Chill Factor by Stuart Pawson Read Free Book Online Page A

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