“Thanks, Uncle Charles,” they all said when I returned, six bottles dangling from between my fingers. One of the girls, dark-haired, petite and vivacious, said: “Can I call you Charlie, Uncle Charles? I already have an Uncle Charles.”
“I’d prefer it if you all called me Charlie. Uncle Charles makes me feel old.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight,” I lied, glancing up at the ceiling.
“Gosh, that is old.”
They were in high spirits, the adrenaline still pumping after a couple of hours on court, and I began to wonder if joining them had been such a good idea. Four confident young women at the crossroads: left for marriage and a family; right for a career in whatever they chose; straight on for both. I didn’t feel old — I felt fossilised.
The music paused, the DJ spoke for the first time, and when it started again the four of them jumped to their feet, prompted by some secret signal.
“We dance to this.”
“Come on, Annette. Can you dance, Charlie?”
“Can I dance? Can I dance? Watch my hips.”
I had a quick sip of lager, for sustenance, and followed them on to the floor. The difference in rhythm or melody was invisible to me, but this was evidently danceable, what had gone before wasn’t. I joined the circle of ladies, swivelled on one leg and wondered about joint replacements.
The style of dancing hadn’t changed, so I didn’t make a complete fool of myself. The girls put on a show, swaying and gyrating, lissom as snakes, but I gave them a step or two. Fifteen minutes later the DJ slowed it down and the floor emptied again, faster than a golf course in a thunderstorm.
We finished our tasteless beer and left. There was a street vendor outside, selling hot dogs. The girls’ ritual was to have one each then make their ways home. I couldn’t have eaten one if Delia Smith herself was standing behind the counter in her wimple. Just the smell of them made me want to dash off and bite a postman’s leg. We stood talking as they wolfed them down. Young appetites, young tastes, young digestive systems. Here we go again, I thought.
Annette shared my views on hot dogs, and declined one. When we’d established that nobody needed a lift we left. “That was fun,” Annette said as we drove off.
“It was, wasn’t it.”
“Sophie’s grown up.”
“I had noticed.”
“The little dark one — Shani — took a shine to you.”
“Understandably.”
“And not a size ten between them,” she sighed.
I freewheeled to a standstill outside her flat, dropping on to sidelights but leaving the engine running. “Thanks for the meal, Ms Brown,” I said.
“You’re welcome, Mr Priest,” she replied. “I’ve enjoyed myself.”
“Good. That’s the intention.”
“Well it worked.”
After a moment’s uncomfortable silence I asked: “Are you…are you going away, this weekend.”
“Yes,” she mumbled.
“Right.”
She pulled the catch and pushed the door open. “Charlie…” she began, half turning back towards me.
“Mmm?”
“Oh just, you know…thanks for…for being, you know…a pal. A friend.”
“A gentleman. You mean a gentleman.”
“Yes, I suppose I do.”
“Just as long as you understand one thing.”
She looked puzzled, worried. “What’s that?”
“That it’s bloody difficult for me.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
Her smile made me want to plunder a convent. “Goodnight, Charlie,” she said.
“Goodnight, Annette.”
The house was in darkness, blind and forlorn. The outside light is supposed to turn itself on at dusk, but it looked as if the bulb had blown again. The streetlights illuminate the front, but the side door is in shadow. I avoided the milk bottle standing on the step and felt for the keyhole with a finger, like drunks do, before inserting the key. It was cold inside, because a front had swept in from Labrador and the central heating was way down low. I turned the thermostat to thirty and the timer to constant. That’d soon warm things up. I made some tea and lit the gas fire. I was too alert to sleep, too many thoughts and rhythms tumbling around in my head. The big CD player was filled with Dylan, but that wasn’t what I needed:
I know that I could find you, in somebody’s room.
It’s a price I have to pay: you’re a big girl all the way.
Not tonight, Bob, thank you. I flicked through the titles until one flashed a light in my brain. Gorecki’s third; a good choice. Sometimes, the best way to deal with a hurt, real or imaginary, is to overwhelm it with somebody else’s sadness. I slipped the gleaming disc from its cover and placed it on the turntable.
“What do some people get up to, behind the curtains?” I’d asked Annette. “Profiling isn’t evidence,” I’d said. They get up to everything you could imagine, and plenty of things you couldn’t, and that’s the truth. Read the personal column in your newspaper; look at the magazines on the top shelf in any newsagents; explore the internet; look at the small ads in the tabloids. That’s the visible bit.
We don’t stop when we prove that someone committed a murder. We carry on until we prove that everybody else involved didn’t commit it. Sometimes, with some juries, nothing less will do.
If it wasn’t for the evidence, we’d have arrested Silkstone for the murder of his wife. Everything pointed to him, except the evidence. That’s a big except. The evidence, and the witness, pointed to Latham. That witness, of course, was Silkstone, and Latham was in no position to defend himself. The obvious solution was that Silkstone killed them both after discovering that they were lovers, but that’s not what he said happened, and he was the only witness. Next favourite, for me, was that Silkstone killed Latham out of self-preservation, because they were both there when Margaret died, but, like the professor said, it would be a bugger to prove. Perhaps they did the Somerset job together, too. Sadistic murdering couples were usually a male and a female, with the male the dominant partner, but there were exceptions. Some people think the Yorkshire Ripper didn’t always act alone, and the Railway Rapist almost certainly had an accomplice. And even if they’re wrong, there’s got to be a first time. There’s always got to be a first time.
My job is to catch murderers. It’s a dirty job, and dirt rubs off. Like the men who empty my dustbin, I come home with the smell of it following me. To catch a jackal you must first study its ways. Before you can look a rat in the eyes it is necessary to get down on your belly and roll in the dirt. Silkstone and Latham had known each other for a long time; married two sisters; committed adultery with two women who were friends. No doubt they’d shared a few adventures. Had they shared their women, too?
How does it start? A casual boast, man to man, after a few pints? A giggled comment between the wives after one too many glasses of wine? Expressions of admiration, followed by a tentative suggestion? Jaded senses find new life, curiosity is aroused, objections dismissed. “If we all agree, nobody gets hurt, do they?” Next thing you know, you’re alone with your best friend’s partner, undoing those buttons that you’ve looked at so often across the table, revealing the mysteries that they conceal.
Is that what happens? Don’t ask me. I thought Fellatio was a character in Romeo and Juliet until I was thirty-two. I awoke to Dawn Upshaw in full voice, and on that pleasant note crawled up the stairs to bed.
Monday morning I rang the clerk to the court who had granted Silkstone a variation to his bail conditions. “I believe he’s supposed to be speaking at a sales conference,” I said.
“That’s what his solicitor told us in the application, Mr Priest.”
