and…and…”
“And go out and catch a murderer?” I suggested. I drained my glass and placed it on their table. Denver twisted in his seat and raised a hand to the girl behind the bar, but she turned away because they don’t do waitress service.
“Ah, maybe you’re right,” I conceded. “It’s this job.”
Denver got to his feet and shouted to the barmaid, asking if he could order some drinks, but she ignored him again. He wanted a drink in my hand, but he didn’t want to leave my side, in case he missed something. “Don’t worry,” I told him, “I’ll get it.” I strolled to the bar and ordered myself another pint.
“You know,” I began, when I’d rejoined them, “I took an instant dislike to you, Silkstone.” I looked at his companion and explained: “You have to, when you’re investigating a murder. But then, as I looked around your house, I decided that you had at least one redeeming feature.” I picked up my glass and drained nearly half of it, licking my lips and pretending it wasn’t as unappetising as the cold urine it resembled.
“And what was that?” Denver prompted.
“He’s a Jaguar man,” I replied. “Had a 1964 Mark II. Great car, highly desirable.” I had another drink, before adding: “Can’t be much wrong with a man who owned a car like that, I said to myself.”
“It hasn’t stopped you persecuting me,” Silkstone declared.
“Top brass,” I told him. “You know how it is.” I finished my drink and Denver snatched up the glass almost before my fingers had left it.
“Another?” he asked.
“Why not?” I replied.
“Lager?”
“Please.”
“Which one?”
“Labatt’s.”
He dashed off to the bar as I said to Silkstone: “Once upon a time I had an E-type. A three-point-eight. Fabulous car. I loved it. Drove it to southern Spain, once. Boy, did that machine turn heads. And pull birds. Felt like a bloody film star when I was in it.”
Denver placed the replenished glass in front of me and I thanked him. “I was just telling Mr Silkstone that I owned an E-type Jag, a long time ago. It nearly broke my heart when it was stolen. A scrote from Sylvan Fields took it and torched it. I’d have strangled the little bastard if I’d got my hands on him.” I took a sip of the Labatt’s. It was a big improvement. I’d sold the car when prices were at their highest and made nearly ten grand profit, but they didn’t need to know that. “What happened to yours?” I asked.
“I crashed it,” Silkstone informed me.
“Crashed it? Were you hurt?” Some men are embarrassed if they have the misfortune to crash their car, see it as a mistake; others never accept the blame and enjoy relating all the gory details. I had little doubt which group our friend belonged in.
“No. I was lucky.”
“What happened?”
“Hit a patch of black ice on the A37. The gritters hadn’t been out.”
“And it was written off?”
“Yeah. I rolled it over three times. Would have cost too much to repair, so it went for scrap.”
“And you walked away from it?”
“Without a scratch.”
“Blimey.” I had another drink.
“So what’s the state of the investigation now?” Denver asked, trying to drag the conversation back to something he might be interested in.
“The file’s with the CPS,” I told him. “It’s up to them.”
“But aren’t you following any lines of enquiry?”
“No,” I lied. “It’s up to them, now,” and I gave a little belch, for emphasis.
“Why don’t you charge Mr Silkstone?” Denver challenged me.
“What with?” I asked.
“You’re the one making all the wild accusations. Saying he murdered his wife and that woman in Halifax.”
“Marie-Claire Hollingbrook.” I said. “She has a name, Denver — God knows, you’ve typed it often enough.”
“So why don’t you charge him?”
“I told you, it’s the CPS’s decision. Me, I’m just here for a quiet drink. Can I remind you that I was here first. But as we’re all together I thought that talking about cars might be a pleasant diversion. I thought that was what people like us were supposed to do. You know, lads’ talk. Did Silkstone ever tell you that he had an MGB after the Jaguar?” I turned to him saying: “That’s right, isn’t it?”
“If you say so,” he replied.
“Not me, the DVLA,” I responded. “I had to check your records. Was it any good?”
“The MG?”
“Mmm.”
“It was alright.”
“But not in the same league as the Jag?”
“No.”
I decided to backtrack, not pursue the MG. Maybe it was a mistake, bringing it into the conversation. I looked at my glass, studying the bubbles clinging to the sides, wondering whether they brought the lager all the way from Canada or just the name. Outside, a narrow boat glided by, heading for the open canal, fulfilling someone’s long- held dream. I hoped it wasn’t a disappointment. “When my car was burnt out,” I began, “I salvaged the little pouncing jaguar mascot from the bonnet. Actually, the garage where it went took it off and saved it for me, which was thoughtful of them, don’t you think?” The expressions on their faces suggested they didn’t, but I pressed on. “I still have it. I mounted it on a piece of mahogany and had a little metal plate engraved for it. It stands on my mantelpiece, reminds me of the life I once led.” I smiled at the memory, a little wistful smile, which was difficult because I’d just invented the whole story. “What about you?” I asked, looking at Silkstone. “Weren’t you tempted to do something similar?”
“What’s all this about?” he snapped. “Why all this interest in my cars, all of a sudden?”
“It’s just conversation,” I protested, turning to Denver as if appealing to him to intervene on the side of reason. “I just wondered if he’d removed the mascot from his car, like I did.”
“Fuck off!” Silkstone growled.
“Nice friend you have,” I told Denver.
“He’s right,” Denver said. “Just what are you after, Priest?”
“He wants me to say something he can twist round, for his own purposes,” Silkstone declared. “While my brief isn’t here. Well, I’m not saying another word. Why don’t you just piss off, Priest, and leave us alone. You’re not welcome.”
I’d blown it, that was for sure. Ah well, I thought, if he wasn’t going to say anything incriminating the least I could do was give him something to ruin his sleep, and maybe sow a few doubts in his new friend’s mind. Perhaps I could provoke Denver into doing some investigating of his own. He had resources that I didn’t possess, and could take liberties that would have me carpeted. With luck, he’d do my job for me. “There was an attempted rape in Somerset,” I told Denver, “two years before the girl called Caroline Poole was murdered; and another extremely serious assault just a year before. One of the victims has given evidence that suggests her attacker’s car was an MGB.” I paused to let it sink in. So what? they were thinking. “An MGB,” I added, “that just happened to have a pouncing jaguar mascot screwed on the bonnet. Can’t be many of those about, can there?” They didn’t appear to have an opinion on that. Silkstone looked away and Denver was lost for words, so I pressed on. “Silkstone and Latham gave each other alibis for Caroline’s murder,” I said, addressing Denver. “Margaret Silkstone and a woman called Michelle Webster verified their stories.” From the corner of my eye I saw Silkstone flinch at the mention of Michelle’s name. “She sends her regards,” I told him. “She also says that she lied about the alibi. Her new story is that Margaret asked her to cover for you and Latham. I was being less than truthful a few seconds ago when I said
