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.”
“Mr Prendergast,” I said. “It is after midnight and I am tired. Your client has had a stressful day and is probably tired, too. Do you not think it would be in his interest to conduct this interview in the morning, when we all have clear heads? If you are constantly asking for adjournments we could be here until the day after tomorrow.”
Except, of course, that there would be other places where Prendergast would prefer to be tomorrow. Like the golf course, or entertaining one of his corporate clients who was having alimony problems. Silkstone himself came to the rescue. He ran his hand over the top of his head and massaged his scalp with his fingers, before saying: “It’s all right, Mr Prendergast. I’d like to answer the inspector’s questions.”
“In which case,” I stated, “I would like it on record that this interview is continuing at your insistence and not under any duress from me.”
Prendergast put the top on his fountain pen and sat back in his plastic chair.
“Why did you make that phone call, Mr Silkstone,” I asked.
“Because Peter was dead.”
“You knew he was dead?”
“I was fairly certain.”
“You didn’t send for an ambulance?”
“There was nothing anybody could do for him.”
“Who killed him?”
“I did.”
Prendergast sat forward in an involuntary reaction, then relaxed again.
“Tell me about it.”
“I followed him home. We had words and I pulled a knife out of the set of carvers that just happened to be on the worktop. I stabbed him with it, in the chest, and he fell down. He moved about for a bit, then lay still. I could tell he was dead.”
“What did you do then?” I asked.
“I sat in the other room for a while. Driving there I’d been seeing red. Literally. I always thought it was just an expression, but it isn’t. I’d been mad, raging mad, but suddenly I was calm again. I could see what I’d done. After about ten minutes I rang the police.”
“So you are confessing to killing Peter Latham, by stabbing him in the chest?”
“Yes. I did it.”
“And the man is indeed Peter Latham?”
“Yes, it’s Peter.”
“You knew him well?”
“Yes.”
“So why did you kill him?”
Silkstone put his face in his hands and leaned forward until his forehead rested on the little table that separated us.
I said: “Why did you follow him home and stab him?” and he mumbled something through his fingers.
“I’m sorry…?” I said.
He sat up, his eyes ringed with red. “He killed her,” he told us.
So that was it, I thought. Some old score settled. Some grudge over an old sweetheart, real or imagined, that had festered away for years until it could be contained no longer. I’d seen it all before. I even held one myself. “Who did he kill?” I demanded.
“My wife. He killed my wife.”
I leaned forward until my elbows were on the table. “When was this?” I asked. “When are we talking about?”
“Today. This afternoon. He…he…he raped her. Then he strangled her.”
There was a “clump” as the front legs of Sparky’s chair made contact with tiled floor, and Prendergast’s eyes nearly popped out. I interlaced my fingers and leaned further forward.
“You’re saying that Latham killed your wife this afternoon, Mr Silkstone?” I said, softly.
He looked up to see if there was a clock on the wall, but it was behind him. “Yes,” he replied.
“Where exactly did this take place?”
“At my house. I came home early and saw him leaving. She…Margaret…she was upstairs, on the bed. He’d…he’d done things to her. So I followed him home and killed him.”
I looked across at Sparky. “Sheest!” he mumbled.
“Interview terminated while further investigations are made,” I said, reading off the time and nodding for him to stop the tape. I rose to my feet and glanced at the hotshot lawyer who looked as if he was trying to run uphill with his shoelaces tied together. “I think it’s safe to say we’ll be holding your client for a while, Mr Prendergast,” I told him.
“I’m not surprised, Inspector,” he responded, shaking his head.
Chapter Four
The estate agent’s advert had said that Mountain Meadows was a pleasant development on a flat strip of land alongside the canal. There were only seven houses, all detached and with decent gardens. Sparky and myself went to investigate, in my car, after ringing Mr Wood with the latest bombshell. The roads were empty and I drove fast. Soon we were clear of the streetlamps, tearing along through the night.
“You seem to know where you’re going,” Dave observed.
“I came to look at them, once,” I replied.
“What? You were thinking of moving?”
“Mmm.”
“You kept that quiet.”
“I don’t tell you everything.”
A cat darted halfway across the road, then stopped and stared into my headlights. I hit the brakes and the front of the car dipped and pulled to the right as a wheel locked. The moggie regained the power of movement and leapt to safety.
After a silence Dave said: “You and Annabelle?”
“Yeah. We could have afforded one reasonably comfortably if we’d pooled our resources.”
Annabelle was my last long-term relationship. We were together for about five years, which was a personal best for me, but she decided the grass was greener when seen through the windscreen of a Mercedes. I live in the house I inherited from my parents, and she owned an old vicarage. When things were good between us we’d done the tour of a few places, including Mountain Meadows. On paper it had looked ideal, but a quick visit one summer’s evening destroyed the dream. The smoke from all the barbecues and the incessant drinky-poos with the neighbours would have ruined our lungs and livers. Then she left me, so it was just as well that we hadn’t moved.
Except, maybe, if we had… Ah well, we’d never know.
“So what do you think,” Dave asked, changing the subject.
“We’ll soon find out,” I replied. “This is it.”
I turned off the lane and slowed down for the speed humps, hardly recognising the place. The darkness was almost absolute, broken only by an occasional lighted window, and all the twigs with garden centre labels on them that had dotted the open plan gardens were now luxuriant shrubs and trees. As my headlights swung around, probing the shadows, we saw that the conservatory salesman had done a roaring trade, and since my last visit the registration letters on the cars parked outside every house had progressed two places along the alphabet. Two houses, next to each other, had speedboats. Tony Silkstone had told us that his house, The Garth, was the last one on the right. “The one with the converted gas lamps along the drive,” he’d added. Somebody’s million-watt security light flicked on behind us, turning night into day.