“I never heard of him.”
“What about Paul Mann?”
“Never heard of him, either.”
“He’s what we call a nutter. Poured paraffin over his girlfriend and hurled their baby out of a seventh story window. Said it was an accident and is appealing against sentence. He got a double life, with twenty- and thirty- year tariffs. Claims he dropped the baby, but unfortunately for him her body was found forty feet from the foot of the building. Kevin Chilcott, known as the Chiller, you ever hear of him?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“That’s strange. Someone paid him fifty thousand pounds to kill me, and we thought it was you. Paul Mann arranged it, or is supposed to have done. Nasty people in prison. Wouldn’t think twice about cheating a fellow inmate, especially one who thought he was a bit cleverer than them. Still, if it wasn’t you there’s nothing lost, is there? Fifty grand! Phew! I thought I was worth more than that.”
That’s the bit we should have had on video. Silkstone’s eyes narrowed and his face paled as all the blood drained from it. He crushed the empty cigarette packet in his hand and for a second I thought he was going to come over the table at me. Accuse him of rape, murder, buggery and he can handle it. Suggest that a bunch of no-hopers have cheated him out of his nest-egg and you really hit a nerve.
“Interview terminated at…eleven-oh-two,” I said, and pushed my chair back.
Dave and I trudged up the stairs in silence. He went to fill the kettle and I sat at my desk. There was a note saying that the SOCOs had failed to find anything useful at either of the houses. I closed my eyes and leaned back, massaging my neck to ease the tension in it. The door opened and I thought it was Dave, but it was Annette’s voice that said: “Shall I do that for you?”
I grinned at her. “I’d love you to, but it might look bad. People would get the wrong idea.”
“That’s their problem.”
I shook my head. “No, it’s my problem. You leave this?”
“Yes. Came through ten minutes ago. Sorry.”
“Damn.”
“What did Silkstone have to say?”
“Nothing. We told him everything we knew, he told us nowt.”
“Everything?”
“Nearly everything. We didn’t mention Caroline Poole.” I pointed at her note, saying: “I was hoping this might give us some ammunition.”
Dave came in with two coffees and placed one in front of me. “’Spect you’ve been drinking all morning,” he told Annette, by way of apologising for not making her one.
“Most of it,” she agreed.
“So what do you think?” I asked him.
“About Silkstone?”
“No! About Annette drinking coffee all morning.”
He had a long sip, then said: “He did it all, as sure as shit smells. There’s no loose ends, no coincidences, no far-fetched theories. It all ties in, perfectly. You might not convince a jury, Chas, or even Annette and she hangs on your every word, but you’ve convinced me.”
Annette’s cheeks turned the colour of a Montana sunset. I said: “Well, that’s a start. It gives us something to build on.” I felt like the Leader of the Opposition, after being wiped-out by a landslide.
They fought back and they fought dirty. We had the tape transcribed and sent a copy to Superintendent Isles. As I left the office that evening I was confronted on the steps by a reporter and a photographer. I referred them to our press office and fled. Tuesday, Dave and I had a meeting with Les Isles and Nigel at their place, and they made sympathetic noises but agreed that we weren’t any further forward. Les’s big problem was what to do with Jason Lee Gelder. He eventually decided to keep him inside for the time being, which I interpreted as a vote of no confidence. The HQ team was reconvened, however, and diverted to investigations that might place Silkstone near the lock or on a bus, that Saturday afternoon. As long as someone was in jail, the press would keep off our backs. That was the theory. As theories go it ranked alongside the one about the world being carried on the back of a giant tortoise.
Wednesday I decided to go in early and start the day with breakfast in the canteen. I wasn’t sleeping well, too much on my mind, and it’s a good atmosphere in there, early in the morning. The place is warm and steamy, loud with banter and fragrant with the smells of crispy bacon, sausages and toast. It’s a good way of meeting the troops — the PCs who do all the real policing — and I always leave with high blood-sugar levels and a smile on my face, armed with a couple of new jokes to tell the boys. Except it didn’t work out that way.
I was still at home, having a mug of tea and listening to Classic FM when the phone rang. It was Sparky. Sparky ringing me at six thirty means only one thing: he can’t sleep, either. “Tell me all about it,” I sighed.
“You seen TV AM this morning, Charlie?” he asked.
“No.” Sad though my life was, I still had a bit left before I was that low.
“Just before the news headlines they do a round-up of all the papers,” he explained. “I usually watch it, just to catch up.”
“And…” I prompted.
“Well, this morning, you’re all over the front page of the UK News.”
“Eh? Me? Why, what does it say?”
“I’ll see you in the office, and bring one in with me.”
“I could collect one at…”
“No,” he interrupted. “You’d better go straight in. Believe me, it’s not nice.”
Chapter Thirteen
There was a sprinkling of early birds in the office when I arrived. They raised their heads from their newspapers and followed me to my little enclave, where Dave was waiting. He closed the copy of UK News that he was perusing and spun it round for me to read.
One photograph took up most of the page. It was of Tony Silkstone, head bowed, tears glistening on his cheeks. But it was the caption that caught my attention. In the biggest typeface that the page could accommodate it said:
HOUNDED BY KILLER COP
Inside was a photograph of me, taken when I left the office, Monday evening, with World Exclusive emblazoned across my forehead. A panel in large print informed the nation that I once shot dead an unarmed man, and now I was persecuting Tony Silkstone, the hero who did what the police had failed to do by ridding society of scumbag sex murderer Peter Latham, also pictured. On the next page but one, after a full-page special of a naked seventeen-year-old girl nibbling at a Cadbury’s Flake, the editorial called me a renegade and a vigilante. Is this the kind of police force we want? it asked.
“The bastards,” I heard a voice behind me say.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “The bastards.” I turned back to the photo of me and carefully folded the paper. “Look,” I said, holding it towards the speaker. “They didn’t even get my best side.”
Willy O’Hagan was no-hoper mixed up in a drugs ring that we investigated. We raided a doss house one morning and he fired at me with a shotgun. Foolishly, I was alone at the time, and armed only with a little Walther two-two. There’s a maxim among security forces that says minimum violence requires a maximum show of force. I got it wrong. I thought I knew best, but I got it wrong and I’ve reminded myself of that mistake almost every night since. O’Hagan swung his gun my way and blew a great chunk out of the chipboard wardrobe I was trying to hide
