Chill Factor by Stuart Pawson

back, but it was blank. “Gauguin,” I said, flapping the card towards Dave.
    “You’d know,” he replied.
    I replaced it exactly where I’d found it and opened thefridge door. He ate ready meals from the supermarket, supplemented with oven chips, and was seriously deficient in vegetables.
    “He didn’t eat properly,” I said.
    “You’d know,” Dave repeated.
    I was drawn, as always, to the bedroom. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at the two photographs, when Dave joined me.
    “Who do you reckon she is?” I asked.
    He looked at the picture of the young girl without handling it. “Mmm, interesting,” he mused. “Taken a while ago. Could be his wife, assuming that’s them in the other picture. Is it, er, a bit on the salacious side, or is that just me?”
    “It’s just you,” I told him, untruthfully.
    “I don’t think it’s a daughter or niece,” he continued.
    “Why not?”
    “Well, I wouldn’t frame a similar picture of our Sophie and have it on display, and she’d certainly have something to say about it if I did. I reckon it’s his wife, when she was at school. They keep it there for a laugh, or a bit of extra stimulation . I don’t know, you’re the one with all the experience. I’m just a happily married man.”
    “The SOCO reckons it was taken about the same time as the wedding photo,” I said, “which means it’s not the wife.”
    “Fair enough,” he replied, adding: “Maybe all will be revealed at the meeting, when we learn something about his background.”
    “Let’s hope so,” I said. We left, locking the door behind us, and told the PC on duty that we still wanted the crime scene maintaining.
    In the car Dave said: “That photo.”
    “Mmm.”
    “Of the young girl.”
    “Mmm.”
    “Maybe it’s just a curio type of thing. The sort of picture you might pick up at a car boot sale, or something. Knowwhat I mean?”
    “I think so,” I said. “A collector’s item. Like some dirty old Victorian might have drooled over.”
    “Yeah. Voluptuous innocence and all that crap.”
    “Lewis Carroll and Alice,” I suggested.
    “Exactly. He used to photograph children in the nude, you know.”
    “Crikey,” I said. “So where did he keep his spare films?”
     
    We’d told the Latham team to assemble at three, but the Mrs Silkstone investigators were there too, keen to learn the big picture. Annette and Iqbar were sitting in the front row, and she passed me a foolscap sheet of the PM findings. That was what I’d wanted most of all. I perused it as everybody found seats and joshed with each other. The small conference room doubles as a lecture theatre, and is equipped with all the usual paraphernalia like overhead projectors and CCTV. At one minute to three I picked up the wooden pointing stick and rattled it against the floor, calling out: “OK, boys and girls, let’s have some order.”
    As the hubbub died down Mr Wood entered the room. “Keeping them entertained, Charlie?” he said.
    “Just doing a few quick impressions, Boss,” I replied.
    “I see. Any chance of you impersonating a police officer for the rest of the day?” He has a vicious tongue, at times.
    Gilbert told the troops that HQ had sanctioned their overtime payments, which is what they wanted to hear, and thanked them for their efforts before handing over to me. I started by adding my appreciation for their work. A murder enquiry is always disruptive to the private lives of the investigators , as well as the principal characters. “This is a double murder enquiry,” I told them, “and the eyes of the world are upon us, so it’s important that we show them what we can do. As always, you have responded to the challenge, and we are grateful.” I outlined the bare bones of the case, and then asked about the identity of the first body.
    Inspector Adey said: “First body confirmed to be that of Peter John Latham. We contacted his ex-wife – he’s a divorcee – who lives in Pontefract.