I was expecting it. Asking a murderer to identify an associated body was a trifle unusual, if not bizarre. “Yes, Gareth,” I said.
“Do you not think, Mr Priest,” he waffled, “that we might be leaving ourselves open to criticism by inviting the accused to ID a body allegedly murdered by the victim of his revenge killing?”
“Good point, Gareth,” I told him. “We need a second opinion. Could I leave that with you, and I’d be grateful if you’d do the usual with next of kin.”
He smiled contentedly and sat down.
“Cause of death,” I said, pointing to Annette.
She was wearing jeans and a white blouse, her jacket draped over the back of the chair. She stood up, unsmiling, and brushed her hair off her face. “Peter Latham was killed by a single knife-wound to the heart,” she told us. “The knife found in him would be identical to the one missing from the set in his kitchen. The blade entered his chest between the fifth and sixth ribs on an upward trajectory, puncturing the left ventricle. This indicates an underhand blow from someone of approximately the same height. Latham was only a hundred and sixty-eight centimetres tall. That’s five feet six inches. The blade missed the ribs and unusual force would not be required.”
“Time of death?” I asked.
“Between three and six p.m.,” Annette replied.
“We can narrow that down,” I declared. “Silkstone rang nine-double-nine at seventeen ten hours, saying he’d done it. Let’s call it between three and five.” Doc Evans had said between four and five, I remembered, and he was on the scene quite quickly. The professor was working from a cold cadaver, sixteen hours after the event. “On second thoughts, make it between four and five,” I told them. Sometimes, knowing the precise time of death can be crucial.
Annette had taken her seat again, but I said: “Go on, Annette, you might as well tell us about the other one.”
She rose, brushing the offending hair aside, and launched straight into it. She was a young attractive woman, one of only four in a room with thirty men, and I wondered if I’d been fair, sending her to the post-mortems. She said: “Margaret Silkstone died as a result of strangulation. There was a pair of tights knotted around her throat but there was also bruising caused by manual strangulation, apparently from behind. She’d recently had anal and vaginal intercourse, and semen samples have been recovered and sent for analysis.”
“How recently,” I asked.
“At about the time of death,” she replied. “The professor’s preliminary conclusions are that vaginal intercourse took place before death, and anal possibly after, but he wants to do a more considered examination.”
“And when was the time of death?”
“Between two and six p.m.”
“Right. Thanks for doing the gory stuff, Annette,” I told her. “I appreciate it.”
She gave me the briefest of smiles and sat down. After that I invited the team to let us know what they had discovered about the background of the deceased.
They all came from Gloucestershire. Silkstone had been a big wheel in a company based in Burdon Manor, variously known as Burdon Home Improvements, Burdon Engineering and Burdon Developments; and Latham was one of his salesmen. Back in 1975 they’d married two sisters but neither marriage had lasted. When the receiver finally pulled the plug on Burdons, Silkstone went to work for the now-defunct Oriental Bank of Commerce, or OBC, a name that sent a chill up the spine of every financial manager in the world. Now he was Northern big-cheese for a company called Trans Global Finance, and had been married to the late Margaret for ten years. Silkstone had five speeding convictions and two for careless driving. Latham had one for OPL and Margaret was clean.
“So now,” I told the throng of eager, upturned faces, “you know all about them. Any questions?”
“Yes Sir,” someone said. “Will you have the DNA results tomorrow?”
“No. Saturday,” I replied.
There was nothing else, so I terminated the meeting. Someone brewed up in the big office and I carried a mug of tea into my little den in the corner. I opened an A2 drawing pad and divided the sheet into several boxes. Dave came in, followed by Annette. In Box 1 I wrote:
Silkstone telling truth. Latham killed Margaret, then Silkstone killed Latham, in a rage.
“What next?” I asked.
“Three in a bed romp,” Dave suggested. In Box 2 I wrote:
Sex game gone wrong. Latham and Silkstone killed
Margaret. Silkstone killed Latham to cover his tracks.
“Hmm, that’s interesting,” Annette said.
“Charlie’s idea,” Dave told her. “I don’t know about such things. What next?”
In Box 3 I wrote:
Margaret and Latham having an affair.
Silkstone killed them both in a jealous rage.
Dave said: “I reckon that’s the obvious explanation.”
“It’s the favourite,” I agreed, “but how about this?” I wrote:
All a plot by Silkstone and numbered it Box 4.
“What, like, cold blooded?” Dave asked. “You think he planned it all?”
“I don’t think that. We just have to consider it. What if Silkstone killed Margaret for personal reasons and threw the blame on Latham? The whole thing might be a pack of lies. We need to know if he gains financially in any way.” I turned to Annette. “That’s a little job for you, Annette. Find out if he had her insured. How much do they owe on the house and will the insurance company pay out for her death, if you follow me?”
“You mean, if they had a joint life policy,” she replied.
“Do I?”
“She’s a clever girl,” Dave said.
Annette picked up her still steaming mug of tea and walked out. I gazed at the door she’d closed behind her and said to it: “I didn’t mean right now!”
I wrote M, O and F in each box, meaning motive, opportunity and forensic, and ticked them where appropriate. I didn’t bother with W for witnesses, because the only one we had was Silkstone himself. “That’s as far as we can go, Sunshine,” I declared, “until we get some results from the lab and find out who spread his seed all over the crime scene.” The phone rang before I could put cornices on all the capital letters and generally titivate the chart. It was the professor, replying to the message I’d left for him earlier in the day.
“It’s The Garth, Mountain Meadows,” I told him.
“What, no number?”
“No, but there’s only seven houses.”
“Pretentious twats. I’ll see you there at five. You can have half an hour.”
“Great, Prof. I appreciate it.”
Annette came in as I was replacing the phone. I looked at her, bemused by the rapid departure and return. She said: “Silkstone paid nearly two hundred thousand for the house, and still owes over a hundred and fifty K on it. And yes, the mortgage is insured joint life, first death, so if he didn’t kill Margaret himself they’ll have to pay out.”
It took me a few seconds to speak. Eventually I asked: “How did you find all this so quickly?”
“I went down and asked him,” she replied, smiling. “Took him a cup of tea. It’s not secret information. As he said, joint life is fairly standard practice, not necessarily sinister, but yes, he does come in for a handy payout.”
“Told you she was a clever girl,” Dave declared. He drained his mug, adding: “I’ll leave you to it; there’s work to be done.”
When he’d gone Annette said: “And I’ve had a word with the Met. Asked them to contact the head office of Trans Global Finance just to confirm things.”
“Brilliant, we’ll make a detective of you yet.” I told her about the call from the prof., and as Dave had vanished I suggested she come along with me to hear what he had to say. She seemed pleased to be asked, and went off to do her paperwork.
At twenty to five I gathered up a set of photographs of the Mountain Meadows crime scene, plus my new
