Free Chill Factor by Stuart Pawson Page B

and takes time off when he can. I’m sure you can imagine the routine.”
    “But still unusual,” Dave insisted.
    “He’s right,” Silkstone agreed, talking to his lawyer. Turning to Dave he added: “Last week I wasn’t feeling verywell, so I skipped my last appointment and came home early. It wasn’t business, just calling on one of my staff for a pep talk. Yesterday –” he shrugged his shoulders. “I finished early and went home. That’s all.”
    Dave stroked his chin for a few seconds before asking: “Are you sure that’s all?”
    Prendergast jumped in again, saying this speculation was leading nowhere, like any good lawyer would have done. What he meant was that if his client went home early because he thought he might catch his wife in bed with her lover, we could tell the court that his actions were premeditated . And that meant murder.
    Silkstone moved as if to stub the cigarette out, realised it was only half smoked and took another drag on it. “I don’t know,” he replied, ignoring his brief ’s protestations. “I’ve been wondering that myself. Did I expect to find them together again? Is that why I left the afternoon free? You know, subconsciously. I don’t think I did. I loved my wife, trusted her, and she loved me. If I’d really expected to catch them together I’d have returned home even earlier, wouldn’t I?” He took another long draw on the cigarette while we pondered on his question. “Truth is,” he continued, “I’ve been worrying about the old ticker a bit, lately. Decided to cut my workload. That’s why I came home early.”
    Which, I thought, was a good point. I quizzed him about how he’d felt as he drove to Latham’s house; how he gained entry; about the knife and any conversation he had with Latham. It was a waste of time. Everything was obscured by the thick red mist of convenient memory loss. There’s a lot more of it about than you’d ever believe, especially among murder suspects. “Interview terminated,” I said, looking up at the clock and reading off the time. Dave reached out and stopped the tape.
    “Your case papers will be sent to the crown prosecutors,” I told Silkstone, “who will determine the level of charge against you. Assuming the results of the forensic tests validate whatyou say they may decide to go for a charge of manslaughter. If not, I shall be pressing for a murder charge. You will be committed for trial at crown court and we shall be applying for you to be remanded in custody until then. Is there anything you wish to ask me?”
    Silkstone shook his head. Prendergast said: “I have explained the procedure to my client, Inspector. We will be making our own clinical and psychiatric reports and demand full access to any forensic procedures that are being undertaken . It goes without saying that we will be applying for bail.”
    “You do that,” I replied, sliding my chair back and standing up.
     
    We grabbed a bacon sandwich in the canteen and drove to Latham’s house on the West Wood estate. There are no trees at the West Woods, because the landscape around Heckley does not suit them. The ground is rocky, the winters harsh and the sheep omnivorous. Archaeologists following the builders’ excavators found remnants of a forest in the patch of peat bog they were building on, and an imaginative sales person did the rest. There is no North, South or East Wood.
    We wandered around his home from room to room, looking in drawers, feeling through the pockets of his suits, like a couple of vultures picking over a carcass. Wilbur Smith’s Elephant Song was lying on a shelf within reach of his easy chair, with a bookmark at about the halfway point. In the smallest bedroom, filled with junk, there was a big bag of fishing rods and a box of tackle. I hadn’t marked him as a fisherman.
    On his fridge-freezer door, held in place by a magnetic Bart Simpson, was a postcard showing a painting that I recognised. I eased it off and looked at the