chart of possible scenarios, and let Annette drive us there in her yellow Fiat. The professor arrived at about five past. He greeted Annette like a long-lost relative, then said: “Right, let’s get on with it.”
I laid out a set of photographs on the worktop in the kitchen, telling him what we’d found but not passing any opinions nor making any speculations. The professor nodded and sniffed a few times, peering at the photos through his half-spectacles, and asked to be shown the bedroom.
The bed was made up with a duvet in a floral pattern, but still bore the impression of the action that had taken place there, highlighted by the SOCO’s little arrows. In the twenty-four hours since the killing the smell of neglect had pervaded the room. The cocktail of perfumes: her make-up, somebody’s sweat and other fluids, flowed uneasily through the nostrils. I breathed through my mouth to avoid it. We had a preliminary report from the scientific boys, saying what had been found where, but no definitive DNA evidence to say from whom it all came. The professor examined the sites marked by the arrows, checking with the report after each one.
“We’ll leave you to it,” I said, and led Annette downstairs. It was the first time she’d been in the house and her eyes scanned everything, sweeping over the furniture, pausing to examine the decorations more closely. Partly, I supposed, from the professional point of view, partly as a woman in another woman’s house. “Have a good look round,” I invited, seating myself on a leather settee that was as hard as a park bench.
A coffee table book about Jaguar cars was propped in an alcove adjoining the fireplace. I reached for it and flipped through until I found the E-type. They’d photographed a red one, same as mine, from low down at the front. I’m not a car person, but the E-type was special and I felt a pang of regret for selling it.
“I had one like that,” I said to Annette as she returned, holding the double-page spread open for her to see.
“What? An E-type?” she exclaimed, smiling wider than I’d ever seen her.
“Mmm.”
“Cor! I wish I’d known you then.”
“Everybody said it was a good bird-puller.”
“And was it?”
I smiled at the memories. “I suppose so. My dad bought it as a pile of scrap and restored it. When he died it came to me.”
“I’m sorry,” Annette said, sitting in an easy chair.
“Sorry?”
“About your dad. He was a policeman, wasn’t he?”
“That’s right. A sergeant at Heckley. He was a nice man.”
“Yes, I can imagine.” She stood up abruptly and walked over to the window. I watched her, wanting to join her there. It would have been the most natural thing in the world to slip my hand around her waist and stand with her, looking out over the garden. It might also have earned me a knee in the groin. Her hair was tied in a wild bundle behind her head. Difficult to manage, I thought, and smiled. “What’s the verdict on the house?” I asked.
Annette turned to face me. Her cheeks were pink. “This house?”
“Mmm.”
“The house is OK. Not sure about the occupants.”
“I really meant the occupants.”
“Right. The place speaks volumes about them. I’d say they were well off, but lacking in taste. He’s a control freak, hasn’t grown up yet. What sort of man…”
The professor was clomping down the stairs and Annette stopped speaking. He came into the room with a worried expression on his face, which meant nothing because his features were set that way. Anybody’s would be, with his job. He pulled his spectacles off, wiped his eyes with a big white handkerchief, and flopped onto the other Chesterfield. It flinched slightly and creaked under his weight.
“Fancy a coffee, Prof.?” I asked.
Annette said: “I’ll make us…”
“No, no,” the professor insisted, flapping a hand. “Kind of you, but I’d rather not. Too busy.”
“Right. So what can you tell us?”
“Not a great deal,” he began. “Without the DNA results we’re barking into the dark somewhat. She was killed on the bed, either during or just after sexual intercourse; and that’s about it. You can definitely rule out her being killed elsewhere.”
“One man or two?”
“Dunno. The lab should be able to tell us, though.”
“Up to the point of death, was she a willing participant?”
“Good question. Apparently so, or to put it another way, she wasn’t dragged kicking and screaming into the room. That doesn’t mean that there wasn’t some duress applied.”
“Like, at knifepoint, for example?”
“Yes. Precisely.”
I turned to my new partner. She was definitely more attractive than Sparky, but I didn’t know how she’d be in a fistfight. “Anything, Annette?” I asked.
“Yes,” she began. “From your earlier examinations, Professor, and what you’ve seen here, could you say if any violence was used during the acts of intercourse?”
“The actual penetration, you mean?”
“Er, yes.”
“Difficult to interpret. Yes, entry was quite violent, but one man’s — or woman’s — violence is another’s big turn-on. It was rough intercourse, but I cannot interpret the victim’s feelings about that.”
“How rough?” I asked.
“Some damage to the mucous membranes, but not excessively so.”
“Both ends?”
“More so in the anus, but that’s quite usual.”
I spread my chart on the arm of the settee and explained it to the professor. We all agreed that what he had determined at the house fitted perfectly with Silkstone’s story but I argued that it could also support the sex romp theory.
“Did you find any other supportive evidence?” the professor asked.
“Such as?”
“Well, for instance, did you find any pornography? Sex aids? Bondage paraphernalia? That sort of thing.”
“No,” I reluctantly admitted.
“Then I’d say it was unlikely.”
My pet theory had just prised the bars open and escaped. “Unless the DNA tests show that they were both there,” I argued.
“I suppose so,” the professor said, in a tone that suggested I shouldn’t hold my breath.
“How about Silkstone killing them both in a jealous rage?” I suggested, tapping Box 3 with the blunt end of my pen. “That’s probably what we would have concluded had it not been for his admissions.”
“Ye-es, I’d wondered about that,” the professor replied, “but I’m not sure that what I’ve seen validates it. Force was undoubtedly used against Mrs Silkstone, but she wasn’t knocked about and there are few signs of a struggle. There’s no bruising to her face, but her arms bear evidence of being tightly gripped. It was a controlled force, in my opinion, by someone who knew exactly what he was doing.”
“Was she a willing partner, in the sex?”
“Willing? Probably not. Reluctant, I’d say. She certainly didn’t fight for her life until she had no chance.”
“Are you suggesting that the motive for the assault was rape, pure and simple,” I asked, “and killing her was an afterthought?”
“It’s a possibility,” he agreed, “although I’m not sure about the pure and simple. Assaults of this nature are not necessarily for sexual gratification — they’re about inflicting humiliation on the victim. Which, I suppose, when you think about it, enhances the gratification. He’s a control freak, likes to dominate — that’s what stimulates him. I’m rambling a bit, Charlie. That side of it is not my field, thank goodness, I’m just the plumber.”
I pointed to the fourth box on my chart. “And then there’s the possibility that Silkstone orchestrated the whole thing,” I said. “He killed them both but put the blame for Margaret on to Latham. That way he comes out of it
