“I’ve told you. We’ll have it examined.”
“So why not do it now? You’ve got independent witnesses. There’s Mr Burgess-Jones, and Mr Prendergast. What more could you want? And the crew can film the whole thing. What are you scared of, Priest? The truth? That you’re hounding an innocent man? Or are you just scared that you won’t be able to fix it, like you did when you shot someone?”
“It’s the truth I’m after, Denver,” I told him. “I’m not interested in a media circus and all this the public’s right to know bullshit that you hide behind.”
“Then do it.”
“When we do it we’ll do it properly, in the presence of a magistrate.”
Burgess-Jones coughed and took a step forward. “Um, I’m a JP,” he announced. “Been on the bench twenty- three years, if it’s any help.”
The expression painted himself into a corner flashed up in my mind. Strange thing was, Denver was right. This was the perfect opportunity to put the hypothesis to the test. The big problem was that if I was wrong, it was in public. I wouldn’t have twisted the evidence in any way, but I’d have sneaked off like a defeated stag and licked my wounds in private. What was my chief concern: the truth about Silkstone and the car, or my reputation? I remembered Sophie, and how I’d been scared to ask the right questions because I’d doubted her. Was I doubting myself, now? Everybody was looking at me.
“OK,” I said. “We’ll do it.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Right!” Denver proclaimed triumphantly. “Right! You lot ready?”
“We’ve been ready a fuckin’ hour,” Grateful Dead told him.
“Not so fast,” I said. “There’s conditions.”
“Conditions?” Denver echoed.
“Jesus H fuckin’ Christ!” Grateful Dead cursed, throwing his hands in the air.
“That’s right. Conditions. First of all, it won’t be a TV show, with you doing the narration. We do it from a forensic point of view, for use in court.”
“Well, fair enough,” Denver conceded.
“And secondly,” I added, “you pay, so the tape is yours, but I’m impounding it until it can be copied. OK?”
“It’s a deal,” he said. “Let’s get on with it.”
Prendergast, who hadn’t spoken so far, decided to earn his fee. “Gentlemen,” he said. “I really do think this has gone far enough. As my client isn’t here I have to say, on his behalf, that we do not accept the entire premise upon which this allegation is based. Whatever is found on the car, it can have little bearing on what happened twenty years ago. Who knows who has tampered with things since then.”
Burgess-Jones said: “Nobody has tampered with things, as you put it, Sir. Everything is as it was or as recorded in the photograph albums.”
“Good try, Prendergast,” I told him, “but over-ruled. We’ll tell Silkstone you did your best.” I turned to the film crew. “Listen up,” I said, slipping my watch off my wrist. “This is how I want it. Can you focus down on that?” I propped the watch behind one of the windscreen wipers and stood back.
“No problem,” Grateful Dead assured me.
“Good. I want to start and finish with a shot of the watch, close up. Then I want a wide angle, to include everybody present. After that you can zoom in and out as you like. The main thing is that I want the entire thing to be seamless, with one camera and no stops and no editing. Can you do that?”
“One take, beginning to end, starting and finishing with the time?”
“That’s it.”
“You goddit, no problem.”
“Do we have sound recording?”
“Sure do.”
“Right. In that case, I’ll do the talking. Let’s go.”
I felt Burgess-Jones tug my sleeve and turned to him. “Nobody goes anywhere without some protection for their eyes,” he said, placing a pair of safety spectacles in my hand. I put them on and the film crew found their Oakleys.
“OK, gentlemen,” Grateful Dead said, taking over the role of director because he realised that it was the only way to get things done, “let’s have you all together, at the side of the car. Take one, of one.”
Burgess-Jones picked up the angle grinder and we stood there as the camera zoomed in at the watch and then encompassed us all in its impartial gaze. I introduced myself, feeling foolish, and invited the others to do so. Burgess-Jones’s assistant was called Raymond, and he said he was chief mechanic and brother-in-law of the proprietor. He’s married well, I thought.
“We will now lift the bonnet and attempt to establish its original colour, before any restoration work was done on it,” I said, and Raymond reached inside the car and released the catch.
We all stepped back to allow him to walk round to the front of the car. He poked his fingers inside the front grill for the lever and lifted the bonnet. I could see pipes and wires, a drive shaft and exhaust pipe, all pointing towards a big void where most cars have an engine.
“There’s no fuckin’ engine!” Denver gasped. He turned to Burgess-Jones. “Hey! There’s no fuckin’ engine. You never said it didn’t have an engine.”
“I told you it was a museum piece,” Burgess-Jones replied.
“Six fuckin’ grand!” he ranted. “I just gave six fuckin’ grand for a car with no fuckin’ engine.”
“Let’s have a look at the underside of the bonnet,” I said, and Raymond held it upright so the camera could zoom in. Burgess-Jones pressed the trigger on the angle grinder and applied it to the paintwork.
He moved it gently back and forth and we watched as the scarlet paint shrivelled and flew off in a spray of debris and smoke. First a grey undercoat was revealed, then a dark colour and then more primer. He stood back and the machine in his hand whined to a standstill.
“That should do it,” he declared. “BRG, I’d say. British racing green.”
Raymond stooped to look under the bonnet. “Yep, BRG,” he confirmed.
Denver and I looked and agreed that the original colour was green. Prendergast declined.
“OK,” I said. “Now lets have a look at the outside.” Raymond slammed the bonnet shut and Burgess-Jones stepped forward, brandishing the Black and Decker.
Denver restrained him with an extended arm and positioned himself in front of the MG, facing the camera. “This,” he began, “is a simple test upon which the life, the freedom, of a man depends.”
I was standing alongside Grateful Dead, who glanced sideways at me. Had I tried to stop Denver it would be captured on film, and he knew it. “Keep filming,” I told him through gritted teeth.
“Tony Silkstone,” Denver continued, “stands accused of a series of crimes — rape and murder — going back eighteen years. Some would say the police have been over-zealous in their pursuit of Silkstone, their enquiry based entirely on the suspicions of one officer. Whilst we wish our police to be diligent and thorough, there comes a point when these qualities become vindictive and mean spirited. Hounding the innocent should not be part of the police’s role.”
I thought he’d finished, and took a step forward. Denver shot me a glance then looked back at the camera. “The bonnet of this car might hold the clue to the killer who murdered and raped sixteen-year-old Caroline Poole back in 1983, and who had sexually assaulted young Eileen Kelly two years previously. Eileen says her attacker drove a Jaguar car. The police, or, more accurately, one police officer with a reputation for irresponsible action, say that the car was an MGB, similar to this one behind me…” he stepped to one side and gestured, “…that belonged to Tony Silkstone at the time in question. This officer says that Silkstone had fitted a Jaguar mascot to the bonnet of the car, thus causing Eileen to believe the car she was abducted in was of that make. Silkstone denies it. The proof, ladies and gentlemen, is awaiting discovery. If this car ever had the Jaguar mascot fitted, there will be evidence of two holes, somewhere about here.” He touched the appropriate place. “Let’s see, shall we?”