Chill Factor by Stuart Pawson Read Free Book Online

preliminaries or pleasantries. “Have you charged my client?” he asked.
    “No,” I replied. “We haven’t even interviewed him, yet.”
    “So he is under arrest and the clock is running?”
    “Yes.”
    “Since when?”
    “Since about six forty-five this evening. The precise time will be on the custody sheet.” He was a keen bugger, no doubt about it. I mentally slipped into a higher gear, because he’d know every dodge in the book and screw us if we made the slightest mistake.
    “And when do you propose to interview him?” he demanded.
    “In the morning,” I replied. “We normally allow the prisoner to sleep at night. He’s been offered food and drink, and given the opportunity to inform another person of his arrest, but he has declined to do so.”
    “Yes, Yes,” Prendergast said, swapping his briefcase from his left hand to his right. “I’m sure you know the rules, Inspector, but I would prefer it if you interviewed himtonight, then perhaps we can explain away this entire sorry event.”
    “I think that’s unlikely, but I’m happy to interview him if he’s willing.” I turned to Sparky who was hovering nearby, and said: “Looks like we’re in for a late night, Sunshine. You’d better ring home.”
    “Right,” he replied, grimly. Anybody who keeps Sparky away from that desperately needed pint is walking near the edge. We took the brief through into the custody suite to have words with the sergeant, then locked him in the cell with his client, so they could get their story straight. After ten minutes we knocked on the door, but he asked for another ten minutes. We didn’t wait idly while they were conferring. Phone calls to friends in the business told us that Prendergast specialised in criminal law for a big firm of solicitors based in Luxembourg who worked for several large companies with tendencies to sail close to the wind. It was nearly midnight when Sparky pressed the red button on the NEAL interview recorder and I made the introductions.
    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