I went into my office and gathered up all the papers on my desk, piling them in the in-tray. I slumped in my chair and put my feet on the desk, pushing the chair back until the angle was just right. You can make yourself surprisingly comfortable like that. I checked the position of the big hand on the clock and closed my eyes. With a bit of luck the phone wouldn’t ring for ten or eleven minutes.
Three minutes, but it was Annette, so I didn’t mind. “Boss, I’m at the front desk,” she said, sounding breathless.
“Well, you see those stairs on your left? Go up the first flight and your…”
“I’m interviewing a girl in number two,” she interrupted. “Says she was followed by a stalker. I think you should come down and hear what she says.”
“I’m a bit busy,” I lied. “Can’t you deal with it?”
“I can deal with it, no problem,” she replied, “but I think you’d like to hear it for yourself. Believe me, Boss, you would.”
“OK, I’m on my way.” I swung my feet down on to the plain but functional carpet and reached for my jacket.
She was a big girl, with a bright, open face. Her hair was swept straight back into a ponytail and her complexion wasn’t too good, but she had a nice smile and that makes up for a lot. Her school skirt was short, stretched tight around her crossed thighs, and she wore a blue V-necked pullover with a school badge on it. Apart from all that, she was sitting in my chair. I smiled at her and moved round the table to where the prisoner usually sits.
“This is Debbie Collins,” Annette said, “and this is Inspector Priest. He’s in charge of the case.”
“I know,” Debbie replied. “I saw your picture in the paper.”
“That’s me,” I told her. “Now what can I do for you?”
Annette answered for her: “I’ve recorded an interview with Debbie, but she said she doesn’t mind going through it again.”
“OK. Let’s hear it, then, Debbie, in your own words, at your own speed.”
She leaned forward, placing one hand on the table. “It was one morning last June,” she began. “I was going to school.”
“Which one?” I interjected.
“Heckley Sixth Form College. This man waved to me, from a car. I waved back, sort of instinctively, if you follow me. But when I thought about it I hadn’t a clue who he was.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “Somebody waves and you wave back. It happens to all of us.”
“Yeah, well, a few mornings later I saw him again. I was waiting to cross the road and he drove by. This time he smiled and gave a little wave, like that.” She raised a hand, as if off a steering wheel. “I didn’t smile back, I don’t think. Next time I saw him was in the afternoon, as I walked home, and he smiled again.”
“Did you take his number?” I asked.
“No, sorry. I didn’t think too much about it. Then, a couple of weeks later, after we’d had our French exam, he stopped his car. I was smoking a cig. I don’t normally, it’s a stupid habit, but we were in the middle of exams and I was nervous. I took one of my dad’s to school with me, to have afterwards, and I was smoking it on the way home and he asked me for a light.”
“He stopped the car and asked you for a light?”
“No, not quite. I saw him drive past and he pulled into the shopping precinct and dashed into the newsagents. He came out with a new packet of Benson and Hedges, and that’s when he asked me. He sort of pretended he wasn’t in a car and walked out on to the path, in front of me. Said he’d lost his matches and could he have a light.”
“Were you frightened?” I asked.
“No,” she replied. “I was bigger than him. I’d’ve socked him if he’d tried anything.” Her face lit up in a smile, and she looked lovely.
“Did he say anything else?”
“Well, just something, you know, suggestive.”
“He propositioned you?”
“Not quite. He held the cigs out and said: ‘Can I give you one?’ but it was obvious he didn’t mean the fags.” She smiled again and this time Annette and I joined her. She’d done the right thing, coming to us, but fortunately her experience, if this was all there was, hadn’t troubled her.
“And what happened next,” I asked.
“Nothing. I said no and he went off. After that I started walking home with some other girls. I saw him once, the following week, but I ignored him.”
“Would you recognise him again?” From the corner of my eye I saw Annette smile.
“Oh, yeah,” Debbie replied, sitting up. “I’d recognise him all right. It was him in the paper, with you, yesterday. Him who did that murder.”
“Oh,” I said, caught off guard. I hadn’t expected this. I sat up straight and placed both hands on the table. It shows that I’m being honest and concerned. “That must have been quite a shock for you.”
“It was.”
“Well, I’m pleased that your ordeal doesn’t appear to have frightened you too much, Debbie, although it must have been pretty scary at the time. You handled the situation very well, but if it does start to bother you at all, have a word with us. Come and see Annette or myself, anytime. Meanwhile, as you know, he can’t hurt you now, because…well…he’s dead.”
Her eyes widened and I heard Annette clear her throat. “No!” Debbie insisted. “Not him! Not Peter Latham. It wasn’t him who followed me, it was the other one: Tony Silkstone.”
I sat looking at her for an age, she returning my gaze from small blue eyes and her cheap scent spreading out across the rickety table. I glanced at Annette, whose grin looked as if it might bubble over into joyous laughter at any moment.
“When?” I managed, eventually. “When did you see him the first time? You said it was June. June the what?”
Annette said: “Debbie has checked when her French exam was, and believes it was on June the ninth.”
“One week before Margaret Silkstone died,” I stated.
“And probably the day Silkstone came home early and caught them together,” Annette added.
“Debbie,” I said, turning to her. “What you have told us may be very important. Do your parents know you are here?”
“Yes. My mum told me to come. She wanted to come with me, but I said it was all right.”
“Good. I’m really pleased you did but I’d be grateful if you’d not discuss this with anyone else, OK?”
“Yeah, no problem.”
“Smashing. And meanwhile, DC Brown — Annette — will take you on a tour of the police station before driving you home. If you’re hungry she might even call in McDonalds and treat you to a burger.”
“Great!” Debbie said, beaming one of her gorgeous smiles at me and uncurling those sapling legs.
I stopped at the front desk and dialled Mr Wood’s number. “It’s Charlie,” I said when he answered. “Is Mr Pritchard still with you?”
“No, he left about half an hour ago. Why?”
“There’s been a development. Give him a ring, please, Gilbert. Tell him Charlie Palooka is back on the case.”
I rang my DI friend in Somerset and asked him to oil a few wheels for me. I wanted to see the file for the Caroline Poole murder, and then I wanted the files on all other associated cases. In a crime like that there are always similar offences which may or may not have been perpetrated by the same person. Caroline’s death stood alone, shocking an otherwise safe community, but rapists and murderers go through a learning process, and usually have a few false starts before they hit the big time. I needed to know who might have had a lucky escape while the killer was developing his technique, and from them I needed a description.
Caroline’s death pre-dated DNA fingerprinting by a couple of years, and there were no samples from her attacker that could be resurrected and tested, but the thought of sticking Silkstone in a line-up excited the Somerset DI. “When were you thinking of coming down?” he asked.
