“Clever stuff,” the DCC said. “Marvellous what they can do, these days.”
“It is, isn’t it. And this time, everything worked perfectly. The lens cap flew off and the camera took a photo of Venus’s soil, which looked very much like any other soil. Then the arm stretched out and the scoop picked up a sample and brought it back on board for analysis.” I paused to let the pictures form in his mind, then went on: “Trouble was, the scoop had picked up the lens cap. They spent all that money, travelled a hundred million miles, to analyse something they took with them.”
He looked across at me. “You’re kidding!” he scoffed.
“According to the telly,” I replied.
“The daft buggers.”
“It was hailed as another Soviet success story,” I told him, “and the scientists were awarded the Order of Lenin and given free holidays on the Black Sea.” We’d arrived at the nick. I freewheeled into my space and yanked the handbrake on.
“Ha ha,” he chuckled. “That’s a good story, Charlie. A good story. With a moral in it, too. Learn from other people’s mistakes, eh.”
“That’s right, Mr Pritchard,” I said, adding: “And you’ve got to admit, it makes writing-off a Ford Escort sound small beer, don’t you think?”
He called me a devious sod, but he was grinning as he said it. I hoped I’d done Big Jim and Martin a favour, but I wasn’t sure.
Dave and the two tec’s from Somerset were in Gilbert’s office, waiting for me. They were a DI and a DS, and were a little taken aback when I introduced Pritchard to them. He’d insisted on being present and they weren’t used to their top brass being so accessible. After handshakes all round and mugs of tea for me and the DCC, Gilbert said: “Apparently, Charlie, Latham is totally unrelated to Caroline Poole and there is no obvious reason why he should have that photograph of her.”
Dave said: “The picture came from the Burdon and Frome Express, as we know, but they have no record of the buyer. If it was paid for in cash, in advance, and collected in person, they wouldn’t have.”
“Or he could have used a false name,” the DCC suggested, eager to help, but failing.
“So what does Silkstone have to say?” I asked.
The DI was a huge man in a light grey suit, with a clipped moustache and nicotine-stained fingers. He said: “We’ll start before that, if you don’t mind. The reason that we decided not to come up yesterday morning was because we’d done some preliminary investigations in the Caroline Poole files. Or, to be more precise, Bob here had.”
Bob, the DS, nodded.
“Bob discovered that the names Latham and Silkstone were in there, would you believe.”
“Go on,” I invited. It had been a big case, and probably every male in Somerset was in there.
“A car was seen in the vicinity of the last sighting of Caroline. A dark one, British Leyland, possibly a Maestro. In the next three months the owners of eighteen thousand dark Maestros were interviewed, without any success. Two of them belonged to Latham and Silkstone. Or, to be more accurate, to the company they worked for: Burdon Home Improvements.”
When we talk to people in large numbers like that, there’s not a great deal you can ask. “Where were you on…” is about it. We insist on an answer, and then ask if anyone was with them, to confirm the story. If there was, and they do, that person is eliminated from enquiries, as we professionals say.
“This is where it gets interesting,” the DI was saying.
“Just one thing,” the DCC interrupted, to prove he was awake, and interested, and really on top of things. “Are the files computerised?”
“After a fashion,” Bob replied. “It’s an ancient system, from before the mouse was invented, but it works, once you find someone who knows about these things. At the moment, because it was an unsolved case, it’s all being updated to the latest HOLMES standard.”
“Good, good. Sorry to chip in.”
“That’s OK, Sir. Like I was saying, this is where it gets interesting. Caroline was last seen walking home from a school play, at about nine fifteen. Latham said he was in a pub at the time in question, twenty miles away. He gives one Tony Silkstone as his alibi, plus two women they just happened to talk to. When Silkstone was interviewed he gave Latham’s name, plus the two women.”
“Were the women traced?” I asked.
“Yep. It’s all here.” He rattled his knuckles against the file on the desk.
“But you won’t have had time to find them again?”
The DI shook his head but didn’t speak.
“Right. So what does Silkstone say now?”
“Silkstone says,” he began, “that he was out with his current girlfriend at the time in question, a lady called Margaret Bates. He was a married man, and this was an illicit affair. He later left his wife and married Margaret. She became the late Mrs Silkstone.”
“Cherchez la femme,” the DCC mumbled, nodding as if everything was suddenly clear. I was beginning to wish I hadn’t brought him. Gilbert caught my eye and winked.
“Meanwhile Latham, we are informed, was playing fast and loose with another woman, called Michelle Webster, who was a friend of Margaret Bates. According to Silkstone he was terrified that his wife would find out, but Michelle was his only alibi for the night Caroline disappeared. He asked Silkstone to say that he was with him, and that they just happened to meet two women in a pub outside Frome, The Lord Nelson. Silkstone agreed, he says, and persuaded the two women to say that they’d all met, briefly, at the pub.”
Dave said: “They were married to two sisters, weren’t they?”
“Yes,” the DI confirmed.
“And then they were knocking off two mates?”
“That’s right.”
“It all sounds a bit cosy.”
“It does, doesn’t it? But the important thing is that Silkstone’s story tallies with what’s in the files. He was with Latham, Latham was with him, in the Lord Nelson. The two women confirmed seeing them there. Bingo — eliminated from enquiries, even though it’s a pack of lies.”
“Margaret Silkstone’s dead,” I said. “What about the other one?”
“Michelle Webster?” Bob replied. “We haven’t found her yet, but she’s our next priority.”
“It’ll be interesting to hear what she has to say,” I stated.
“Ye-es, very interesting,” the DCC agreed.
It was Iqbal’s last day with us, Allah be praised, and Annette came to tell me that the troops were meeting in the Bailiwick at home time, to give him a send-off. I told her to make two coffees for us, and bring herself back to my office. Maybe she’d appreciate the assertive approach.
When she was seated opposite me I told her all about the Silkstone interview. She listened gravely, and offered the opinion that lack of alibi and possession of a photograph was hardly enough to convict a man for murder.
“Except that he went on to kill again,” I said.
“That’s not evidence,” she stated.
“No,” I agreed, “but the Somerset boys can go back and look at the case again, with Latham in mind. We haven’t seen the file. There might be a load of stuff in there that will all fall into place, now.”
Annette was right, though. We have to be careful. You can’t arrest a man because he has a scar on his cheek, and then announce to the court that he has a scar on his cheek, just like the witness said. Latham was only in the frame for Caroline because he possessed her photograph. We couldn’t then use that piece of non-evidence to clinch his guilt. I heaved a big sigh and took a bite of chocolate biscuit.
“You look tired, Charlie,” she observed.
“Yeah, a bit.”
“So where does all this leave us?”
“Us?” I queried.
“I meant the Latham case. Our Latham case.”
“Everybody agrees that it’s sewn up,” I told her. “Latham killed Mrs S. Mr S came home and found her, then
