Chill Factor (27 page)

I turned to the brief and told him that we were going to have a five-minute break. I said I was trying to help his client and the name of the girl might be of use in my line of enquiries. Jason was in hot water about as deep as it gets, and anything he told me could only help his case. I suggested
they did some serious thinking.

Les Isles wasn’t in his office, and Nigel was nowhere to be found, either. Two DCs were busy in the main office, working at computer keyboards that were in danger of being engulfed by the paperwork heaped around them. Who invented the expression
paperless office
? Woody Allen?

“Where’s the boss?” I asked the nearest DC.

“Mr Isles?”

“Mmm.”

“Review meeting at Region. It’s Mr Priest, isn’t it?”

I didn’t deny the fact and we shook hands. He’d
attended
one of my talks at the training college and said he enjoyed it. “I’m interviewing Jason Gelder downstairs,” I told him, quickly adding: “with Mr Isles’ permission. Nobody told me he was ESN.”

“Who, Mr Isles?” he replied with a grin. “That explains a lot.”

“I meant young Gelder.”

“Sorry about that. Strictly speaking, and according to the experts, he’s not. Put in layman’s language, he’s thick, but he’s not slow.”

“I see,” I said, “or at least, I think I do. Where does he get his money from?”

“He works for a living, down at the abattoir. Spends his working day scraping flesh from animal skins. They pay him fairly well because nobody wants to do it, and he goes home stinking like an otter’s arse.”

“Right. Thanks for your help.
Thick but not slow
, I’ll have to ponder on that one.”

Down in the interview room Jason was slumped at the table and the brief was leaning on the wall, a polystyrene
coffee
cup in his hand. He shrugged his shoulders as I entered and resumed his seat.

“Where were we?” I asked, briskly, rubbing my hands together. “Didn’t you want a coffee, Jason?” and was rewarded with a shake of the head.

“So what was this girl called?” I demanded.

“I don’t know,” he stated, staring straight at me. The brief must have given him a hard time because he looked as if he’d been crying.

“What did you talk about? If you did any talking?” I asked.

“Not much,” he replied.

“How old was she? Did you ask her that?”

“No, I don’t think I asked.”

I wasn’t surprised. What was that other one from Pete Drago’s list of sexual aphorisms:
If they’re big enough, they’re old enough
. “How old did you think she was?”

“About eighteen. She was about eighteen.”

“So she wasn’t under age.”

“No, definitely not. She’d left school.”

“Did she work or go to college?”

“I don’t know.”

“So if she was over sixteen why won’t you tell me her name.”

“Because you won’t listen,” he sobbed. “I keep telling you, I don’t remember.”

“OK,” I said. “Let’s go through it again. You meet this girl at the Aspidistra Lounge, either on Thursday or Friday night…”

“Friday,” He interrupted. “I think it was Friday.”

“But you’re not sure?”

“No.”

“Right. You buy her a few drinks, have a dance and a smooch, and take her home. Did you stay right to the end?”

“No.”

“What time?”

“Dunno.”

“Before or after midnight?”

“About midnight.”

“Then you went to the brickyard, had sex with this young lady in the front seat because you were both too desperate
to climb into the back, and that was that. You had ten
minutes
of passion but didn’t bother seeing her again. Why not?”

“Because she was a slag. I’ve told you once,” he stated, almost shouting at me now. I decided to push him.

“A slag! Aren’t all the girls you pick up slags?” I
demanded
.

“No. Not all of them.”

“But this one was?”

“Yeah.”

“Was Marie-Claire a slag, Jason. Was she another slag?”

“I don’t know. I never met her.” Tears were running down his cheeks and he turned to the brief for help. “Why won’t they believe me?” he begged.

“Because you’re not telling the truth, Jason.” I stated. “This girl at the club; what was she called?”

“I don’t know!”

“Why are you protecting her, if you think she was a slag?”

“Because you wouldn’t believe me. You don’t believe
anything
I say.”

He was cracking. I’d closed on him. “What wouldn’t I believe?” I asked.

“Anything.”

“Tell me what I wouldn’t believe, Jason.”

“I can’t.”

“Why? Why can’t you tell me?”

“Because!”

“Because what?”

“Just because.”

He’d turned a ghostly white and was hyperventilating. The solicitor placed a hand on his arm, saying: “Jason, if there’s something you have to say, I think you should tell Mr Priest. It can’t do you any harm.”

Jason stared at me, defiant, and I stared back at him. “Go on, Jason,” I encouraged. “Who was she?”

“I don’t know her name.”

“You said we wouldn’t believe you. What wouldn’t we believe?”

“You’d ’old it against me. Gang up on me.”

“Why would we do that?”

“Because it’s what you do.”

“Tell me what you know, Jason,” I asked.

“Tell Mr Priest,” the brief added.

Jason breathed deeply a few times, gathering his strength, then blurted the words out. “’Er dad’s a copper,” he informed us.

“A copper?” I echoed. “What sort of a copper?”

“A detective. He’s a detective. At ’Eckley nick.”

It wasn’t what I expected, or what I wanted to hear. Images of him having it away with his kid sister, or his
probation
officer, or some other unlikely person, were swirling around in my mind, but not this. “Are you sure?” I asked, my voice a whisper.

“Yeah. She said ’er dad was a detective, in the CID at ’Eckley. I didn’t ask ’er, she just told me.”

“But…you can’t remember her name?”

“No.”

“Good,” I mumbled. “Good. I think that will do for now.”

I went into a sandwich shop, but when I saw them all lying there like shrink-wrapped museum exhibits waiting to be catalogued I decided I wasn’t hungry. I bought a bottle of flavoured water, that’s all, and sipped at it sitting on a bench in the town centre, because I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. It must have been a cold day because people were
hurrying
about with their collars upturned and I had the seats all to myself. I don’t feel the cold.

O.J. Simpson was found not guilty of murder because his legal team declared that the DNA evidence was flawed. The jury accepted their claim because the police were a bunch of racists, and it was a glitch in the procedures for processing the DNA evidence that gave them the excuse to do so.

Blood samples from accused and victims were taken to the same laboratory, and O.J.’s thousand-dollars-an-hour attorney convinced the court that DNA could have floated about in the atmosphere and transferred itself from one sample dish to another. It’s not as crazy as it seems. They’d used something called PCR, or polymerase chain reaction, to amplify a tiny stretch of DNA, too small to be useful, into a big sample. It’s a procedure that a California scientist called Kary Mullis thought of while driving his car through the desert at night. It’s a magical experience for anyone, but Mullis wove some real magic that night, enough to win
himself
a share in the Nobel prize.

He knew that if you took one single shred of a DNA molecule and gently heated it in a test tube, with an exotic brew of the right proteins and enzymes, the two strands would untwine, and as you cooled it down again each would create a copy of the partner it had just lost. In other words, you would now have two pieces of the DNA. How you knew that there was only one molecule in the tube to start with, and how you kept track of it, wasn’t explained in the book I read. The heating and cooling process only took a
few minutes, so do it again and you’d now have four pieces of DNA. It’s a fiendishly complicated process – this was strictly the Ladybird version, intended for under-sevens and police officers.

Mullis stopped the car and did some sums. He calculated that in twenty heating and cooling cycles, which would only take until coffee break, you’d have over a million copies of your original sample. Still not enough to be visible on the head of a pin, but you were getting there. Keep going, and by the end of the week you’d be bringing in the enzymes by specially laid road and rail connections, and moving the DNA out by the barge-load. In a month you could fill the Grand Canyon and make a start on the Marianas Trench.

You don’t need that much in a criminal case. O.J.’s lawyers said that with all the DNA being made, who could say that a spare flake hadn’t floated into the wrong test tube or Petri dish or whatever they use, and nobody had enough clout to argue with a thousand-dollars-an-hour attorney. This DNA swirling about in the atmosphere could just as easily have belonged to Thomas Jefferson or Christopher Columbus, but nobody mentioned it. As the newspapers put it:
money talked, O.J. walked
.

Black spots were breaking out on the pavement in front of my feet, like some deadly infection, and a raindrop scored a direct hit on my neck. Jason Lee Gelder’s solicitor was on the basic rate for the job, we had enough semen to do all the tests we needed and different samples are always processed in different labs. There was no comfort for him there. I took a sip of water and looked at the pigeons that had joined me, expecting to catch a few crumbs. They were all exactly alike, each a replicant of some distant ancestor, their lives pre-
programmed
in the genetic code. I wish I’d been a scientist. I screwed the top back on the bottle and went to find the car.

A solitary detective, David Rose, was at work in the office when I arrived back. He was in his shirtsleeves, surrounded
by paperwork as he peered at the VDU screen on his desk, pencil behind his ear. He turned as I closed the door and said: “Hi, Charlie.”

“No.” I replied.

“No what?”

“No, whatever it was.”

I went straight into my little office and gathered up all the papers put there to attract my attention. They could wait. I picked up the phone, dialled the HQ number and put the phone down again. Scenes of crime would have gone over Jason’s car with the proverbial, in the faint hope of finding evidence that Marie-Claire had been in it and was therefore known to him. They’d failed, I knew that, but they must have found some evidence, like fingerprints, of other people who’d ridden with him. Like the girl he took to the brickyard. The detective’s daughter.

I drummed my fingers on the phone, indecisive. I needed to know who he’d been with, not sure if I could face the truth. There are sixteen detectives at Heckley, and I knew all their families, had visited all their houses. I brought out a staff list and took the top off my pen, with the intention of writing their kids’ names in the margin. The pen hovered next to the first name but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t sully them by giving substance to Gelder’s accusations. There was only one name that fitted, and I felt ashamed at even
considering
what was going through my mind. I tore the list into shreds and dropped them in the bin. But, I argued, someone was with him, somebody’s daughter, and these were
promiscuous
times. Or at least, we were constantly being told they were. Myself, I wasn’t too sure. Times had changed, of course they had, but people, including kids, made their own moralities and sometimes they were surprisingly high. I stood up and strode over to the window. It only took two.

I’d beaten the rain back, but it was catching up. Rooftops were glistening across the road, but this side was still clear. Even as that fact registered the first flurry dashed against the
window and the street lights flickered on. We were in for a downpour. Black clouds were banked like pit heaps behind St Mary’s Church, at the other side of town, blotting out the hills. A straggle of people was going in when I’d driven past, for afternoon mass or, perhaps, an organ recital. They’d get wet when they came out, but I don’t suppose they’d mind. Not the faithful ones.

A report on the news had said that church attendance on Sundays was down by seven percent over the last ten years. A couple of spokesmen, Bishop Inevitable and Archbishop Complacent, said that it wasn’t all bad news because
attendance
through the week was on the increase. I wasn’t sure if going in to listen to a Bach fugue or buy mince pies from the WI stall counted, but it was good for the statistics and the offering.

Trouble is, nobody has any faith anymore. I’d never had any. Doubt, not blind belief in something I couldn’t
comprehend
, was always my driving force. I wish it were otherwise, but it isn’t. I returned to my desk and picked the top
document
off the pile I’d made. Would I like to contribute to Mr Pritchard’s leaving present? I fished a ten-pound note from my wallet, placed it in an envelope with the letter and sealed it.

It wasn’t true, I told myself. I did have faith. It might not be in a god, but it was there. I believed in the people around me, colleagues and friends, like I’d believed in my parents. Had faith in them. “So prove it,” I told myself, picking up the telephone and dialling the custody sergeant at HQ. “Sorry, Sophie,” I whispered as I waited for him to answer. “Forgive me for doubting you.”

“This is DI Priest at Heckley,” I told him. “I came in this morning and interviewed Jason Gelder, and I’d like to talk to him again, as soon as possible. Will it be alright if I come over?”

“You’ll be lucky, Mr Priest,” he replied. “We’ve just sent him to Bentley. You’ll find him in the remand wing.”

“Damn,” I said. “OK, thanks.” It would have to be tomorrow.

Gwen Rhodes wasn’t there, so I had to use the proper
channels
, just like everybody else. The visits office said they couldn’t possibly accommodate me on Tuesday, but after a pathetic display of subservience and respect for their
difficulties
they agreed to squeeze me in on Friday. They like us to know that they can’t be pushed around. I said: “Thank you, Friday will be fine.”

Tuesday, I went to court instead. After hanging about for two hours and another half-hour talking to a magistrate, I came away with a warrant to search Silkstone’s house and a special circumstance attached to his bail conditions. He had to stay out of the way while we did so.

I rang him on his mobile and told him to bring his brief with him when he came to sign the book on Thursday. I wanted to do a substantive interview, to clarify his exact movements on the day his wife died. I didn’t mention the search warrant.

“What if I refuse to stay?” he ventured.

“Then I’ll arrest you,” I told him. The time had come to put pressure on Mr Silkstone. He’d had a long break, had probably grown complacent about his predicament. He was due for a wake-up call.

Wednesday I drove to the lab at Wetherton and had a long talk with one of the professors. He listened to what I had to say, sounded sceptical but agreed to loan me a scientist. At a price, of course. He followed me back to Heckley, where I held a briefing with Dave Sparkington, Jeff Caton and four members of the scenes of crime team. Compared to them, the professor had sounded jubilant and enthusiastic.

“So you were serious,” Sparky declared.

“I’m always serious, Dave,” I replied.

“What exactly are
we
looking for?” one of the SOCOs asked.

“You have the difficult bit,” I told him. “Silkstone killed Peter John Latham with a kitchen knife, ostensibly
belonging
to Latham. It just happened to be available, on the
worktop
. If the murder was planned in advance Silkstone
wouldn’t
have left anything to chance. What I want to know is whether Silkstone was aware that the block containing the knives would be there, or if he took it with him. Ideally, I’d like to link the knives with Silkstone. Had the block stood on his worktop before it went to Latham’s house? We’re talking micro-analysis stuff here; trace evidence. Look for marks, a faded patch on the tiles, an impression on the underside of the block, that sort of thing. Take some
pictures
in UV or oblique light; you know more about it than me. My team will be looking for other possible links. Were the knives a present from the Silkstones, or were they bought specially for the job? Count the knives in both
houses
, does one of them have too many or too few? Look for a receipt, trace the supplier, who bought them?”

“Perhaps there are photographs taken in their kitchens that might show the knives,” the youngest of the SOCOs
suggested
. She was an Asian girl, with huge dark eyes. A SOCO’s greatest asset is his or her eyes, and hers were belters.

“Good thinking,” I said. “Find their photo albums. And while we’re talking about photos, I’m going to ask Somerset to give the picture of Caroline Poole we found in Latham’s bedroom a going over: does it carry any prints, inside or out, and what was used to trim it down to size? You know the score, so have a look at his scissors.”

“All this should have been done before,” Sparky declared.

“You’re right, Dave,” I said, “but Silkstone confessed to murder and we believed him. We believed what we saw and what he told us. Any tests we did were to confirm his story, because we had no reason to do otherwise. What we are
saying
now is that perhaps he was involved also with the death of his wife and the whole thing was premeditated. This is a murder enquiry, and not Confessions of a Salesman.
Without witnesses the odds are stacked against us, but let’s give it a try.”

They closed their notebooks and stood up, looking slightly more enthusiastic than before but not exactly
overflowing
with optimism. The young scientist from the lab hung back as they drifted away.

“So where are the, er, whatsits?” he asked.

“Here,” I said, passing him a manila envelope.

“There’s a hundred in here?”

“A hundred and two.”

“Do you realise how long it will take?”

“It could be up to three hours,” I replied, “but just do as many as you can. The more the merrier. What I mainly want from you is an unbiased report, nice and scientific, that nobody can argue with.”

He reached inside the envelope and extracted a dispenser of aloe vera liquid soap. “And what’s this for?” he asked.

“Um, use your imagination,” I replied.

“Present for you,” I said, opening the car boot.

“What is it?” Dave asked, coming over to me. It was seven thirty in the morning and a light drizzle was falling. We hadn’t met for a pint the night before, so I’d spent the evening shopping and doing chores.

“My old microwave,” I told him. “You can have it for Sophie, if you want. You said she needed one. The bulb’s gone, but otherwise it’s OK.”

He turned up his collar and looked at it for a few seconds before saying: “And what about you? I thought you lived out of the microwave.”

“I bought a new one last night. A Mitsubishi. It does everything, including the washing up, so this is now going spare. Any good to you?”

“Charlie…” he began, “I’d be annoyed if I thought you’d gone out and bought one just so Sophie could have this.”

“I didn’t,” I assured him. “Sainsbury’s have started doing
these ready meals for the healthier appetite, like mine, and this isn’t large enough for them. They get stuck corner-ways on when they rotate, so I bought a bigger one. Now I’m
getting
flippin’ soaked, so do you want it or not.”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Thanks a lot. I believe you like I believe the Prime Minister, but thanks. It’ll save me a bob or two.”

“And these are expensive times,” I said.

“You can say that again.”

I helped him carry it to his car and we walked into the nick, brushing the raindrops from our jackets. Dave is paid for the overtime he works, but it is strictly limited. I have to ration it out and try to be fair to everyone. The younger DCs have expenses, too: mortgages and young children if they’re married; flash cars with big payments if they’re
single
. “What a miserable day,” I complained.