No Smoke Without Fire (A DCI Warren Jones Novel - Book 2) (14 page)

Warren and Sutton were careful to maintain neutral expressions as they turned off the recording device and left the room. Glancing back, Warren felt a surge of satisfaction. Nerves were clearly getting the better of Cameron; he’d just pulled a packet of nicotine-replacement gum from his pocket.

As was his habit, Warren first turned to Sutton. “Thoughts?”

Sutton was silent for a long moment. “He’s scared.”

Warren nodded, waiting for more. “The question is why? Is he scared we’re onto him or is he simply terrified about going back to prison? He knows that if he can’t persuade us of his innocence we might charge him and he’d spend months on remand until the case came to court. I think his parole officer might be right: the guy has a severe prison phobia.”

Warren agreed. “I think he’s going to stop the ‘no commenting’ and give us something. I’d like to see if he has any sort of alibi and if it can be verified.”

At that moment, the door to the interview room opened. “My client would like to resume the interview. He is prepared to co-operate with the questioning on the condition that threats to arrest him are dropped.”

Warren shrugged. “I’ll have to make my mind up on that score depending on what he has to say for himself.”

The lawyer nodded briefly, knowing that was the best he could do.

Resuming the interview, Warren decided to ask the questions in reverse order this time. Cameron’s first admission was that the name of Sally Evans and her photograph were familiar, although he swore it was only from the TV news.

His next revelation was that he was familiar with Far and Away, having visited it some weeks previously with a view to booking a short holiday to Devon in the summer. He couldn’t recall who he had spoken to, whether it was Sally Evans or another sales advisor. Warren made a note to have her client database checked for any reference to Cameron. Whenever he’d gone into a travel agency, he’d found that they required a huge amount of personal information, all of which was diligently entered into the computer. He doubted that they would have deleted the data before the Data Protection Act demanded.

Finally, they got onto the subject of Cameron’s whereabouts on the Friday night.

“I was at home,” he mumbled.

“Doing what?”

“I was tired and I went to bed for a lie down in the late afternoon.”

“What time would this have been?”

Cameron shrugged. “I dunno. I know I watched
Countdown
, but I can’t remember much else.”

“How long were you asleep for?”

Again Cameron shrugged. “It was quite late when I woke up. I was surprised how long I’d been out. I reckon it could have been eight o’clock.”

“Can anyone confirm this?”

“Well, Michael was home, I think. I don’t think he went out. He was banging around in the kitchen when I went to sleep. When I woke up he was on the sofa watching TV.”

Sutton stirred. “Rather convenient, don’t you think? Sally Evans disappears late evening and you’re all tucked up in bed, with no witnesses apart from your son.”

Cameron snorted, showing the first glimpse of an emotion other than nervousness since they’d met him. “Hardly. I wish I could say that I was in the local pub, surrounded by the whole fucking village at the time that this young woman was murdered. But I can’t. I don’t go out in the evening. I watch telly and go to bed early, ready for the next day. My son Michael starts work at six, so he’s in bed early also.”

Was that a hint of self-pity? wondered Warren, feeling revulsion. He could feel a similar vibe from Sutton. He fought back an unprofessional comment, remembering that the tape was running.

It was time to let him sweat a bit more, decided Warren. Calling a pause to the interview, he stepped outside with Sutton.

“Having a snooze at the same time as Evans went missing — that’s about as crap an alibi as you could get. And he all but admitted that he knew her.” This time Sutton didn’t even wait for the customary invitation to share his thoughts.

“It’s flimsy all right, but if his son confirms it we need to let him go.”

“Well, there’s only one way to test that. I assume that he’s still in the building?”

“Should be. I asked Steve behind the desk to let me know if he left.”

The young man was still present and, to Warren’s surprise, he agreed immediately to a voluntary interview, without a lawyer present.

After performing all of the necessary preliminaries, Warren got straight down to business. Like his father, Michael Stockley was familiar with Far and Away travel agency, having visited it with his father recently and on his own a few years previously. However, unlike his father he professed no knowledge of Sally Evans, claiming not to recognise her name or her photograph. He explained that he was aware that a body had been found earlier in the week, but hadn’t caught any recent bulletins where she was named.

When it came to his father’s alibi, he was more confident. “The old man went to bed early. He was knackered after a hard day.”

“What time was this?” Warren questioned.

“Probably about four-ish, maybe a bit later. He didn’t reappear until about eight-ish.”

“And you are certain that he was in the house all of that time — you didn’t leave at all?”

“No, I made myself something to eat, then I watched some TV and read a book.”

This time it was Sutton that spoke up. “Four o’clock seems a bit early to knock off, even on a Friday. What do you do?”

“Actually, I finished work at about three. I start work at six a.m. I’m a business manager for a logistics firm.”

“And there is no way that your father could have left the house without you knowing? It’s a pretty big place, with lots of doors and windows.”

“Well, I suppose that you could get out without passing me in the lounge, but I know that Dad didn’t.”

“How can you be so sure?” asked Warren.

“Because he snores like a bloody pig and I could hear him over the TV.”

Thursday 8
^th
December

Chapter 19

The following morning, Jones and Sutton sat in Jones’ office, discussing their interviews with Cameron and his son. As feared they’d had to let Cameron go when his son had confirmed his alibi and they’d had no grounds to raise a search warrant. At the moment, unless he did something silly like refusing to cooperate, Jones had little to justify an arrest and even then would probably not be able to get a search warrant signed. Nevertheless, he was unwilling to dismiss the convicted rapist just yet. Sutton agreed.

“Something’s not right about those two,” opined Sutton as he gulped down another mouthful of coffee. “That alibi is just too bloody convenient. Plus, I’ve never been a big believer in these prison conversions. I don’t reckon a leopard changes his spots, especially not a deviant like Cameron.”

Warren nodded a cautious agreement. “I tend to agree, although I think it could happen on occasion. I would say that Cameron appears sincere about his desire to stay out of prison.”

Sutton shrugged. “Well, wouldn’t you?”

“Undoubtedly. The question is, would that desire make me avoid that behaviour, or would it just make me more careful? And what if I couldn’t help myself? What would I do if I was caught?”

“That’s what worries me. Would he evade arrest or would he try and brazen it out in court?”

“Well, if he tried the latter, he would still have the terms of his licence revoked. If he was charged, he’d go straight back inside to await trial. There’s no way he’d get bail.”

“So that leaves a third possibility.” Sutton didn’t need to spell it out. Richard Cameron could very well attempt to kill himself — the question was, would he do it quietly, or would he try and take others with him? The man was a potential powder keg, Warren realised.

“We should keep an eye on him,” Sutton declared, “and, God forbid, if any other bodies turn up, he should be top of the list.”

Warren nodded. “Speaking of God, Pargeter mentioned that they were both involved in the local church. He implied that Cameron confided in his local priest. I wonder if he could give any insights.”

Sutton shrugged again, wearily. “It can’t hurt. With no warrants we have bugger all else to go on. His priest may at least give us some more insight into the man. Maybe we’ll see if our gut feeling is correct.”

The sudden urge to do something galvanised Warren into action. Standing up, he looked at his watch. “I doubt the good reverend is in church at the moment. Why don’t I go and pay him a visit?”

* * *

Warren threaded his car down the narrow streets of the village of Stennfield. A few moments ago, he’d passed by the gate of the farm where Cameron and his son resided. Slowing down, he’d peered up the drive; the sky was dark and overcast and although he could just make out the shape of the roof through the trees, he couldn’t tell if there were any lights on in the property.

Out of habit, he’d programmed the satnav to take him to the church, but he could see that it wasn’t really necessary. The village was tiny, with only one main thoroughfare. Built before the age of the motor car, the winding street was barely wide enough for Warren’s Mondeo. Navigation was made harder by the double-parked cars crowding the road. Small cottages without front gardens made widening the road impossible and large warning signs had been erected at the entrance of the village diverting lorries and other large vehicles to the more accessible northern end of the village.

The church was easily visible, its small spire overshadowing the one- and two-storey buildings that made up the high street. Driving slowly, Warren passed all of the essential ingredients of a small, rural English village. Two pubs faced each other uneasily across the road, both with wooden chalkboards advertising hot food and real ale, in a benign form of one-upmanship that neither seemed to win outright. The Fighting Cock had a quiz on a Tuesday night, Warren noticed, whilst The White Bull had bingo and curry on a Thursday. Never a dull moment in Stennfield, Warren noted wryly. It wouldn’t have surprised him in the least if the landlords and staff of the respective pubs crossed the road for a quiet drink at their rival’s bar on their nights off — it seemed that sort of village.

The road continued past yet more cottages, some with thatched roofs, then a small village shop, its otherwise quaint appearance blighted by garish Co-op signage. Empty hanging baskets hinted at the village’s recent success in the local ‘Britain in Bloom’ competition. A little further and the road widened, then forked. To the left, another narrow street with more picture-postcard cottages led towards the church. To the right, a wider road with signs pointing towards Cambridge.

At the centre of the junction a war memorial jostled for space with a bus shelter. Three teenagers sat listlessly smoking and drinking cider in the shelter, each plugged into their own world by a pair of white headphones. None of them so much as looked up as Warren drove past.

As he turned left he could just make out the dedication on the war memorial. For such a tiny village, the Great War of 1914-1918 had swallowed up a heartbreakingly long list of names. At the base of the memorial, weather-beaten poppy wreaths remained from the previous month’s Remembrance Day. Warren found himself wondering who laid the wreaths. Did they have a ceremony? Surely there could be no one left in the village who remembered those days? Maybe the other side of the monument had a plaque from the Second World War? In this part of the country, with its proliferation of nearby army barracks, it was even possible that a newer, shinier plaque might mark the bravery and sacrifice of a whole new generation of village boys, killed on the distant streets of Helmand Province or Baghdad.

Another hundred metres and Warren was pulling into the small car park that served St Martin’s Parish Church. A small, grey stone building, it resembled hundreds across England. A blue, wooden sign named the Reverend Thomas Harding as its vicar and listed the times of different services throughout the week. Next to the sign, a Perspex-fronted bulletin board spoke of a busy local community, with a dozen or so brightly coloured posters competing for space.

Parking next to the only other car in sight, an ageing but well-maintained Volvo estate, Warren got out and headed up a gravelled path, past the church to the modest house that served as the vicarage.

Warren rang the doorbell and waited, the warm light shining through the glass panels in the door a pleasant antidote to the miserable weather outside. After a few moments a shadow, its details blurred by the frosted glass, appeared and the door opened.

A short, slightly plump woman Jones guessed to be in her early sixties, wearing a flowery dress and a pink cardigan, greeted him with a smile.

“Hello, I’m Beverly Harding. My husband is on the phone at the moment. You must be Mr Jones.”

After checking his warrant card, Mrs Harding led him over the threshold into the hallway. Straight ahead, Warren could see a dining room through a partly open set of wooden doors; to the left and the right, two more doors. The one on the right had a small wooden sign reading ‘Parish Meeting Room’. As he followed the vicar’s wife into the meeting room Warren glanced to his left and caught a brief glimpse of a modern-looking living room, with a large flat-screen TV and comfortable-looking leather sofas. In the middle of the room a tall, spare man, he stood with a cordless phone pressed against his ear. Spotting Warren, he raised a hand in greeting, mouthing a silent apology.

The meeting room reminded Warren of the small space in the priest’s house where he would sometimes help his grandparents count the church collection when it was their turn on the rota to do so. Stacked chairs, piles of prayer books and hymnals, even a dusty old desktop PC with a bulky-looking inkjet printer. That had been some years ago, he realised.

“Would you like a cup of tea, Detective?” asked Mrs Harding. Despite having put away several cups of coffee that morning already, the suggestion suddenly made Warren thirsty. A cup of refreshing tea might make a pleasant change, he decided.

As the vicar’s wife left he noticed she was wearing slippers. She was probably relaxing in front of the TV when I turned up, he thought, but a vicar’s wife is on call almost as much as her husband.