Chill Factor (23 page)

“He’s a cool customer,” I said.

“Bravado,” Cox explained. “He knows the show’s over.”

The biker turned round, went back, saw the others
blocking
his flight and turned towards us yet again. He
accelerated
, front wheel lifting off the road, as if about to do an Evel Knievel over our heads, then slowed to a crawl. Cox was right: he could handle a bike. T2 moved forward, shrinking his playground.

There was a gate in the wall about a hundred yards in front of us, marking the beginning of the bridle path. The rider stopped, leaned the bike on its side stand and made a dash at the gate. Cars from both sides accelerated towards him, tyres spinning on the wet road. We held back,
maintaining
the roadblock. He pushed the gate open and leapt back
onto the bike, gunning it towards the gap as the car from our side swerved to a standstill feet from him.

I’d started to say that he wouldn’t get far on a bike like that when events made my words redundant. The
motorcycle
bucked, a leg tried to steady it but the bike spun sideways and shot from under its rider. Policemen were running towards him, guns pointing, shouting orders across each other.

The leather clad figure rolled over onto his back, one leg smeared with mud.

“Stay still!” Someone shouted.

He stayed still. In seconds he was surrounded by enough guns to blow a battleship out of the water, except we’re taught that you can never have enough. And I’d proved it to be true, once, a long time ago.

“Don’t move.” Hands reached down, pressed against him, passed over his limbs and torso, feeling for hard objects.

“Now, sit up, slowly.”

The figure sat up, very slowly.

“Now, very slowly, remove your helmet.”

A gloved hand moved deliberately towards the chinstrap and fumbled with the fastening. Then the other hand came up and started to ease the helmet over the rider’s head,
twisting
it from side to side, forcing it upwards over flattened ears. A chin emerged, then a nose and eyes as it lifted clear. The rider’s hair was still inside the helmet. When it was high enough the hair fell down, a cascade of shoulder-length
peroxide
-blonde locks that would have looked good on any Page Three girl. “Was that slowly enough?” she asked with a smile.

“Oh fuck!” Cox exclaimed. I couldn’t have put it any
better
myself.

I phoned the nick and told them what had happened. T2 stopped the BMW, driven by Carl Faulkner, which meant
that Chilcott was in the Land Rover and had probably fled cross-country, bypassing our roadblocks. Deborah Faulkner, the motorcyclist, was handcuffed and taken to Leeds, her husband to a different nick in that city, but they both played dumb, refusing to answer questions. The helicopter came thumping over the hill, somewhere up in the clouds, and made a wide banking turn before heading back towards the valley and civilisation.

Cox liaised with our control, with number three district RCS and with the Met RCS before admitting: “That’s it. It’s out of our hands, now.”

“I’m going to the house,” I said, walking in that direction. I’d almost reached it when the depleted convoy overtook me.

Barry Moynihan and the rest of the observation team had already arrived, walking across the moor from their overnight position. He’d borrowed a waterproof coat and leggings, but was still wearing the sandals with the rugged soles and more buckles and straps than an S & M salesman’s sample case. His colleagues were brandishing guns as if they were no more lethal than walking sticks, and the whole scene could have been newsreel footage from the latest East European war zone.

“We’ve swept the house, Mr Cox,” a tall guy with a bristly moustache and a military bearing said as he came out of the front door, “and it’s clean.” He was carrying a Remington pump action shotgun, probably loaded with CS gas
cartridges
.

“Thanks, Bruce,” Cox replied. “Let’s see what we can find, then.”

“Gentlemen,” I called, raising my voice above the
hubbub
. They all turned to me. “Can I remind you that this is a crime scene,” I continued, “and ought to be inspected with that in mind, by the appropriate people.”

“Don’t worry, Charlie,” Cox said. “We’ll be careful.” He wandered inside followed by his acolytes, and after a few
gestures of helplessness I followed. They moved through the kitchen and into the living rooms. I headed for the fire burning in the iron range and stood with my back to it. They could trample on as much evidence as they wanted, but this was as far as I was going. The house had triple glazing, but any attempts at modernisation ended with that. The kitchen floor was stone-flagged, and ashes from the fire had spread away from the hearth, crunching under your feet as you moved around. All the furniture was bare wood, working class antique, and the sink was a deep stone set-pot.

Barry Moynihan came in and looked around. “They’re all through there,” I told him.

He joined me by the fire, saying: “I’m perished,” as he balanced on one leg and tried to dry a soaking foot against the flames.

Suspended from the ceiling by a system of strings and pulleys was a rack filled with clean washing, hung up to dry. I pulled a wooden chair from beneath the table and stood on it. The washing was dry. I removed a threadbare towel and a pair of hiking socks from the rack and handed them to Moynihan. “Put them on,” I told him, “or you’ll catch
pneumonia
.”

He took them from me and sat on another chair, drying his feet. When he’d finished he stood up, stomped around a few steps, then pronounced: “That’s better. Thanks.”

“We got off to a bad start,” I said.

“Yeah, well.”

“Have you contacted your wife?”

“Yeah. She went home. At first it sounded a daft thing to do, but I suppose it was for the best. I’ve spoken to her a couple of times and she’s calmed down. Now I’m hoping the firm will recompense me.”

“They ought to,” I told him.

There was a shout from the next room that sounded like my name. We stood there waiting for it again, until Cox appeared in the doorway and said: “We’ve identified
Chilcott’s target, Charlie. Come and look at this.”

We followed him through into what was the living room. It was gloomy, even with all the lights on, furnished with overstuffed easy chairs and flowery standard lamps. Centrepiece of the room was a highly polished table that was no-doubt worth a bob or two, and spread over it was a series of black and white photographs.

“We found them in this,” Cox said, showing me a
cardboard
folder. “What do you think?”

The cops around the table parted to make room for me. There were six pictures, arranged in a big square. Top left was simply the frontage of a house, such as an estate agent might produce. Next one, a male figure was emerging from the door at the side of the house. After that it was his car, focusing on the numberplate. Then the man himself,
stooping
to unlock the car, followed by two more of him behind the wheel.

I picked up the last print and held it towards the light. It was taken through the side window of the car, and the
driver
was completely unaware of it. Next time, it might be a gun, blowing his brains out. Somebody coughed.

“It’s me,” I said, looking at Cox. He didn’t reply. Everyone was silent, empty expressions on their faces. “It’s me,” I repeated. I placed the photo back on the table,
carefully
aligning it with its fellows. “Why would anyone want to kill me?” I wondered out loud, and I swear they all shrank back a step.

Four days is the magic figure. The chopper clocked the Land Rover entering the multi-storey car-park in Heckley and that was as much as they could do. It was later found neatly parked on the next-to-top floor, with the doors unlocked. It had, needless to say, been stolen two weeks earlier. From the car-park there are covered walkways leading to the shopping mall and the old town area, and other exits at street level. He could have taken any one of them. Within minutes the place was flooded with Heckley’s finest, all twelve of them, but Mr Chilcott had vanished. We suspect he had a safe house somewhere, and was holed-up in that.

Back at the farm I’d requested assistance from Heckley nick, which didn’t come because they were busy, and from the scenes of crime people, who never have anything better to do on a Saturday lunchtime. Having a
fatwa
on me earned a certain amount of respect from the RCS team, so when I ordered them all out of the farmhouse they did as they were told. They piled into their vehicles and hot-footed it to Heckley, desperate to salvage some credibility. I stayed behind and they kindly left a car and three men with me, just in case. We stoked the fire and made coffee.

Four days is the time a terrorist on the run is trained to stay concealed. The police employ psychologists who have worked out that a fugitive would stay underground for three days before making his bid for freedom. After that time, we assume we’ve lost him. So the terrorists enlist more
expensive
psychologists who tell them to hide for four days before legging it. Fortunately our anti-terrorist people have become wise to this, and they brought it to our attention. OK, Chilcott wasn’t a terrorist, but they all download the same manuals.

Nigel extended his hands towards me so that I could extricate my new pint from between his fingertips. He placed another in front of Dave and an orange juice and soda
on his own beer mat.

“Cheers,” we said.

“Cheers,” he replied, taking a sip. As Chilcott was still on the run and appeared to have a reasonable working
knowledge
of my movements, we had forsaken the Spinners and were having our Wednesday night meeting in the Bailiwick. “So what time were you there until?” Nigel asked.

“Seven o’clock.” I said. “We were stuck at Ne’er Do Well Farm until after seven. The SOCOs had left about four.”

“We were running about like blue-arsed flies,” Dave said.

“Flashing blue-arsed flies?” I suggested.

“And them.”

“Do you think he’s still in Heckley?”

“God knows.”

“It’s four days today. SB said he’d lie low for four days.”

“Don’t remind us.”

I took a sip of beer and said: “Well it proves one thing.”

“What’s that?” they asked.

“That I’m not paranoid.”

“Just because someone
is
trying to kill you doesn’t mean you’re not paranoid,” Dave argued.

“Of course it does.”

“No it doesn’t. He’s only one man. It’s not a conspiracy.”

“Of course it’s a conspiracy.”

“No, it’s not. He was doing it for money. It’s not
personal
.”

“What difference does that make? The whole thing is one big conspiracy.”

“Against you? One big conspiracy against you?”

“Against everyone.”

“So someone’s out to kill Nigel, too. And me. Is that what you’re saying?”

“I might be.”

“You definitely are paranoid.”

“Is that what you think? Is that what you really think?”

“Yes.”

“Right,” I said. “Right. Let me tell you something. You see this place?” I gestured towards the ceiling and they
nodded
. “Good. And you see the names on all those labels behind the bar?” I read them off: “Tetley’s, Black Sheep, Bell’s, Guinness, Foster’s, and so on, and so on?”

“Ye-es,” they agreed.

“OK. Now let’s look at what’s outside. There’s the Halifax opposite, and Barclays, and the NatWest. Further down there’s Burger King and Pizza Hut. There are
jewellers
, clothes shops galore, snack bars and…oh, you name it and there’s one out there.”

“So what’s the point of all this?” Dave asked. Nigel grinned and took another sip of orange juice.

“The point is,” I told him, “that it’s all a big conspiracy. Why do all these companies exist? Go on, tell me that.”

“To do what they do,” he replied. “To make beer or
whatever
, to provide a service, to employ people and to make a profit for their shareholders.”

“No they don’t.”

“Well go on, then, clever clogs. You tell us why they exist.”

“They exist, every one of them, for one sole purpose.”

“Which is…?”

“Which is…to convert my money into their money. That’s what it’s all about.”

“So that’s why you’re so reluctant to go to the bar,” Nigel commented.

“Cheeky sod!” I retorted.

“You are paranoid,” Dave concluded.

Shirley came to take us home and Dave bought her a tonic water. We were finishing our drinks when a familiar warbling tone came from somewhere on Nigel’s person. “Oooh, oooh,” we groaned, expressing our disapproval. Mobile phones are
verboten
on walks and in the pub. Nigel blushed and retrieved it from his pocket.

“Nigel Newley,” he said. I drained my glass and Dave did
the same. “Hello, Les.” Sounded like it was Les Isles, his boss. “Hey! That’s brilliant!” Good news. Lucky for some. “Where does he live?” Sounded like Nigel had some work to do. “Right. In the morning? Right. See you then. Thanks for ringing.” It would be an early alarm call for someone. He closed the phone and replaced it in his pocket, his face pink with enthusiasm.

“Guess what?” he said, “We’ve had a match. One of the donated samples matches the DNA in the semen we found on Marie-Claire Hollingbrook. We’re bringing him in first thing.”

“That was quick,” Dave said.

“It was, wasn’t it.”

“So, er, where does he live?” I asked.

“Um, Heckley. He lives in Heckley.”

“Really? In that case he’s one of ours, isn’t he?”

“Oh no he isn’t,” Nigel assured me. “Oh no he isn’t.”

I had a bodyguard, of course. It was all over the papers that we’d let Chilcott, Enemy Number One, slip through our fingers; if he still managed to complete his mission we’d really have egg on our faces. Well, they would; I’d have something else on mine. The two of them, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, sat patiently in the pub, backs to the wall,
sipping
soft drinks, while we tried to ignore them. I didn’t like it, but knew better than to object. Shirley took me home first and they followed. I handed my keys over and one of them entered the house, casually, without making a drama out of it. “You know where everything is,” I said when I was allowed in, waving towards the coffee ingredients, videos and sleeping bags that had accumulated in my front room. “Make yourselves at home, gentlemen, I’m off to bed.”

“I’ve brought
Terminator Two
,” one of them told me as he filled the kettle.

“Seen it,” I lied. “Early night for me. Keep it low.”

“Right. Tea?”

“Yes please. Will you bring it up?”

“No chance, you can wait.”

I felt like a guest in my own home. An unwelcome one at that. I took the mug of tea and trudged up the stairs to bed. Drinking doesn’t suit me, and lately it had been creeping up a bit. I’d been thinking a lot, also, and the conclusions weren’t good. I was at a funny age. From now on, it wasn’t going to get much better. The good years, or what should have been the good years, were all in the past. Friday teatime Chilcott had gone on a dummy run, Superintendent Cox had said. I disagreed. I’d been up on the moors, watching the farm. Chilcott had come to Heckley looking for me, and he could have been out of the country again by the morning. Detectives are supposed to work regular hours, and on a Friday the whole world tries to get off home on time. It was his first opportunity to do the job, but my car hadn’t been outside the nick, so he’d had to abort. A bullet through the brain, while I was sitting at the traffic lights; or here at home, sleeping, didn’t sound too bad. I could live with that. It’s all the alternatives that terrify me.

Annette took it badly. She’d sat there, white faced, when I’d announced that I was Chilcott’s intended target. Afterwards she came into my office and asked what I was going to do. She thought I’d move away, stay in the country until things blew over, but I explained that it wasn’t necessary. I had my minders, and Chilcott’s number one priority, now, was
making
his escape. Even if he’d been paid in advance, nailing me would be off his agenda. I tried to sound as if I knew what I was talking about, as if the inner workings of an assassin’s mind were my workaday fodder, but I don’t think she believed me. I played safe and didn’t suggest we go for a meal, that week.

Nigel and Les Isles arrested Jason Lee Gelder and charged him with the murder of Marie-Claire Hollingbrook. He’d walked into the caravan in Heckley market place, large as
life, and donated six hairs and his name and address. Science did the rest. An arcane test, discovered by a professor at Leicester university as recently as 1984, reduced the DNA in Gelder’s hair roots to a pattern of parallel lines on a piece of film that exactly matched the lines produced from the semen left on Marie-Claire’s thighs. It was his, as sure as hedgehogs haven’t grasped the Green Cross Code. It made the local news on Thursday evening and the nationals the next day. The people of the East Pennine division probably slept a
little
more contentedly in their beds, that weekend, knowing that a sex killer was safely behind bars.

“That was quick,” I said, when I spoke to Superintendent Isles on the telephone.

“I think he wanted catching,” he admitted. “He was
hanging
around as they set-up the caravan. He went for a burger then came back and made a donation. Wanted to know what it was all about. It was only about the fifteenth they’d taken at that point.”

Sometimes they do it to taunt the police, or to make the stakes higher. Ted Bundy killed more than thirty women across the USA. He moved to Florida because they had the death penalty. Trying to figure out why is like asking why a flock of birds turned left at that particular place in the sky, and not right. Nobody knows. Maybe tomorrow they’ll go straight ahead. We do tests to see if these people are sane: ask them questions; show them pictures; gauge their reactions. A man kills thirty women and they show him inkblots to decide if he’s sane. Someone needs their head examining.

“So he’s coughing, is he?” I asked.

“Oh no, he’s not making it that easy for us,” Les replied. “Say’s he didn’t do it; was nowhere near where she lived and has never been there.”

“Alibi?”

“Watching videos. He’s classic material, Charlie, believe me. We’re waiting for the lab to do another test, the full DNA fingerprint job, but I haven’t cancelled my holiday.”

“I’d like a word with him, Les,” I said.

“I thought you might. Why?”

“To see if there’s anything to be learned about the way we handled the Margaret Silkstone case.”

“You mean, is this a copycat?”

“Something like that.”

“Has young Newley been talking to you? If he has, I’ll have his bollocks for a door knocker.”

“So when can I see him?” I asked. Not: “Can I see him?” but: “When can I see him?” It’s what salesmen call closing. When I went to that sales conference I’d really listened.

“Give us two or three days for the reports,” Les said, “then you can have a go at him.”

“Thanks. And he’s called Gelder?”

“That’s right. Jason Lee Gelder.”

“In olden times a gelder was a person who earned a living by cutting horse’s testicles off,” I told him.

“Yeah, I know. It’s a pity someone didn’t cut his off.”

If you really want to ingratiate yourself with someone, you let them get the punch line in. I put the phone down and wondered what to have for tea.

The Regional Crime Squad paid renewed interest in the tapes Bentley prison had recorded of the conversations that led, we believed, to Chilcott being hired. Someone was
willing
to pay £50,000 to have me bumped off and they wanted to know who. We had the name of the people on both ends of the line, but it wasn’t a big help. They were real nasties: professionals who’d tell you less than the Chancellor does on the eve of the budget. Except they’d do it belligerently, in language politicians only use when it slips out.

I had a passing interest myself in who was behind it all, so I made my own enquiries. I started by telephoning Gwen Rhodes, Governor of HMP Bentley. It took me all day to track her down, but she was duly shocked when she learned what it was about, and gave me the freedom of her computer
terminal, plus a crash course in using it.

On the morning I was there they turned the key on eight hundred and two inmates. That’s screw-speak for the
number
of prisoners they had. In addition, a further one hundred and sixty-eight had passed through in the period I was
interested
in. Some had been released, some moved to less secure units, one or two possibly found not guilty. I printed out lists of their names and highlighted the ones that I thought I knew. One in particular leapt straight off the page at me.

“When you had Tony Silkstone,” I began, on one of the occasions when Gwen came back into the office, “I don’t suppose he could have had any contact with Paul Mann, could he?” It was Mann’s phone calls that started the whole thing.

“Not at all,” Gwen assured me. “Silkstone was on remand, Mann in A-wing, and never the twain shall meet. However,” she continued, “you know how it is in places like this. Jungle drums, telepathy, call it what you will, but word gets around.”

“Who would Silkstone meet during association?”

“Fellow remandees. That’s all.”

“What about the rehabilitation classes that Silkstone took? Who might he meet there?”

“Ah,” she sighed, and I swear she blushed slightly.

“Go on,” I said.