Silkstone moved as if to stub the cigarette out, realised it was only half smoked and took another drag on it. “I don’t know,” he replied, ignoring his brief ’s protestations. “I’ve been wondering that myself. Did I expect to find them together again? Is that why I left the afternoon free? You know, subconsciously. I don’t think I did. I loved my wife, trusted her, and she loved me. If I’d really expected to catch them together I’d have returned home even earlier, wouldn’t I?” He took another long draw on the cigarette while we pondered on his question. “Truth is,” he continued, “I’ve been worrying about the old ticker a bit, lately. Decided to cut my workload. That’s why I came home early.”
Which, I thought, was a good point. I quizzed him about how he’d felt as he drove to Latham’s house; how he gained entry; about the knife and any conversation he had with Latham. It was a waste of time. Everything was obscured by the thick red mist of convenient memory loss. There’s a lot more of it about than you’d ever believe, especially among murder suspects. “Interview terminated,” I said, looking up at the clock and reading off the time. Dave reached out and stopped the tape.
“Your case papers will be sent to the crown prosecutors,” I told Silkstone, “who will determine the level of charge against you. Assuming the results of the forensic tests validate what you say they may decide to go for a charge of manslaughter. If not, I shall be pressing for a murder charge. You will be committed for trial at crown court and we shall be applying for you to be remanded in custody until then. Is there anything you wish to ask me?”
Silkstone shook his head. Prendergast said: “I have explained the procedure to my client, Inspector. We will be making our own clinical and psychiatric reports and demand full access to any forensic procedures that are being undertaken. It goes without saying that we will be applying for bail.”
“You do that,” I replied, sliding my chair back and standing up.
We grabbed a bacon sandwich in the canteen and drove to Latham’s house on the West Wood estate. There are no trees at the West Woods, because the landscape around Heckley does not suit them. The ground is rocky, the winters harsh and the sheep omnivorous. Archaeologists following the builders’ excavators found remnants of a forest in the patch of peat bog they were building on, and an imaginative sales person did the rest. There is no North, South or East Wood.
We wandered around his home from room to room, looking in drawers, feeling through the pockets of his suits, like a couple of vultures picking over a carcass. Wilbur Smith’s Elephant Song was lying on a shelf within reach of his easy chair, with a bookmark at about the halfway point. In the smallest bedroom, filled with junk, there was a big bag of fishing rods and a box of tackle. I hadn’t marked him as a fisherman.
On his fridge-freezer door, held in place by a magnetic Bart Simpson, was a postcard showing a painting that I recognised. I eased it off and looked at the back, but it was blank. “Gauguin,” I said, flapping the card towards Dave.
“You’d know,” he replied.
I replaced it exactly where I’d found it and opened the fridge door. He ate ready meals from the supermarket, supplemented with oven chips, and was seriously deficient in vegetables.
“He didn’t eat properly,” I said.
“You’d know,” Dave repeated.
I was drawn, as always, to the bedroom. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at the two photographs, when Dave joined me.
“Who do you reckon she is?” I asked.
He looked at the picture of the young girl without handling it. “Mmm, interesting,” he mused. “Taken a while ago. Could be his wife, assuming that’s them in the other picture. Is it, er, a bit on the salacious side, or is that just me?”
“It’s just you,” I told him, untruthfully.
“I don’t think it’s a daughter or niece,” he continued.
“Why not?”
“Well, I wouldn’t frame a similar picture of our Sophie and have it on display, and she’d certainly have something to say about it if I did. I reckon it’s his wife, when she was at school. They keep it there for a laugh, or a bit of extra stimulation. I don’t know, you’re the one with all the experience. I’m just a happily married man.”
“The SOCO reckons it was taken about the same time as the wedding photo,” I said, “which means it’s not the wife.”
“Fair enough,” he replied, adding: “Maybe all will be revealed at the meeting, when we learn something about his background.”
“Let’s hope so,” I said. We left, locking the door behind us, and told the PC on duty that we still wanted the crime scene maintaining.
In the car Dave said: “That photo.”
“Mmm.”
“Of the young girl.”
“Mmm.”
“Maybe it’s just a curio type of thing. The sort of picture you might pick up at a car boot sale, or something. Know what I mean?”
“I think so,” I said. “A collector’s item. Like some dirty old Victorian might have drooled over.”
“Yeah. Voluptuous innocence and all that crap.”
“Lewis Carroll and Alice,” I suggested.
“Exactly. He used to photograph children in the nude, you know.”
“Crikey,” I said. “So where did he keep his spare films?”
We’d told the Latham team to assemble at three, but the Mrs Silkstone investigators were there too, keen to learn the big picture. Annette and Iqbar were sitting in the front row, and she passed me a foolscap sheet of the PM findings. That was what I’d wanted most of all. I perused it as everybody found seats and joshed with each other. The small conference room doubles as a lecture theatre, and is equipped with all the usual paraphernalia like overhead projectors and CCTV. At one minute to three I picked up the wooden pointing stick and rattled it against the floor, calling out: “OK, boys and girls, let’s have some order.”
As the hubbub died down Mr Wood entered the room. “Keeping them entertained, Charlie?” he said.
“Just doing a few quick impressions, Boss,” I replied.
“I see. Any chance of you impersonating a police officer for the rest of the day?” He has a vicious tongue, at times.
Gilbert told the troops that HQ had sanctioned their overtime payments, which is what they wanted to hear, and thanked them for their efforts before handing over to me. I started by adding my appreciation for their work. A murder enquiry is always disruptive to the private lives of the investigators, as well as the principal characters. “This is a double murder enquiry,” I told them, “and the eyes of the world are upon us, so it’s important that we show them what we can do. As always, you have responded to the challenge, and we are grateful.” I outlined the bare bones of the case, and then asked about the identity of the first body.
Inspector Adey said: “First body confirmed to be that of Peter John Latham. We contacted his ex-wife — he’s a divorcee — who lives in Pontefract. She was reluctant to come over to ID him because she has young children, and showed little interest in knowing when the funeral might be. Eventually we asked a neighbour, Mrs Watson, who was friendly with him, and she positively identified him.”
“Any other next of kin?” I asked.
“His mother in Chippenham, if she’s still alive. She vacated her last known address to move into a nursing home, but we’re trying to find her.”
“Thanks Gareth. We might as well do the other one now,” I said. “Any volunteers?”
A uniformed constable raised his hand and uncoiled from his chair. He’d taken Mr Silkstone to the mortuary at the General Hospital, he told us, where Silkstone had positively identified the body of a woman as being that of his wife, Margaret. I thanked him and he sat down.
“Was he suitably grief stricken?” I asked him.
“Yes sir.”
Gareth Adey rose to his feet, saying: “Point of order, Mr Priest.”
