carried.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
She stood up, saying: “Remember me to Sophie, please, Boss, and give her my congratulations.”
I pulled a pained face and said: “Annette. Could you please call me Charlie once in a while? Everybody else does. I shan’t read anything into it, honestly. It just helps maintain the team spirit. That’s all.”
She sat down again, and this time the smile was fulsome. “Sorry,” she said. “Charlie.”
“That’s better. I hope you have a good weekend. If you ring me I’ll tell you the results of the tests.”
“Oh, I’ll come here first, in the morning,” she asserted.
“You’ve no need to, if you’re going away. Anywhere special?”
“Um, York, to a friend’s, that’s all. I’ll come here first, for the results.”
“If you say so.”
She went off to report to Jeff about Jamie’s movements, leaving a faint, tantalising reminder of her presence in my office. Annabelle came on some of the walks we’d organised, and the two of them had surely met. Annabelle — Annette, I thought, Annette — Annabelle. A man would have to be careful with two names like that, in a passionate situation. Not that one was ever likely to arise. I wondered about the mystery friend in York and growled at the next person to come into the office.
The forecast for the weekend was good so I told the troops that we’d have a meeting about the murders on Monday. Most of them said they’d pop in Saturday morning, for the results. I still do a few paintings, when the mood takes me or someone commissions one. I only charge for materials. Mr Ho at the Bamboo Curtain had asked for one, for on his staircase, so I decided to make a start on it. It was going to be six feet by four feet six inches, abstract but with a Chinese theme. On the way home I called in the library and borrowed a book on Chinese art.
I had a trout for tea, with microwave oven chips and peas. Not bad. Chinese art is big on impossible cliffs and bonsai trees. I hinted at a few terracotta warriors and coolie hats, for the human touch, and a couple of tanks to show where the power lay. By midnight I’d done the underpainting and it was looking good. What a way to spend Friday night, but better than cleaning the oven. The next part, laying on the colour straight out of the tubes, was the best bit. Therapeutic. I had a shower and went to bed.
I couldn’t sleep. Maybe it was the trout, maybe it was the enquiry. If the DNA results were as expected we’d have that sewn up tomorrow, so no problem there. Maybe I was thinking about the sad life I was drifting into. Maybe I was thinking about a woman. Maybe I should set it to music.
I listened to the World Service for a while, then switched to the local station. There’d been a bad accident on the Heckley bypass, something about a jack-knifed lorry, and traffic disruption was expected to last into the morning. Six o’clock I went downstairs and made some tea.
I was lying on the settee using the remote control to pick out my favourite tracks on The Bootleg Series when the phone rang, right in the middle of Blind Willie McTell. Anybody who interrupts Blind Willie had better have a good reason.
It was the night tec’. “Sorry to ring you at this time, Charlie,” he began.
“No problem, Rodger.” He doesn’t telephone me lightly and his voice was strained. “What’ve you got?”
“There’s been a bad RTA on the bypass.”
“I know. I’m up and heard it on the radio. What happened?”
“Head on, between a Mini and a milk tanker. The Mini’s jammed underneath.”
“God, that sounds nasty.” I visualised the carnage. “How many in the Mini?”
“Just one, as far as we can tell. I’m pretty sure it’s Jamie Walker.”
I didn’t speak for a while. “You still there, Charlie?” Rodger asked.
“Yeah, I’m still here,” I replied. “Dead, I assume?”
“Instantly.”
“Was he being chased?”
“No. We didn’t even know he was in the area.”
“Thank God for that. You got some help?”
“Everybody and his dog’s here. Just thought you’d like to know.”
“Right. Thanks for ringing, Rodge, and stay with it, please.”
Jamie Walker, aged fourteen, wouldn’t be stealing any more cars, and our figures would resume their steady downward path after the recent hiatus. Jamie Walker, who I hated, was eliminated from the equation. I had cornflakes and toast for breakfast and went into the garage to look at the painting. It looked as good as I remembered. At seven, because I couldn’t think of anything else to do, I drove to the nick.
By the time the troops arrived at our office on the first floor they’d all heard about Jamie. It was mainly smiles all round, because Jamie had killed himself. All too often it’s someone completely innocent who pays the price. Rodger came in, looking completely shagged out, and told us the details. Jamie had come round a bend on the wrong side of the road and hit the tanker at a combined speed of about a hundred and ten. The tanker driver was unhurt but in hospital under sedation.
“He’d stolen the Mini from the bloke who lives next door to where he was staying,” Rodger told us. “This bloke works for a security firm, on about eighty quid a week. He has two daughters who are asthmatic, and he runs the car so he can take them to the coast every weekend. Someone told him sea air would do them good. Don’t ask me to weep for Jamie Walker, because I can’t. Good riddance to the little bastard, I say.”
“Go home, Rodger,” I said. “You’ve had a tough night. Take whatever it is that makes you sleep and snuggle up to your Rosie.” But I doubted if there’d be any sleep for him today, or tomorrow, or even the next day. He walked away, jacket slung over his shoulder, and we looked at our watches, waiting for the mail to arrive.
Gilbert rang from home, asking for news, and I promised to let him know as soon as we had anything. Annette came in, wearing a shortish skirt and high heels, which was unusual. Her working clothes are practical, and she only wears a skirt for court appearances. I gave her a wink and was rewarded with a smile. At five past ten a traffic car arrived, with the report. I opened the envelope and read the resume that preceded the detailed stuff.
“What does it say?” someone asked.
“Wait,” I told them, reading.
“They close at four,” someone complained.
“Shurrup!”
“Sorry.”
“That’s all right. OK, it’s as we expected.” I handed the report to Annette, who was sitting directly in front of me. “The semen samples are all from Peter Latham. Hairs were found in the bed from all three of them.”
“Which isn’t surprising, as it was Silkstone’s bed,” Dave told us.
“Pubic hair, in this case, I presume,” someone added.
“Yes,” I agreed, “It does say that.” They started chattering between themselves, so I hushed them, saying: “There is just one more thing.” When they were silent I told them: “According to the lab, traces of a spermicidal lubricant, as used on condoms, were also found in Mrs Silkstone. That’s something for us to think about.”
“In where? Does it say?” someone asked.
“Not sure,” I replied, looking at Annette. She thumbed through the pages, there were about ten, scanning each briefly as she shook her hair away from her face.
“Can you find it?”
“Yes, it’s here. It says: ‘Traces of a spermicidal lubricant, of a type commonly used on condoms, were found in the anus and rectum.’”
“Does it say if any was found on Latham’s dick?”
Annette turned the pages back, looking for the information.
“Is it there?”
“Yes, I think this is it.” She studied the report for a few seconds then read out aloud: “A spermicidal lubricant of a similar type as that found in the female body was found on the subject’s penis.”
I thanked her, saying to the rest of them: “If any of you has a theory about how all this came about, I’ll treat the information in the strictest confidence. Meanwhile, we’ll prepare a condensed version and do the necessary. Any
