive, even though we gave some of the best bits to the others. Lincolnshire police let Denver go, on their bail, and a week later he was given an official caution. No chance there of him claiming that we were heavy-handed with him.

  Silkstone had made a run for it, as we thought. He panicked, and followed an elaborate plan to make it look as if he’d killed himself by driving the Audi over Bempton cliffs. Unfortunately several eye-witnesses and a few second’s video footage revealed that he’d driven his late wife’s Suzuki Vitara to York, travelled back to Heckley by train, taken the Audi to Bempton where he’d sent it over the edge, and then found his way back to York again and, he hoped, freedom. We picked him up two days later, lying low at a caravan site near Skegness. Dave and I went to fetch him – sometimes, I indulge myself.

  Afterwards, in the in-between hours which are neither night nor day, I thought that perhaps it might not stick. A clever brief might cast doubts on my methodology, declare some evidence inadmissible, get him off. It would all be down to the jury, but I didn’t care. The first time DNA profiling was used in a murder case it indicated that the person under arrest was innocent, even though he had made a full confession. The local police were outraged and Alec Jeffreys, the scientist who developed the technique, must have been devastated. But he stuck to his guns, had faith in the system, and eventually the real murderer was caught.

  Looking back on it, freeing that innocent man must give Sir Alec much more satisfaction than pointing the finger at a guilty one. About a fortnight after Silkstone was committed for trial I received a letter from Jean Hullah, matron of the Pentland Court Retirement Home. She said that Mrs Grace Latham, mother of Peter, had died, but she was aware that her son had been cleared of suspicion of murdering Mrs Silkstone and had wanted to write and thank me. And young Jason Lee Gelder was off the hook too. He was too dense to realise how close he’d been, but now he was free to earn his living skinning dead cows and spend his earnings on evenings of passion in the brickyard. Even if Silkstone walked, and I didn’t think he would, it was still a result.

  I was sitting at my desk, feet on it, reading a report from Germany about how changing the diet of the inmates of a children’s home from cola drinks and fish fingers to organically grown sauerkraut transformed them all from rebellious louts into adorable little cherubs when there was a knock at the door and Annette came in. I let my chair flop onto all four feet and smiled at her.

  “Oh, I thought you’d brought me a coffee,” I said, noticing that she was empty-handed and pushing the spare chair towards her.

  “No,” she replied, without returning the smile. “I brought you this. I thought you ought to be the first to know.” It was a long white envelope, addressed to me.

  I took it from her and turned it in my fingers. “Is it what I think it is?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” I told her, and she shrugged her shoulders. I placed it on my desk, propped against a box of paperclips, and looked at it. “You’ve some holiday to come,” I stated.

  “Three weeks,” she confirmed.

  “So you could be gone by the end of next week.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve accepted his proposal?”

  “Yes.”

  We only have to give a month’s notice to resign. The last thing you want hanging round a police station is a demob-happy disgruntled officer spreading doubt and disillusion about the job. A week, though. We’d been jogging along quite nicely, up to now. I’d behaved myself, Annette had done her job. We’d even had a drink together, after a particularly harrowing day, and I’d enjoyed seeing her around, half hoping that her friendship with the teacher might grow cold. It obviously hadn’t.

  “There’s an alternative,” I said.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “I could tear this up, drop it in the bin, and you could come to live with me.”

  She hung her head, one hand on her brow. “Don’t, please, Charlie,” she mumbled. “Don’t make it more difficult than it is.”

  I looked at her, seeing for the first time the worry lines in the corners of her eyes that hadn’t been there before she started seeing me. Now somebody else would have to soothe them away. I opened my mouth to tell her that she was making a mistake, then changed my mind. I’ve been through all that, before. “I’ll miss you,” I said, “and I hope it all works out for you.”

  “I hope it all works out for you, too, Charlie,” she replied.

  “Oh, it will,” I told her. “It will. No doubt about that.”

  So the following Friday we had a “do” in the Bailiwick, with everybody there. Gilbert made a presentation and Annette said we were the best bunch of people she’d ever worked with. Embarrassing episodes in Annette’s career were recalled and David Rose did his party trick, drinking a pint of beer while standing on his head. It’s time to leave when David does his party trick.

  I didn’t have the opportunity to say a private goodbye to her, thinking that maybe I’d give her a phone call the next day, but suspecting that I wouldn’t. Dave Sparkington and I shared a taxi home and I asked him if they’d heard from Sophie this week.

  “Yeah, she keeps in touch,” he told me.

  “Is she enjoying her lectures?”

  “She says she is. It’s hard work, but she’s coping.”

  “And the flat’s OK?”

  “Hmm, bit of a problem, there. She says the place stinks of garlic. The previous tenan
t must have eaten nothing else but.”

  I remembered the microwave I’d given her, and the exploding chicken Kiev. “Students,” I said, by way of explanation.

  “Yeah, students.”

  We rode the rest of the way in silence, apart from the hiss of the tyres on the wet road and the swish of the wipers. “I reckon you missed your way there, Chas,” Dave said as we turned into his street.

  “Where?”

  “With Annette.”

  “Oh. No, not my type.”

  Rain, carried by a wind straight off the hills, was lashing at the windows as he slammed the car door and dashed for the shelter of his house. I gave the driver new directions and he took me home.

  I over-tipped him and turned up my collar as he wished me goodnight. The postman had left the gate open and the bulb had failed again in the outside light. I’m sure they don’t last as long now that we get our electricity from the gas people. I found the right key by the light of the street lamp then plunged into the shadow at the side of the house, shuddering with cold.

  What was it to be, I wondered: a hot bath; some loud music; a couple of cans with my feet on the mantelpiece; or all three? Silkstone would probably be tucked up in bed in his nice centrally heated cell. Jason would be having it away with some totty he’d picked up at the Aspidistra Lounge. And what about Chilcott – the Chiller – where would he be? In a bar in a warmer clime if his luck had held. Somewhere where you can live like a lord on ten grand a year. Cuba, or Mexico.

  Unless, of course, he was still out there, wondering about fulfilling his last contract. I doubted it, but it gave life a certain piquancy, knowing that somebody thought enough about you to pay money to have you killed. I was a cop, so I must be doing something right. The key found the keyhole third attempt and I turned it. I pushed the door open and reached inside for the lightswitch. No doubt Mexico’s fine, but there’s no place like home.

  About the Author

  STUART PAWSON had a career as a mining engineer, followed by a spell working for the probation service, before he became a full-time writer. He lives in Fairburn, Yorkshire, and, when not hunched over the word processor, likes nothing more than tramping across the moors, which often feature in his stories. He is a member of the Murder Squad and the Crime Writers’ Association.

  www.stuartpawson.com

  By Stuart Pawson

  IN THE DI CHARLIE PRIEST SERIES

  The Picasso Scam

  The Mushroom Man

  The Judas Sheep

  Last Reminder

  Deadly Friends

  Some by Fire

  Chill Factor

  Laughing Boy

  Limestone Cowboy

  Over the Edge

  Shooting Elvis

  Grief Encounters

  A Very Private Murder

  Copyright

  Allison & Busby Limited

  13 Charlotte Mews

  London W1T 4EJ

  www.allisonandbusby.com

  Hardback published in Great Britain in 2001.

  Paperback published in 2002.

  This ebook edition first published in 2011.

  Copyright © 2001 by STUART PAWSON

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978–0–7490–1165–9