“So what was it about?”
I found the transcripts in my briefcase and laid them on his desk. “It looks as if someone in Bentley prison is trying to organise a hitman to do a job, and the hitman is a certain Kevin Chilcott. Remember him?”
“Kevin Chilcott? He killed a police officer, didn’t he, ten or twelve years ago?”
“As good as. I consulted the PNC about him and SB must have picked it up.”
“Humph!” he snorted. “Makes you wonder what else they pick up. So what have you got?” Gilbert read the excerpts, running his finger along the lines like a schoolchild. He mumbled to himself and turned the page over.
“That’s just the usual stuff,” I told him.
“What do you call the usual stuff?”
“Oh, you know…” — I adopted a whining voice — “That you Sharron? Yeah. I love you. I love you. How’s your mum. She’s all right. Tell her I love her. She sez she love’s you. How’s your Tracy? She’s all right. Tell her I love her. She’s pregnant. Is she? Yeah. Whose is it? Dunno. When’s it due? January. It can’t be mine, then.”
Gilbert said: “OK, OK, I get the message. So this stuff stands out, then.”
“Like a first-timer at a nudist colony.”
“You’d better let RCS know.”
“I’ll do it now.”
Gilbert stood up and retrieved his jacket from behind the door. “I’m off to headquarters,” he told me. “Monthly meeting. You’re in charge. What can I report about the Margaret Silkstone case?”
“Solved,” I replied.
“Good. And the Peter Latham job?”
“Solved.”
“Good. As long as you remember you said it. Do you want me to tell them about this?” He waved a hand towards the papers on his desk.
“Might as well,” I replied. “Give you something to talk about.”
Special Branch are not a band of super-cops, based in London. Every Force has an SB department, quietly beavering away at god-knows what. They have offices at all the airports and other points of entry, and keep an eye on who comes in and goes out of the country. Anti-terrorism is their speciality, but they keep a weather-eye open for big-league criminals on the move. If you don’t mind unsociable hours and have a high boredom threshold it could be the career for you. Special Branch don’t feel collars, they gather information. The Regional Crime Squads specialise in heavy stuff like organised crime, the syndicates and major criminals. They are experts at covert surveillance, tailing people and using informers. They move about, keep a low profile, infiltrate gangs. Dangerous stuff.
“So where is he?” I asked an RCS DI in London when I finally found myself talking to someone with an interest in the case.
“Wish we knew,” he confessed. “Over the last five years we’ve had sightings in Spain, Amsterdam and Puerto Rico. He moves around. What we do know, though, is that the money must have run out by now, even if he’s living very modestly. Half a million sounds a lot, but when someone charges you thirty per cent for converting it to used notes or a foreign currency, and someone else charges you for their silence, and so on, it soon depletes.”
“In the transcripts he says make it quick,” I told him.
“Sounds like he’s getting desperate, then. We’ll dig out a new description of him and circulate it to all points of entry. After that, we can only hope that someone spots him. Which district are you?”
“Number three.”
“So that will be our Leeds office?”
“That’s right.”
“Any chance of you getting the transcripts over there? If the conversations took place a month ago we might be too late already.”
“’Fraid not. I’ll address them to you and leave them behind the front desk.” It was their baby, so they could do the running around.
“OK. I’ll arrange for them to be collected, and thanks for the information.”
“My pleasure.” I asked him to keep us informed and replaced the receiver. Another satisfied customer, I thought, as I delved into Gilbert’s filing cabinet where he keeps his chocolate digestives.
After two of them I rang Gwen Rhodes at HMP Bentley and told her that the hard men were now on the Chiller case and that they had promised to keep us informed, but don’t hold your breath. People say they will, then don’t bother. It’s a mistake. I always make a point of saying my thank-yous, letting people know what happened. They remember, and next time you want something from them you get it with a cherry on the top.
Gwen said: “So the message was definitely for Chilcott, was it?”
“They think so, Gwen. Apparently his money should have run out by now, and they’re expecting him to make a move. This might be it.”
“Good,” she said. “Good. Glad we could be of assistance.”
“Listen, Gwen,” I said. “While you’re on the line, there’s something else I’d like to ask you.”
“Ye-es, Charlie,” she replied, in a tone that might have been cautious, may even have been expectant. What was I going to ask her? How about dinner sometime? The theatre?
“A few weeks ago you had a remand prisoner of mine called Anthony Silkstone,” I said. “I was wondering how he took to life on the inside.”
“Silkstone,” she repeated, downbeat. “Tony Silkstone?”
“That’s the man.”
“Killed his wife’s murderer?”
“That’s him. Anything to report about his behaviour?”
“I read about him in the papers but I didn’t realise he was one of yours, Charlie. Knew we had him, and he certainly didn’t cause any problems. Let’s see what the oracle says…” I heard the patter of keys as she consulted the computer terminal that sat on her desk, followed by a soft: “Here we are,” to herself, and a long silence.
“Gosh,” she said when she came back on the line. “You can send us as many like him as you can find, Charlie. A golden prisoner by any standards.”
“Oh,” I said. “What did he do?”
“It’s all here. First of all the other inmates, the remandees that is, regarded him as some sort of folk hero. It explains that the person Silkstone killed had murdered his — Silkstone’s — wife and was also a sex offender. Is that true? Was he a sex offender?”
“Um, it looks like it.”
“So that gave him a big pile of kudos, in their eyes. You know what they all think of nonces. It goes on to say that Silkstone took an active part in the retraining programme we’re conducting, and became a popular lecturer in salesmanship. He even promised one or two of them an interview with his company, when they were all released. We need more like him, Charlie. Send us more, please.”
“That sounds like my man. He’s a little treasure, no mistake.”
“He certainly is. Anything else you’d like to ask?”
Dinner? The theatre? “No, Gwen,” I replied, “but thanks a lot.”
Wednesday morning Sophie Sparkington received a letter from the admissions tutor at St John’s College, Cambridge, where she would be reading history, and I received one from the matron of the Pentland Court Retirement Home, Chipping Sodbury.
Mine was handwritten on headed paper, and was addressed to the senior detective at Heckley Police Station. It said:
Dear Sir
One of our clients, Mrs Grace Latham, who is elderly and frail, dictated this letter to me and asked for it to be forwarded to you. If you have any queries please do not hesitate to contact me.
Yours faithfully
Jean Hullah (Mrs)(Matron)
Stapled behind it was another sheet of the same paper, with the same handwriting. This one read:
Dear Sir,
My name is Grace Latham and I am the mother of Peter John Latham who was murdered. Now that he is
