to the house again, pronto — get the key from Silkstone’s property. Then we need next of kin for the dead man.”
“We’re on it, Charlie,” Gareth Adey said.
“Cheers, Gareth. And we need a simple statement for the press.” He nodded to say he’d take that on, too.
The door opened and the afternoon shift custody sergeant came in, wearing no tie and a zipper jacket over his blue shirt to indicate that he was off duty and missing a well-earned pint.
“Just the man,” I said. “Has our friend been through the sausage machine?”
“He’s all yours, Mr Priest,” he replied. “He’s co- operating, and beginning to talk a bit. Dr Evans says there’s no reason why he shouldn’t be questioned, and he’s not on any medication.”
“We think there’s a wife, somewhere. Has he asked for anybody to be informed?”
“No, Boss, just his solicitor. I’ve never heard of them, but apparently they’re an international firm with a branch in Manchester, and someone’s coming over.”
“Tonight?”
“That’s what they said.”
“They must be able to smell a fat fee.” I turned to the others. “Right, boys and girls,” I said. “Anybody short of a job, see me. Otherwise, go home to bed and we’ll meet again at eight in the morning. With a bit of luck we’ll have this sewn up by lunchtime.”
They drifted away or talked to the sergeants to clarify their tasks. Sparky found me and said: “Well that mucked up our nice quiet drink, didn’t it?”
“And I could use one,” I replied.
“If you get a move on we might manage a swift half over the road,” he said.
“You go,” I told him. “I’ll hang about a bit in case anybody wants a word.” I like to make myself available. They might be detectives, but some of them are not as forthcoming as others. There’s always someone who seeks you out to discuss an idea or a problem, or to ask to be allocated to a certain task. This time it was Iqbal, who was on a fortnight’s secondment with us from the Pakistan CID and who never stopped smiling. He was lodging with Jeff Caton, and apparently had come in with him.
“Where would you like me to go, Inspector Charlie?” he asked.
For over a week he’d followed me round like a bad cold, and I was tempted to tell him, but he outranked me and the big grin on his face made me think that his provocative phrasing was deliberate.
“Ah! Chief Inspector Iqbal,” I said. “Just the man I’m looking for. Tomorrow you can help me with the submission to the CPS. That should be right up your street.”
“The dreaded MG forms,” he replied.
“Precisely.”
Before I could continue Annette came by and said: “Goodnight, Boss. See you some time in the morning.”
“Er, we were thinking of trying to grab a quick drink at the Bailiwick,” I told her. “Fancy one? Dave’s paying.”
“Ooh,” she replied, as if the thought appealed to her, then added: “I’d better not. I don’t want to feel queasy at the PM. Thanks all the same.”
“The PM!” I exclaimed, as enlightenment struck me. “What a good idea. How do you feel about taking Iqbal along with you?”
Whatever she felt, she declined from expressing it. I don’t know how Iqbal felt about watching a body being cut open, but I suspected he’d rather eat a whole box of pork scratchings than be shown around by a woman. He tipped his head graciously and they arranged to meet at the General Hospital, early.
As they left us Sparky said: “Annette’s a nice girl, isn’t she?”
“She is,” I replied. “Very sensible. But she will insist on calling me Boss all the time.”
He grinned and shook his head.
“What did I say?” I demanded.
“Nothing,” he replied.
A couple of others came to clarify things with me and it was about ten to eleven as we walked along the corridor towards the front desk. Some of the team had already gone across to the pub. The duty constable was talking to a short man in a raincoat, and when he saw me he indicated to the man that I was the person he needed.
“This is Mr Prendergast, Mr Silkstone’s solicitor,” the constable told me, before introducing me as the Senior Investigating Officer. Prendergast didn’t offer a handshake, which was OK by me. I’m not a great shaker of hands.
He didn’t waste time with unnecessary preliminaries or pleasantries. “Have you charged my client?” he asked.
“No,” I replied. “We haven’t even interviewed him, yet.”
“So he is under arrest and the clock is running?”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“Since about six forty-five this evening. The precise time will be on the custody sheet.” He was a keen bugger, no doubt about it. I mentally slipped into a higher gear, because he’d know every dodge in the book and screw us if we made the slightest mistake.
“And when do you propose to interview him?” he demanded.
“In the morning,” I replied. “We normally allow the prisoner to sleep at night. He’s been offered food and drink, and given the opportunity to inform another person of his arrest, but he has declined to do so.”
“Yes, Yes,” Prendergast said, swapping his briefcase from his left hand to his right. “I’m sure you know the rules, Inspector, but I would prefer it if you interviewed him tonight, then perhaps we can explain away this entire sorry event.”
“I think that’s unlikely, but I’m happy to interview him if he’s willing.” I turned to Sparky who was hovering nearby, and said: “Looks like we’re in for a late night, Sunshine. You’d better ring home.”
“Right,” he replied, grimly. Anybody who keeps Sparky away from that desperately needed pint is walking near the edge. We took the brief through into the custody suite to have words with the sergeant, then locked him in the cell with his client, so they could get their story straight. After ten minutes we knocked on the door, but he asked for another ten minutes. We didn’t wait idly while they were conferring. Phone calls to friends in the business told us that Prendergast specialised in criminal law for a big firm of solicitors based in Luxembourg who worked for several large companies with tendencies to sail close to the wind. It was nearly midnight when Sparky pressed the red button on the NEAL interview recorder and I made the introductions.
Tony Silkstone, as he called himself, was of barely average height but built like a welterweight. I could imagine him working out at some expensive health club, wearing all the right gear. The stuff with the labels on the outside. His pate still glistened, so I decided he was a natural slaphead and not one from choice. He had a suntan and his fingernails were clean, even and neatly cut. Apart from that, his paper coverall was pale blue and a trifle short in the arms.
“Today,” I began, after the formalities had been committed to tape, “at about five p.m., police officers were called to number 15, Marlborough Close, Heckley. Did you make that call, Mr Silkstone?”
“Yes,” he replied in a firm voice, and Predergast nodded his approval.
“When they arrived there,” I continued, “they found the body of a man believed to be one Peter Latham. He was lying dead in the kitchen. Did you kill Mr Latham?”
That threw them into a tizzy, but I wasn’t in a mood for tip-toeing round the issue. I wanted it sewn up, so I could go home. Silkstone had been offered a meal; Prendergast had probably dined lavishly on smoked salmon and seasonal vegetables, washed down by a crisp Chardonnay; I’d had a Cornish pasty twelve hours ago. And, I remembered, four chocolate digestives in Gilbert’s office. Prendergast grabbed his client’s arm and told him not to answer, as I’d expected.
“That’s a rather leading question, Inspector,” he said.
“And I’d like a leading answer,” I replied.
“I think I’d like to confer with my client.”
