No Smoke Without Fire (A DCI Warren Jones Novel - Book 2) (40 page)

She sighed contentedly, before mumbling her own response.

“Is it too early to open our stockings?” Warren was referring to the bulging, garish sports socks hanging off the end of the bed. Susan might be a married woman in her thirties, but Bernice had made it clear that she was still her little girl and she was going to enjoy having her children home for Christmas. Now even Warren got one.

“I think it’s a bit early for that,” said Susan, a glint in her eye.

“Well, I don’t think we can go downstairs and watch TV. It’ll wake the grown-ups. What can we do for the next hour or so?”

Susan giggled and lifted her arms above her head. “Well, you could always unwrap one present, I suppose. Just something to play with until we have breakfast.”

* * *

Breakfast was an elaborate affair, at least by the standards of Warren, who usually made do with a slice of toast or a banana on the rare occasions that he bothered. Three types of toast, rashers of crispy bacon and bulging sausages jostled for space with fried and scrambled eggs and a pan of baked beans. It was the odour of freshly brewed coffee that had finally tempted Warren and Susan downstairs.

“You know, if we eat all of this, then Christmas dinner, and all those chocolates in the lounge, we’ll never fit in the en-suite shower tomorrow for a repeat of what we just did.”

Susan’s response was a blush and a slap. Fortunately, Bernice was playing a CD of Christmas carols and didn’t hear him. Warren wished his in-laws a merry Christmas and thanked them for the gifts in the stocking. So far he’d used some of the shower gel, a squirt of the aftershave and was wearing a pair of black socks with a huge yellow smiley face on each ankle.

Bernice was dressed in a bright red jumper with ‘Santa’s Little Helper’ emblazoned on the front and black trousers. Flashing earrings and reindeer antlers completed the ensemble. Dennis was dressed even worse than the previous day, with a chunky hand-knitted sweater featuring Santa’s face covering his stomach. The red hat with flashing lights did little to offset his morose expression.

Although he knew from previous Christmases that offers to help would be rebuffed, Warren felt obliged at least to ask. As usual it was Bernice who turned down Warren’s assistance, even though Christmas lunch was strictly the purview of Dennis. To be fair, in previous years, Susan’s father had managed to effortlessly juggle the many different dishes with the skill and timing of a West End chef and he certainly seemed happiest when clattering around the kitchen.

Knowing that the day ahead was likely to be an eating marathon, Warren paced himself at breakfast, managing to limit the amount of food that Bernice insisted on piling on his plate. Nevertheless, his frugality paled next to that of Granddad Jack. When the older man finally emerged, it was clear that he had barely slept the night before. He was clean-shaven and had both of his hearing aids in; nevertheless, the lightness that had been present the night before had retreated once again. It was only Bernice’s well-meaning pressure that persuaded him to take a slice of toast with his tea. After eating, he retired to the living room and was soon dozing in front of the fire again.

By common agreement, the family had decided to postpone present opening until the arrival of Susan’s sister and family. Over Bernice’ protestations, Warren and Susan had insisted on clearing up after breakfast. As they did so Warren voiced his concerns about Jack. He had clearly taken the death of Betty even harder than anyone had imagined and Warren was worried that the old man was in a downward spiral. Susan couldn’t think of anything to say, other than to suggest they wait until after the Christmas period and see if he perked up. If not, she would see if they could get him to talk to someone.

Finally Susan’s sister Felicity, her husband Jeff and their three children, Jimmy aged three, Sammy just under two and six-month old Annie turned up. Their arrival reminded Warren of footage he’d seen of American forces entering Afghanistan. He watched with fascination as the red Citroën people carrier swept up the drive like a Black Hawk helicopter coming in to land, before disgorging two adults, three small children each with accompanying accessory bags easily large enough for their owner to fit in, and enough brightly coloured plastic toys to fill a branch of Toys R Us. And then came the presents, piles of garishly wrapped parcels, which Felicity added to the pile beneath the tree. Finally the invasion was complete, although Warren couldn’t see how they hoped to get everything back in the car again.

Warren always felt slightly awkward at these gatherings. Felicity and Jeff were lovely people, but they seemed completely alien to him. Felicity was as different from Susan as it was possible to be. Barely five feet tall, Felicity was a giggly blonde whirlwind. Where Susan had studied biology at university, gaining a master’s degree before starting teacher training, Felicity had travelled the world for two years, before doing a series of art courses, ending up working for some sort of hippy collective in London making and selling home-made jewellery.

Jeff, on the other hand, was an investment banker, working for a large credit company that Warren had never heard of. Within twelve months of their chance meeting, the free-spirited Felicity was living in a two-million-pound home in the leafiest part of the commuter-belt, engaged and pregnant — although that was diplomatically ignored by Bernice, who couldn’t believe how well her wayward daughter had done for herself. By all accounts, it was a marriage made in heaven and Warren saw no evidence to the contrary.

Finally, it was time to open the presents. Warren had been looking forward to seeing Susan’s reaction to the matching earrings and necklace that he had bought her and he was delighted with the Kindle e-reader that she had bought him, but to his surprise he found the most enjoyable part of the morning was watching the children open their presents. At just over three years old, Jimmy was old enough to understand Christmas and was suitably excited. Sammy wasn’t overly thrilled by the presents but had a fantastic time climbing inside the boxes and playing with the wrapping paper.

“Jimmy was the exactly the same last year,” confided Jeff. “I suggested to Felicity that we could save a fortune by just buying some wrapping paper and asking the supermarket for any old boxes, but she wouldn’t have it.”

However, star of the show was baby Annie. Dressed in a mini Santa outfit, she dissolved into fits of giggles every time Granddad Jack tickled her tummy.

Finally, Dennis announced that dinner was ready. With Susan’s help, Felicity put Annie down in her Moses basket, whilst Warren and Jeff wrestled Sammy into his high chair. Jimmy would be allowed to sit in a ‘big boy’s chair’ between Granddad Jack and Uncle Warren as long as he behaved himself.

Warren checked his phone discreetly — no calls, emails or text messages, so he decided to have a glass of red wine with his lunch.

Dennis had done himself proud again. A huge turkey with all of the trimmings was surrounded by roast potatoes and parsnips. Three types of stuffing, steamed carrots, peas, broccoli and the obligatory Brussels sprouts, plus creamed potatoes and, finally, pigs in blankets. Thick gravy and cranberry jelly completed the feast.

Warren didn’t like turkey or any other meat off the bone and was perfectly content to load up with vegetables and sausages; however, Felicity was a vegetarian and Dennis had made her a big enough bean and nut roast for everyone to have some.

Lunch was a boisterous affair with laughter all round and even Jack and Dennis joining in. The Christmas crackers disgorged their usual cheap plastic toys — promptly moved out of the reach of the children — gaudy paper crowns and awful jokes. By the time the Christmas pudding was lit, Warren felt as though he might burst. He’d decided to chance a second, small glass of wine and was now glowing slightly.

Ignoring Bernice’s protests for a second time that day — normally a pretty reckless thing to do — Susan and Warren cleared away the lunch whilst everyone else retired to the lounge. When they finally joined them, the whole room was almost silent, with the Queen’s speech on mute and only Granddad Jack and Jimmy awake. As he watched his grandfather quietly reading a story to the small boy, Warren felt something stirring inside him. As if sensing his thoughts, Susan sat down next to him, slipping her hand into his and resting her head on his shoulder. At that moment, all thoughts of dead bodies and rapists were a million miles away.

* * *

All too soon the day was over. By eight p.m., it was well past the children’s bedtime and so the invasion went into reverse. Somehow everything that had come out of the people carrier went back in, along with several dozen more toys plus a number of large Tupperware boxes of uneaten vegetables and half a Christmas cake.

With the children gone, the house suddenly seemed empty. Granddad Jack excused himself and went to bed. Warren anxiously watched him as he climbed the stairs, but the old man’s pace seemed tired rather than weary and he had kissed both Bernice and Susan goodnight.

The remaining foursome enjoyed a spirited game of Scrabble, which Bernice — president of the local book club —won by a large margin.

A little later, lying in the dark, Warren snuggled up close to Susan.

“I was watching Granddad with the kids. It got me thinking…”

Susan sighed. “Me too. But we decided to give it at least a year in our new jobs before we started a family.”

In the darkness, she felt Warren nod. “I know and I agree. But let’s not leave it too long. Who knows? By this time next year you could be eating for two and by the following year it could be our little baby dressed in a Santa suit.”

Beside him, Warren could feel the bed start to shake. “What?” he demanded.

Between her giggles, Susan managed to speak. “Oh, you old romantic.”

Not sure how to respond, Warren felt slightly defensive.

“Well, we have to make plans. You’re a biology teacher — you know how complicated these things are. There are books to read, DVDs to watch, courses to do…”

Susan fully dissolved. “It’s really not that difficult. Trust me, human beings have been having babies for millions of years.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Well, if you are that worried then maybe we should practise a bit before we start properly in the summer.”

That didn’t really require an answer, Warren decided.

* * *

It was almost nine a.m., the longest lie-in Warren and Susan had had in months, when the phone went. Warren didn’t need to look at the caller ID to know what it was about.

“Sorry to phone, guv. We’ve found Saskia Walker.”

Monday 26
^th
December

Chapter 50

It was barely noon on Boxing Day; less than twenty-four hours since he’d been tucking into Dennis’ fantastic Christmas lunch and celebrating with his loved ones. As Warren stared at the pictures of the partially clad body it felt as though those events had been a lifetime ago.

“How was she found?”

“Sheer bloody fluke, by the sound of it.” There was an undercurrent of excitement in Tony Sutton’s voice. “I reckon Cameron wasn’t expecting her to be found nearly so soon. He probably expected to have a couple more days’ lead at least.”

“What happened?” prompted Warren.

“She was found by a Polish lorry driver in a layby on the A505. Apparently, he broke down on Christmas Eve up in Scotland and by the time he got back on the road it was Christmas Day.

“By last night he was over his hours, so he pulled over to sleep. This morning, he got up to stretch his legs and decided to give the chemical toilet a miss and use a bush. Very nearly pissed on the poor girl. He reckons he was probably the only driver on the road Christmas night and figures the likelihood of anybody stumbling across her body before Tuesday or Wednesday was pretty slim.”

Sutton was right to feel excited. Although Saskia Walker had been missing for several days, giving her attacker plenty of time to cover his tracks, he clearly hadn’t expected her body to be found so quickly. Who knew what details Richard Cameron might not have dealt with yet?

“What do we have forensically?”

“Her body is still at the scene. Professor Jordan is coming in especially to do the PM.” Sutton smiled grimly. “Everyone wants this bastard, sir. First time I’ve ever called a coroner out over the holiday period and not had to put up with them grumbling about it. I swear he was putting his coat on as we spoke on the phone.”

Warren suspected he was right. Four murders and an attempted murder in the space of a month. For Warren, it had been personal since the moment he first caught sight of Sally Evans’ body. For others, it had taken time to work its way from routine murder to serial killer, but now everybody was feeling it. Quite aside from the tragedy, it was an affront to the local community that they had all sworn to protect and to their professional pride.

The eagerness of Prof Jordan notwithstanding, arranging a full post-mortem on Boxing Day was always going to be a slow affair and Warren was warned that he couldn’t expect to see any results until late evening at the earliest.

In the meantime, the team had plenty to do to keep them occupied. Although the smart money was on Richard Cameron being responsible, until they had positive proof of his involvement from the coroner or scenes of crime team they were obliged to keep at least some semblance of an open mind.

By one-thirty, Warren and Tony Sutton found themselves heading out, yet again, to interview bereaved loved ones. The drive to Cambridge took about forty minutes, a light drizzle turning into a heavy downpour. The atmosphere in the car was also leaden, all traces of Christmas cheer long since chased away.

After an abortive attempt at small talk — apparently both men had enjoyed Christmas and it had been good to get away — they lapsed back into silence. Eventually Sutton started leafing through the stack of CDs in the glove box. Warren winced. He had a horrible feeling that his credibility was going to take a beating.

“ABBA Gold? Tell me this is Susan’s. What about this? The soundtrack to Mamma Mia?” Warren said nothing, hoping Sutton would get bored and give up. No such luck — he was like a dog with a bone.