Chill Factor Read Online Free PDF Page A

upright.
    “Could you just sit up please,” I said to him, “so I can see you.”
    He didn’t resist, and flopped against the chair back. His eyes were red, as if he’d been crying, or rubbing his knuckles into them, and there was blood on his fingers.
    “That’s better,” I said. There were stains on the front of his jacket, too, but I couldn’t be sure what they were. “Like my superintendent told you,” I began, “I’m DI Priest from Heckley CID. Now could you please tell me who you are?”
    He didn’t reply, and the corner of his mouth began to curl into the beginnings of a sneer. He shook his head, ever so slightly, and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling.
    “Your name, sir,” I tried. “Who are you?”
    He mumbled something I couldn’t catch.
    “Could you repeat that?” I asked.
    He looked at me and said: “It doesn’t matter.”
    “What doesn’t matter?”
    “All of this. Who I am. It doesn’t matter.”
    Before he could protest I reached forward, pulled his jacket open and whipped his wallet from his inside pocket. The secret is to make sure you go for the correct side. He made a half-hearted attempt to grab it back, then resumed his slumped position in the chair.
    It was just a thin notecase, intended for credit cards and a few tenners for emergencies. I didn’t count them but there looked to be about ten. I read the name on a Royal Bank of Scotland gold card and checked it against the others. They were all the same.
    “Anthony Silkstone,” I said. “Is that you?”
    He didn’t answer at first, just sat there, looking at me with a dazed, slightly contemptuous expression. I didn’t read anything into it; I’m not sure what the correct expression is for when you’ve just impaled someone with the big one out of a set of chef ’s knives.
    “I killed him,” he mumbled.
    Well that was easy, I thought. Let’s just have it in writing and we can all go home. “You killed the man in the kitchen?” I asked him.
    “Yes,” he confirmed. “I told the others. How many times do I have to say it.”
    “Just once more, for the record. And your name is Anthony Silkstone?”
    He gave a little nod of the head. I handed him his wallet back and said: “Stand up, Mr Silkstone. We’re taking you down to the station.” He placed it back in his pocket and rose shakily to his feet.
    I held his arm and guided him down the driveway and out into the street. A small crowd had gathered but Martin wasdoing sterling work holding them back. I sat Silkstone in the back of the police car and gestured for Martin to join me.
    “Anthony Silkstone,” I began, “I am arresting you for the murder of a person so far unknown…” He sat expressionless through the caution and obligingly offered his wrists when I produced the handcuffs. “Take him in as soon as some help arrives,” I told Martin. “I’ll tell the custody sergeant to expect you.”
    At the station they’d read him his rights and find him a solicitor. Then they would take all his clothes and possessions and label them as evidence. Even his socks and underpants . Fingerprints and DNA samples would follow until the poor sod didn’t know if he was a murder suspect or a rat in a laboratory experiment. He’d undress, sit down, stand up, say “Yes” at the appropriate times and meekly allow samples of his person to be taken. Then, dressed like a clown in a village play, he’d be locked in a cell for several hours while other people determined his fate and came to peep at him every fifteen minutes.
    Gilbert and Jim joined me on the driveway. “You’ve arrested him,” Gilbert commented.
    “It’s a start,” I said, turning to Jim. “Any luck?”
    “Yes, Boss,” he replied. “A bloke called Peter Latham lives here. He’s single, lives alone, and works as some sort insurance agent. Average height, thin build, dark hair. Sounds like the man on the floor.”
    “He does, doesn’t he. Single. Thank God for that.”
    “Somebody’ll love