Annette shared my views on hot dogs, and declined one. When we’d established that nobody needed a lift we left. “That was fun,” Annette said as we drove off.
“It was, wasn’t it.”
“Sophie’s grown up.”
“I had noticed.”
“The little dark one — Shani — took a shine to you.”
“Understandably.”
“And not a size ten between them,” she sighed.
I freewheeled to a standstill outside her flat, dropping on to sidelights but leaving the engine running. “Thanks for the meal, Ms Brown,” I said.
“You’re welcome, Mr Priest,” she replied. “I’ve enjoyed myself.”
“Good. That’s the intention.”
“Well it worked.”
After a moment’s uncomfortable silence I asked: “Are you…are you going away, this weekend.”
“Yes,” she mumbled.
“Right.”
She pulled the catch and pushed the door open. “Charlie…” she began, half turning back towards me.
“Mmm?”
“Oh just, you know…thanks for…for being, you know…a pal. A friend.”
“A gentleman. You mean a gentleman.”
“Yes, I suppose I do.”
“Just as long as you understand one thing.”
She looked puzzled, worried. “What’s that?”
“That it’s bloody difficult for me.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
Her smile made me want to plunder a convent. “Goodnight, Charlie,” she said.
“Goodnight, Annette.”
The house was in darkness, blind and forlorn. The outside light is supposed to turn itself on at dusk, but it looked as if the bulb had blown again. The streetlights illuminate the front, but the side door is in shadow. I avoided the milk bottle standing on the step and felt for the keyhole with a finger, like drunks do, before inserting the key. It was cold inside, because a front had swept in from Labrador and the central heating was way down low. I turned the thermostat to thirty and the timer to constant. That’d soon warm things up. I made some tea and lit the gas fire. I was too alert to sleep, too many thoughts and rhythms tumbling around in my head. The big CD player was filled with Dylan, but that wasn’t what I needed:
I know that I could find you, in somebody’s room.
It’s a price I have to pay: you’re a big girl all the way.
Not tonight, Bob, thank you. I flicked through the titles until one flashed a light in my brain. Gorecki’s third; a good choice. Sometimes, the best way to deal with a hurt, real or imaginary, is to overwhelm it with somebody else’s sadness. I slipped the gleaming disc from its cover and placed it on the turntable.
“What do some people get up to, behind the curtains?” I’d asked Annette. “Profiling isn’t evidence,” I’d said. They get up to everything you could imagine, and plenty of things you couldn’t, and that’s the truth. Read the personal column in your newspaper; look at the magazines on the top shelf in any newsagents; explore the internet; look at the small ads in the tabloids. That’s the visible bit.
We don’t stop when we prove that someone committed a murder. We carry on until we prove that everybody else involved didn’t commit it. Sometimes, with some juries, nothing less will do.
If it wasn’t for the evidence, we’d have arrested Silkstone for the murder of his wife. Everything pointed to him, except the evidence. That’s a big except. The evidence, and the witness, pointed to Latham. That witness, of course, was Silkstone, and Latham was in no position to defend himself. The obvious solution was that Silkstone killed them both after discovering that they were lovers, but that’s not what he said happened, and he was the only witness. Next favourite, for me, was that Silkstone killed Latham out of self-preservation, because they were both there when Margaret died, but, like the professor said, it would be a bugger to prove. Perhaps they did the Somerset job together, too. Sadistic murdering couples were usually a male and a female, with the male the dominant partner, but there were exceptions. Some people think the Yorkshire Ripper didn’t always act alone, and the Railway Rapist almost certainly had an accomplice. And even if they’re wrong, there’s got to be a first time. There’s always got to be a first time.
My job is to catch murderers. It’s a dirty job, and dirt rubs off. Like the men who empty my dustbin, I come home with the smell of it following me. To catch a jackal you must first study its ways. Before you can look a rat in the eyes it is necessary to get down on your belly and roll in the dirt. Silkstone and Latham had known each other for a long time; married two sisters; committed adultery with two women who were friends. No doubt they’d shared a few adventures. Had they shared their women, too?
How does it start? A casual boast, man to man, after a few pints? A giggled comment between the wives after one too many glasses of wine? Expressions of admiration, followed by a tentative suggestion? Jaded senses find new life, curiosity is aroused, objections dismissed. “If we all agree, nobody gets hurt, do they?” Next thing you know, you’re alone with your best friend’s partner, undoing those buttons that you’ve looked at so often across the table, revealing the mysteries that they conceal.
Is that what happens? Don’t ask me. I thought Fellatio was a character in Romeo and Juliet until I was thirty-two. I awoke to Dawn Upshaw in full voice, and on that pleasant note crawled up the stairs to bed.
Monday morning I rang the clerk to the court who had granted Silkstone a variation to his bail conditions. “I believe he’s supposed to be speaking at a sales conference,” I said.
“That’s what his solicitor told us in the application, Mr Priest.”
“Did he say what time?”
“Yes, I have the letter here. He’s speaking at two p.m., for half an hour, but he asked if he could spend the full day at the conference. We saw no reason to object and we’ve told him to report tomorrow, instead. It’s not our intention to interfere with his employment.”
“No, that’s fair enough. And where is this conference, exactly?”
“Um, here we are: the Leeds Winchester Hotel.”
“Good. Thanks for your help.”
“Is there a problem, Mr Priest? Would you have preferred it if we’d contacted you earlier?”
“No, no problem at all. I was just thinking that I might go along and listen to him.”
The troops had plenty to catch up on, and the super was more interested in his monthly fly-fishing magazine, so I didn’t tell him my intentions. Just before one I walked out of the office and drove to Leeds.
The Winchester Hotel is part of the revitalised riverside area, to the south of town, near the new Royal Armouries. Leeds has an inner ring road, which is only half a ring, and something called the Loop, which doesn’t join up with it. I missed the hotel, drove into the city centre and came out again following the M1 signs, except that the M1 is now called the M621 and the new M1 is not what I wanted. I drove back into the city centre and tried again.
This time I found it. The Winchester chain of hotels caters for business trade working to a budget. It’s roomonly accommodation, without the frills. No Corby trouser press, no complimentary shower cap. If you want to eat, there’s a restaurant on the ground floor. I pushed my way through the door at a few seconds before two, just as the tail end of a group of people disappeared into the lift. The doors closed, leaving me stranded. I looked around for a sign saying where the conference was being held, but there wasn’t one. Presumably it wasn’t necessary. Ah well, I’m not a detective for nothing. The illuminated indicator above the lift door had flicked through the lower numbers and was now stationary at number five. That must be it, I thought, pressing the button.
There was a movement beside me and I turned to see a little man standing there, his face moist with perspiration. The indicator over the lift door to my left stopped at G, something pinged and the door opened. I gestured for the man to enter first. You never know, maybe there’d been a failure of electronics and the lift wasn’t really there. He didn’t fall to his death so I followed him in.