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while she’d kept me at a distance , not sure how to behave, but lately we’d been rubbing along quite nicely. She was single, but I’d never taken her out alone, and as far as I knew nobody else had. Inevitably, there were rumours about her sexual inclination. She has wild auburn hair that she keeps under control with a variety of fastenings, and the freckles that often go with that colour. I looked at my watch, wondering if we’d have the opportunity to go for that drink later, and ran my tongue over my teeth. No chance, I thought, as I saw the time.
    I sent Sparky and Annette to talk to the house-to-house boys, collating whatever they’d discovered, and asked Jeff Caton to do some checks on the car numbers and the two people in the house. At just before ten the undertaker’s van collected the body. We secured the house, leaving a patrol car parked outside, and moved en masse to the incident room that Mr Wood had hopefully set up at the nick.
    The coffee machine did roaring service. As soon as I’d managed to commandeer a cup I called them all to order. “Let’s not mess about,” I said. “With a bit of luck we’ll still be able to hit our beds this side of midnight. First of all, thank you for your efforts. First indications are that the dead man might be called Peter Latham. What can anybody tell me about him?”
    Annette rose to her feet. “Peter John Latham,” she told us, “is the named householder for number 15, Marlborough Close, West Woods. He is also the registered keeper of the Citroën Xantia parked on the drive. Disqualified for OPL in 1984, otherwise clean. Latham’s description tallies with that of the dead man, and a woman at number 13 has offered to identify the body. She’s a divorcee, and says they wereclose.”
    “Do you mean he was doing a bit for her, Annette?” someone called out.
    “No, close as in living in the adjoining semi,” she responded, sitting down.
    “Thanks Annette,” I said, raising a hand to quieten the laughs. “It appears,” I went on, “that Latham was killed with a single stab wound to the heart. We’ll know for certain after the post-mortem.”
    “Arranged for eight in the morning,” Mr Wood interrupted . He was on the phone in his office when I’d started the meeting, organising the PM, and I hadn’t seen him sneak in.
    “Thanks, Boss,” I said. “It doesn’t appear to have been a frenzied attack, but all will be revealed tomorrow. You OK for the PM, Annette?”
    She looked up from the notes she was making and nodded .
    “The man who claims to have done it,” I continued, “is called Anthony Silkstone. What do we know about him?”
    Jeff flipped his notebook open but spoke without consulting it. “Aged forty-four,” he told us. “Married, comes from Heckley and has a string of driving convictions, but that’s all. His address is The Garth, Mountain Meadows, wherever that is.”
    I knew where it was, but didn’t admit it.
    “Yuppy development near the canal, on the north side of town,” Gareth Adey interrupted. “We’ve had a car there, but the house is in darkness and the door locked. Presumably the key is in Silkstone’s property.”
    Jeff waited until he’d finished, then went on: “He shares the place with a woman called Margaret Silkstone, his wife, I imagine, and drives an Audi A8 with the same registration as the one parked outside the dead man’s house.”
    “Nice car,” someone murmured.
    “What’s it worth?” I asked.
    “They start at about forty grand,” we were informed.
    “So he’s not a police officer. OK. Number one priority is find Mrs Silkstone – we’d better get someone round to the house again, pronto – get the key from Silkstone’s property. Then we need next of kin for the dead man.”
    “We’re on it, Charlie,” Gareth Adey said.
    “Cheers, Gareth. And we need a simple statement for the press.” He nodded to say he’d take that on, too.
    The door opened and the afternoon shift custody