Chill Factor (33 page)

“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.”

“Would 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.

“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 mine. “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?”