No Smoke Without Fire (A DCI Warren Jones Novel - Book 2) (17 page)

Nevertheless, the number soon grew in size again when it was decided that if the killer knew Sally Evans’ routine, he or she must have observed her on previous days. If he did so on foot, then Warren knew that the likelihood of identifying him amongst the tens of thousands of commuters caught on CCTV in that area was next to zero. Furthermore, as it was during the six p.m. rush hour, it was likely that many of the same faces would crop up time and time again on different days, making patterns difficult to spot. The same argument could be made about cars, Warren supposed. Nevertheless he instructed the team to go back over the previous fortnight’s recordings to look for any suspicious vehicles. It would be a long, slow slog and Warren wasn’t expecting results any time soon.

* * *

It was late Saturday afternoon when the investigation took an unexpected and unwanted twist. Warren and Tony Sutton were in Warren’s office drinking coffee and rehashing what little facts they had for the umpteenth time. There was a knock at the door and Gary Hastings entered. The younger officer looked annoyed and embarrassed at the same time. Warren could feel the bad news hanging in the air. Sutton looked up expectantly. “Spill it, son, no point waiting.”

“It’s Blackheath, sir. He might not have been parked outside his house that night when he said he was.”

“What do you mean?” asked Sutton in surprise. “We have an eyewitness. Bloke across the road. Let’s face it, it’s not the most subtle of cars. Surely, you’d know if the Twat-Mobile was parked opposite your house.”

“Well, none of the other neighbours can remember if they saw it or not.”

“So what’s he done — changed his statement?”

Hastings looked embarrassed, although it surely wasn’t his fault; he only processed the information.

“We’ve just had the witness’ daughter on the phone. She visited her old man this morning to find him talking excitedly about the visit he’d had from the police. Turns out the old boy has Alzheimer’s. He seems quite lucid when you first meet him, chats nineteen-to-the-dozen, but he’s hopeless with dates and times.”

“Shit!” Sutton threw his pen down in disgust.

“Can we verify what his daughter claims? Is his memory as bad as she says it is?” Warren was clutching at straws and he knew it.

Hastings nodded glumly. “That wife he was supposed to be picking up from bingo has been dead three years — and the venue became a Wetherspoon’s pub eighteen months ago. The daughter had to come pick him up that evening after she got a call from one of the door staff who realised he was confused, not drunk, and did the decent thing. Neither of them were in a position to comment on whether Darren Blackheath was parked outside his flat at the time Sally Evans was being raped and killed.”

Warren put his head in his hands with a loud groan. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

“Yeah, we have to start all over again with Blackheath.” The three men were silent for a few moments, contemplating the new twist.

“Do you think he could be guilty?” asked Hastings. “Up to now, you’ve seemed pretty certain he’s innocent.”

Warren exhaled loudly, before shaking his head. “At this point, Gary, I just don’t know.”

He glanced at his watch. “What I do know is that it’s getting late and I’ve had enough. My brain has turned to sponge. I’m going home. I’ll be back in tomorrow.”

Chapter 22

The call came at seven p.m. as Warren and Susan were just settling down in front of the TV with a takeaway curry and a DVD. After such a frustrating day, Warren needed to relax for a few hours with his wife. He knew from experience that he required at least a few hours’ distraction and a good night’s sleep to let his subconscious chew over events and come up with new strategies in the morning.

Susan had spent a rather more productive day, having decided that she wanted to shift as much of her marking pile as possible before the Christmas holidays — not least because she would be taking in a new pile of coursework next week for marking over the break — and she was now tired and hungry.

The couple looked at each other for a few long seconds, before Warren sighed and fished the phone off the arm of the settee. He glanced at the screen and all thoughts of a lazy evening evaporated. Reading his expression, Susan tried to look supportive as she placed the cardboard lid back on Warren’s Chicken Jalfrezi and carried it out into the kitchen, giving him some privacy. By the time she’d replaced the cork in the unpoured wine, Warren was in the hallway, phone pressed to his ear as he wrestled his heavy-duty, insulated coat on.

Susan didn’t need to hear both ends of the conversation to work out what was being said; the grim cast of Warren’s face told her everything. Finally he hung up and turned to Susan.

“Go,” she ordered before he could say anything. “It can’t be helped. Your dinner will be in the fridge. If you return at a decent hour, we’ll have a late-night snack together.”

Warren leant over and kissed her on the lips. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’ll call as soon as I’m able and let you know what time I’ll be back.”

With that, he finished zipping up his coat, slipped his boots on and stepped out into the dark.

Susan stood at the window and watched as Warren pulled away from the kerb, his headlights illuminating a few lazy snowflakes. She looked over at the DVD sitting in its rental case, a comedy that they’d both wanted to see for a while. A few months previously, they’d got as far as the cinema queue when Warren’s mobile had rung and they’d had to get back in the car.

For a brief moment she was tempted to sit down and watch the damn thing now and tell Warren the ending whenever he got back from wherever he’d been called to... But no, the film was something that both of them wanted to see and she was determined that they’d see it together, even if it meant watching it on catch-up TV in twelve months’ time.

Flicking on the television, she skimmed the channels, seeing that at this time on a Saturday night the schedules were wall-to-wall rubbish, nothing but talent and game shows. With a sigh, she turned it off, walked back over to the dining-room table and picked up her red pen.

* * *

This time, the woods were on the opposite side of Middlesbury; nevertheless Warren felt a strong sense of déjà vu as his car slowly bounced along the dirt track. As usual it seemed that Tony Sutton had been the senior on-call officer when the body had been found and he had been the one to phone Warren. One of these days, Warren vowed, it would be his turn to call Sutton out of his nice warm house to some godforsaken corner of Hertfordshire in sub-zero temperatures.

The scene as Warren parked up was depressingly familiar: to his left was Sutton’s Audi, to his right a patrol car and a SOCO van. It had been barely five days since Warren had been through this exact same routine when Sally Evans’ body had been found and already the connections were disturbing. Two bodies, less than a week apart. He shuddered; was it a coincidence or was there a predator operating around Middlesbury?

After showing his warrant card to the young female constable logging visitors, he pulled on his white paper suit, grabbed his torch and followed the directions to the site where the body had been found.

This time, the dumping spot was barely inside a thick, wooded area bordering a barren field, the portable field lights clearly visible. The poor weather had turned the soil into a boggy marshland and Warren found himself alternately slipping and sticking as he navigated the treacherous ground, carefully following the police tape to make sure that his footprints didn’t obscure any left by the killer. It was good procedure, but Warren doubted there would be much to find. The rain had almost certainly obliterated any impressions; realistically their best hope lay in the area around the body, sheltered as it was by the trees.

Finally, he reached the forensics team and Sutton, who were standing on plastic boards that allowed them to move around without disturbing the scene. They also reduced the likelihood of slipping over on the slimy mud, although the dark stain that covered the back of Sutton’s white suit suggested that he’d taken at least one tumble.

As usual in this area of Hertfordshire, Andy Harrison was the Crime Scene Manager and he greeted Warren with a wave, before turning back to what Warren assumed was the body. Seeing the arrival of his boss, Tony Sutton carefully moved along the plastic walkway to greet him. This time, neither man joked about their appearance. Two bodies in less than a week hinted at something neither man wanted to contemplate. Even Andy Harrison appeared subdued as he busied himself with a digital camera.

“What have we got, Tony?”

“It’s like I said on the phone. A lone body, female, probably in her late twenties. She’s been here a couple of days at least, found by a group of teenagers doing a Duke of Edinburgh night hike.”

“Where are they now?”

“Andy took their boots off them to examine for trace and we sent them back to the station to make a statement. Fortunately, as soon as they realised what they’d found, they freaked out and stayed well away, so the scene hasn’t been compromised.” He shook his head. “Poor kids, they were putting on a brave face, especially the lads, but you could tell they were pretty upset by the whole thing.”

Warren nodded soberly. Finding a dead body was distressing for anybody. He could only imagine what effect it would have on a group of teenagers, out in the woods on their own. He suspected that at least a few of them would not be completing their training.

“Let’s get it over with, then.”

Sutton nodded, taking the lead again although it was hardly necessary, since they were barely thirty metres from the edge of the cordoned-off crime scene. The plastic boards shifted and creaked under the two men’s weight, but held firm.

The woman was dressed in what appeared to be a sports jacket over a dark blue tracksuit. Her trousers and knickers were pulled down to her knees and her T-shirt been roughly pulled over her head. Her sports bra had been pulled up, exposing her breasts. A scarf was tied tightly around her neck. Even in the artificial glare of the lighting rig Warren could see that she had once been an attractive young woman, with long, curly dark blonde hair and a pretty face. Her body was well toned and she had clearly been fit.

Looking away from the poor woman, he addressed Andy Harrison.

“What have we got, Andy?”

“On the surface, at least, it’s similar to last time. A young woman, probably mid-to-late twenties. Possibly raped; almost certainly throttled with her own scarf.”

“How long do you think?”

“A couple of days at least, but anything more accurate would be a guess at this stage.”

“What about the scene — footprints? Tyre tracks? If it’s anything like the last time, she was dumped here.”

Harrison raised a calming hand; he could sense Jones’ frustration. “All in good time, Chief. It’s early days yet. You start trying to identify her back at the station — leave us to sweep the scene. If there’s anything here we’ll find it.” He looked at his watch. “We’ll get a preliminary report to you before midday tomorrow.”

Warren took a few deep breaths; the man was correct. It was early days and there was nothing to be gained by rushing the CSI team.

“You’re right, of course, Andy. We’ll get out of your hair and let you get on with your job.”

As they trudged carefully back to their cars Sutton and Jones talked over the evening’s find.

“I’m worried, guv. That killing’s a little too like last week’s for comfort.”

Warren agreed. “They’re close together as well. If Andy Harrison is right with the timing we’re looking at less than a week. Either the killer has some sort of plan or timetable that they are following or they’ve developed a taste for it and aren’t fully in control.”

“Either of which suggests that we could be looking at more bodies and sooner rather than later.”

Sunday 11
^th
December

Chapter 23

Warren was awoken by a combination of the alarm on his mobile phone and a nagging feeling of indigestion. By the time he’d returned to the station, interviewed the teenagers who found the body and started the ball rolling on the murder investigation it had been well into the early hours of the morning.

He’d arrived home to find Susan had gone to bed some hours before. He’d been tempted to slip into bed beside her so he could at least awake beside her — Sunday mornings were often the only time the couple had anything approaching a lie-in together — but he’d decided it wasn’t fair on her. He was planning to be in the office early and he’d been reluctant to disturb her unnecessarily.

After a hot shower to chase away the cobwebs and a careful and precise shave, Warren returned to the spare room, which conveniently doubled as the couple’s wardrobe, and put on his most sombre suit and a black tie. No identification had yet been made of the young woman but, when it was, Warren was going to accompany the family liaison officers when they broke the news later that morning. It was a job that Warren absolutely hated; however, he wanted to see the reaction of the family for himself. As always, the odds were that the killer was a close acquaintance of the victim and Warren wanted to see the response of those acquaintances up close.

Walking downstairs, Warren was very pleasantly surprised to see Susan, yawning in her dressing gown and pouring coffee. A moment later the toaster popped up. Crossing the kitchen, he kissed her on the forehead. “You didn’t have to get up so early. You deserve a lie-in.”

“I know — that’s why I’ll be returning to bed with a good book as soon as you’ve gone. But I couldn’t let you go to work on a Sunday with an empty stomach. Don’t forget the canteen is closed — why don’t you take that curry and reheat it?” Susan obviously hadn’t opened the kitchen bin yet that morning. Seeing Warren’s guilty expression, she looked around the kitchen, noting the lack of dirty dishes. Opening the refrigerator, she made a face.

“Well, unless you’ve taken to washing up in the early hours of the morning, you didn’t place the curry on a plate, those tin-foil containers can’t be microwaved and I doubt you heated the oven up at that time. From that I can only deduce, Detective Chief Inspector, that you ate the Chicken Jalfrezi cold. Am I right?”