Denver shook his head and laughed. “Kick a dog while it’s down, eh, Priest?”
“He was besotted with Caroline,” I went on, “after he saw a photograph of her in the local paper, as a twelve- year-old. He saved the photo, bought a glossy print from the paper and kept it as a souvenir, until he planted it in Latham’s bedroom to throw suspicion on him.”
Denver said. “Let’s face it, Priest, you’ve got Tony for doing a scumbag like Latham and now you’re trying to pin every unsolved crime on your books on him. Makes your figures look good but meanwhile the real killers go free. A confession for manslaughter isn’t good enough for you, is it? No glory in that for Charlie Priest the Killer Cop, is there? You’ll have to do better than that, Squire, you really will.”
“We’ll see,” I replied, standing up to leave.
“You haven’t finished your lager,” Denver said, eagerly gesturing for me to sit down again. He wanted more.
“I’d rather drink from the drip tray at the path lab, where I have to watch the results of his handiwork being dissected. You deserve each other.” I turned, then turned again. “Think about this,” I said. “Their marriage was on the rocks. Maybe he wanted to leave Margaret. Perhaps, just perhaps, she didn’t want him to go. She suspected he’d done the Caroline job and was threatening to confess to lying about it if he did leave her. That makes another good reason for wanting her dead.” I found my car key in my pocket and pointed it at Denver. “And just for the record,” I added before striding away from them, “the first two pints were non-alcoholic, and they tasted like piss.”
On my way out I winked at the only other customer, sitting at a table near the door. Rodger, the shift tec’ gazed implacably through me as he lifted a square of gammon towards his mouth. Outside, the rain had started again.
Chapter Fifteen
Peddling drugs is a serious offence, as serious as it gets, and some people believe that tobacco is as pernicious as any. Jeff Caton posed as a buyer of King Edwards and brought their advertiser back in with him. We sat him in a cell for an hour and decided to let him off with a caution, this time. Selling tobacco isn’t illegal but importing cigars, other than for your own consumption, is. He’d brought a thousand back from Spain and was a non-smoker.
I put on my jacket, straightened my tie, and went downstairs to give him his bollocking, arranging my expression to one of suitable solemnity. He stood to make about a tenner per box of fifty, which would give him a grand profit of two hundred pounds. Somehow, I just couldn’t take it seriously. I told him that he was robbing the exchequer of their cut, reminded him that if he was prosecuted we could seize his assets, and suggested he didn’t waste my time again.
“What about the rest of the cigars?” he asked. He was a real professional.
“How many do you have left?”
“Four boxes.”
“Well put them on the compost heap.”
Somerset Bob had left a message for me when I arrived back in the office. I tried his number but he’d gone out. “After the Eileen Kelly attack,” I asked him, when we finally crossed wires on Wednesday afternoon, “was the information released that you were looking for a Jaguar?”
“Um, not sure,” he replied. “I’ll have to check the cuttings. Why do you need to know?”
I told him about my little talk with Silkstone. “He clammed up as soon as I mentioned the mascot, as if he knew it had been a mistake. If he saved it, afterwards, we never found it when we searched his house.”
“I’ll check. Want to know what I’ve dug up?”
“Yes please.”
“OK,” he began. “I’ve checked his insurance records and discovered a bit about the accidents. It wasn’t easy — they’ve had several take-overs since the time we’re talking about. The Jag was written off and sent to the crusher. Apparently it was vandalised after the accident and set alight. The MGB went to somewhere called Smith Brothers Safe Storage, which is one of those places where insurance cases are stored until a settlement is made. They’re at Newark. Silkstone’s occupation is down as area manager with a company called Burdon Developments and he covered the Midlands, which is probably why he was over there.”
“Bet it wasn’t his fault,” I said.
“No,” Bob agreed. “He was dead unlucky. An old lady stepped off the pavement right in front of him and he skidded on loose gravel avoiding her. Lost control and sideswiped a telegraph pole.”
“Another write-off?” I asked.
“No, the electricity board straightened it up and dabbed some creosote on and it was as good as new.”
“That’s a relief. And what about the MG?”
“Oh, that was a write-off. Bent the chassis beyond repair.”
“It could happen to anyone. Have you taken it further?”
“Haven’t managed to raise anyone at Smith Brothers, but I’ll keep trying.”
“Do that, please, Bob,” I told him. “Who knows, somebody may have bought the wreck and rebuilt it. We’re getting warm, I can feel it.”
Nigel had a date with a sister from St James’s, so he wasn’t at the Spinners that evening. I assumed he meant the hospital, but with my luck she’d probably be from a convent of the same name. Dave brought Shirley to make up the number, and we sat looking miserable, hardly speaking. On the Saturday they were taking Sophie and her belongings to Cambridge in a hired Transit, hence their gloom. I had no excuse. I told them that Annette and I had decided not to have a future together, but didn’t mention her other boyfriend; the one with the two daughters. I said that she wanted to stay with the CID and being linked romantically with the boss might not be a good career move. They made sympathetic sounds and Shirley said: “Oh, Charlie, what are we going to do with you?”
I smiled, saying: “Looks like I’ll just have to wait for Sophie getting her degree,” and was rewarded with a growl from Dave as he picked up his glass. I’d touched his weak spot.
Bob rang me in the middle of Thursday morning, in a state of high excitement. “The Smiths’ve still got records, Charlie,” he told me, “after all these years. I talked to the son of the original proprietor. He found the file, eventually, and it said that the MGB was sold as scrap to someone called Granville Burgess-Jones, who owns a small motor museum just outside Newark. He’s a regular with them, builds and restores vehicles. Sometimes they’re not always roadworthy, or might not have an engine in, but they look good. Most of them are just for show. We might be in with a chance, Charlie. You know what these collectors are like — never throw anything away. If the bonnet wasn’t damaged,” he gushed, “he might still have it.”
“That’s fantastic,” I agreed. “Any chance of you getting over there?”
“It’s a bit awkward for me,” he began, “and you’re quite a lot nearer…”
“I understand, Bob,” I told him. “Give me all the names and numbers and leave it with me.”
“There’s a couple of other things.”
“Go on.”
“Well, after the Eileen Kelly assault we issued a statement saying that her attacker drove a dark sports car, possibly a Jaguar, so Silkstone would have known what we were looking for.”
“And destroyed the mascot.”
“Exactly.”
“Mmm. Did you say a couple of things?”
“Yeah. I’ve been thinking. Even if we find the actual bonnet, it won’t have a serial number on it, or anything. The only link between it and Silkstone is the paperwork. It’s vital we maintain the integrity of that.”
“God, you’re right,” I told him. “Good thinking. OK, here’s what we do. I’ll set off for Newark in about, oh, an hour. Any chance of you ringing the local police and having someone meet me at the Smith Brothers’ yard, just to witness things? It’ll take me about two, two and a half hours to get there.”