Latham did the other. It all makes sense, no loose ends. Put it to bed, for God’s sake, and concentrate on getting Jamie. We’re going to be asked some searching questions about that young man before this is over, mark my words, so let’s have him in. Understood?”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
I said: “Fourteen years old, top of our Most Wanted list. Not bad, eh? He’ll be dining out on that for the rest of his life, if anybody tells him.”
“He’ll be dining out in Bentley Prison maximum security unit for the rest of his life if I can help it,” Gilbert responded. “Just…find him.”
We had an informal meeting in the office and I wound down the murder enquiry until Monday. Even the smallest investigation soon develops branches until it looks like some ancient tree, every fork representing a Yes and a No answer to a simple question. “Did you know your wife was having an affair, Sir?” Go left for Yes, right for No. This one was no exception, but we’d have the DNA results in the morning and that would enable us to do some drastic pruning. Then, hopefully, we’d be able to file the whole thing until the wheels of justice came to rest against the double yellow lines of Her Majesty’s Crown Court, or something. I handed the Jamie Walker case over to Jeff Caton, one of my DSs, and gave him full control of all the troops. What more could be done?
Annette went off to find Jamie’s mother. I was hoping to have a quick word with Annette when nobody else was around, just: “Hello, how’s things?” to maintain the momentum, but it didn’t work out. She was wearing jeans with a scarlet blouse and looked breathtaking. Sparky came in as I eyed the pile of paper in my in-tray.
“I’m off looking for Jamie’s mates,” he said. “Anything you want to know before I go?”
“No, I don’t think so,” I replied. “I’ll have a go at this lot and then start on a submission to the CPS.”
“What are you doing over the weekend?”
“Housework, and coming here in the morning. Why?”
“I just wondered. You’re not…you know…?”
“I’m not what?” I demanded.
“You’re not, you know, taking Annette out?”
“No, I’m not. Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Nothing. I just thought you might be.”
“Is that why you rather pointedly left us alone together yesterday?”
“Just trying to help an old mate.”
“Well don’t bother, thank you. Never get involved with a colleague, Dave. That’s my motto.”
“She’s an attractive woman.”
“Yes, I had noticed.”
“And she obviously fancies you like mad.”
“Does she? That’s news to me.”
“Because you’re blind. So you’re free on Saturday night?”
“Sadly, as a bird.”
“Right,” he said. “Sophie finished her A-levels yesterday, and says she’s happy with the way they went, so we’re taking her for a celebratory steak. And, of course, they say it wouldn’t be the same without you. Can’t think why.”
“Oh, that’s brilliant,” I declared. “Well done Sophie. Is she in? I’ll give her a ring.”
“No, she’s gone into Leeds with her mum. I heard Harvey Nicks mentioned, so it could cost me. All she has to do now is get the grades, then it’s Cambridge, here we come. The kid’s worked hard, Charlie. Harder than I ever have.”
“I know. And think of the pressure, too.”
“Well, we’ve never pressurised her. Encouraged her, but win or lose, we don’t mind as long as she’s happy. So shall I put you down for a T-bone?”
“You bet.”
“And, er, will you be bringing a friend?”
“A friend? No, I don’t think so,” I replied.
“But you’ll come?”
“Try stopping me.”
“Why don’t you ask Annette? You might be surprised.”
“Wouldn’t that make Sophie jealous?” I joked. She had a crush on me when she was younger, but I imagined she was long grown out of it. Now she’d see me for the old fogey I really was.
“No, not really. I told her about your prostate problems and she went off you. Oh, and I told her that you bought your clothes at Greenwoods. That clinched it.”
“Thanks. Greenwoods do some very nice jackets.”
“So will it be steak for one or two?”
“One please.”
“Go on, ask her.”
“I’ll see.”
“OK.”
He went off to find his villains and I thought about Sophie. My previous girlfriend was called Annabelle, and she and Sophie became good friends. Sophie copied her style and mannerisms, even to the point of calling me by my Sunday name, Charles. I smiled at the memories. And soon she’d be off to Cambridge.
The internal phone rang. “Priest,” I said into it.
“Just letting you know that the Deputy Chief Constable has arrived, Charlie,” the desk sergeant informed me in a stage whisper.
“Thanks,” I said. “In that case, I’m off.”
I went down the back stairs and into the main office. Every major crime has an appointed exhibits officer and a connected property store, which in this case was a drawer in a filing cabinet. It’s essential that a log is kept of every piece of evidence, accounting for all its movements and recording the names of everyone who has had access to it. There’s no point in telling the court that a knife had fingerprints on it if the defence can suggest — just suggest — that the defendant may have handled it after he was arrested. I didn’t want the knife, just the keys to Silkstone’s house. I said a silent apology to Gilbert for leaving him in the clutches of the DCC and drove back to Mountain Meadows.
The panda cars and the blue tape had gone and the street had resumed its air of respectability. The Yellow Pages delivery man had done his rounds and the latest edition was sitting on the front step of several houses, neatly defining who was at home and who wasn’t. I’d had Silkstone’s Audi taken from Latham’s house to our garage for forensic examination, so there was plenty of room for me to park on the drive alongside the Suzuki. I picked up the directory and let myself in.
First job was a coffee. They drank Kenco instant, although there was a selection of beans from Columbia and Kenya. I watched the kettle as it boiled and carried my drink — weak, black and unsweetened — through into the lounge. I sat on the chesterfield and imagined I was at home.
It was a difficult exercise. This was the most uncomfortable room I’d ever been in, outside the legal system. The furnishings were good quality, expensive, but everything was hard-edged and solid. No cushions or fabrics to soften things. Focal point of the room was a Sony widescreen television set big enough to depict some of TV’s smaller performers almost life-size. I shuddered at the thought. After about ten minutes the wallpaper started dancing and weaving before my eyes, like a Bridget Riley painting. I stood up and went exploring.
There was a toilet downstairs, a bathroom upstairs with a bath shower and rowing machine, and one en suite with the room where we’d found Mrs Silkstone. A room under the stairs with a sloping ceiling was their office, where a Viglen computer and seventeen-inch monitor stood on an L-shaped desk. I sat in the leather executive chair and opened the first drawer.
An hour later I was in the kitchen again. I examined all the messages on the pin board and made a note of several phone numbers. The cupboard under the sink was a surprise: there was still some room in it. I spread a newspaper — the Express — on the floor, emptied their swing bin on to it and poked around in the tea bags and muesli shrapnel like I’d seen TV cops do. Then I went outside, dragged the dustbin into the garage and did it again,
