After two of them I rang Gwen Rhodes at HMP Bentley and told her that the hard men were now on the Chiller case and that they had promised to keep us informed, but don’t hold your breath. People say they will, then don’t bother. It’s a mistake. I always make a point of saying my thank-yous, letting people know what happened. They remember, and next time you want something from them you get it with a cherry on the top.
Gwen said: “So the message was definitely for Chilcott, was it?”
“They think so, Gwen. Apparently his money should have run out by now, and they’re expecting him to make a move. This might be it.”
“Good,” she said. “Good. Glad we could be of assistance.”
“Listen, Gwen,” I said. “While you’re on the line, there’s something else I’d like to ask you.”
“Ye-es, Charlie,” she replied, in a tone that might have been cautious, may even have been expectant. What was I going to ask her? How about dinner sometime? The theatre?
“A few weeks ago you had a remand prisoner of mine called Anthony Silkstone,” I said. “I was wondering how he took to life on the inside.”
“Silkstone,” she repeated, downbeat. “Tony Silkstone?”
“That’s the man.”
“Killed his wife’s murderer?”
“That’s him. Anything to report about his behaviour?”
“I read about him in the papers but I didn’t realise he was one of yours, Charlie. Knew we had him, and he certainly didn’t cause any problems. Let’s see what the oracle says…” I heard the patter of keys as she consulted the computer terminal that sat on her desk, followed by a soft: “Here we are,” to herself, and a long silence.
“Gosh,” she said when she came back on the line. “You can send us as many like him as you can find, Charlie. A golden prisoner by any standards.”
“Oh,” I said. “What did he do?”
“It’s all here. First of all the other inmates, the remandees that is, regarded him as some sort of folk hero. It explains that the person Silkstone killed had murdered his — Silkstone’s — wife and was also a sex offender. Is that true? Was he a sex offender?”
“Um, it looks like it.”
“So that gave him a big pile of kudos, in their eyes. You know what they all think of nonces. It goes on to say that Silkstone took an active part in the retraining programme we’re conducting, and became a popular lecturer in salesmanship. He even promised one or two of them an interview with his company, when they were all released. We need more like him, Charlie. Send us more, please.”
“That sounds like my man. He’s a little treasure, no mistake.”
“He certainly is. Anything else you’d like to ask?”
Dinner? The theatre? “No, Gwen,” I replied, “but thanks a lot.”
Wednesday morning Sophie Sparkington received a letter from the admissions tutor at St John’s College, Cambridge, where she would be reading history, and I received one from the matron of the Pentland Court Retirement Home, Chipping Sodbury.
Mine was handwritten on headed paper, and was addressed to the senior detective at Heckley Police Station. It said:
Dear Sir
One of our clients, Mrs Grace Latham, who is elderly and frail, dictated this letter to me and asked for it to be forwarded to you. If you have any queries please do not hesitate to contact me.
Yours faithfully
Jean Hullah (Mrs)(Matron)
Stapled behind it was another sheet of the same paper, with the same handwriting. This one read:
Dear Sir,
My name is Grace Latham and I am the mother of Peter John Latham who was murdered. Now that he is dead the papers are saying terrible things about him. These are not true but he cannot defend himself. Peter was a good son and I know he could not have done these terrible things. He was kind and gentle, and wouldn’t hurt a fly, and was always good to me. Please catch the proper murderer and prove that my son, Peter, did not do it.
Yours faithfully
Jean Hullah (Mrs)(Matron) p.p. Grace Latham
Dave came in and I handed him the letters. He read them in silence and shrugged his shoulders.
“Mothers,” I said.
“Yeah,” he replied.
“Which would you rather be: the murderer’s parent or the victim’s parent?”
“Don’t ask me. I wonder if Hitler’s mother said that she always knew he’d turn out to be a bastard, or if she loved him right to the end. What do you want to do with it?”
“Drop her a reply, please. Not the card. Make it a letter, in my name. Then show it to Annette and stick it in the file.”
“OK. Nigel rang,” Dave said. “Wants to know if we’re going to the Spinners tonight. He says long-time-no-see.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Eight thirty.”
“Looks like we are, then.”
“Oh, and he says not to laugh, but he’s grown a moustache.”
“A moustache?”
“That’s what he says.”
“Nigel?”
“Mmm.”
“This I’ve got to see.”
But I didn’t, because he never came. We’ve developed a new routine for our Wednesdays out. The Spinners is about two miles from each of our houses, so we walk there. It’s a half-hour power walk and that first pint slides down like snow off a roof when you stroll into the pub and lean on the bar. Towards closing time Dave’s wife, Shirley, comes in the car for an orange juice and takes us home.
Dave had arrived first and was sitting in our usual corner. I collected the pint he’d paid for and joined him.
“Sophie heard from Cambridge this morning,” he told me before I was seated. “We’re going down at the weekend to look at her accommodation.”
“Fantastic. I’ll have to buy her a present. Don’t suppose there’s any point in asking you what she might want.”
He looked glum. “Just about everything. Pots, pans, microwave. You name it, she needs it. Then there’s a small matter of books, tuition fees, meals, rent. It’s never-ending.”
“That’s the price of having brainy kids,” I said.
“Brainy kid. Daniel wants to be a footballer or snooker star.”
“He could be in for a rude awakening,” I warned.
“He’ll take it in his stride. We did.”
“That’s true.” We were both failed footballers. Dave had his trial with Halifax Town the same time as me, with a similar result: don’t call us, we’ll call you.
“This beer’s on form,” I said, enjoying a long sip.
“It is, isn’t it.”
“So where’s Golden Balls with this flippin’ moustache?”
But at that very moment Detective Sergeant Nigel Newley’s full attention was elsewhere. He was gazing into the green eyes of Marie-Claire Hollingbrook, her face framed by the riot of golden hair heaped upon her pillow, her full lips parted and her naked body languidly spread-eagled across the bed. They were the first green eyes Nigel had ever seen, and he was stunned by their beauty. They were unable to return his gaze, because Marie-Claire had been strangled, several hours earlier.
“Do you ever regret not making it as a footballer?” Dave asked me.
“Nah,” I replied. “This is a lot better. Do you? They’d have taken you on if you hadn’t fluffed that goal.”
“No, I don’t think so. Can’t imagine how I missed it though. An open goalmouth in front of me, and I kicked it over the bar.”
“As I remember it, you kicked it over the grandstand.”
“It was a wormcast. The ball hit a wormcast and bobbed up, just as I toe-ended it. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“Sentenced to a lifetime of ignominy by a wormcast.” I said.
“I know,” he replied, glumly raising his glass and draining it.
“Just think,” I continued. “Of all the millions of worms in the world, if that one particular specimen hadn’t crapped on that one particular square centimetre of grass on that one particular day, you might have married one of the Beverly sisters.”
“Blimey. Frightenin’, innit?” he replied.