“The pictures?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“It looks like their wedding day.”
“I’d gathered that. Do you think it’s him?”
“Um, could be.” He looked more closely, adding: “Yeah, I’d say it was.”
“Good. What about the other?”
“The girl? Could be their daughter,” he replied. “The hair colour’s similar, and they both look tall and thin.”
“Or the bride as a schoolgirl,” I suggested.
The SOCO bent down to peer at the picture. After a few seconds he said: “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because the timing’s wrong.”
“You’ve lost me,” I told him.
“Can’t be sure,” he went on, “but they both look as if they were taken around the same time. About fifteen or twenty years ago, at a guess. Maybe a bit less for that one.” He pointed towards the schoolgirl.
“How do you work that out,” I asked, bemused.
“The knickers,” he replied. “Long time ago they’d be cut straight across. Now they wear them cut higher. These are in-between.”
“I take it you have daughters,” I said.
“Yep. Two.”
“Some men would find a picture like that provocative,” I told him.
“I know,” he replied. “And you can see why, can’t you?”
I suppose that was as close as we’d ever get to admitting that it was a sexy image. “I don’t find it sexy,” we’d say, “but I can understand how some men might.”
“Why,” I asked him, “do the knicker manufacturers make them with high-cut legs when they know that they are intended for children who haven’t reached puberty yet?”
“Because that’s what the kids want. There’s a demand for them.”
“But why?”
“So they can be like their mothers.”
“Oh.”
All knowledge is useful. Knowledge catches crooks, I tell the troops. But there are vast landscapes, whole prairies and Mongolian plains, which are a foreign territory to me. They’re the bits surrounding families and children and relationships that have stood the test of time. My speciality, my chosen subject, is ones that have gone wrong. Never mind, I consoled myself; loving families don’t usually murder each other.
We went downstairs into the kitchen. Peter Latham hadn’t moved, but there was a thin coating of the fingerprint boys’ ally powder over all his possessions. “We decided not to do the knife in situ,” one of them told me.
“So you want me to pull it out?”
“Please.”
“Great.”
“But don’t let your hands slip up the handle.”
“Maybe we should use pliers,” I suggested, but they just shrugged their shoulders and pulled faces.
“Have we got photos of it?” I asked. We had.
“And measurements?” We had.
“Right, let’s have a look, then.”
Sometimes, you just have to bite the bullet. Or knife, in this case. I stood astride the body and bent down towards the sightless face with its expression cut off at the height of its surprise, a snapshot of the moment of death. Early detectives believed that the eyes of the deceased would capture an image of the murderer, and all you had to do was find a way to develop it.
I felt for some blade, between the handle and the dead man’s chest, and gripped it tightly with my thumb and forefinger. It didn’t want to come, but I resisted the temptation to move it about and as I increased the pressure it moved, reluctantly at first, then half-heartedly, like the cork from a bottle of Frascati, until it slipped clear of the body. The SOCO held a plastic bag towards me and I placed the knife in it as if it were a holy relic.
“Phew!” I said, glad it was over. I could feel sweat on my spine.
“Well done,” someone murmured.
My happy band of crime-fighters started to arrive, wearing the clothes they’d intended spending the rest of the evening in. Annette Brown was in jeans and a Harlequins rugby shirt, and my mouth filled with ashes when I saw her. She’s been with us for about a year, and was now a valuable member of the team. For a long while she’d kept me at a distance, not sure how to behave, but lately we’d been rubbing along quite nicely. She was single, but I’d never taken her out alone, and as far as I knew nobody else had. Inevitably, there were rumours about her sexual inclination. She has wild auburn hair that she keeps under control with a variety of fastenings, and the freckles that often go with that colour. I looked at my watch, wondering if we’d have the opportunity to go for that drink later, and ran my tongue over my teeth. No chance, I thought, as I saw the time.
I sent Sparky and Annette to talk to the house-to-house boys, collating whatever they’d discovered, and asked Jeff Caton to do some checks on the car numbers and the two people in the house. At just before ten the undertaker’s van collected the body. We secured the house, leaving a patrol car parked outside, and moved en masse to the incident room that Mr Wood had hopefully set up at the nick.
The coffee machine did roaring service. As soon as I’d managed to commandeer a cup I called them all to order. “Let’s not mess about,” I said. “With a bit of luck we’ll still be able to hit our beds this side of midnight. First of all, thank you for your efforts. First indications are that the dead man might be called Peter Latham. What can anybody tell me about him?”
Annette rose to her feet. “Peter John Latham,” she told us, “is the named householder for number 15, Marlborough Close, West Woods. He is also the registered keeper of the Citroen Xantia parked on the drive. Disqualified for OPL in 1984, otherwise clean. Latham’s description tallies with that of the dead man, and a woman at number 13 has offered to identify the body. She’s a divorcee, and says they were close.”
“Do you mean he was doing a bit for her, Annette?” someone called out.
“No, close as in living in the adjoining semi,” she responded, sitting down.
“Thanks Annette,” I said, raising a hand to quieten the laughs. “It appears,” I went on, “that Latham was killed with a single stab wound to the heart. We’ll know for certain after the post-mortem.”
“Arranged for eight in the morning,” Mr Wood interrupted. He was on the phone in his office when I’d started the meeting, organising the PM, and I hadn’t seen him sneak in.
“Thanks, Boss,” I said. “It doesn’t appear to have been a frenzied attack, but all will be revealed tomorrow. You OK for the PM, Annette?”
She looked up from the notes she was making and nodded.
“The man who claims to have done it,” I continued, “is called Anthony Silkstone. What do we know about him?”
Jeff flipped his notebook open but spoke without consulting it. “Aged forty-four,” he told us. “Married, comes from Heckley and has a string of driving convictions, but that’s all. His address is The Garth, Mountain Meadows, wherever that is.”
I knew where it was, but didn’t admit it.
“Yuppy development near the canal, on the north side of town,” Gareth Adey interrupted. “We’ve had a car there, but the house is in darkness and the door locked. Presumably the key is in Silkstone’s property.”
Jeff waited until he’d finished, then went on: “He shares the place with a woman called Margaret Silkstone, his wife, I imagine, and drives an Audi A8 with the same registration as the one parked outside the dead man’s house.”
“Nice car,” someone murmured.
“What’s it worth?” I asked.
“They start at about forty grand,” we were informed.
“So he’s not a police officer. OK. Number one priority is find Mrs Silkstone — we’d better get someone round
