No Smoke Without Fire (A DCI Warren Jones Novel - Book 2) (41 page)

“What else…? U2 Greatest Hits, Rod Stewart Greatest Hits, Elton John Greatest Hits… I’m spotting a theme here, guv. Do you own any actual albums or is it all compilations?”

“What can I say? I follow the masses,” said Warren weakly, hoping Sutton had seen enough.

“Ultimate Eighties album, Seventies Party Hits, Disco Hits Volumes 1
and
2. Trying to recapture your youth, sir?”

“Speak for yourself, Tony. I’m too young to remember it first time around, unlike you; I discovered that lot at Friday Freak-out at uni.”

“Count yourself lucky, guv. Most of this stuff was crap. I can’t work out why it was so popular with students in the nineties.”

“Well, have you heard what new music we had to listen to in the nineties?”

“Fair comment. Even Sister Sledge sounds good next to that car-alarm rubbish that blared out of every speaker back then. If I’d had my way, we’d have been nicking students for possession of an offensive CD.”

Warren chuckled; the banter had achieved its desired effect and lifted his mood somewhat.

“Hello, what’s this? Looks like a home-made compilation CD. ‘Guilty Pleasures’ — you don’t appear to have filled in the inlay card. I have no idea what music is on here.”

And you never will, vowed Warren. Thanks to the alphabetical track-listing on his computer, Guns ’n’ Roses ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’ followed the Beatles’ ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ and ‘Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’. Thank goodness for shuffle. He snatched the CD out of Sutton’s grasp lest it find itself being played on the station’s CD player.

“Next time, you drive, DI Sutton, and we’ll peruse your music collection, shall we?” suggested Warren, waspishly.

Sutton shrugged. “I stand behind my music collection. A song for every mood and nothing to be ashamed of. Perhaps when we’ve got a little extra time I’ll help educate your ear, sir.”

Before Warren could reply, the satnav sang out, announcing that they had arrived at their destination. Both men immediately quietened.

“Once more unto the breach?”

Sutton nodded. “Let’s get it over with, then.”

* * *

If it weren’t for the unlit Christmas tree and the cards adorning the mantelpiece, nobody would have known it was the day after Christmas. The kitchen in which they sat was cold and uncomfortable. It was clear from the smell, or rather lack of it, that nobody had cooked a Christmas roast in here for loved ones or stuffed themselves with cake. The air contained no lingering traces of over-cooked vegetables or gravy. The smell of booze pervaded the room, but it was from the alcohol of sadness, of desperation, not the rich aroma of carefully chosen wines or freshly mixed party drinks.

The contrast with Bernice and Dennis’ house couldn’t be more pronounced and Warren desperately wished he had been able to heed his mother-in-law’s pleading and stay just a bit longer. Unfortunately duty was duty and Bernice had eventually accepted that fact with ill grace. Granddad Jack had been understanding and Susan, of course, had been his rock.

Despite Bernice’s misgivings, Warren had been unable to leave his in-laws and wife without an armful of Tupperware boxes containing leftover turkey and vegetables. Assuming that he got home at a decent hour tonight he’d be frying up the vegetables in what he’d always called the second meal of Christmas — a gravy-smothered plate of bubble and squeak. Then, he’d use the meat to make the third meal of Christmas — turkey curry.

The tension between Saskia Walker’s parents was palpable and Warren thought it ironic and deeply sad that the only thing keeping them together was the death of their child. He doubted much time would pass after the funeral before they finally went their separate ways. He just hoped it wasn’t too traumatic; this poor couple had suffered far more than anyone deserved.

“You understand that until we get the post-mortem results we can only speculate on who she was killed by and that we therefore must keep an open mind and pursue all lines of enquiry.” The couple nodded wearily. This had all been explained to them by the family liaison officer before Warren and Sutton had arrived.

“With that in mind, we need to ask some questions that you may find uncomfortable. I apologise in advance if we upset you.”

The couple nodded numbly and Warren proceeded. He’d reread the reports from her friends gathered at the time she went missing, as well as other interviews conducted by the missing persons team. First he established that, as far as her parents were concerned, she had not had a regular boyfriend since splitting up with a steady, long-term partner earlier in the year. They knew nothing of any flings with her co-workers, although that was hardly surprising. They were aware that she had been treated for depression recently.

So far, their stories tallied with what her friends and co-workers had reported on Christmas Eve. Both the ex-boyfriend and her one-night stand had been thoroughly checked out by missing persons and found to be clear of any involvement. The former partner was still in France where he had returned to rekindle his romance with a childhood sweetheart he had reconnected with through Facebook; as for the workplace fling, he had been at work all of the twenty-third before getting changed at work and going straight out to the works party that Saskia never attended. He’d then crashed on a workmate’s couch and crawled into work much the worse-for-wear early the next morning. Enough people had seen him at various points over the twenty-four hours between Saskia Walker last being seen and then being reported missing that he was easily cleared of any direct involvement.

Saskia’s sister and her husband, Tristan, had returned home to change clothes and freshen up after forty-eight hours sitting vigil with Saskia’s parents. The family liaison officer had said that they had been nothing but a comfort to her parents throughout the ordeal. She suspected that they were exhausted and needed a bit of time to themselves to process their own feelings. They were probably also feeling slight guilt as both had clearly looked a little relieved when their expectations were finally confirmed and the body was found. It was insights like this that made family liaison officers more than just a convenient shoulder for the bereaved to cry on whilst he tried to get on with his job, Warren felt.

With the sister and her husband absent, Warren was able to broach the subject of tension between Saskia and her sister’s husband, Tristan.

The brief expression of distaste on Saskia’s mother’s face spoke volumes. “I suppose you could say that we are a bit beneath him. His name is Tristan, so draw your own conclusions. Private education, wealthy upbringing, Cambridge University, then a highly paid job doing something to do with the Internet — everything you’d expect. He met our Flo when she was working at a small bakery around the corner from his workplace and apparently it was love at first sight.

“It was clear from the get-go that his family weren’t impressed; that he’d found a bit of rough and he’d come to his senses soon.” Her face softened slightly. “Bless him, he tries to be polite, but he really struggles. We have nothing in common. I left school at sixteen to work in a newsagent; he’s got master’s degrees and all sorts. When he visits, it sounds like he’s talking to young children or people a bit mentally deficient. Saskia couldn’t stand it and they had a number of rows.”

Warren jotted the information down. It seemed unlikely that this Tristan character was involved and he was still banking on Richard Cameron being identified in the immediate future. Nevertheless, he felt obliged to have somebody check out his whereabouts at the time of the murder.

With little else to be gained from the grieving couple, Warren and Sutton stood to leave. As they did so Angela Walker stood also.

“My daughter never hurt anyone. She worked hard, ran in those charity half-marathons and would help anybody. At work she won awards for her customer service.” She choked back a sob.

“Whoever has done this to our daughter is a sick man. He should be put down like a dog.”

With that, she ran from the room, the fragile dam she had obviously constructed to keep her functioning finally giving way. After a moment’s hesitation, her husband turned and scurried after her.

Sutton turned to Jones, muttering quietly, “It’s hard to argue with sentiments like that. Perhaps the likes of Richard Cameron should be put down. No punishment will ever be enough and why should he live out his days in some cushy cell, paid for by the taxes of his victims’ loved ones?”

Warren said nothing. There was nothing he could say, because, truth be told, he wasn’t sure he disagreed.

Chapter 51

By the time Warren and Sutton finished speaking to Saskia Walker’s parents it was late afternoon. With limited daylight remaining, Warren decided to drive them both to the layby where she had been found. Scenes of Crime had been processing the site since she was discovered early that morning and he was keen to take a look.

The stretch of layby where she had been dumped was set back off the dual carriageway. A thin line of concrete blocks separated any pulled-over lorry drivers from the traffic speeding past at sixty miles per hour. Warren wondered just how effective they were. Maybe he’d ask someone in Traffic one day.

The dumping site was protected from the wind, rain and any prying eyes by a large white tent, criss-crossed with police tape. The lorry driver had been thoroughly questioned and both he and his vehicle released; nevertheless the roadside was filled with vehicles and investigators, some in white paper suits.

Warren looked around and saw the familiar sight of CSM Andy Harrison, who immediately waved and started to walk over.

“Still racking up the overtime, Andy?” asked Sutton by way of greeting.

The slightly portly forensic investigator shrugged. “What can I say? I have three wives — two ex, one current — so I have to take whatever is on offer.”

Warren knew that was a lie. The man lived locally and was regularly assigned to scenes in the area; more importantly though, he took his job as personally as Professor Jordan. He probably saw the job sheet and offered to work overtime, relieving some other poor CSI who’d rather be at home with the family than traipsing around a murder scene in the rain.

To the left of the scene an ambulance was parked, lights off. Through the windscreen Warren could make out two forms, clad in fluorescent jackets, drinking coffee and reading newspapers. His heart sank. If the ambulance was still here, then the body must also still be here, not yet removed from the shrubbery where it was found by an unfortunate lorry driver doing nothing more than answering the call of nature.

“Sorry, DCI Jones, she’s still in situ. We had a heavy rain-burst a few hours ago and had to stop work to shore up the tent. She’ll be on her way in about half an hour.”

“Nothing was compromised by the rain, I hope?” asked Warren.

The CSI shrugged. “Hard to say definitively, but I doubt it. There’s been rain several times over the past few days. If it were going to bugger anything up, it did so long before we arrived.”

Warren nodded his acceptance, there was no point grumbling about it. It seemed unlikely that he would hear anything back from the PM until the following morning at the earliest.

Conscious of the fading light, Harrison decided to lead the two detectives on a whistle-stop tour of the scene himself. The first thing he confirmed was Warren and Sutton’s feeling that the body had been hidden well enough to give Cameron time to escape and cover his tracks, yet not so well that it would lie undiscovered for weeks.

This was something common to all three previous murders and had been the source of some speculation back at the station. Ideas for why this was so ranged from simple carelessness, which seemed unlikely given that he went to such lengths to cover his tracks in other ways, to the killer needing to experience gratification from the police not being able to find any evidence. It was even pointed out that Cameron was, by all accounts, very religious and might be troubled that his victims wouldn’t receive a proper and timely Christian burial if he concealed them too well.

The body was hidden from the road, but would have been visible from the cab of any parked-up lorry. The Polish driver had only failed to spot her sooner because he had pulled over after dark and then had stumbled over to the bush for a pee the following morning, bleary-eyed and sleepy at the crack of dawn.

Regardless, Cameron probably expected at least another day or so head start. The fact that Saskia Walker was so local suggested that he was still in the immediate vicinity. Warren made a note to share that with the search teams scouring the country for the missing rapist.

Next, the two officers were taken to see the body. A large double tent had been erected over the scene. Before entering the inner tent where Saskia Walker still lay, the two officers donned paper suits and booties to minimise any contamination. Despite the cold weather, the air in the tent was starting to ripen.

The body lay on its back, its face clearly visible and unmistakeably that of the missing sales assistant. Dressed in tracksuit bottoms and trainers, she was almost completely topless. A lightweight fleece jacket lay in a crumpled heap a pace away. Her bra had been ripped open and hung from one shoulder, leaving both breasts exposed. A red T-shirt was tied in a loose knot around her throat.

“Strangled with her own T-shirt?”

“It looks that way. The PM will tell us for sure. The other victims had scarves or belts. I guess this was the best he could do.”

“I suppose that using her own clothes as a ligature means he doesn’t have to bring his own — it’s one less potential clue for us,” mused Sutton.

“It looks as though she’s been out jogging. We should see if any of her friends know her regular route. Somebody may have seen something,” Warren commented to Sutton.

“Any other evidence?”

Harrison shook his head. “Very little. The rain did a good job. Indentations either side of her suggest he knelt astride her, but I’m not sure they’ll tell us anything. There’s a partial footprint, badly damaged by the rain. There might be enough to link it to Cameron’s boot print from the farmhouse. We’ve done a fingertip search of the layby and recovered a ton of litter and rubbish, but there is too much to do anything with at the moment. If we can’t link Cameron to the scene in any other way we could look for prints or other trace, but it’ll be a big job.”