DCI Warren Jones has a bad feeling when the body of a young woman turns up in Beaconsfield Woods. She’s been raped and strangled but the murderer has been careful to leave no DNA evidence. There are, of course, suspects – boyfriend, father – to check out but, worryingly, it looks more and more like a stranger murder.

Warren’s worst fears are confirmed when another young woman is killed in the same way.

The MO fits that of Richard Cameron who served twelve years for rape. But Cameron never killed his victims and he has a cast-iron alibi.

Then personal tragedy intervenes and Warren is off the case. But the pressure is mounting and another woman goes missing. Warren is back but will the break he desperately needs come before there’s another victim?

Also by Paul Gitsham

The Last Straw

No Smoke Without Fire

A DCI Warren Jones Novel

Paul Gitsham

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014

Copyright © Paul Gitsham 2014

Paul Gitsham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781472096487

Version date: 2018-09-20

PAUL GITSHAM

started his career as a biologist, working in such exotic locales as Manchester and Toronto. After stints as the world’s most over-qualified receptionist and a spell making sure that international terrorists and other ne’er do wells hadn’t opened a Junior Savings Account at a major UK bank (a job even less exciting than being a receptionist) he retrained as a Science Teacher. He now spends his time passing on his bad habits and sloppy lab-skills to the next generation of enquiring minds.

Paul has always wanted to be a writer and his final report on leaving primary school predicted he’d be the next Roald Dahl! For the sake of balance it should be pointed out that it also said “he’ll never get anywhere in life if his handwriting doesn’t improve”. Twenty five years later and his handwriting is worse than ever but millions of children around the world love him (*)

(*) This is a lie – just ask any of the students he has taught.

Paul writes the DCI Warren Jones series of novels. No Smoke Without Fire is the second, with more to come. He was brought up in Coventry and now lives in Hertfordshire. Remind you of anybody?

Acknowledgements:

Phew, that ‘difficult second novel’ wasn’t as difficult as I feared! And again, that’s in large part down to my wonderful family and friends who help and encourage me in everything. Whether they proof-read drafts, gave me their thoughts on extracts that I sent them or just said something really interesting that I shamelessly pinched…

As always, there are too many to list you all, but a few stand out. Again, my father and Lawrence proof-read the complete manuscript, corrected my grammar and gave me their thoughts. My favourite lawyers Dan and Caroline gave me sound legal advice and an insight into custody procedures. I am also extremely grateful to Crime Scene Investigator Lee Robson from Essex police, who’s description of the procedures and day-to-day working practise of the folks in white suits has been invaluable. I apologise sincerely for any errors or artistic liberties taken to advance the story.

And finally, a big thank you to Father David Barry who not only double-checked the authenticity of a key chapter, but also helped make my little sister’s wedding such a perfect day!

As always, the support and friendship of Hertford Writers’ Circle has been wonderful and I appreciate the fact that nobody reported me to the authorities for turning up each month with a new description of a grisly murder…

And finally, the editorial team and staff at CarinaUK and Harlequin, in particular Helen, Lucy and Victoria for their hard work on this and The Last Straw.

I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Disclaimer:

The town of Middlesbury, Middlesbury CID and all characters featured in this book are entirely fictional and not intended to represent any real-world individuals or organisations. It is also important to stress that whilst Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire Constabularies are real organisations, they are not in any way affiliated to this book and the way that they are represented in this book is entirely imaginary.

To Mum and Dad. Thanks for everything.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Epilogue

Endpages

About the Publisher

Prologue

December 2010

The old man shuffles through the gate, blinking as if he hasn’t seen the sun in years. In many ways, he hasn’t. Not really. He’s dressed in a shabby grey suit that’s a size too small and a once expensive shirt, open at the neck. A simple crucifix on a thin metal chain is just visible, partly hidden by curling grey hair. The leather of his shoes creaks, having stiffened over time. In his right hand he clutches a blue plastic carrier bag — it contains all that he has owned for the last twelve years.

Behind him the guard stops, still inside. One more step and his authority evaporates; inside he is as a god, his jurisdiction absolute — outside he is no more than an ordinary man.

“I’m sure we’ll be seeing you again. Your kind never change. I just hope they catch you next time before you ruin any more lives.” His voice is muted, his cruel taunt only audible to the old man.

For his part, the old man keeps on walking as if he hasn’t heard a word; a few more paces as if to guarantee he is truly outside and he stops. Turning slowly to survey the place he has called home for over a decade, he looks slowly at the guard and fingers the crucifix.

“No, you won’t. I’m never coming back. I will never spend another day in that hell-hole.” His voice, quiet, raspy, damaged by too many cigarettes, is nevertheless resolute.

The guard scowls, disappointed that the prisoner — former prisoner — doesn’t rise to the bait. Sometimes they do; sometimes they start the first day of their new life in a bad mood, as he manages to turn a joyous occasion for the prisoner and his family into a nasty confrontation. Prisoners dream of the moment they step through those gates free men. They idolise it, constructing fantasies about how perfect it will be — as if they are soldiers returning from a far distant front line; conquering heroes, not the dregs of humanity finally released back into society, more often than not to pick up where they left off. The guard always does his best to spoil that moment — his final gift to his former charges. If he had his way, people like the old man would never leave — they’d serve time until their dying breaths, and then they’d be buried in unmarked graves in an inaccessible and overlooked part of the prison grounds.

Finally, the old man breaks his gaze and turns back towards the road, starting his shuffle again. He seems to notice the chill December wind for the first time and shivers. It was spring when he was driven through the gates that last time; the lightweight suit that he wore in his final court appearance more than adequate. Now it’s winter and he almost wishes he’d put on his prison-issue sweater. But no, he could never do that. He only has it in his bag so that he can light a bonfire with it and start to expunge the legacy of his recent incarceration. To have put the sweater back on would have been to surrender his freedom again. Never.

He waits on the side of the kerb, not quite sure what to do, his teeth starting to chatter. How ironic, he thinks, to have survived all of these years, only to freeze to death because his lift is late. Behind him he hears the whine of an electric motor, then the heavy thunk as the huge door closes, shutting him off from the nearest source of warmth for miles around. Never mind, he long ago made a promise to himself: even if the snow was three feet deep and the temperature twenty below freezing he would never step inside a prison again, either by choice or by compulsion; he’d rather die of exposure.

Finally, he hears the purr of a well-tuned engine. Looking up, he sees a dark blue Jaguar driving slowly towards him. Instinctively he knows it’s for him. The car, an unfamiliar model sporting the new type of licence plate that means nothing to him — yet another small detail that slipped past as he languished inside — eases to a halt. The driver reaches across and opens the passenger door. He remains leaning across the seat, looking up at the old man.

“Hello, Dad. You survived, I see.”

Twelve months later

Friday 2nd December

Chapter 1

The young woman stepped into the ice-cold December air. Six p.m. and already it had been fully dark for two hours. She operated her mobile phone with one hand, fumbling in her handbag with the other. Wrapped up tightly against the cold, with a long red woollen coat, a dark, knitted scarf and matching hat, she nevertheless had yet to put her gloves on, in deference to the touchscreen on her phone.

Activating it, she saw that it was precisely one minute past six. Selecting the text icon, she read the short message:

On my way babes. C U soon. X

She smiled as she finally located her cigarettes and lighter. Darren was on time as always. The couple had developed a well-oiled routine over the year that they had lived together. Darren would leave the tyre fitters where he worked at six on the dot and drive across town to pick her up. A devious little rat-run let him avoid Middlesbury’s one-way system in the rush hour and arrive in the side street behind her office building at about ten past six, giving her just enough time to enjoy a well-earned cigarette. Unfortunately, the only place he refused to allow her to smoke was in the passenger seat of his well-loved and heavily customised Vauxhall Astra.

Truth be told, she thought the Astra was a bit much. A man in his mid-twenties really ought to have grown out of motoring magazines and ‘pimping his ride’ as he liked to call it. It seemed ludicrous to her that a grown man couldn’t see the folly of spending thousands of pounds customising a car worth less than five hundred. Then again, he couldn’t understand why she insisted on buying more shoes and handbags when she had a wardrobe full already. In the end they had agreed to disagree. Besides which, it beat catching two buses to and from work every day.

She took a long drag on her cigarette and was surprised to hear the sound of an engine entering the far end of the road. That was quick, she thought as she took another hit, anticipating the need to stub it out at any moment. It had to be Darren — the narrow side street was little more than an alleyway and she couldn’t remember ever seeing anyone else using it in the past year. The local businesses put their recycle bins out for the council to collect on a Monday morning, but as far as she knew the bin lorries didn’t even come up there; the refuse collectors just dragged them around the corner to the main road.

At that moment her phone beeped; a short note from her best friend, confirming that she was coming around at eight with a bottle of rosé and a DVD.

Despite the distraction, her subconscious had spotted something was not quite right; the engine sounded wrong. Rather than the throaty growl of Darren’s twin exhausts, it was the grumbly rattle of a diesel engine that made her look up. She blinked in surprise at the unexpected sight, then mentally shrugged. It was a common enough sight in other parts of town; she wouldn’t have even noticed it if she hadn’t been expecting Darren. She turned her attention back to her mobile, already ignoring the vehicle as it pulled up to the kerb a few metres past her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the driver get out and start to walk towards her.

The driver was only a few paces away from her when she finally paid attention. What alerted her she would never know. Was it the purposeful stride in her direction? The fact that the vehicle shouldn’t be here at this time of the evening, let alone stationary with its driver out? Or was it the smell, sweet yet slightly acrid, even at this distance? A scarf covered his mouth against the cold, a woollen cap pulled low hid most of the rest of his features. With a jolt of surprise she realised he was wearing one of those rubber masks that you could buy in a joke shop.

She opened her mouth to scream, but it was too late. The driver covered the last three paces impossibly fast, his right hand blurring upward towards her face. Suddenly her nose was filled with a solvent smell that reminded her of her mother cleaning paintbrushes in turpentine. She struggled to breathe, her eyes filling with tears, but the driver’s hand was clamped tightly across her face. The world was already starting to spin; a sudden feeling of lightness swept through her body and a rushing noise filled her ears. Her legs weakened and before she knew it she was slumping downwards as if trying to sit on the kerb.

The world was now turning a fuzzy light grey, like an old-fashioned TV set when you pulled the aerial lead out, followed by a dark grey, then finally black. Her last memory was the clatter of plastic on concrete as her mobile phone hit the pavement.

Three Days Later

Monday 5th December

Chapter 2

The strident ring of a mobile phone sang out in the silenced hall. Three hundred pairs of eyes swivelled immediately towards the back row and Susan Jones cringed in embarrassment, trying to disappear from view. Beside her, her husband, Detective Chief Inspector Warren Jones, fumbled frantically for the offending gadget, trying in vain to silence it. On stage, the earnest fourteen-year-old girl started to sing the opening notes of ‘Silent Night’, before stumbling and losing her place as the phone rang for a second time. The teacher accompanying her on the piano stopped playing and turned around, glaring at the audience.

A chorus of tuts and hisses sounded from around the auditorium as Jones got to his feet and tried to leave the darkened room as unobtrusively as a six-foot man holding a ringing, glowing mobile phone, seated in the middle of a row of interlocked school chairs, could manage.

Mumbling his apologies, Warren stumbled into the centre aisle, knocking over at least two handbags and a pair of precariously balanced crutches. Resisting the urge to break into a run, he strode with as much dignity as he could muster to the rear exit. As he slipped through the double doors into the hallway outside he heard the piano start up again and the opening notes of the young soloist. The phone continued to ring. Giving up on trying to silence the damned thing using its touchscreen, Warren simply answered it.

“One moment, Tony, I can’t talk now.” Although he had whispered into the handset, his voice seemed to echo down the hallway. The two white-haired ladies setting up the coffee urn and interval biscuits scowled at him. As he hurried towards the front of the school he prayed that nobody had recognised him. The last thing he wanted was for the school’s new Head of Biology to become known to the Parent Teacher Association and other gossips as ‘that science teacher with the really rude husband’.

Finally finding himself alone in the school’s reception area, he was able to answer the call. “OK, Tony, what have you got?”

The booming Essex voice on the end of the phone sounded amused. “Caught you at a bad time, guv?”

“You could say that. Let’s just say that ‘Silent Night’ was suddenly no longer silent. What’s happened?”

All traces of humour immediately left the other man’s voice. “You’d better get over here, boss. We’ve got a body.”

* * *

Less than thirty minutes later, Warren carefully manoeuvred his dark blue Ford Mondeo up a sodden dirt track. The cold December night was pitch black, the dark and threatening rain clouds blotting out the nearly full moon and stars. The only lights visible were the flashing blue strobe from the police patrol car blocking the road and the interior lights of the empty ambulance parked next to it.

To his left, Warren saw several parked vehicles. He made out the familiar white outline of Detective Inspector Tony Sutton’s sports car, a Scenes of Crime incident van and a few others that he didn’t recognise.

A middle-aged uniformed sergeant with a clipboard stepped out to greet him.

“DCI Jones?”

He scribbled Warren’s name and time of arrival on the scene log and directed Warren to park up next to Sutton’s Audi.

“DI Sutton is at the scene, sir, along with the paramedics and the members of the public that found the body. A Scenes of Crime manager is on site and others are on their way; should be here within the hour.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. Where is the body?”

The officer pointed ahead, up the dirt track.

“A couple of hundred yards up there. Apparently it was found by a group of dog-walkers. They were pretty on the ball, by the sounds of it. They stood still and phoned for us; didn’t trample all over the scene. They swear that they only walked on the footpath, so we’ve made that the main access route.”

Warren nodded his approval; the sergeant seemed pretty on the ball himself. It never ceased to amaze him the way that despite all of the pleas and warnings from the crime scene specialists, many police officers — detectives included — insisted on poking around the site of a suspicious death, potentially destroying any evidence before it could be collected. By designating the already forensically compromised footpath as the only access route to the crime scene, the sergeant had ensured that any evidence in the surrounding area would be left undisturbed.

Pulling out his mobile again, Warren called Tony Sutton. The detective inspector answered immediately.

“I’m down at the main gate,” Warren informed him. “I have a paper suit in the boot of the car. I’ll come and join you.”

With the aid of the sergeant’s powerful Maglite torch, Warren perched on the edge of his open car boot as he squirmed into a white ‘Teletubby’ suit made out of plastic-coated paper. The last thing he wanted to do was contaminate the scene with any trace evidence from his own clothes; he could destroy valuable clues, or, worse, he could give the murderer’s legal team the tools necessary to raise reasonable doubt and secure an acquittal.

Finally, suited and booted and feeling faintly ridiculous, he clumsily started up the path. Even without the large torch, he could have found his way; the designated path was wide and well-established and somebody had stuck metre-high sticks in the ground with police tape around them to act as a guideline.

As he walked Warren felt himself shiver, and not just because of the crisp air. The path cut through a small stretch of woodland and the trees loomed forbiddingly on either side of him. The rustle of his paper suit and the sound of his breathing weren’t quite enough to hide the haunting hoot of an owl, hunting in the distance. A sudden rustle to his right betrayed the presence of some small animal, spooked by the powerful beam of his torch. It was at times like this that Warren was reminded of the fact that, despite enjoying a country walk on a summer’s afternoon as much as the next man — especially if it involved a pub or two — he really was a city dweller.

Continuing his slow trudge, he became more accustomed to his surroundings: the damp smell of the woodland, the faint pull against each footstep from the muddy path. It had rained a bit the day before, he recalled. Depending on when the body had been dumped the scene was either preserved with nice footprints in the damp soil and the victim covered in fibres and other forensic gifts, or nature had done her best to cleanse the area and make the Scenes of Crime team’s job harder.

Finally a glow started to appear through the trees. The shiny, plastic crime tape that led the way curved sharply to the right. Warren was grudgingly impressed; the spot was well hidden from the road, suggesting that the killer — assuming the victim was murdered — knew the area and had probably chosen the site with some care. He filed that away for future consideration.

Ahead a small clearing was brightly lit with a bank of powerful battery lights and criss-crossed with blue and white tape, designating which areas had already been walked upon and which might still yield some clues.

Standing huddled together against the night air were four late-middle-aged people; two men and two women, comprising two couples, judging by the way they were paired off. A chocolate-brown Labrador sat alert at the feet of the shorter of the two men, watching everything going on with great interest; a fat, golden lump of indeterminate breed lay slumped as if dead next to the other.

A rather less-well-wrapped police constable looked as if he would dearly love to swap the ramblers’ Gore-Tex and fleeces for his own fluorescent police jacket. On his feet, he wore a pair of muddy white booties, stopping him from contaminating the crime scene with outside material. At least he wouldn’t have to clean his boots before his next shift.

The couples were also wearing the white booties, but this time to stop them losing any trace evidence that they might have picked up as the first on scene. It was an elegant solution, Warren decided, given that it was impractical to have them walk all the way back to the front gate in their socks. He wondered if anybody had told them that their walking boots would be spending at least a couple of days at Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire’s Forensic Science Unit at Welwyn Garden City.

He glanced at the two dogs and couldn’t help a smile as he realised that in a perfect world they would also be wearing plastic booties. Depending on what the Crime Scene Manager decided was necessary, both of those dogs might just find themselves undergoing a very thorough grooming in Welwyn.

After introducing himself to the shivering PC, Warren was told that Tony Sutton was with the CSM, Andy Harrison, examining the body. Two other Scenes of Crime officers were with him, starting a preliminary search and setting up a tent to protect the body from further degradation from the elements. The paramedics had been told to stand down as the body would be left in situ overnight. They looked relieved to be going, but agreed to wait to escort the couples back to the waiting SOC van after Warren heard their story.

Finally, Warren met the walkers. Thanking them for their patience and apologising for the wait, he soon ascertained that they were two recently retired couples out on a regular walk. Apparently, they got together about three times a week and went for a three or four mile ramble with their dogs, before retiring to their local pub. They had a number of favoured routes, with this one being preferred on colder evenings, since the trees sheltered them from the wind somewhat. Their last walk through these woods had been four nights previously. That might or might not give a time frame on the dumping of the body, Warren decided, since a very fresh corpse might not have attracted the attention of the dogs.

As Warren had guessed, it was Peanut, the chocolate-brown Labrador, who had found the body. As was their custom, both dogs were off their leads with Peanut romping through the trees on the edge of the pathway. Susie, the golden lump, was getting on a bit now and preferred to trot alongside her owners. At the mention of her name, one of Susie’s ears pricked up, before flopping down again. The poor thing looked knackered, thought Warren.

The walkers had been alerted by a sudden urgent barking from Peanut.

“He’s a sensible one, is Peanut. He’s not given to silliness, so I thought I best go and see what got him all excited.” The oldest of the four retirees was a short man, with a trim grey beard and gentle accent that might once upon a time have been West Country.

Leaving his wife with the other couple, he’d entered the trees to find Peanut sitting on his haunches barking and whining, clearly distressed.

“It was the smell that gave it away, see. I knew that there was something dead in there as soon as I got near. And I figured that if it had been a deer or something else, Peanut wouldn’t have been acting up like he did, he’d have been straight in there sniffing around. Far as I can tell, he never went within ten feet of the body.

“Anyway, it was pretty dark in there, but I’ve got one of those little wind-up torches on my key ring and as soon as I shone it on the body I could see she was dead.” The man’s voice cracked slightly. “Poor thing. I took a couple of paces closer, figuring I should at least take her pulse, but I didn’t. You don’t smell like that if you’re still alive. Then I remembered all of those crime dramas that Marie watches and I figured I best leave well alone.”

At the mention of her name, his wife slipped a comforting arm around his waist.

“Ben here has a mobile phone and so I got him to phone 999 and then we waited for you lot to arrive.” The other man, taller and still sporting a full head of dark hair, waved an old, brick-like phone in the air as if to prove his friend’s point.

After asking them a few more questions and making sure that the CSM had taken everything he needed, Warren thanked them again and sent them back down the path with the paramedics.

Now it was just him and the police constable. If anything, the bright lights made the woods seem more oppressive, blotting out what little natural moonlight could make it through the clouds, enveloping the two men in a white bubble, surrounded by inky blackness. There could be absolutely anyone or anything standing outside that little cocoon and neither man would know…

Jesus, Warren, get a grip. You’re in bloody Hertfordshire, five miles from Middlesbury, not two hundred miles up the Amazon River. There aren’t jaguars waiting in the trees or crocodiles lurking under the river; we’ve probably scared off every rabbit or fox for miles around.

Nevertheless, he was relieved when he saw the flash of white light coming from the woods and, a few seconds later, the slightly comical shape of Tony Sutton waddling towards him.

“Stop smirking, guv, you look just as bloody silly.”

Warren, glad that his smile of relief had been mistaken for mirth, responded in kind. “What have we got, Detective Inspector Tinky Winky?”

A snort of laughter was quickly suppressed by the presence of the uniformed constable, then the brief moment of levity was gone, neither man feeling it appropriate now. Sutton’s face turned sombre.

“I think you’d better come and see for yourself, Chief. It’s not a nice one.”

Chapter 3

Sutton led Jones deeper into the woods, between two strands of police marker tape. About thirty metres in, a large white crime scene tent loomed into view. Another bank of lights illuminated the scene. Opening the flap on the tent, Warren recognised the shape of Crime Scene Manager, Andy Harrison, bent over.

“That you, DCI Jones?” he asked, without turning around.

“Yes, it’s me, Andy. Good to see you again.”

Warren had worked with Harrison at a couple of scenes since joining Middlesbury CID in the summer. The short, portly man was located at the Serious Crime headquarters in Welwyn Garden City, but lived in Middlesbury. For that reason, he usually managed to get himself assigned to any major crimes in the Middlesbury area. Warren was pleased to see him; the man was a safe, competent pair of hands.

Looking over the man’s shoulder, Warren felt a wave of sadness. As Tony had told him over the phone on the way in, the body belonged to a young woman. It was important not to draw too many conclusions at such an early stage — as his former mentor in the West Midlands Police had been so fond of saying, ‘When you Assume, it makes an Ass out of U and Me’. Nevertheless a few things were immediately apparent.

First, the body had almost certainly been there more than twenty-four hours. Even at this time of the year, a body started to decay rapidly when left to the mercy of the elements. The smell in the small tent was pretty rancid — thank goodness it wasn’t summer, Warren thought. No wonder Peanut had homed in on her so quickly.

The young woman was dressed in a smart black knee-length skirt that had been raised up above her waist. A pair of white panties were pulled down to just above her knees along with her thick black stockings, exposing her pubic region. First order of the day when she was finally moved to the pathologist’s lab would be a full rape kit. Hopefully, whoever had done this to her had left traces of his semen or other DNA sources behind.

The victim had been wearing a red woollen coat, now open to expose a smart white blouse. The blouse had been partially unbuttoned, showing a sensible bra, pulled to one side, exposing her left breast. Wrapped tightly around her neck was a charcoal knitted scarf.

Without wanting to prejudice any future conclusions too much, Warren was already thinking: work clothes, possibly an office worker or similar. He noted her shoes, shiny black with substantial heels, and decided that she probably had a fairly sedentary job. He knew that his wife, Susan, a science teacher who spent most of her day on her feet, always wore flats or modest heels.

“My preliminary observation is a white Caucasian female between the ages of twenty-five and thirty of average build. Possibly raped. Judging by the smell, she’s been dead for at least twenty-four hours, probably more. The body and clothes are wet, suggesting it has rained since she was left here, which gives us a time frame of some time prior to yesterday morning. The scarf is certainly tied in a manner consistent with a ligature, although I can’t determine cause of death here. That’s up to the pathologist.”

“What about the scene?”

“Not much yet. I suspect that the killer carried her here down the same path that the walkers and we have used; that and the rain have probably obliterated any footprints from there, but there looks to be a couple of boot prints around the body.” Harrison motioned towards the small squares of white plastic pinned to the ground around the victim’s head, protecting the imprints until casts could be made.

“The bloke that found her claims not to have approached the body, so hopefully they can be linked to the killer.”

“You said ‘carried’. Was she killed elsewhere and dumped here?”

Harrison shrugged, his suit rustling. “That I can’t tell you yet, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t walk here.” He pointed at the woman’s shoes. “Look, almost spotless. Her heels in particular would be caked in mud if she had walked here under her own steam.”

Warren eyed the young woman again. She was of average build, he judged, certainly no heavyweight, but even if she was dead or otherwise incapacitated it would have taken a fairly strong man or more than one person to have carried her down the path.

“Anything else?”

Harrison shook his head. “Nothing but speculation at the moment. I wouldn’t want to put any wrong ideas in your head at this stage. We’ll secure the site and get a full team up here in the morning. I’ll email you a clear headshot for ID purposes; her face is probably OK to show to relatives — I’ll leave that up to your judgement.”

Warren glanced at the young woman’s face again. She looked almost serene, with no visible cuts and bruises. Mercifully it didn’t look as if anything had taken a nibble of her face whilst she’d lain waiting to be discovered. Only the waxy pallor suggested she was anything other than asleep. Warren decided to run the photo by Family Liaison; they might even add a little pink in Photoshop to soften the blow.

With nothing more to be done, Sutton and Jones trudged back to the clearing, before continuing back to their cars. Neither man said anything, each lost in his own thoughts.

It was the beginning of December and somewhere a family would never look forward to the festive season in the same way again.

Tuesday 6th December

Chapter 4

“Sally Evans, twenty-six. Reported missing four nights ago by her boyfriend when she failed to meet him at their usual pick-up point in the side street behind Far and Away travel agents, where she worked.”

It was eight-thirty a.m. and Warren was holding a team briefing in the conference room at Middlesbury’s small CID unit. Behind him a projector showed a close-up photograph of the body taken at the scene by Andy Harrison and beside it a much happier image, taken that summer on holiday. The victim had shoulder-length light brown hair; the smiling young woman in the holiday snap had longer, sun-kissed blonde hair, but it was clearly the same person.

“We have a positive ID from the victim’s boyfriend, with whom she lived, and her mother and best friend. Family Liaison broke the news last night.”

“The body is still in situ up at Beaconsfield Woods, where it was found by a group of dog-walkers at approximately six-thirty p.m. yesterday evening. The body will be moved to the morgue at midday and a PM is scheduled for early afternoon. Preliminary indications are that she may have been sexually assaulted; cause of death is unknown at this time, but her scarf was wrapped around her throat and may have served as a ligature. Her body was almost certainly carried to the woods, but we don’t know if she was dead or alive, or when and where any assault took place.”

The atmosphere was sombre. Everybody in the room knew that the three days between Sally Evans’ disappearance and the discovery of her body could prove to be a major hindrance to the investigation. Valuable trace evidence from the site could have been lost, contaminated or destroyed; similarly the killer or killers had had over eighty hours to cover their tracks. The team couldn’t afford to lose any more time.

Reading from the list he had prepared before the meeting, Warren started to assign jobs to the officers present. “DS Kent, can you set up an incident desk and get HOLMES up and running, please? I want you to start entering everything as it comes in, especially the particulars from the autopsy. I want to see if the MO matches any known cases. See if we can find links to any previous attacks. DC Hastings, I want you to assist.” The older sergeant was the unit’s expert on HOLMES2, the Home Office’s crime management database. Used across the country, the system employed a degree of computer intelligence to link cases together and manage all of the documents relating to a crime. Although all officers used the system to some extent, it was experts like Kent who could really make the system work for them.

Working with him would be Detective Constable Gary Hastings. Newly returned from several months’ sick leave after being stabbed in the summer, the young officer was on light duties whilst he continued to recuperate. He was keen to learn and quick-thinking, and Warren had assigned him to the older sergeant’s care, having decided that putting the young man back into the heart of a major investigation was probably the best way to help him exorcise any demons remaining from the summer’s horrors. Besides which, it hadn’t escaped Warren’s notice that DS Kent was approaching retirement age. He had no idea what the older man’s plans were — and the new age-discrimination laws made him wary about asking — nevertheless, training up other officers seemed prudent to Warren.

Of course, as with any system, HOLMES2 was only as good as the information put into it and the next stage was to gather that information.

“DI Sutton, I want you and DS Khan to co-ordinate the interviewing of all of Ms Evans’ known associates. Start with her workmates, then her friends. Let’s see if we can find any witnesses. Use the missing person file as a jumping-off point, but remember it isn’t a crime for a twenty-something not to come home of an evening, so there probably won’t be much in there.”

Sutton and Khan nodded, already casting their eyes around the room at the various other officers they would second to their teams.

“DS Richardson, speak to Traffic and any CCTV operators in the area. Let’s see if we can find any useful images from around the time that she went missing. I doubt that there will be much in the way of CCTV footage up near Beaconsfield Woods, but you never know, we might get lucky and pick up something on the speed cameras on the main road.

“In the meantime, I’m going to speak to her family again and see what her boyfriend has to say for himself.”

* * *

Warren chose Detective Constable Karen Hardwick to accompany him to interview Sally Evans’ family. The young woman was relatively new to CID, but had shown a lot of promise. Warren firmly believed that a small unit such as Middlesbury should be careful to ensure that more junior colleagues received the full range of learning experiences, and so he regularly took detective constables and sergeants out with him to interview witnesses or suspects.

It was almost a cliché that whenever a murder occurred, the first place the police headed for was the victim’s home. However, as Warren’s first mentor, Bob Windermere, would often remind him, clichés and stereotypes only become such because there was more than a grain of truth to them. The vast majority of murders were committed by someone known to the victim and so when a young woman was killed the first people the police investigated were her husband, partner or any exes that might still be on the scene. Consequently, the first person that they questioned was Darren Blackheath, Sally Evans’ boyfriend.

The two had been together for almost three years and had been renting a small third-floor flat for the past eleven months, the young man explained as the two police officers sat on the small sofa opposite him.

Darren Blackheath was a twenty-four-year-old tyre fitter with no previous convictions. A Middlesbury resident all of his life, he’d lived with his parents until moving in with Sally Evans. Similarly, Sally was also in her first serious relationship, although she had shared flats with housemates and lived in student accommodation when studying for a degree in tourism management.

The couple had met in a bar one night, exchanged phone numbers and started dating ‘officially’, as he put it, a month later. A bit of delicate probing revealed that the relationship had been going well, according to Blackheath. So well in fact that he had been planning on proposing to her on Christmas morning. With reddened eyes, he had shown the two police officers the diamond ring with which he had hoped to seal the deal.

The night that Sally had disappeared had been unremarkable. He’d left work at his usual time, sending her a text message to let her know that he was on his way. Crossing town had taken no longer than normal and he’d pulled up outside the rear entrance to her workplace at a few minutes past six. As usual the street was deserted, but unusually his girlfriend was not waiting for him.

“She usually comes out on the dot of six and has a fag whilst she’s waiting for me to pick her up. I don’t mind her smoking in the flat, but I draw the line at me car.” His eyes grew moist again. “She promised she were going to quit in the new year. It’s one of the reasons I decided to propose. She always said she’d quit before she got married, ’cos she wanted a white wedding and she said there were nothing worse than a bride with a fag in ’er mouth. Nearly as bad as tattoos.” He looked embarrassed for a moment. “No offence if you have tattoos. But I figured it would give her an extra incentive, you know?”

“So what happened then, Darren?”

“Well, I checked me mobile, but there was no message. Normally she’s out the door on the dot, so she doesn’t bother replying. But if she’s going to be late she always texts me so I don’t worry.

“I waited for about five minutes before I rang her mobile but it rang out and went to voicemail. So I locked the car and tried the back door to her place, but it’s a fire door and it was locked from the inside. So I walked around the front and saw that the shop was closed. The front door was locked and no one was in.”

“Was that unusual? It was only just after six.”

“No, not really. The shop actually closes at five-thirty. They spend the last half an hour cashing up and finishing the paperwork. They all leave together at six o’clock. Most of them leave by the front door. Sal is the only one to leave by the back. The manager checks the door locks behind Sal then bolts the front door and I guess sets the alarm.”

Warren jotted this down. So far the story matched that given by Blackheath four days before when he reported her missing. Now, however, it was important to make certain that no details were missing or different — no matter how small they might seem.

“Do you know who was working that night?”

Blackheath recited a list of office staff that matched the list already supplied to the missing persons team. The office was small and on a typical weekday four of the six permanent members of staff would be in. Warren made a note to have them all questioned again to make sure their stories corroborated Blackheath’s.

“What did you do next?”

“I went back to the car, to see if she’d reappeared, and tried her mobile again. Then I phoned her boss Kelli. She said that Sal had left at the usual time and that she’d locked the door behind her.

“I was getting worried, so I phoned her mum and her best friend, Cheryl. Neither had seen her. Cheryl had sent a text message just after six saying that she was coming around for a girlie night, but Sal didn’t reply.” His voice broke slightly.

“What did you do then?”

“I drove home and started phoning all of her friends. Cheryl and Sal’s mum came around about half-seven. By midnight we couldn’t think of anyone else to call and figured that if she had gone to the pub with some other mate, she’d be back by now. That’s when we called the police and reported her missing.”

By now, Warren’s gut was telling him that Blackheath was not their man. However, if his timing was to be believed, there was a ninety-minute window between Sally Evans leaving work and her mother and best friend arriving at the flat; potentially long enough for him to have taken Sally Evans to Beaconsfield Woods, raped her, dumped her body, then returned home. Warren made a note to check with neighbours what time Blackheath’s car had arrived back at the flat.

In order to eliminate him fully, Warren arranged for Blackheath to be escorted to the police station for fingerprinting, DNA typing and a formal statement. He also arranged for Forensics to go over his car and the flat.

With Blackheath dispatched to the station and a forensic unit on its way to look for evidence, Jones and Hardwick drove the short distance to the home of Cheryl Davenport, Sally Evans’ best friend.

The young woman that answered the door was a short, slightly plump girl with bottle-blonde, permed hair. Her make-up, though expertly applied, couldn’t conceal the dark rings under her eyes and their swollen redness. The tears came back within moments of the two police officers entering her small kitchen. She offered her visitors a coffee, which they both accepted, less to quench their thirst than to give the grieving woman a few moments to compose herself.

As she fiddled with the kettle Warren took stock of the tiny room. It was pretty much what he expected of a twenty-something, single woman. Tidy and compact, the sink was already full of mugs but no other cutlery; the overloaded ashtray spoke of a person whose world had been turned upside down and who had spent the past three days living on caffeine, nicotine and worry. The kitchen units were clearly the cheap MDF beloved of low-rent landlords. A washing machine took up the only space under the counter, forcing the tall, fridge-freezer to stand awkwardly in the corner, half hidden by the open door. Stuck to its white front were the usual Post-it notes and postcards. In pride of place were a half-dozen photographs of Cheryl and her best friend Sally, mostly arm in arm, taken on beaches or foreign-looking nightclubs.

Noticing his gaze, Cheryl started to cry again. “We’ve been going on holiday ever since we left school. The last couple of years we’ve been to Greece, Turkey, Egypt, you name it — Sally kept an eye out for cheap deals when she was at work and she usually managed to wangle us some sort of discount or upgrade.” She sniffed loudly. “Even when she started seeing Darren, we still went off on our girlie trips. That doesn’t always happen you know. Some girls get hooked up and that’s it, they only go away with their blokes. But Darren was all right about it — he was pretty cool. He said she could have her week in the sun with me, as long as he could go on his footie tour.”

It was another point in Blackheath’s favour, Warren decided. Men who killed their partners often turned out to be domineering and controlling types; hardly the sort of man who’d let his girlfriend disappear for a week of fun in the sun without him. Nevertheless, they needed to pursue every lead to its conclusion. He glanced at Karen Hardwick, who picked up on his subtle cue.

“We’re sorry to put you through this, Cheryl — it must be an awful time for you — but we need to ask some questions. Will you help us?”

Cheryl nodded; underneath the tears, Warren could see a strong resolve to help in any way that she could to find her best friend’s killer.

The story she told was much the same as that of Blackheath. She’d texted Evans at about six p.m., inviting herself over with a DVD and a bottle of wine. She hadn’t received a reply, but about six-thirty Darren had called asking if she’d seen her. After he’d hung up, she’d put it out of her mind as she made herself something to eat and got ready to go out. Apparently Sally could be a bit forgetful when it came to charging her mobile phone and so she hadn’t been worried. By seven-thirty, Sally hadn’t phoned or responded to her text message and she had been just about to try her landline when Darren had called, sounding worried.

Picking up her address book, she’d set off for their flat, arriving about the same time as Sally’s mother, who Darren had also called. At first they’d been a bit jokey, trying to convince Darren that it was nothing, but as they finished calling all of her usual friends the worry had set in. Finally, at about midnight, they’d called the police to report her missing.

“If only we’d called sooner, maybe they’d have found her before…before…” Finally she dissolved in a flood of tears, her carefully constructed façade collapsing completely.

Hardwick leant over and took her hands and Warren was again glad that he’d decided to bring the young detective constable along with him. The two women were roughly the same age and some jobs needed a special touch that Warren, try as he might, would never possess.

“You don’t know that. It’s unlikely that we’d have found her any sooner — we wouldn’t have known where to start looking.” Karen didn’t mention, of course, that with no evidence of foul play a young woman missing for less than six hours — before the clubs even closed — wouldn’t merit much more than a few details in the duty log and a sympathetic, but firm, ‘wait and see if she turns up in the morning, then call again’.

After a few moments, the young woman regained her composure. Warren took over now. “Tell me about Darren. I believe they’d been together a while?”

Cheryl nodded. “Nearly three years. They’d been in the flat for almost a year. He’s been good to her. He has a heart of gold.” For the first time since they arrived, she smiled. “I teased her when they first started dating. He’s a right skinny one is Darren and he isn’t the sharpest tool in the box, but he really loves her and he’d do anything for you. He’s never really been one for nightclubbing or that, he prefers a quiet night in, but he always insists on picking us up if we’ve been out on the town. ‘No smoking and no puking’, he always says whenever he turns up in that car of his. Sally used to joke that she never worried about him having an affair, because, between looking after her and polishing his car, he hasn’t got enough energy.” The smile faded as the reality of the past few days came flooding back.

“So you would say that they had a strong relationship?”

Cheryl nodded vigorously, before her expression turned conspiratorial. “He was going to ask her to marry him.”

Warren blinked. It seemed a little odd that he would share his intentions with his girlfriend’s best friend. He said as much.

Cheryl laughed slightly. “Oh, he never said a word. Sal told me. The silly sod hid the ring in his underwear drawer — she found it one day when she was hunting for a missing sock. She knew exactly what he was planning but didn’t have the heart to let him know the cat was out of the bag. She was going to act all surprised when he asked her. She swore me to secrecy.” The brief moment of happiness passed and Cheryl’s face crumpled again. “I don’t suppose it matters now.”

The feeling in Warren’s gut was even stronger. Mentally he crossed Sally Evans’ boyfriend off his suspect list. Moving on, he asked Cheryl if Sally had mentioned anything strange over the past few days. Had any ex-boyfriends turned up on the scene or had she mentioned any disagreements with friends or co-workers?

To every question, Cheryl shook her head firmly, insisting that Sally told her everything.

“She didn’t have much of a history before Darren. He was her first really serious boyfriend. She dated a couple of lads at university, but never for more than a few months and I think they are all happy and married now.” She blushed slightly. “She wasn’t…inexperienced before she met Darren, you know, but she didn’t put it about and she’s been faithful to Darren ever since she met him — I’m absolutely sure of that.”

“What about co-workers? Is there anybody who could have perhaps mistaken friendliness for a bit more and got jealous?” Warren was grasping at straws now. The statistics showed that so-called ‘stranger attacks’ were far rarer than the public feared. Almost all victims had had some prior contact with their murderer, no matter how slight. Attacks by a total stranger were not only rare, they were also inherently more difficult to solve, because so many of the leads that the police would normally follow were absent.

In answer to his question, Cheryl was again equally firm. Almost the entire company was composed of females, varying in age from twenty-something to late fifties. Warren wasn’t quite ready to dismiss them yet; he’d interview them first. He couldn’t rule out that they were working a partnership with a male accomplice, but he knew it was unlikely, given that Sally Evans had probably been sexually assaulted as well as murdered.

The two male employees were added to the interview list, but again Warren’s instinct told him that, based on Cheryl’s description, Kevin the seventeen-year-old Saturday boy and Angus the openly gay former flight attendant, who lived in a civil partnership and took care of his elderly mother, were unlikely to be responsible.

Finally, Warren could think of no more questions. As they left he heard the sound of the kettle being filled again and smelt the first wisps of tobacco smoke, as Sally Evans’ best friend settled down again with her grief.

Chapter 5

The final visit of the morning, before returning to the station to take stock, was to Sally Evans’ parents.

The small house where Sally Evans had spent most of her childhood was filled with mourners. Grandparents, aunts and uncles occupied every chair. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and every surface held an ashtray, a teacup or both. The atmosphere was one of grief but also mutual support. Warren couldn’t help contrast that with the loneliness of her boyfriend — why wasn’t he here?

Don’t judge, he chided himself. For all he knew, Blackheath could have spent the last two days here and only returned to the flat to get changed. He’d probably have found the smoky atmosphere hard going as well. Warren remembered that when the law changed to outlaw smoking in enclosed public spaces, some bright spark with more legal sense than common sense had noted that when a police officer visited a person in their house, it could be argued the house was now a ‘place of work’ and so the occupants should be asked to refrain from lighting up whilst the visitor was present. Needless to say, as much as Warren and his colleagues might dislike sitting in a cloud of fumes when they did their job, it would be regarded as rather poor taste to ask a grieving family if they’d mind stubbing out their cigarettes before the police could interview them.

After expressing their condolences to the many family members, Jones and Hardwick were led into the kitchen where Sally Evans’ parents were sitting. The similarity between mother and daughter was immediately apparent, even through the tears and running make-up. The two even sported a similar haircut, although Jane Evans’ hair was running to ash-blonde, rather than the dark blonde of her late daughter.

Bill Evans bore only the most superficial of similarities to his daughter. A tall, craggy man of late middle-age, he had steel-grey hair and a slight paunch. Behind rimless reading glasses, his eyes were also puffy.

After declining a cup of coffee — there was a limit to how much he could drink in one morning — Warren turned to the matter in hand. Focusing first on Mrs Evans, he asked her to recount the events of the night Sally went missing. Again, the details matched exactly those told to the missing persons team and most recently to Jones and Hardwick by Cheryl and Darren.

Moving on to the subject of Darren, Warren asked about the relationship between the two young lovers. Suddenly, Bill Evans surged to his feet, his face reddening. “Don’t speak to me about that man in this house — if it hadn’t been for him, our girl would be sitting here safe and sound, not dead and lying on some…” His voice choked off and, brushing away his wife’s hand, he raced out of the room.

* * *

Warren rocked back in surprise at the man’s sudden outburst. Everything they had heard about Darren Blackheath had been good so far, so why animosity from Sally Evans’ father?

He turned to Jane Evans, who looked as if she was about to start crying again. Visibly pulling herself together, she waved a hand in the air as if to ward off their concern.

“Don’t read too much into that, Detective,” she started. “He doesn’t mean it really. He’s just upset.”

“I’m a little surprised,” admitted Warren. “I thought Darren was popular with Sally’s friends and family?”

“Oh, he is, just not with her father.”

“Why is that?” Warren had been all but certain that Blackheath was in the clear, but obviously at least one person wasn’t so sure.

Jane Evans sighed and took a long sip of her tea.

“Sally has always been a Daddy’s girl and she was the apple of Bill’s eye. She’s our only child and he worshipped her from the moment she was born. Truth be told, I don’t think that any man would ever be good enough for her in his eyes, least of all Darren.”

Warren waited silently as she composed her thoughts.

“Sally was a slow developer at school and she was finally diagnosed as dyslexic. That was a real blow for Bill as he is dyslexic also. It’s silly, I know, but he always felt guilty that he’d passed on some gene. Anyway, the school were fantastic and, with lots of support from them and us, Sally started to pick up the ground that she’d lost. By secondary school, she was scoring average grades and her reading and writing was almost normal for her age. She worked so hard and when she finally got the A levels to go to university we were both so proud. Nobody in our family had ever been before.”

As the topic of conversation switched from her dead daughter to her husband, Jane Evans visibly softened. Warren wasn’t certain where her long, rambling tale about her husband’s achievements in spite of a disability that forty years previously had seen him dismissed as thick and lazy was headed, but he let her talk at her own pace.

“The thing is, Sally may have got the dyslexia from her father, but she also got his work ethic and determination. Despite joining the company straight from school, with no qualifications, Bill is now national sales manager. He’s based in Cambridge, but travels all over the country.”

As the conversation wound its way back to her murdered child, Jane Evans’ eyes filled with tears again. Nevertheless, she forced the words past her trembling lips.

“Sally graduated with a two-one from university. We were both so proud.” She smiled at the memory. “Bill can be a bit abrupt and stern if you don’t know him, but he cried all the way through her graduation ceremony. He truly believed that she could accomplish anything now and I think he wanted her to do all of the things he never got the chance to do. Anyway, she moved back here with us and got a job at the travel agents Far and Away.”

She paused for a moment, before continuing, “At first I think Bill was a little disappointed, but Sally convinced him it was only temporary — she wanted to learn the ropes somewhere small where she could get a lot of experience, before joining one of the big companies and maybe becoming senior management. That was the plan at least, but she’s been there for years now and seems comfortable. Lately, Bill has been pushing her to move on, but she claims that the time isn’t right with the recession. Bill thinks that this is exactly the time to move as he doesn’t think that there will be a future for small independents. They argued about it a lot.” She shrugged. “Sally says her dad doesn’t know anything about travel agents, since he’s only ever worked in sports clothing. Bill says that business is business and an outside perspective is important.” She wiped her eyes with another tissue. “Maybe they’re both right, but they kept on going around in circles and I stopped getting involved.”

“So where does Darren fit into this?”

Mrs Evans sighed. “He’s a tyre fitter and a lovely boy, he really is, but he has zero ambition and isn’t very well educated at all. Bill always felt that Sally should marry a doctor or a lawyer or a dentist — not a tyre fitter. It was something else to argue about.”

“So what was his reaction when Sally moved in with Darren?”

Mrs Evans looked even more sad. “He was really angry. He told her she was wasting her life and tried to make her feel guilty, claiming that she was throwing away all of her years of hard work. He implied that he wouldn’t contribute to any wedding plans and told her not to turn up on the doorstep pregnant and homeless.”

Warren could feel the pain in the room and struggled to find the words to ask her the questions he needed to without upsetting the poor woman further. Again, it was Karen Hardwick who saved the day.

“It sounds as if he really loved her and was afraid of losing her.”

Mrs Evans smiled through the tears. “That’s exactly right. He loves her to bits. I think that with a little more time he’d have come around and everything would have been all right.” Her voice choked slightly. “I guess we’ll never know.”

Taking over from Hardwick, Warren tried to be as sensitive as possible. “I imagine he was worried when she didn’t come home that night. Where was he?”

If Mrs Evans realised that the question was about establishing Bill Evans’ alibi, she gave no sign.

“I called Bill just before we called the police. He was working away in Leeds that night. He’s been doing that quite a bit lately. They have a new branch up there and Bill has been going up to iron out the teething troubles. He stays in a Travelodge hotel near the airport. He came back immediately, made it in record time — he was here by three a.m.”

Warren jotted down the company’s details and made a note to get his alibi checked out. It could just be that this wasn’t a stranger murder after all.

In the car on the way back to the station, Warren praised Hardwick’s questioning technique before asking her opinion on what they had heard so far.

“I can’t see Darren Blackheath being guilty. He doesn’t seem the type.”

“I tend to agree,” admitted Warren, “but we can’t rule him out just yet. It’s possible that he had a motive — what if he popped the question early and Sally decided to turn down his proposal because of her relationship with her father? Maybe he flew into a jealous rage and killed her?”

Hardwick looked doubtful. “Anything’s possible, sir, but again I don’t think he seems the type. And if her upcoming wedding was the catalyst, what about her father? Could he have had an argument with her about it?”

Warren shook his head slowly. “I don’t see how the timing would work. If, as Mrs Evans claims, her father loved her, then if he did kill her it would almost certainly be a crime of passion. The sequence of events as we know them suggests that Sally Evans left work at her usual time of six p.m. If Blackheath is in the clear and telling the truth, then she disappeared some time in the next ten minutes. Could her father have dropped by unexpectedly to offer her a lift home — and she forgot to text Blackheath — then they get into a row and he kills her and dumps her, before pretending to be all concerned when his wife phones late that night?”

Hardwick pursed her lips. “I agree, it seems a bit far-fetched. I guess we’ll just have to see if their alibis check out and what Forensics have to say.”

In other words, hurry up and wait — sometimes I think that should be the motto of the police, thought Warren ruefully.

Chapter 6

By the time they returned to the station it was more or less lunchtime. Warren scheduled a team briefing in a half-hour, insisting his officers got at least a short break and something to eat. Warren’s gut told him that this investigation might run for some time and he wanted his team to take care of themselves.

Karen Hardwick stopped by her desk and picked up her lunch box, before heading out for some fresh air. Almost exactly a minute later, Gary Hastings grabbed his lunch and followed her out of the door.

Tony Sutton sidled up to Warren.

“Do you reckon they think nobody’s noticed?”

Warren nodded, a small smile forming on his lips.

“Yup. They haven’t a clue.”

Sutton sighed theatrically.

“Young love, eh, boss. Is there any better kind?”

Warren chuckled, glad for a moment of brightness in an otherwise bleak day.

“Yeah. I think they make a sweet couple. I wonder how long it’ll be until they stop trying to hide it.”

* * *

Warren held the team meeting in the largest of the unit’s briefing rooms. Detective Superintendent John Grayson had formally delegated the lead investigator role to Warren; nevertheless he was present, since part of the agenda would be to discuss the upcoming press conference.

Grayson was a small, dapper man, with a steel grey moustache, in his early fifties. Common consensus was that he was more interested in securing his next promotion and thus a more generous final-salary pension than actively heading up investigations. Whether that was a fair assessment or not, Warren had yet to decide, but it was certainly true that he spent more time meeting with senior colleagues at the Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire Major Crime Unit in Welwyn Garden City than he did at his desk in Middlesbury CID.

The man was certainly a crafty politician. Warren still remembered his first serious case at Middlesbury during the summer, when Grayson had made it clear that it was sink or swim for the newly promoted DCI. To make things worse, Tony Sutton had been extremely vocal in his opposition to Warren’s handling of the case and the two had almost come to blows. Sutton had finally confided in Warren that he was worried that the future of Middlesbury CID was under threat, with its unique role as a small, first-response CID unit outside the main Major Crime Unit in Welwyn a source of tension in a time of budget cutbacks. Sutton had been convinced that Jones had been sent to close them down.

Matters were further complicated by the fact that the strongest proponent for maintaining Middlesbury’s unique status had been Gavin Sheehy, Warren’s predecessor and Sutton’s mentor, who was currently awaiting trial later in the new year for corruption. Grayson had yet to make his views clear on whether he thought Middlesbury had a future or should be absorbed into the main unit and so Sutton and now Warren, who had grown to value Middlesbury CID’s independence and unique place in the local community, were careful around him. Both men had a strong suspicion that Grayson would happily see Middlesbury CID closed if it meant that he would be moved to a more senior role within Welwyn Garden City.

One plus, as far as Warren was concerned, was that Grayson was always willing to talk to the press. Warren, on the other hand, regarded press conferences as a necessary evil and was happy to let Grayson enjoy his fifteen minutes of fame, whilst he stayed in the background and answered the odd question. Grayson had already decided that there would be a press conference to announce the finding of Sally Evans’ body that evening, just in time for the late-night news bulletins and later editions of the next day’s newspapers; therefore he was jotting down notes and ideas as the meeting progressed.

Calling for quiet, Warren brought the team up to speed on the various interviews conducted that morning. All those present agreed that Darren Blackheath was probably not guilty of his girlfriend’s murder, although her father’s outburst couldn’t be dismissed entirely. Warren moved his name to the unlikely column on the whiteboard, until the results of the house-to-house enquiries and forensics came back.

As for her father, his behaviour was certainly strange and Warren made a note to pull him in for questioning after he’d had a few hours to cool off.

A second team, headed by DI Tony Sutton, had focused on Evans’ workmates, using the initial investigation from the missing person enquiry as a starting point. The travel agency had been closed and the entire staff, including those not working on the day that she went missing, had been questioned. By the end of the morning, Sutton and his team had built a far more detailed profile of Sally Evans’ last day and largely ruled out all of her former colleagues as realistic suspects. Confirmation of a couple of alibis were outstanding but they didn’t expect much from Maureen the obese sixty-something grandmother with an arthritic hip.

Evans had arrived at work as usual at about eight-twenty, dropped off in the same alleyway her boyfriend picked her up from after work. After smoking a cigarette, she had knocked on the fire door and had been admitted by her boss, Kelli Somerton. This was confirmed by Somerton, who said that there was still a cloud of smoke around the bin and that Evans smelled strongly of it.

The shop didn’t open until nine a.m. and at this time of the year they weren’t expecting many customers, so the staff had logged onto the computers, put the kettle on and sat around gossiping until opening time. No customers had appeared until almost midday, so the staff had spent the day preparing for the expected post-Christmas sales. Sally Evans had occupied her time unpacking boxes of promotional material and catalogues.

The weather had been cold and Evans had stayed in for her lunch of home-made tuna sandwiches, nipping out on her own for a cigarette. Evans had been described by everyone interviewed as ‘her usual cheerful self’, looking forward to Christmas. Nobody could recall her mentioning any worries or strange people that she’d met.

The shop closed at five-thirty and Evans had helped lock up, before exiting via the back door at her usual time, ready to get picked up by her boyfriend, Darren Blackheath.

Warren rubbed his eyes, his hopes of an easy collar slowly fading. He still believed that killings by a total stranger were very rare; however, if Evans and her killer had crossed paths, he didn’t seem to be in her immediate circle of acquaintances.

He said as much to the team.

“OK, let’s start to shake the trees a little harder.” He turned to Gary Hastings. “Use the PNC and HOLMES to see what we can find out about all of her acquaintances. Let’s also scan a list of recent customers and see if anybody interesting turns up.” He turned to Karen Hardwick. “You built a pretty good rapport with her friend Cheryl. She mentioned past boyfriends. See if you can get a list of friends — try and get as many as possible, right back to university if you can. We’ll chuck them all in the pot and see what comes out.”

He turned to DS Khan.

“Mo, can you continue co-ordinating the house-to-house enquiries with the neighbours? Make sure the evening shift pick up those who were out earlier in the day.”

With the jobs assigned, Warren glanced at his watch: ten to three. “I’m due a briefing on the autopsy in a few minutes. Keep feeding back to the incident desk and we’ll meet again tomorrow morning eight a.m.”

The room emptied quickly, everyone eager to complete their given tasks, hoping to be the one that found the vital link. Human nature, mused Warren, just as it’s human nature to lose energy and become frustrated as time wears on with no new leads. They were less than twenty-four hours in and already Warren had a bad feeling about the case. If it was a true stranger murder then they were probably in for the long haul. And it would be up to him to keep his team engaged and focused all that time.

Chapter 7

Warren had never been a big fan of autopsies. Some of his colleagues were happy to go into the morgue and see firsthand with their own eyes the clues teased out by the pathologist. Warren privately accused them of having a lack of imagination and a touch of voyeurism. He had no problem visualising everything he needed in his mind’s eye using a few colour photographs and a well-written report. He could see nothing to be gained by looking at the corpse on a table. Truth be told, he wouldn’t know what he was looking for. Far better that a practised expert describe what he was observing.

The expert today was Professor Ryan Jordan, a fifty-something, American-born, Home Office Certified pathologist, and he was happy to meet with Warren at Middlesbury CID rather than calling Warren down to look at the body in the morgue.

He read from his notes.

“The body is that of a Caucasian woman, mid-twenties. One hundred sixty-one centimetres tall, weighing sixty-four kilogrammes. Average build, with no distinguishing scars or body decoration. Medically, she appeared to be of average to below average fitness, with limited muscular development and lungs consistent with that of a pack-per-day smoker of about ten years; some evidence of early cardiovascular disease. Her liver was again consistent with somebody who drank more than she should, showing early signs of inflammation. It is my opinion, however, that none of these conditions contributed to her death.” He glanced up. “Give it a few more years and I reckon she’d have had a hard time climbing the stairs though. You see a lot of young women like this in the UK. It’s a ticking time bomb and I don’t see how the NHS will cope.”

Warren nodded politely, not really interested in the American’s opinions on Britain’s binge-drinking and smoking culture. “How did she die, then, do you think?” he asked, steering the conversation back to the matter in hand.

“It’s largely as Andy Harrison guessed at the scene. She was killed Friday evening, judging from her stomach contents, which are consistent with a tuna sandwich and a banana eaten at about one p.m. Cause of death was strangulation with her scarf. Prior to death she underwent very rough intercourse, probably penile. Bruising confirms that she was alive; however, we can find no signs of any struggle, suggesting that she was either compliant or unconscious.”

Warren raised a sceptical eyebrow and Jordan raised his hands in surrender. “I’m just saying it as I see it, Chief. Or, more importantly, how the defence will try and portray it. Consensual sex gone wrong.”

“So we have no evidence of rape.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” He pushed a photograph across the table.

“Look how smeared her make-up is. Assuming it’s the same lipstick that she had in her handbag, it’s waterproof and long-lasting. It shouldn’t really smear like that. Unless it was dissolved in solvent.”

Warren was one step ahead. “You’re suggesting that she was subdued by some sort of solvent, like chloroform, which smeared her make-up? That’s a bit Agatha Christie, isn’t it?”

Again, the American pathologist raised his hands. “As I said before, I say it as I see it. We’ve sent off for blood toxicology reports to see if she was sedated, but they’ll be a few weeks. There is no evidence of irritation to her respiratory passages, which rules out some solvents, but not chloroform.”

“What else have you got?”

“Not a lot really, although that in itself may be interesting. We can hardly find any trace evidence from the attacker.”

“So he wore a condom?”

“More than that, I would say. With this sort of rough penetration, I would expect some genital-to-genital contact. It would be hard to avoid. We’ve looked under the microscope and combed her pubic area, but we haven’t found a single alien pubic hair, or skin flake. The only thing we’ve found are traces of lubricant, consistent with that used on pretty much all of the major brands of condom, some tiny chemical traces that the mass-spec machine suggest is dry latex powder, and a commercial adhesive, usually found on rolls of sticky-tape.”

“I thought dry latex powder was discouraged in condoms because it causes allergies?”

“It is, but you can still find it in some cheap rubber gloves. If I were a betting man, I would suggest that our killer wore a couple of condoms at least, in case of accidents, has a shaved pubic area and used a cut-up rubber glove and sticky tape to ensure that he left no trace where he made contact with her.”

Warren winced. This was a sick person and, it would seem, clever and well prepared.

“Anything else on her?”

“We have found some fine powder on her coat that seems to come from brown cardboard and a couple of fibres that may or may not be significant. We’ll look at the database and see if the fibres are interesting.”

“She spent the day unpacking cardboard boxes,” offered Warren.

“That could account for the cardboard powder,” mused Jordan.

“Was she murdered and raped in situ?” asked Warren.

“It looks that way. Skin lividity indicates that she died in that position and wasn’t moved post-mortem — gravity pooled her blood just the way we’d expect. Her coat has two muddy patches that line up with indentations on the forest floor, suggesting that he knelt on her coat as he penetrated her. As I said before, the bruising indicates that she was alive at the time, but probably unconscious or compliant. I couldn’t say whether she died during or after the rape. Hopefully the toxicology tests will show that she was unconscious throughout.”

Warren nodded soberly. It was a small mercy, but he’d take it, he decided.

Chapter 8

Next stop for Warren was the office of Det Supt Grayson to discuss their plans for the upcoming press conference. As always, Grayson had his dress uniform hanging on the back of his office door and Warren knew that he wouldn’t miss an opportunity to wear it in front of the cameras. Looking closely, Warren thought the man’s jowls seemed suspiciously shiny and his hair seemed even smarter than normal. The bugger’s had time for a bloody shave and haircut, Warren realised. For a second, he felt self-conscious — he hadn’t had a haircut for over a month and his early morning shave was some hours behind him — but then he shrugged mentally. If past form was anything to go by, he would barely say a word anyway and would almost certainly be edited out of the bulletin that was broadcast. He was only there because he was the named officer in charge of the investigation. One or two of his answers to more technical questions might be quoted in the broadsheets, space permitting.

The press conference would be a fairly formal, by-the-book affair. Since the family had informed everyone that needed to know about Sally’s fate, she would be named and her parents would both be present to make a plea for information. It had been decided that details of her death would be kept to a minimum to stop cranks and lunatics from wasting the police’s time with seemingly plausible stories full of authentic detail. No mention would be made of the rape. At the end of the conference, Det Supt Grayson would attempt to remind young women about being vigilant at night without sounding overly alarmist.

The conference was scheduled for six p.m. Just early enough for the editors of the six-thirty local news to squeeze it into the end of their bulletin. Depending on what else was happening in the world, the story might make it onto the seven p.m. national broadcasts. It was a definite for the late-night news and the next day’s papers.

Grayson had ordered a police car to take them down to the main headquarters at Welwyn and they had a few minutes to spare. Truth be told, Warren would far rather have driven himself. It might not be strictly legal, but Grayson had enough pull for the police driver to put the lights and siren on. Previous jaunts down the A1(M) with the detective superintendent had left Warren feeling decidedly shaken. Lights or no lights, one hundred miles per hour plus in rush-hour traffic was far outside Warren’s comfort zone and it was all he could do to stop his feet trying to stomp on an imaginary brake pedal. Grayson usually read the newspaper or fiddled with his BlackBerry smartphone.

As Grayson used his mirror to check his appearance Warren enjoyed the last few mouthfuls of his coffee. One benefit of being called to the boss’s office was his expensive filter-coffee machine and selection of fine roasts.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this one, Warren,” mused Grayson.

Warren was forced to agree. “It’s looking more and more like a stranger killing. That immediately rules out half of our usual lines of investigation.”

“Worse, it increases the chance of him striking again.”

Again, Warren had to concur. Most murders had a reason, the victim or victims killed for a purpose or as a consequence of an event. That reason might not be fathomable to normal-minded people, but it did mean that the murders were limited. Once the perceived slight had been avenged or the goal accomplished, the killings stopped. With a stranger killing that might not be the case; the act of killing might be the reason and didn’t necessarily lead to a resolution for the killer.

As he returned his empty mug to its saucer and grabbed his coat off the chair back Warren felt a heavy weight settle onto his shoulders. A slight ache started in his stomach. They were signs he’d grown to understand — this case was going to be a nasty one.

Chapter 9

Warren and Grayson survived the headlong dash along the motorway and were soon in the room Herts and Beds used for major press conferences. An announcement earlier in the day about the finding of the body ensured that the room was pretty much full.

The aim of the conference was to formally identify the victim as Sally Evans and to appeal for help from the public, although as usual the press had managed to identify and name Evans some hours before. Mercifully her family and key friends had been notified before the press spilled the beans, but Warren always worried that one day some over-eager journalist was going to cause a lot of distress by breaking such news on air.

Key to the conference would be the presence of Sally Evans’ parents and her best friend, Cheryl. Between them, they would deliver a carefully written direct plea to the murderer or those that might know him to search their consciences and contact the police. Darren Blackheath was too upset to attend the conference — or maybe he was avoiding Sally’s father. There was definitely more to that story, Warren mused. Hovering in the background were the force’s press officer and a trio of family liaison officers, there to support the victim’s family and friends during the coming months.

Sally Evans’ parents had insisted on delivering a direct appeal to the public for information but after Bill Evans and then his wife choked up it fell to Cheryl Davenport to finish reading out the moving tribute to the murdered woman. Although it saddened him, Warren knew that the added drama had probably bought them a few extra seconds on the news and a couple of extra lines in the newspaper, which could only be a good thing. The press briefing packs included an uncropped version of the main picture that they were using, with Sally and Cheryl both laughing at the camera. No doubt at least one picture editor would use this to emphasise the human tragedy.

As he’d predicted, Warren had been introduced then promptly forgotten about. This early on in the investigation, he had little to offer the press and so a well-groomed John Grayson had answered the few perfunctory questions.

Finally, barely two hours after leaving Middlesbury, the two officers were back at the station. Grayson didn’t even enter the lobby, practically stepping from the back seat of the police car into the driver’s seat of his Mercedes, muttering something about his golf club’s awards ceremony. He left with a squeak of tyres and not so much as a backward glance. Warren sighed and glanced at his watch. Ten past seven. Turning, he headed back inside.

Chapter 10

Warren had barely taken his coat off, when an excited Gary Hastings appeared at his door. He waved him in.

“Got something interesting for you, sir. I was checking out Bill Evans’ alibi like you said and it seems that he wasn’t in Leeds the night of the murder. Better still, he hasn’t been up there for months. And a check of the PNC shows that he has previous convictions.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes after Hastings’ shock discovery, Warren called a short briefing in his office.

The team decided to bring in Evans for formal questioning. Why had Evans lied about his whereabouts on the night of his daughter’s disappearance? Was her upcoming marriage to a man he clearly disliked enough for him to lose his temper with murderous consequences? And, even worse than that, after killing his daughter, had Bill Evans defiled her body? Perhaps most alarmingly, according to the pathology report, the rape had been carried out with such care to avoid leaving evidence behind that it had to have been pre-planned to some degree. And what about his previous conviction?

According to the report, Evans had been arrested drunk outside a primary school twelve years previously, after exposing himself to a couple of mothers waiting to pick up their children. He had been hit with a raft of charges, but had eventually been convicted of being drunk and disorderly and public indecency and fined accordingly.

Conscious that every second they wasted was another second that the killer had to cover his tracks, the team headed straight for the Evanses’ house. As before, the house was full of family and friends giving comfort to the grieving couple, both of whom were still dressed smartly from the press conference.

Warren was acutely aware that in circumstances like this he would be judged as much for his tact and sensitivity as his deductive abilities. For that reason, Warren had decided not to flash an arrest warrant; rather he would ask Evans to accompany them voluntarily to the police station to answer some additional questions.

Nevertheless, despite Warren’s best efforts, they left the house with their ears burning. As far as the relatives were concerned, Bill Evans was supposed to have been in Leeds the night that Sally Evans went missing — so why were the police taking him away for further questioning? Maybe what he’d said about Darren Blackheath was true, they thought. Already, as Warren glanced back through the front windows, he could see at least two people on their mobile phones.

Passing Evans’ BMW estate, Warren made a note to have Forensics impound the car. As he opened the back door of the police car for Evans to enter Warren instinctively placed his hand on Evans’ head as the man climbed in, immediately regretting the action. The gesture was purely Health and Safety and CYA (Cover Your Arse) — it stopped passengers bumping their heads on the door frame and then trying to make something of it in court. Unfortunately to Joe Public, brought up on a diet of police shows, it screamed ‘you are under arrest’ as loudly as a pair of handcuffs. Warren’s ears burned even more hotly.

* * *

In the interview room, Warren finished advising Bill Evans that he was not under arrest and that he was there to answer questions on a purely voluntary basis. The man nodded wearily. He had aged in the past hours, Warren saw, looking even more haggard than he had during the press conference. Was it grief? Guilt? A mixture of the two? Warren’s gut was sending him conflicting signals. Bill Evans had something to hide; he was certain of that. But what? The scenario and timing just didn’t seem right to Warren. Everything pointed to a planned, premeditated kidnapping and attack but the only scenario under which Warren could see Bill Evans killing his beloved daughter was anything but that.

Beside him sat Tony Sutton. It was the first time that the detective inspector had met Evans and he stared at him with barely concealed fascination, the way one might look at a strange and dangerous creature in the zoo. Of course, it was all part of the act. Sutton’s role in this was to keep Evans on edge, making it more likely that he would slip up and reveal something that he didn’t want to.

With all of the legal requirements fulfilled, Warren decided to open with a quick, hard question designed to rattle the man’s cage.

“Tell me, Mr Evans, why did you lie to us about your whereabouts on the night of your daughter’s disappearance?”

Evans blinked in surprise. “I didn’t.”

“Come on, Bill, we’re not idiots. You claimed to have been up in Leeds overseeing one of your new branches. We phoned head office and they said that you hadn’t been in Leeds for months and that you had been working exclusively in the Cambridge office since the summer.”

Evans continued to look bewildered. “I never said any such thing. I hardly said two words to you before I left.”

Suddenly a cold feeling of dread went through Jones, followed by a flush of embarrassment. The man was right. He had said no such thing. It was Jane Evans who had claimed that her husband had been working away in Leeds; he had not even discussed his whereabouts that night. Shit! What a stupid mistake! And worse, he’d potentially squandered any opportunity of a ‘perverting the course of justice’ charge that would have at least given them a pretext to release him on police bail whilst they continued their enquiries.

Well, no use crying over spilt milk, Warren quickly decided.

“Well, your wife seems to think you have been working there — what are you doing there each month?”

As if sensing that Warren was on the back foot, Evans sneered, “I don’t see what that has to do with anything, Detective Chief Inspector. My private life is just that.”

“Be that as it may, Mr Evans. Perhaps we should confine ourselves to the night Sally went missing. Your wife appears to be under the impression that you were in Leeds. Your company claims otherwise. This gives you the perfect window of opportunity to take your daughter away from work, kill her and dump her body, before appearing at three a.m. to help with the hunt for her. We know all about the arguments that you had with Sally about her job and her boyfriend. What was it that caused you to snap Mr Evans?”

There was silence in the room, before the father in front of them started to cry — great wracking sobs that shook his shoulders and sent tears coursing down his face. Finally, he regained his composure enough to speak.

“You’re right, but not about killing Sally. I could never hurt my darling daughter.” He paused for a moment, then continued.

“I haven’t been to Leeds for months. It’s just an excuse. I’ve been seeing someone I met on the Internet. I think she’s married as well. I use the excuse of staying overnight in Leeds to spend time with her. She does the same.” He started to cry again. “I’m such a fucking coward. On the night that Sally went missing, Jane phoned me. I was supposed to be in Leeds. My little girl was missing and yet I stayed in bed with my lover in a bloody Cambridge hotel for two and a half hours before driving home to my family, just so I wouldn’t arouse suspicion. My place was with my wife…” He stopped, unable to continue.

Warren waited for the man to compose himself.

“You realise that we are going to have to check out your story, don’t you? We’ll need to contact this woman and get her to back you up. We’ll also need details of the hotel.”

The man nodded miserably. “I can get you the details of the hotel. I use my credit card — it just comes up as a Travelodge, doesn’t say where it is. The problem is, I don’t know the name of the woman.”

Warren blinked in surprise. “How does that work?”

Evans stared at the table-top, his voice now rough with embarrassment. “We met on the Internet. It’s a special, discreet site for people wanting affairs. No names, no details, just anonymous sex. If you want something more regular they supply an untraceable private email account and mobile phone SIM cards. We arrange to meet online.”

“Well, you must call her something.” Sutton struggled to hide the incredulity in his voice.

The man’s voice was barely audible. “Boadicea.”

“As in the ancient queen of the Britons? What are you called?”

“Arthur,” he mumbled.

“But that’s two completely different legends…”

Warren placed a hand on Sutton’s shoulder and cleared his throat. “I’m sure we can discuss the details later if necessary. In the meantime, how can we get hold of this…woman?”

Evans looked helpless.

“I don’t know. We arrange to meet up the first weekend of each month. I log on a couple of days before and she leaves me a message telling me when to keep my mobile phone switched on for her to call. Then she tells me when we are going to meet up. I book the room on my credit card.”

“Send her an email and ask to see her sooner.”

“It doesn’t work that way. We keep to the arrangement to avoid getting caught. She probably won’t read her email.”

“Can’t you phone her?”

“I don’t have her number — she blocks it when she calls me. Besides, I think she uses a separate SIM card — I know that I do. I don’t even put it in until I need to and I’ve never had a missed call. I think she does the same.”

Warren sighed in frustration. “You aren’t being much help here, Bill.”

The other man gestured helplessly. “The whole point of this set-up is not to make it easy to track each other down.”

Again he started to look tearful. “The thing is, I love my wife very much. She really is the one I want to grow old with and I know that she feels the same, ‘till death us do part’ and all that…”

“Isn’t the next line, ‘forsaking all others’?” interjected Sutton.

A brief flash of anger crossed the man’s face.

“Don’t be so fast to judge, Detective. My wife is not a well woman — we haven’t been intimate for years. A man has needs…” He broke off. “Anyway, I don’t need to explain myself to you.” With that he folded his arms and stared at a spot above both men’s heads.

Needing to get the interview back on track, Warren spoke softly.

“You are right, Mr Evans, the details of your private life are none of our concern. However we are in the middle of a murder investigation and it is our job to eliminate suspects. For that, we need your co-operation.”

After a few moments, Evans grunted softly and agreed to hand over what details he had of his mysterious lover and the mobile phone that he used to Welwyn’s IT specialists.

With the interview back on track, Warren steered it around to the sensitive subject of Darren Blackheath. Immediately Evans’ eyes flashed with anger.

“I can’t understand what she sees in that man. I really can’t. She was so beautiful and she had so much going for her… Why would she waste herself on that loser?”

Neither detective said anything; the question was clearly rhetorical.

“He was just leaching off her. I know for a fact that Sally paid most of the bills on the flat. She earned more than he did. And, of course, Jane was slipping her money each month. She thought I didn’t know but I’m not daft.”

“I believe that you had a big row with Sally and issued an ultimatum when she moved out?”

Again, Evans’ face crumpled, but he managed to speak. “I had to. I had to make her see sense. She’d come round eventually, I knew that. It would just take time.” He paused, reaching for the necessary words. “But she didn’t have that time, did she?”

Warren paused a few moments respectfully before continuing again. “Tell me, Bill. You said that it was Darren Blackheath’s fault that she was dead. Why do you think that?”

“She was going to break it off with him. We met up the day before…you know. She told me that she thought Darren was going to propose and suddenly it wasn’t a game any more. She didn’t say as much, but I think she was worried about what sort of husband he would be. Those holidays that she went on with Cheryl? I reckon that he thought they gave him a green light to go and sleep around on his football tours. I’ve heard the rumours: wild parties, drugs and hookers.

“When she married him that would be it — before you know it she’d be pregnant and trapped. She’d be one of those women you see down on the estate, three kids, working full time, whilst the husband pisses all their money up the wall of the local pub.

“He had it bloody good with Sally. If she left him, he would end up living with his mum and dad and fitting tyres for the rest of his life — where was he going to find a girl like Sally again?”

* * *

The two detectives decided to take a break for a few minutes to process what they had just heard. Evans was not under arrest, so they arranged for the custody sergeant to take coffee in for him and see if he needed the bathroom.

“Well, I’m confused now,” confessed Warren. “This morning, Karen Hardwick and I heard nothing but praise for Darren Blackheath. I’d pretty much crossed him off the list. Now, we have the victim’s father spelling out quite plausible reasons why he thinks he’s a murderer.”

Sutton gulped his coffee before answering. “He makes a good case, I’ll give him that. We’ll have to check the forensics out. But then what about him? He’s admitted he was angry with her and he clearly hates Blackheath. It’s not impossible to imagine a scenario where he kills his daughter and tries to pin the blame on her boyfriend. If they were from the Asian community, we’d call it an ‘honour killing’, but human nature is universal.”

“I tend to agree. What’s the betting that when they met the day before the killing he picked her up in his car? That’d put the kibosh on any trace evidence.”

“What doesn’t fit is that Cheryl claimed she was excited that Darren was going to propose and her workmates said that she was her ‘usual cheerful self’. That doesn’t fit with what her father said.”

“I figure that leaves two possibilities — either he’s completely misjudged her attitude and is seeing what he wants to see, or he’s lying about Blackheath. It could be that she revealed to him that she knew he was going to propose and that made him mad enough to kill her.”

Sutton nodded his agreement. “If so, then he is a sick bastard. From what we know of the crime it was well planned and of course he raped his own daughter. There is one other possibility though. He could be right. He might be the only one to have seen through Blackheath. We’ll need forensics and eyewitnesses that can place Blackheath’s car outside his house when he says it was.”

“So it seems that in both cases it comes down to forensics and alibis. Great. Well, we have one more thing to try him on. Let’s see his reaction when we bring up his priors.”

Sutton looked sceptical. “It’s a hell of a jump, don’t you think, from some alleged willy-waving over a decade ago to strangling and raping your daughter?”

“These perverts have to start somewhere.”

* * *

Sutton’s scepticism seemed well founded. When confronted with the conviction and all that it implied, Evans was contemptuous, with no hint that he was at all concerned.

“Ancient history and total bullshit anyway. All that happened was I got very drunk at lunchtime after we won a big contract at work. I decided to walk home to clear my head and got caught short. I was in the middle of pissing in a big bush when I heard two women yelling and I realised I was next to a bloody primary school. I should have done a runner, but I decided to stick around and try to explain. They called the police and I was arrested for indecently exposing myself. Unfortunately, it was raining so there was no piss to back up my story.

“When it got to court, they decided that since the pupils were all inside with no realistic way they could see me or I could see them, they’d drop the more serious charges. In the end they fined me for being drunk and disorderly, urinating in a public place and indecent exposure. If those two women hadn’t made such a bloody song and dance about it, it wouldn’t have even gone that far. Like I said, ancient history. Now, if you want to drag up relevant past history, ask Darren Blackheath about Kim Bradshaw. See if you still think he’s Mr Bloody Perfect after you hear what he did to her.”

Chapter 11

It was nearly eleven by the time Warren and Sutton finished at the station. Bill Evans had been picked up by his wife after handing over the keys to his BMW. The car was now on a flatbed truck, heading towards the vehicle crime specialists where it would join Darren Blackheath’s pride and joy.

As he walked across the car park the icy wind did little to lift the fatigue that settled around Warren like a blanket. It was always the same. The first few days of any murder investigation were necessarily frenetic. At this stage, the passage of hours mattered. The perpetrators had time to cover their tracks, witnesses’ memories started to fade and delicate evidence would degrade or disappear.

Climbing into his car, he caught the reflection of the station’s lights in the wing mirrors. Almost every window was brightly lit, shadowy forms moving around inside. Grayson’s office and his were the only dark windows.

A brief stab of guilt was quickly repressed. He could go back in and easily work through the night, but experience had taught him his limits. There was a whole team following the leads that had already been generated; he would just be getting in the way. Besides, he needed the rest to lead effectively; far better to get a good night’s sleep and hit the ground running early the next morning. If anything urgent turned up, he trusted his team’s judgement to decide if he should be called or if it could be added to his morning task list.

Waving goodbye to Sutton, Warren drove the short distance home. Letting himself in, he found Susan sound asleep on the sofa, two piles of red exercise books next to her, another book open on her lap. One pile was much taller than the other — Warren sincerely hoped that was the completed set. The TV played quietly in the background: some dreadful-looking ‘reality’ show that he knew his wife would have immediately turned over if she had been awake.

The slight draft from the open door caused Susan to stir. “What time is it?” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

“Late,” replied Warren, bending over to kiss her forehead. She smiled, before glancing down at the pile of books.

“Oh, no. I promised 9D2 I’d mark their books before the lesson tomorrow.” She groaned. “I shouldn’t have sat on the sofa to mark. I knew I’d fall asleep.” She picked up her red pen again. “I’ll be another hour at least.”

Warren knew better than to argue with her. If there was one profession that could engineer spurious guilty feelings from never doing enough work, it was teaching, he mused. He’d been with Susan long enough to know that, just like detectives, teachers could never do too much. There was always another job that could be done.

Warren felt a debt to the victims and families to turn over every stone; Susan felt the same way about her pupils. If she wasn’t marking their work, she was preparing lessons or devising new ways to teach difficult concepts, all in the hope that what she taught next lesson might be instrumental to them fulfilling their future dreams.

Warren kissed her again before heading upstairs to bed. Often, if one or the other was working late, they used the guest bedroom so as not to wake the sleeping partner. Warren vowed that he wouldn’t let Susan go to sleep alone tonight and so, after cleaning his teeth and getting ready for bed, he picked up the David Baldacci novel he was currently reading.

The plot was as gripping and suspenseful as ever, with ingenious twists and turns. So good that when his eyes closed of their own accord barely thirty pages in, his dreams were a riot of unconnected facts and strange occurrences.

An hour later Susan switched off the bedside reading light, carefully closed the book and carried her nightdress into the guest bedroom.

Wednesday 7th December

Chapter 12

The arrival of Wednesday was announced by the insistent ringing of Warren’s mobile phone, which pulled double duty as his alarm clock. Somehow, he managed to locate it and perform the complicated swiping gesture necessary to silence it. A few moments later, a similar sound emanated from the guest bedroom. He groaned as he glanced over, noticing for the first time that Susan’s side of the bed hadn’t been slept in.

Despite the couple waking up in different rooms, their morning routine was pretty well established. Susan would jump in the shower first, whilst Warren put the kettle on and got breakfast ready. Although he wasn’t much of a breakfast person, Susan was and he dished up cereal — sultana bran, this month — with another handful of dried fruit on top and a chopped banana. He left the skimmed milk to one side, not wanting the cereal to get soggy, and poured a generous glass of apple juice.

As he waited for the kettle to boil he made their lunches. Susan got bored with sandwiches very quickly and was always on the lookout for new combinations. This week was some sort of fishy, Greek paste that she’d found in the supermarket. The smell alone was enough to turn Warren’s stomach as he spread a generous helping on top of some sesame-seeded bread and buried it under lettuce and tomato. The odour reminded him of the time he’d been left to feed his best friend’s cat when he went away on holiday.

After a moment’s thought, he added a bit more spread to the sandwich. Susan would appreciate the extra filling, whilst Warren hoped that it would accelerate the pot’s emptying. He doubted her next discovery could smell any worse.

Carefully discarding the knife and selecting a new, uncontaminated utensil, Warren constructed his own sandwich. Mature Cheddar cheese on brown bread. No margarine — he couldn’t see the point. A banana, a fistful of grapes and a bag of unsalted cashew nuts apiece filled the rest of their plastic boxes. He poured both coffees and, leaving them to cool, he headed back upstairs, just in time to meet his wife coming out of the bathroom.

Her citrus-scented shampoo smelled lovely and the taste of mint toothpaste as they kissed good morning was delicious. Unfortunately, their cuddle was all too brief and Warren had to ignore the allure of the soft curves that he knew lay beneath the fluffy bathrobe.

By the time Warren had showered, shaved and dressed, Susan was fully dressed, her breakfast dishes were in the sink and she was cramming exercise books into a hemp bag-for-life; the sturdy, £1 eco-bag was one of the best ways yet invented to carry heavy books to and from school.

Downing his slightly too hot coffee in one go, Warren grabbed his briefcase and sandwiches and headed for the door, Susan following, book bag in one hand and keys in the other. The burglar alarm was set and the door closed behind them. A perfunctory, coffee-tasting kiss on the front doorstep and seconds later the couple’s cars were heading in opposite directions.

Seven a.m., another day started.

* * *

The office was quiet when Warren arrived a few minutes later. The phones were silent and the quiet working buzz of the office had yet to get going. Even in policing, seven fifteen wasn’t considered ‘office hours’ and phoning witnesses or calling colleagues in other departments was discouraged unless it was an emergency. Even the most helpful eyewitness was unlikely to be entirely co-operative if you woke them up in the early hours of the morning or the middle of the night.

Nevertheless, those pulling the night shift had been busy and a glut of new reports sat in Warren’s in-tray and his computer’s inbox. It was an encouraging start to the day, he decided, gauging the thickness of the pile, but he doubted there was anything too exciting in there otherwise he’d have been called at home. By a quarter to eight he had a couple of pages of notes and had planned out the next few hours’ worth of activities for him and his team.

First order of the day was to revisit Darren Blackheath and question him about Kim Bradshaw. After Bill Evans’ outburst the previous evening he had requested details of the incident. The report sat in his tray, waiting to be read fully.

The results of more tests from Sally Evans’ PM were expected soon and he was going to ask that they be run through HOLMES. Ideally, they’d pick up some matches later in the day.

In the meantime, different teams of officers would be trying to catch up with witnesses to try and pinpoint Darren Blackheath’s whereabouts on the night of the murder. Warren still felt that the young man was innocent, but there was work to be done before he could be discounted entirely.

Similarly, Bill Evans also needed his alibi corroborated and specialists in Welwyn would be trying to track down his mistress. Warren’s gut was giving him conflicting signals about the man. On the one hand, the man’s distress seemed genuine; on the other hand he seemed shifty. Whether that was just a result of Warren’s personal distaste towards the man’s private life he couldn’t be sure. He was only human after all; try as he might, his feelings could be influenced by his personal prejudices as much as anybody’s.

Chapter 13

As soon as the morning briefing concluded, Warren snared Tony Sutton and Karen Hardwick and the three officers drove to the flat where Sally Evans and Darren Blackheath had lived. Tony Sutton had yet to meet Blackheath and, if he was in the frame, Warren wanted his second-in-charge to get a good look; on the other hand, DC Hardwick had been with Warren for the initial interview. If there was any change in the man’s demeanour he hoped that the insightful young officer would pick it up.

After ringing the doorbell twice and receiving no reply, Warren knocked on the neighbour’s door. After a few moments, it opened slowly and a gnarled, weather-beaten face appeared.

“Whatcha want?”

The voice was so gravelly and the face so wrinkled that only the pink dressing gown hinted at the occupant’s gender. A cloud of stale cigarette smoke drifted out.

Warren held his warrant card open. “DCI Warren Jones, madam. I wonder if you could tell me the whereabouts of your next-door neighbour, Mr Blackheath.”

“I already spoke to the police. I was at me club on the night the poor girl was murdered, God bless ’er soul. I didn’t see nothing and have no idea if that young fella of hers and his silly car were around.”

The old lady either hadn’t heard or had misunderstood Warren’s question. He raised his voice and enunciated his words more clearly. “No ma’am. I wondered if you knew where he is this morning. We’ve knocked on the door and there was no reply.”

“Well, he’s gone to work, in’t he? When you towed that car of his away, I’d hoped that’d be the end of all the noise first thing in the morning. The bloody thing makes such a racket, especially the way he revs the engine. But the lad who picked him up made even more noise. I reckon he must have loosened that exhaust pipe ’specially, just to annoy folks like me in bed.”

“So you’re saying he’s returned to work?”

“Yeah, he went in yesterday. I spoke to him last night, just to pass on my condolences, like, and he said he needed the company.” For the first time, the fierce visage softened slightly. “Poor lad. He might be a bit noisy and he won’t be gettin’ a Nobel prize any time soon but he was nice enough and he helped me no end when I was burgled last autumn. Now he’s all alone. I remember what that’s like from when my Stan died… Maybe I’ll take him round something to eat. He’s hardly had a single visitor ’cept the police and you don’t count. No offence.”

Warren was getting the feeling that the elderly lady didn’t get too many visitors herself and might just welcome a bit of a gossip. She might not have been here the night that Sally Evans disappeared — which explained why she hadn’t been flagged as ‘of interest’ by the door knockers — but with the right questions, she might provide insights into the couple’s private life. Time for a little charm, he decided.

“Please forgive my bad manners — I haven’t asked your name. This is Detective Inspector Tony Sutton and Detective Constable Karen Hardwick and you must be getting chilled with this door open.”

“Maeve Cunningham.” She stepped back as Warren had hoped she would. “Why don’t you come in out of the cold?”

The three officers stepped over the threshold into the house, the stale fug of tobacco hitting them hard. At least it was warm. Up close, the woman was even older than Warren had first guessed. She was bending over a metal walking stick with a bird-like frame, her hands were twisted, the knuckles swollen with arthritis. The fingertips on her right hand were stained the dark yellow that only a truly dedicated smoker could achieve. Her teeth and even the fringe of her thinning white hair were similarly affected, almost as if she had started to dye her hair blonde, before giving up.

After slowly leading the three officers into her living room, she carefully sat down on what was clearly her favourite chair. A bag of knitting lay next to an open newspaper and a TV remote control. A packet of Marlboro Red cigarettes and a lighter sat next to an overflowing ashtray, although much to Warren’s relief she made no move to light one.

After clearing her throat a few times, a wet, wheezy sound that made Warren wince inwardly, she was settled.

“So you were saying that Darren has had very few visitors since Sally’s disappearance? What about his parents? Or her parents?”

The old lady shook her head. “I don’t like to gossip, you understand, but I heard that he doesn’t get on very well with his parents any more. Not since the incident with that Kim Bradshaw. He thinks that they betrayed him.”

There was clearly much to this story, Warren was beginning to realise, and it seemed to be common local knowledge. Unfortunately, Mrs Cunningham knew, or was willing to admit to knowing, few details and so he dropped the discussion.

“Tell me, how well did they get on as a couple, do you think?”

“They always seemed happy, whenever I saw them. Dead close. But then I suppose that you have to be, when both of you have been practically disowned by your parents. I suppose it’s romantic in a way — bit like Romeo ’n’ Juliet.”

“So you were aware that Ms Evans’ parents didn’t like Darren Blackheath?”

The old woman cackled, her eyes suddenly dancing with amusement. “I’ll bloody say I did. A few weeks after they started living here, her dad turned up, didn’ he? He was drunk and he started shouting at Darren to come out. It was late at night, so I got up to see what was going on. Anyway, he starts banging on the flat door. Well, the original doors in these flats are cheap and flimsy and it popped open. I had mine replaced after I was broken into but they haven’t yet.

“I heard shouting and came back in here to call the police, but it stopped. A few seconds later, what do I see but Darren Blackheath, wearing nothing but a bath towel, climbing down the fire escape!”

The old woman burst out laughing, before subsiding into a coughing fit. She leant forward and patted Karen Hardwick’s knee and winked.

“I can’t say he was the finest specimen I’ve ever seen — boy needs a good feeding — but when you get to my age you take what you can.”

Warren couldn’t help smiling; the old woman’s good cheer was infectious. Sutton was grinning from ear to ear.

“Do you have any idea why her father disliked Darren so much?”

The old lady paused, thinking. “Obviously, I can only tell as what I hear down the club, but Mr Evans is a bit of a snob. He looks down on us working-class types. He forgets that a generation ago his parents worked in the factory. Then there was the whole Kim Bradshaw incident. He figured his little girl was better than all that.”

She shook her head. “But they were in love. And they were happy. Seems a shame he couldn’t deal with that.”

After a few more questions, it soon became obvious that Maeve Cunningham had little more to say. Besides which, she kept on glancing at her cigarettes. Finally, standing up, the three detectives took their leave of the elderly lady.

“Thank you very much for your time, Mrs Cunningham. Can I leave you my card in case you remember anything else?”

“Of course. But it’s Miss Cunningham. Why did you think I was married?”

Warren blinked, completely nonplussed. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed. You mentioned how lonely you were after Stan died and, well, you know, I thought he was your husband.”

“Well, I’d heard about how strange folks were in Birmingham, but I didn’t realise they married their dogs.”

The three officers could still hear her laughter as they turned the corner of the corridor.

Chapter 14

Back in the car, Hardwick and Sutton unsuccessfully tried to hide their smirks.

Warren sighed. “OK, you two, be honest, do I really sound like a Brummie? I’m from Coventry and I only worked in Birmingham for a few years.”

The two more junior officers glanced at each other before Sutton took the lead, clearing his throat. “Well, sometimes. You know, certain words and phrases.”

“It’s more of a general West Midlands twang,” supplied Karen Hardwick helpfully from the back seat. “You know, a bit like Lenny Henry.”

“Lenny Henry! He’s from bloody Dudley! No way do I sound like that.” Warren was amazed, how could they not hear the difference?

“It’s just a regional thing, guv,” Sutton interjected quickly. “You know the way most English folks can’t tell the difference between Northern and Southern Irish, or different parts of the North East. You have to live somewhere ages to tell the difference.”

“I imagine the local accents down here are a bit difficult to distinguish for you as well, sir.”

A fair point, Warren acknowledged grudgingly. He had lived here for six months and, although he was slowly starting to recognise the difference between Eastern accents and London, this whole corner of England sounded remarkably homogenous. He was sure that there must be a difference between an Essex and a Hertfordshire accent, but he had yet to figure it out. He admitted as much, even letting slip that he couldn’t distinguish between the Cockney accents on Eastenders and Essex accents. His two colleagues shook their heads in disbelief.

Warren grunted and scowled. Truth be told, though, he was enjoying the banter. The atmosphere had been heavy the previous twenty-four hours, with only the darkest humour glimmering. He was confident that details of the conversation would circulate the office in record time. Hopefully a little good-natured teasing would improve morale and even make him seem a bit more human.

The time for levity soon passed though, as the car pulled into the customer parking bay of the tyre fitters that Darren Blackheath worked for. The three officers made their way into the small, glass-walled customer waiting area. At one end of the room was a small desk with a computer. A middle-aged man with greying hair was busy pecking away, two fingers at a time, on a battered keyboard, as he grunted and ‘uh-huh’ed into the mouthpiece of the phone clamped between his shoulder and ear. A small name badge identified him as ‘Jack Bradley — Manager’.

As they waited they gazed through the window into the garage beyond. Blue-overalled mechanics worked away on four different vehicles, Along the far side of the space were literally hundreds of different tyres, forming an almost seamless wall of black, shiny rubber, broken only by brightly coloured advertising posters urging customers to ready their car for winter. Warren counted four mechanics, but no Darren Blackheath.

Finally, the man on the phone finished. Looking up, his eyes narrowed. It was clear that the three visitors weren’t customers. Nevertheless, Warren showed his warrant card and asked if Blackheath was working.

The man nodded his head, wearily. “Yeah, out the back in the stockroom for all the good he’s doing, poor sod. He turned up yesterday morning unexpectedly.” He gestured towards the garage. “I’d already covered his shift and promised the overtime to somebody else, but I couldn’t turn him away. He clearly needs the company. Of course, he’s not said two words to anyone since he turned up, but what can you do?”

Warren nodded sympathetically and asked if they could speak to him.

“Sure, you can use the kitchen. I’ll tell the lads to give you some privacy.” Rounding the desk, the man led them through a door marked ‘Staff Only’. “He’s a liability at the moment,” the man whispered quietly. “I don’t trust him to do MOTs or change tyres — he’s too distracted. I don’t want to think about what would happen if he accidentally forgot to tighten something… Fortunately, we’ve just received a big parts delivery that needs putting away and Ken our store man is off with a bad back. Worst that’ll happen is we spend a bit longer than usual trying to find things.”

He glanced over at Warren, unable to contain his curiosity.

“Have you any idea who did it? She was a lovely girl, and Darren was well loved-up. He’d be out the door six on the dot every day to collect her. Had to get permission to come out for a pint, you know. Some of the boys used to take the piss a bit, like. Said he was under the thumb. He just smiled and said she had lovely thumbs.”

Warren smiled politely.

“We’re actively pursuing a number of lines of enquiry, but as you can appreciate we aren’t in a position to elaborate.” So Sally Evans wore the trousers in that relationship, then. Was that significant? He wouldn’t be the first man to snap under the pressure of a domineering woman — or was he truly as smitten as everyone, her father aside, seemed to think? A brief image of his own in-laws leapt to mind and he quickly suppressed it.

The short corridor that they stood in had four doors, not including the one that they had just walked through. Two doors on the left had signs bearing ‘Toilet’ and ‘Kitchen’ respectively. The single door on the right said ‘Parts’ and the door at the end labelled ‘Garage’ was covered in brightly coloured warning signs, including that for a fire exit.

Pushing open the door marked ‘Parts’, Bradley called out Blackheath’s name and stepped aside to let Jones enter the room. The room smelled of rubber, oil and lubricants and transported Warren back to childhood Saturdays waiting for his dad in Halfords as he picked up a replacement for whatever component had failed that week on his mother’s ageing Mini.

Blackheath was sitting on the floor, surrounded by small cardboard boxes, some empty, others still sealed. A plastic drawer marked ‘5 Watt bulbs — clear’ was half filled by individually packaged small bulbs. Warren winced; he’d once spent over two hours trying to change just such a bulb on his old Citroën. Finally admitting defeat, he’d eventually paid a small fortune for his local dealer to replace it for him. He still had the scars on his knuckles.

Looking at Blackheath, Warren could see that the man was not doing well. He looked gaunt, his skin a pale, sallow colour. His eyes were bloodshot and Warren was sure that he could smell the faintest whiff of alcohol over his strong aftershave.

“Darren? DCI Jones, we spoke yesterday.”

The young tyre fitter looked up and nodded slowly. “I remember. Have you any news?”

“We’re pursuing a number of different leads, but we need to clarify a few things with you. Would you be willing to accompany us to the police station?”

The young man’s eyes widened slightly. “Am I under arrest?” He looked nervous. Warren filed away the man’s reaction for future consideration; however, in his experience, most people were uncomfortable when asked to go to the police station. Furthermore, unless he was completely naïve and never watched TV, Blackheath had to know that the police routinely suspected the boyfriend in cases such as these. On the other hand, perhaps Blackheath had something to be afraid of?

“No, nothing like that. I’d just rather we got the facts down on tape. At this stage you are simply accompanying us voluntarily to help us with our enquiries.”

The young man nodded his agreement, clearly not registering the caveat that Warren had slipped into the start of the third sentence. As he got to his feet Warren reminded him who Karen Hardwick was and introduced Tony Sutton. As agreed, Hardwick was sympathetic and asked how he was coping; Sutton said nothing, remaining a dark, brooding presence.

* * *

Jack Bradley had been visibly relieved when Blackheath had asked to take a break and the three police officers and the grieving youth arrived back at the station barely twenty minutes later. After being reminded that he wasn’t under arrest and advised of his rights, Blackheath was given a cup of coffee and led into Interview Suite One.

The team of detectives knocking doors on Blackheath and Evans’ estate had yet to find a witness who could positively place Blackheath or his car outside his flat at the time he claimed and so Warren started the interview by confirming the timings claimed by Blackheath the previous day, looking for any discrepancies that might indicate the man was lying. He repeated everything precisely for the tape.

Now for the hard part.

“Darren, how would you describe your relationship with Sally’s father?”

Blackheath sighed. “Me and Bill never got on well. He doesn’t think I’m good enough for his little girl.” He shook his head bitterly. “Sally is…was a really bright girl. And ambitious. She went to university and dreamed of becoming a senior manager in one of the major travel companies one day. Whereas me… Well, you’ve seen where I work. I don’t even have a college certificate.”

“So that was it? He just thought you were a bit beneath her?”

“It was more than that. He thinks I’m lazy and lack ambition and he thinks I’ve made Sally the same way.” Blackheath’s eyes flashed; he was clearly angry about Evans’ perception of him.

“Why would he think that? From what we’ve heard, Sally was a strong, independently minded young woman, with lots of plans for the future.”

“Exactly. The thing is, her old man never really understood what she did at Far and Away. He thought she was just sitting at the desk, checking the computers for cut-price deals. He thought she was stuck in a rut and needed to move on. But she did much more than that. She was unofficially deputy store manager. Kelli, her boss, took her under her wing and was letting her sit in on meetings and try her hand at running the business. Her dad wanted her to leave Far and Away and join one of the big companies as a trainee manager. But Sally reckoned she was getting more experience with Kelli than she’d have got in any of the bigger companies. Besides which, her job at Far and Away was secure — the company was bucking the trend and holding its own against the online companies. If she started fresh at one of the big travel agents, there’s no guarantee they wouldn’t sack her the moment they hit a tough patch.” He smiled sadly, clearly remembering a conversation. “She always said that she should be grateful to have a job in the current climate and she’d be mad to risk it. She planned to stay put until the economy picks up.”

“You were going to propose to Sally at Christmas. What do you think her father’s reaction would be? Were you going to ask his permission?”

Blackheath snorted, his face darkening.

“No way. He’d have turned me down flat. Me and Sally are grown adults. I’ve been putting away a little money and Sally had some savings. We were going to pay for the wedding ourselves, do it our own way.”

“You seem pretty confident, considering that you hadn’t yet proposed and she hadn’t accepted. How did you know she would say yes?”

Blackheath shrugged and his eyes turned moist. “I’ve known ever since we moved in together. We’ve talked about having kids but we’re both a little old-fashioned and wanted to get married first. We had plans for the future.” He sniffed loudly, wiping his eyes with the cuff of his overall. “It was never a question of if we’d get married, but when we’d get married.”

There was a few moments’ silence, whilst Blackheath composed himself.

“What about your parents? How did they feel about Sally? What did they think about you moving in with her?”

Blackheath’s face darkened. “I’d rather not talk about that. I haven’t spoken to my parents since before I met Sally.”

Warren raised an eyebrow as if surprised. “How is that so? I thought that you were living with your parents until you moved in with Sally? That was less than a year ago and you’d been dating for, what, two years before then? How can you live with your parents and not discuss Sally with them?”

“My parents’ house is very large and I had the use of the granny flat. It was quite possible to live day to day and not speak to them.”

“I see. Why don’t you get on with your parents, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I do mind you asking and I’d rather not talk about it.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Blackheath. I didn’t mean to intrude.” Warren backtracked slightly, careful not to upset the young man. That was Sutton’s job.

“I don’t see why you didn’t just move out if you weren’t speaking to your mum and dad.” Sutton spoke up, right on cue.

“I couldn’t afford to. Not on my own, with the money I earn. Mum and Dad let me have the granny flat for free. Felt guilty, I suppose.”

“What did they feel guilty about? Is it why you don’t talk?” Sutton pressed.

Blackheath scowled. “Like I said, it’s private. I don’t want to talk about it. It’s got nothing to do with Sally’s death.”

“I heard it was to do with the Kim Bradshaw affair.”

Blackheath stared at Sutton in stunned silence for a few seconds, before shaking his head slowly from side to side.

“It’s never going to leave me alone, is it?” he asked no one in particular. “Everywhere I go. Everything I do. It’s never going to be forgotten.” He sank forward, burying his head in his hands.

“Tell us what happened, Darren,” suggested Hardwick, kindly.

Blackheath’s voice was muffled, but nevertheless clear enough for the tape. He started slowly.

“The whole thing ruined my life. Just one foolish accident and that was it. I was happy until then; life was good.”

He sat up and looked the three officers squarely in the eyes, one at a time.

“You know, I never planned on working in a tyre fitters all my life. In fact if you’d asked when I was sixteen I’d have laughed at you. I wanted to be a mechanic, not a ‘technician’.” He mimed quote marks in the air. “I wanted to run my own garage. Do real repairs. I wanted customers to drive in with a weird noise under the bonnet first thing in the morning and drive out good as new that afternoon. Instead I spend all day changing fucking tyres and exhausts. If we do an MOT and the car fails on anything more complicated than a dodgy windscreen wiper, we have to get one of the local garages to fix it for us. It’s bloody embarrassing. They barely hide their contempt for us when we drop off the car. They write down what they did on a piece of paper so that we can read it to the customer, as if we don’t know one end of a spanner from the other.”

“So what happened?” Hardwick repeated softly.

“It was a few years ago. I was about halfway through a motor mechanics course at college, studying two days a week and working the rest of the week as an apprentice at my dad’s mate’s garage. Everything was going fantastic. Then I met Kim Bradshaw.”

He paused, taking a deep breath. “She was the boss’ daughter. Nothing dodgy, you understand,” he added hastily. “She’s the same age as me. Anyway, it was just a bit of fun, you know. We went out a few times, nothing serious. But one night we got drunk at a party and ended up around the back of the garage.” He grimaced at the memory. “Not terribly romantic. Anyhow, I forgot about it for a few weeks — we sort of avoided each other, I guess. Then one day she texts me out of the blue asking to come over and see me. She was pregnant.”

“What did you do?”

“Well, I shit myself. I didn’t know what to say. I was nineteen, in college, earning bugger all. I didn’t even love her. She was in the same position. She worked two days a week in the small parts shop attached to the garage and spent the rest of the time studying hair and beauty at the tech college.

“I said we couldn’t keep it, but she refused to consider an abortion. Her family are strict Catholics. My parents are too. So in the end I proposed.”

Warren raised an eyebrow. “I thought Sally was your first serious relationship.”

Blackheath blushed. “She was. Kim meant nothing to me. I was just panicking. Getting married seemed to be the right thing to do. Fortunately, Kim turned me down. Called me a bloody idiot. Either way, we knew we had to tell our parents, which neither of us was looking forward to.

“So she went home to tell her old man…” Blackheath’s voice started to shake “…but I was too scared to go with her. I wish I had now, then maybe she wouldn’t have done what she did.

“I knew I should tell Mum and Dad, but I couldn’t figure out how to, so I went to bed, praying the phone wouldn’t ring, promising myself I’d tell them in the morning.

“I never got the chance. Two a.m., the doorbell rang. It was the police.”

Blackheath’s voice was getting quieter and quieter. “They arrested me on suspicion of rape. I’ll never forget it. Mum was in tears and Dad was demanding to know who I was supposed to have done it with.”

Blackheath’s eyes were looking watery again, but this time his voice was tight with anger. “They took me straight down the police station. I was fingerprinted and a DNA sample taken, then I was strip-searched and they photographed me.” His lip curled in disgust. “It was the most humiliating experience of my life.”

Warren ignored the faint feeling of sympathy, knowing that whatever indignities Blackheath had suffered were nothing compared to the violations heaped upon rape victims.

“Anyway, I was charged and spent the weekend in jail before being bailed on the Monday morning, pending trial in six months.”

“It says in the file that the case was dropped. The prosecution changed their case at the last moment. What happened?”

Blackheath shook his head, slowly as if he still couldn’t believe it.

“It was all part of the plan. It’s obvious now. She got what she wanted. If her old man knew she was pregnant because of a drunken one-night stand he’d have disowned her. As things stood, she was the victim. The fact was, the prosecution case was really weak. We had a really strong defence and we knew that we were going to win. There were holes in her story and her credibility was poor. We had the texts that she sent to me the morning after the night we did it and the text she sent me asking to meet up when she told me about the pregnancy. If I really had raped her, why would she have wanted to meet me again?”

The question was clearly rhetorical and Blackheath continued without prompting. “Anyway, you know how this country works. Rape victims are granted anonymity, of course, but the accused is dragged through the mud, his life laid out for everyone to see. Obviously I lost my job, I couldn’t carry on working for Kim’s dad, and college suspended me indefinitely — in reality they kicked me out. I couldn’t continue there.

“And the anonymity thing is a joke. They couldn’t report Kim’s story in the papers obviously, but she made sure that everyone in the community knew. And her old man made sure every business in the area knew the story. I couldn’t go for a pint without people pointing or staring. Some places wouldn’t even let me through the door. I was attacked twice and my parents’ house was spray-painted and the tyres slashed on their car.

“Anyway, finally the day comes for her to testify. It was a Monday and I turn up and after hanging around all day I’m told that the prosecution have requested a delay because Kim is ill.

“The next day I turn up and she isn’t there. I’m told that the prosecution case has been dropped and I’m free to go.”

“Well, surely that was a good thing?” Karen Hardwick looked confused. Warren said nothing, letting Blackheath explain.

“No! That was the worst thing that could happen, other than being convicted of something I didn’t do. I wasn’t acquitted or cleared of any wrongdoing. Everyone reckons I ‘got away with it’. The story Bradshaw and her family put out was that the stress was so bad she had a miscarriage and they decided that it wasn’t worth putting her through the ordeal and dropped the case.

“It’s bollocks, of course. Everyone knows that she got a late abortion and that her case was so weak it shouldn’t have made it to court. But you lot are under pressure to solve more rapes. They must have figured they were going to lose this one, so they didn’t raise a stink when she said she wanted to drop it.” The bitterness was strong in his voice and he stared the three police officers straight in the eyes, as if he held them personally responsible for his ordeal.

“So what happened next?”

Blackheath snorted derisively. “Well, you know what they say — ‘no smoke without fire’. Obviously I couldn’t get my job back and those bastards in the college admissions department refused to enrol me again, so I spent the next nine months on the dole. Nobody was interested in employing me.

“Eventually, I got a call from Jack Bradley.” Here, Blackheath’s expression softened slightly. “He’s a good bloke. He needed a tyre fitter and he knew I had enough training for the job. He’s a Methodist preacher and he believes in giving people a second chance. He said that in the eyes of the law I’m an innocent man and if Jesus could forgive convicted criminals, then the least he could do was give someone like me a helping hand.” Blackheath shook his head. “Twelve months previously, I’d have called him a patronising bastard and told him to stick his job, but I was desperate.”

He paused for a moment. “He really is a good man. Everyone who works for him has been in trouble of some kind. Two lads have been in jail and Joe is a recovering alcoholic. Ken, our store man, had a nervous breakdown when his wife left him and ended up on the street. Jack took him in, gave him a job and ten years later he’s got a new wife and two kids.”

“Sounds as if it all worked out, then,” said Sutton crassly, still playing the role of ‘bad cop’.

Blackheath’s eyes flashed. “Well, I was getting by. I had a job at least and over time people were starting to forget about the court case.”

“Is all this why you don’t speak to your parents?” Hardwick asked softly.

Blackheath glared at her for a few seconds, then sighed. “Yeah. They stood by me and all that and I know they don’t believe I did it, but it cost them. Dad said I had been bloody stupid to get mixed up with the boss’ daughter, let alone get her pregnant. They said they thought I’d been better brought up than that.”

“What do you mean it cost them?”

“Kim Bradshaw’s old man is a big name in the local community. My dad was a painter and decorator with a really good reputation. He never had to advertise — he had more work than he needed just by word of mouth. That all dried up. He had to let his three lads go. They’d worked with him for over twenty years. They were like family. We stopped going to church. Mum couldn’t stand the whispering and the pointing. And then Nan died. She took the court case really hard. She was terrified I’d go to prison. She had a heart attack just before the trial. I know Mum and Dad blame me.

“Anyway, I couldn’t afford to move out and Mum and Dad wouldn’t let their son go homeless, so I moved into the annexe where Nan used to live.”

The tears were back and Blackheath did nothing to stop them. “I hated it. Even though I’d emptied it all out, it was still Nan’s flat. It had its own separate entrance, so I locked the connecting door and that was it. I never set foot in Mum and Dad’s house again. I spent Christmas at a mate’s.”

“And then you met Sally?”

Blackheath nodded. “She was the best thing that happened to me.”

“And she knew about the Bradshaw affair?”

“Who bloody didn’t? Her father certainly did. At first I think she was attracted by the bad-boy image — she was going through a bit of a rebellious streak — but pretty soon she got over it and we fell in love. At least living with Mum and Dad was free. I got a pay rise at work after Jack arranged for me to qualify to do MOTs and we managed to scrape together enough to rent the flat and start saving for the future.”

He looked into space, a sad, wistful expression on his face. “Finally things were going well, you know. We were going to get married and when things picked up we were going to move away. Sally would try for a management position in a travel agent — she’d get a great reference from Far and Away — and I’d try and get another apprenticeship, maybe even start college again. Jack has already said he’d write me letters of introduction or anything I need.”

After a few seconds, Warren started again.

“We know that Sally and her father disagreed over you. Were you aware that the day before she disappeared, she met her father and told him that she thought you were going to propose?”

Blackheath looked thunderstruck.

“What? I don’t understand. How could she have known? I never said anything.”

Warren shrugged slightly.

“You didn’t hide the ring as well as you thought. Regardless, she spoke to her dad about it. He claims that she was having cold feet, that getting married seemed like a big step. He thinks she was going to leave you and come back to live with them.” This last bit was probably a bit of an exaggeration, but Warren was keen to see Blackheath’s reaction.

“No! No way!”

Blackheath shook his head violently, his voice rising. “We were in love. We’d planned our future out together — she wanted to get married. She wanted kids. He’s lying.”

“Why would he lie to us, Darren? He was her father. He just wanted what was best for his little girl. No offence, son, but you’re hardly a prize catch, are you? A poorly paid tyre fitter with a questionable police record hanging over you. And what about those football trips, eh? Whilst Sally was away with her mates in the sun, you’d be off with the lads doing drugs and shagging birds. I hope at least you learnt from your last mistake and you use a condom.”

Blackheath recoiled from Sutton’s accusation as if he’d been physically slapped. “How dare you? I’ve never so much as looked at another woman since I met Sally. And as for drugs, I’ve never touched them. Those football tours are hard work, five games in five days. We’re aiming to top our league — coach won’t let us have more than two beers in the evening and we have to be in bed by midnight. Who told you this bullshit?”

Sutton shrugged. “Not important. The thing is, I can’t help wondering what your response might have been if she decided she didn’t want to get married. You’ve told us repeatedly how great life was with Sally, how finally things were moving forward and how you had plans for the future. Well, what if you suddenly find out that isn’t going to happen? You said yourself how she was going through a rebellious streak when she met you. Maybe she didn’t ‘get over it’. Talking about getting married and having kids — it was just a fantasy. One in the eye for her old man. Maybe he was right and she was coasting, then when she realised you were serious and really did want to get married she got cold feet. It wasn’t a game any more. And who would she turn to to rescue her? Well, Dad, of course.”

Blackheath was shaking his head violently. He was gripping the edge of the table, and his knuckles had turned bone white. “No. Why would you say that? We loved each other.” His voice was strangled, whether with grief or anger Sutton couldn’t be sure. Regardless, he pressed on.

“We’re just brainstorming, son. It’s just that I can’t help asking myself what your response would be. I know that if I was in your position, I’d be pretty pissed off. Everything is finally rosy. All that shit about Bradshaw is in the past and the future is looking great. Then ‘wham!’ it all comes crashing down. She finds the ring — in your sock drawer, come on, lad! — and tells you it’s over, she can’t get married.” Sutton leant forward, his expression looking for all the world like a bad actor trying to look sympathetic towards someone he despised. “I bet she even did the whole ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ thing. Did she tell you that she’d always love you and you’d remain friends?” Sutton shook his head and looked at Warren. “I hate it when they do that, don’t you, sir?”

Warren nodded. “I wish they’d just be honest. I reckon it’s a way of feeling less guilty for treating you so badly.”

Sutton turned back. “Doesn’t make you feel any better though, does it? Makes you feel even more humiliated. And how do you tell your mates? Or the blokes at work? And what about your mum and dad? If she leaves you can you afford the rent on your own? It’s back to the granny flat with your tail between your legs. And what about the whispering? I’ll bet there’s a few crass enough to tell her it’s for the best and bring up the whole Kim Bradshaw thing. No wonder you were so angry.”

Blackheath was now crying. “No, never. It never happened like that. I know what you’re saying, that I was so angry about being dumped by Sally that I killed her. But I didn’t. I couldn’t do that to her. She never said anything about finding the ring. And even if she had, I’d never lay a finger on her. I love her too much.”

For the next few moments, the room was silent, save for Blackheath’s sobbing. Eventually, he wiped his eyes and sniffed loudly. “I’m not going to say another word without a lawyer.” He nodded towards the tape machine. “I was stupid to say anything without one.”

Warren shrugged. “No need for a lawyer. Like I said, you aren’t under arrest and are free to leave at any time. We have no more questions. Interview terminated at witness’ request.” Stating the time, he leant forward and turned off the tape recorder.

“Thank you for your time, Mr Blackheath. Would you like a lift back to work, or can we arrange for a cab to take you home?”

Blackheath could only look on with surprise. “I’ll walk,” he mumbled.

With that, Warren called the duty sergeant. Within a minute, the young man was out on the street, breathing in the icy December air.

* * *

Back in the interview room, Warren polled his fellow officers. “Thoughts?”

“I think he’s genuine. I rattled his cage good and hard but his story never changed. My gut tells me he didn’t do it.” Sutton shrugged apologetically as if sorry that he hadn’t been able to wring a confession out of the young man.

“I have to agree with DI Sutton, sir. He seemed genuine when we saw him yesterday and he hasn’t changed a single detail since then. I think he really did love her. I also think her father was wrong and that she was going to marry him.”

Warren agreed with both Sutton and Hardwick. “My gut feeling is exactly the same. But we can’t completely rule him out without eyewitness evidence or forensics—” he glanced at his watch “—which I am expecting any minute. Tell you what, why don’t you two go and have an early lunch? We’ll get the rest of the team together and have a meeting at one p.m.”

“Yes, sir,” both officers replied as Warren left the room.

Karen Hardwick turned to Sutton. “How do you do it, sir?”

Sutton knew what she was asking about. “You just have to put aside your feelings. It doesn’t matter if you feel sorry for them or not. Policing isn’t a popularity contest. Sometimes you have to be harsh and nasty, because it’s a harsh and nasty world.” He grimaced slightly. “Even if it does leave an unpleasant taste in your mouth.”

“Well, when we find the real killer, hopefully he’ll understand.”

Sutton shrugged. “Time will tell.”

Suddenly the door opened again and the desk sergeant poked his head around the door. “DCI Jones says don’t be late back from lunch. Blackheath’s off the hook and you’ve got a new suspect.”

Chapter 15

After a revelation like that, lunch was the last thing on Sutton’s and Hardwick’s minds and both raced upstairs to the CID main office. One p.m. was nearly an hour away and detectives by their very nature were insatiably curious; there was no way that the two officers were going to wait to find out what had been discovered. Unfortunately, the door to Warren’s office was closed. The DCI’s rules were very clear — if the door was open, they could knock and enter. If the door was closed, they shouldn’t knock unless it was an emergency. Sutton looked at Carol, Warren’s unofficial PA. She shrugged apologetically and pointed at the highly complex telephone unit that sat on her desk. “He’s in there with DC Hastings on a conference call.”

“Any idea who he’s talking to?” blurted Karen Hardwick, without thinking.

Carol pursed her lips in disapproval. “I’m sure that if DCI Jones wants you to know who he is talking to on his private line, he will tell you himself, Detective Constable.”

Hardwick blushed and stared at her shoes.

Sutton thanked Carol for her assistance and led the embarrassed constable away.

“OK, plan B. When Gary comes out of there and you two disappear off for lunch together, you find out what he’s got.”

Hardwick turned even redder. “What do you mean ‘disappear off for lunch together’?”

Sutton looked at her in amusement. “You’re working with a team of trained observers, Karen. How long did you two think you’d keep it quiet?”

Karen covered her face with her hands. “Oh, no. We were so careful, trying to be professional at work.”

Belatedly Sutton realised why she was so uncomfortable. “Don’t worry, lass. Nobody thinks otherwise. So long as you keep your private life at home, nobody cares.” He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “If anything, the guv thinks you make a sweet couple.”

Karen moaned as if in pain.

“I’m not really helping, am I?” asked Sutton.

“No, sir, not really.”

* * *

The briefing room was packed with team members, all eager to hear the latest developments. Warren called for quiet and the buzz of conversation settled down. Neither Karen nor Tony Sutton had managed to speak to DCI Jones or DC Hastings, so they were still in the dark about the new suspect.

Warren decided to address the question of Darren Blackheath first, handing over to Gary Hastings.

The DC shuffled the piece of paper in front of him. “I have the remaining results from the house-to-house inquiries conducted with Sally Evans’ neighbours. We’ve finally spoken to everyone on the estate. It’s the usual story: half the neighbours didn’t recognise her photo and most of the rest couldn’t remember what they were doing that evening. Those that knew the couple said that they seemed ‘nice enough’ and never had any bother. There was no evidence that there were any problems.

“The night she went missing, most couldn’t recall if Blackheath’s car had been present earlier in the evening, before her mother and Cheryl came around. However, we finally found one eyewitness who claims to be certain that he saw Blackheath’s car about six-thirty, before he went out to join his wife at the local bingo hall. I showed him a picture of the car and he said he recognised it immediately.” He gestured towards a picture of the car projected on the far wall. “Let’s face it, he’s hardly going to be mistaken.”

A polite titter went around the room. Darren Blackheath’s pride and joy was nothing if not distinctive. It had started life as a dark purple Vauxhall Astra. Its year of manufacture was unclear as the personalised number plate suggested the owner was a ‘Bad Boy’, rather than giving a registration date.

The vanity plate was the least personalised element of the car. The car’s tyres had been replaced with what appeared to be little more than black elastic bands wrapped around gold alloy disks. The suspension was lowered to make anything higher than a few centimetres a hazard to the fat, twin exhaust pipes that protruded from the rear, and graffiti-style electric-blue decals covered the vehicle, contrasting jarringly with the paint job. An unnecessarily large spoiler on the back made the whole thing look like a toy. The blacked-out windows, fluorescent-pink windscreen wipers and double bank of headlamps completed the whole garish ensemble.

“Thanks, Gary. Anything from Forensics?”

“No evidence of any foul play in either Blackheath’s car or their apartment. The car has been cleaned very thoroughly recently, which may have removed traces of mud, but that in itself isn’t suspicious. Blackheath is known to be obsessive about his car and he polished it most weekends. There is plenty of Sally Evans’ DNA inside the car and some fibres matching the coat she was wearing the night she was killed, but that is to be expected. She didn’t drive so Blackheath ferried her around a lot. However, there was none in the boot, or the back seat where you’d expect him to have forced her to sit.”

“He could have propped her up in the passenger seat. It was dark,” suggested Sutton, although he was clearly playing devil’s advocate.

Hastings shrugged. “Anything’s possible, I suppose.” He didn’t sound convinced.

“What about traffic and surveillance?” Warren asked, eager to move the conversation on.

“There are no surveillance or traffic cameras near the back alley where she was presumably abducted from. However, traffic cameras a couple of junctions away caught his licence number both just before six, when he should have been about to arrive and pick her up, and about fifteen minutes later when he claims to have left. We can’t tell what he did in that fifteen-minute window, but the timings are consistent with his version of events. Unfortunately, we have no other sightings of the car, so only the eyewitness report ties him to the apartment and rules out him driving her to the woods.”

Warren tapped a pencil thoughtfully. “So it seems that this witness, what CCTV we have and the forensics back up his story of what took place. I’d suggest that he’s no longer a suspect.” Heads nodded around the briefing table.

“OK, next up, where are we on Bill Evans’ alibi?”

DC Annabel Willis, a new probationary constable who had been assigned to follow up on that lead, spoke up. “Not much yet, I’m afraid. Travelodge have been very helpful. They confirm that his credit card was used in the Cambridge branch that evening. We’re looking at CCTV to see if we can piece together his comings and goings, but by their own admission it’d be easy enough to leave the hotel for a few hours without being picked up if you really wanted to.”

“What about this mysterious woman he claims to be having an affair with?”

This time it was DS Johnson who addressed the team. “Not a lot yet. As he suggested, her mobile phone is switched off. They aren’t due to meet up for another month — more if they skip the New Year weekend. We’re trying to trace ownership of her phone, but it doesn’t look helpful. We contacted the dating agency to see if she paid by credit card and to ask what records they have on the two of them, but they’ve insisted on a court order. However, the woman I spoke to hinted that they hold very little useful data. They might not even use credit cards, rather an Internet-based payment system that isn’t located in this country.”

“So verifying his alibi is going to be very difficult,” summarised Sutton.

“Well, keep at him. Something about him doesn’t quite ring true.” The two officers nodded their assent.

“With those two out of the way, perhaps we should turn our attention to new suspects. Gary, why don’t you take us through what you and DS Kent have found?”

Hastings removed the picture of Blackheath’s car from the screen.

“DS Kent and I have been putting all of the forensic and scene evidence into the HOLMES database to see what comes up. It’s been quite tricky as the most striking characteristic of this case has been the lack of evidence at the scene. Anyhow, we finally figured out the correct search terms to use, uploaded what information we had and we’ve started getting interesting results.”

He clicked on the screen.

“We have five potential hits. Rapes where very little forensic evidence was gathered and the CSIs speculate that the perpetrator went to great lengths to avoid leaving trace behind. In all five cases the victims followed a very set routine and were kidnapped, subdued with solvent, bound then taken to a secluded spot to be raped. They were then left and found by a member of the public. However, none of the five were killed. If it’s the same guy, either he’s changed his MO or Sally Evans’ death was an accident.

“Working backwards in time, the most recent was that of a jogger in June 2006 in Reading. The case was unsolved. Four years earlier a similar attack took place in Bristol — again the case is unsolved. We know these two cases are separate to the first three cases, because those were solved and the attacker was behind bars when the later two took place.”

“So we believe that the person responsible for the attacks in Bristol and Reading has struck again?” suggested Tony Sutton.

“Actually, we suspect not. The other three attacks took place in June, August and November of 1997.”

“It seems a long time between attacks. Why would he suddenly resurface?” asked Karen Hardwick.

“The attacker was convicted in May 1998 and sent down for eighteen years. The attacks occurred in and around the village of Stennfield, a couple of miles north of here.”

Tony Sutton, who had been at Middlesbury CID longer than anyone in the room, gasped audibly. “You’re kidding? You’re talking about Richard Cameron? That case was ongoing when I was a rookie DC. He got eighteen years back in 1998 — he’d be due parole pretty soon, I’d have thought.”

Hastings nodded. “Released on licence this time last year. Bloody big coincidence, don’t you think?”

Chapter 16

With the name of a potential suspect on the table a strategy was needed to bring the man in for questioning. Richard Cameron was a convicted serial rapist living on licence in a tiny village to the north of Middlesbury. Like all such ex-offenders he was required to report his current address to the police and maintain contact with a probation officer. Current police records on Cameron were sketchy and largely out of date, with interest in him minimal in the thirteen years since he’d been sent to prison. Prior to his release, the files had been updated with a more recent mugshot and details of his current whereabouts, but for the most part he was the responsibility of the probation service.

Sam Pargeter was a no-nonsense ex-submariner. A gruff, bullish Yorkshire man with a salt and pepper haircut, he was candid about why he’d joined the service as he helped himself to a cup of jet-black coffee from the CID urn.

“I got meself a reputation in the Navy as a bit of a hard bastard. Hard but fair. They stuck me in charge of whipping the less responsive boys into shape. Some of them see it all as a bit of a laugh when they’re training. ’Course, as soon as they come aboard a boat, and it finally dawns on them that they won’t even see daylight for the next six months, some of them start to play up. That’s where I came in.”

After loading his cup with several heaped spoons of sugar he followed the two detectives back to Warren’s office, where he continued his story.

“They called it ‘Pargeter’s detail’ and the kids were named ‘Pargies’. I don’t take bullshit from nobody, but I also don’t give it out. They stuck them with me for a week. For most of that week, they hated me — some of the names they called me when they thought I wasn’t listening would make your hair curl. Of course, by the end of the week, they thought the sun shone out of my arse. They realised that I was right and they was wrong — simple as. Some of them still write to me, letting me know about their latest promotions. Wouldn’t want to name names, of course, but there’s more than one flag officer who still sends me a Christmas card and a bottle of rum each year and calls himself a ‘Pargie’.

“Anyhow, eventually it was time to leave the service. A mate of mine asked if I fancied helping out in one of those places out in the sticks where they hide out-of-control teenagers. I did about twelve months there, but found it too depressing. Everybody’s just marking time until the kids turn sixteen, get turfed out then stab their way into an adult prison. Then I saw a programme one night about the National Offender Management Service. It talked about how their job was to stop reoffending — by any means necessary — and try and get some of these folks back into doing something useful in society.

“So I contacted them, went for an interview and here I am. They found out that I’m good with young lads and so I tend to specialise. A lot of these boys never really had a father figure, or if they did he was a drunk or an abuser. I keep an eye on them. If they don’t do what they’re told I’ll come around unannounced and smack ’em round the ear. If they’ve got a job interview and I’m free, I’ll turn up and hammer on the door until they get out of bed. I’ll even throw them in the shower and turn the water on them fully clothed if I have to.”

Pargeter shrugged and took a large swig of his coffee. “Some of them don’t like it and neither do some of the more liberal-minded folk in the office, but my re-offending rates are thirty to forty per cent lower than the average and I have a wall full of pictures from my former boys showing me what they’re up to now. Can’t argue with results like that.”

Warren eyed the man closely. Coming from most people, Sam Pargeter’s little speech would have sounded self-serving. Yet there was something about the way that he said it — calmly and matter-of-factly in a no-nonsense northern burr that seemed to invite trust in the man. Warren thought he could see why so many wayward youths responded to his methods.

Sutton also seemed impressed, or at least as impressed as he ever did. “So why did you end up with Richard Cameron? He hardly seems to fit your usual profile.”

“Well, ultimately, we have to deal with what comes our way. Cameron was released last year and I had space on my list, so I got him. He’s unusual and that’s why I’ve come to speak to you. Your call surprised the hell out of me.”

Warren glanced at Sutton.

“Why so surprised? Repeat offending in these cases is pretty high — we’ve all seen the stats.”

Pargeter nodded. “Normally I’d agree with you, Chief Inspector, but I thought Cameron was different.”

Warren’s face must have betrayed his scepticism.

“Look, Richard Cameron was sentenced to eighteen years for three rapes back in 1998. He did twelve years and was released on licence this time last year. When he entered the system he was a dangerous man, no question, with priors for drink-driving, domestic violence and petty theft. When the rapes occurred he lived with his wife, Angie, and teenage son, Michael, in a small farmstead about three miles north of Middlesbury, just outside the village of Stennfield. It isn’t much, a couple of acres of potatoes, a handful of pigs and a few chickens. He wasn’t a farmer by any stretch; he just inherited it from his old man, who inherited it from his old man et cetera.

“He basically left school at fifteen and drifted in and out of odd jobs before meeting Angie in about 1980. They had Michael in 1982. The farm was paid off by his father and he owns the land, so even when he didn’t have a job they always had a roof over their heads. Anyway, he wasn’t really on the radar as far as the police were concerned; he had a file, like I said, and Michael’s school raised warning flags with social services but nothing ever happened.

“And then the rapes occurred. You’re familiar with the details; suffice to say, it was luck as much as detective work that nailed him in the end. Michael was barely sixteen when Cameron was sentenced. The girls were all local and everyone knew who his dad was. In the end he finished his GCSEs, changed his name by deed poll to his mother’s maiden name and switched schools for sixth form. By all accounts the move was successful and he went on to get a decent set of A levels and go to university.

“Angie divorced Cameron and reclaimed her maiden name but stayed at the farm with Michael. Cameron apparently signed over the lease without much fuss. He told me when I first met him it was his first step in trying to repair the damage done to his family.”

Sutton looked pointedly at the clock on the wall; where was all this going? he wondered.

Warren tried to be a little more discreet. Pargeter got the hint. “The thing is, Cameron didn’t kill those three girls. He raped them, and beat them, but he isn’t a murderer. That was his downfall. One of the girls gave a description of the mask that he was wearing, which ultimately led to his arrest.”

“You said it yourself, that was his downfall; he left a witness behind. Maybe he’s learnt his lesson — dead bodies can’t testify in court.” Sutton’s tone was getting decidedly impatient; he knew that Det Supt Grayson would probably be appearing any moment with an arrest warrant, to be served should Cameron decline to attend the police station voluntarily.

Pargeter ignored Sutton’s tetchiness. “You’re right. I think he has learnt his lesson. When inside, he worked hard to complete the schooling he should have done thirty years earlier and became a lay preacher, and volunteer counsellor to other prisoners.”

Sutton was unable to resist a snort of derision. In his opinion, the fabled prison conversion, especially amongst dangerous sex offenders, was just that. Nevertheless, an outside observer sitting in on parole-board hearings could be forgiven for thinking that a spell in prison was the making of a man and that HM Prison Service was single-handedly doing more to arrest the decline in active church-going than any number of evangelical outreach programmes. All nonsense, of course. Prisoners had a lot of time to try and figure out what it was the parole board wanted to hear and would do their best to oblige them.

For the first time since arriving at Middlesbury’s little CID unit, Sam Pargeter showed the briefest flash of irritation. “Look, I’m not a bloody idiot. I’ve been in this game far too long to be fooled by the old ‘I’ve found Jesus’ defence; nevertheless, whether he truly has found God or it’s just enlightened self-interest, I don’t think Richard Cameron would do anything that could get him put back inside. He barely survived the place. He attempted suicide three times — and, I mean, really attempted it. He’s made it quite clear to me and anyone else that will listen that he’ll kill himself before he sets foot inside another prison.”

Sutton looked at Warren. “Better make certain everyone knows that, guv. Last thing we need is a bloody suicide or death-by-cop.”

Pargeter scowled. “I doubt it will come to that.” He settled back into his chair and struck a more reasonable tone. “Look, make the appropriate preparations, but I don’t think it’s him.”

Warren shrugged non-committally. “Well, let’s see if we can rule him out. I’m telling you this in the strictest confidence, you understand.” He locked eyes with Pargeter, who nodded briskly and professionally. “We believe that the victim was carried several hundred yards, possibly dead, almost certainly unconscious. We’ve found no evidence that there was more than one person involved. Do you think that Cameron is capable of carrying the body of a young woman of average build and weight that distance?”

Pargeter’s brow furrowed and he pinched his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger, before, finally, taking his glasses off and rubbing them on his sleeve.

“I honestly don’t know. Twelve months ago I’d have said no chance. He was a physical wreck. He was overweight and smoked like a chimney. He could walk that distance, but he’d have struggled if he had to carry a shopping bag, let alone a body.

“But since then he’s been working on the farm, trying to make a business of it with Michael. He’s lost about three stone and cut right back on the fags. Last time I dropped in, he was wrestling hay bales off the back of a truck. He must have shifted a dozen whilst I was there; he was out of breath, but didn’t look in danger of a coronary. If he slung her across his shoulders in a fireman’s lift, then I reckon he might be able to do it.”

Warren made a note, before changing tack. “Tell me a bit more about his current situation. You said he’s back at the farm, but I thought his family had disowned him.”

“They did at first. His ex-wife never got over what he did and died a few years ago. Michael hated him at first, but after his mum died he realised that his father was the only family he had left. He received counselling and eventually started going to church himself. A couple of years ago, he visited his father in prison for the first time and was convinced that the old man wanted to change his life. They bought a bit more land from their neighbour and resurrected the farm. Michael has a good job and so they get by OK.”

“What about the local community? Twelve years isn’t that long.”

“The two of them largely keep themselves to themselves. When word first got around that Cameron was back a few things were sprayed on the front of the house and neither of them are welcome in the village pub, but it’s mostly died down. They tend to travel to Cambridge or Stevenage if they fancy a pint.

“The only place they are cautiously welcomed is at the village church. I’ve met the local vicar a few times and he’s taken it upon himself to help me keep Cameron on the straight and narrow. Nobody has invited them to join the choir, like, but they don’t get any bother.”

Warren looked at Sutton. Much of what Pargeter had said was of little relevance, he decided. Richard Cameron had been a very dangerous sexual predator and, as far as Warren was concerned, men like that had something fundamentally wrong with them. The urges that drove them were unlikely to ever disappear entirely. The question was, did Richard Cameron control those urges or did those urges still control him?

Chapter 17

Warren and Sutton drove to Cameron’s farm in a tense silence. Behind them, two police cars, each with a pair of uniformed constables, followed, lights and sirens off. Det Supt Grayson had drafted an arrest warrant, but Warren hoped to bring in the former convict voluntarily. Although the killing had now been reported in the local and national press, the details were scanty and it was possible that they would arrive before he caught the news.

Delaying any arrest would buy the police valuable time for questioning. The rules governing arrest were strict; the moment that a person was formally arrested, the clock started ticking. They would have twenty-four hours to either charge or release their suspect, on bail if necessary. A further twelve hours could be authorised by Det Supt Grayson, but beyond that a magistrate would need to be consulted. If Warren could get a few questions in before Cameron started making noises about legal representation and detention limits, so much the better.

The farm was at the end of a long, winding, single-track lane. Parked in front of the house were a vintage Land Rover and a far smarter Jaguar, presumably belonging to Cameron’s son.

The farmhouse was an old and weather-beaten affair. Two storeys in height, it looked as though it would need serious renovation in the next few years to survive the elements. Next door an even more rickety barn had its doors partially open. Parking the car so that it couldn’t be seen directly from the barn, Warren and Sutton stepped out into the chilly air. It was now late afternoon and Warren doubted they had much more than an hour’s daylight left. They’d have to move quickly.

Speaking quietly to the accompanying officers, Warren instructed them to spread out around the house to stop Cameron if he decided to make a run for it. With the officers in place, the two detectives walked cautiously towards the open barn. From inside they could make out the sound of a radio playing. Radio 4 by the sound of the presenter, Warren decided. There was a good chance he had heard the news, then. Warren stepped into the doorway, his eyes quickly adjusting to the gloom inside.

The barn was pretty much what he expected. Hay bales stacked against one half of the building made an improvised open enclosure amongst which a few hens — or were they chickens? Warren had no idea — strutted and pecked at the straw-covered floor. On the other side of the barn a wooden enclosure housed what looked — and smelt — like a few pigs. In the middle of the barn sat an old, rusty, Massey Ferguson tractor. Two legs clad in dirty grey corduroy trousers tucked into well-worn, muddy leather boots poked out from under the engine. The tractor had probably been assembled in part by one of his schoolmates’ fathers, Warren realised, back when Massey Ferguson was a major employer in his home town of Coventry. He shook off the feeling of sadness that passed through him. He’d been young at the time, but the closing of that plant had turned upside down the lives of many of the children he’d gone to school with. Some families never really recovered. The factory was a housing estate now.

“Richard Cameron?”

The legs jerked in surprise.

“It’s the police. We’d like to speak to you.”

There was a long pause, before finally the legs moved again. With a grunt, the body of a late middle-aged man slid out from under the vehicle. In his hand, he held a large steel spanner.

“Could you put that down, please?” asked Warren carefully.

Sutton had found the radio and switched it off at the wall socket; the clatter of the metal tool against the concrete floor echoed loudly through the shed.

“What do you want? I’m not due a visit until next week.”

“We’re not with the Probation Service. We’re here to ask you some questions in connection with an ongoing enquiry.”

“Am I under arrest? I ain’t going back to prison.” The man’s eyes darted wildly around the barn as his voice started to rise. His hands started to shake and his foot tapped. The man was clearly terrified at the prospect of prison. Were his fears justified?

Warren appraised the man standing before him. According to his file, Richard Cameron was days shy of his sixtieth birthday. The photograph in his file, taken just before his release, could have been of a man ten years older. Greying and stooped, the face in the picture was creased and lined. The man in front of him could pass for fifty. The green wax jacket that he wore was loose around the waist, suggesting recent weight loss, and his back was straightened. His face, though still craggy and battered, had more definition. His complexion had lost the greyish pallor of the long-term smoker and inmate and was instead pink, with a ruddiness to the cheeks that spoke of time outdoors. His beard, although grey and tinged with yellow around the mouth, was neatly trimmed. The man’s hands, he noted, were dirty and scabbed, but underneath the oil were the faint remnants of a summer tan. Life on the outside clearly agreed with Richard Cameron far more than life on the inside.

Warren spoke carefully. “At the moment, we just want you to answer some questions. However, I remind you that you are required to co-operate with the police under the terms of your parole. I have a warrant here for your arrest if necessary.”

“What’s going on here?”

The voice came from behind the officers and belonged to a young man in his late twenties or early thirties, Warren judged.

“And who might you be, sir?”

The question was unnecessary; the man was clearly his father’s son. Although taller and slimmer, he had the same broad shoulders and strong jawbone, visible despite a thick goatee beard. His hair was a dark brown, cut short, in an unfussy but neat style. Unlike his father, he wore grey suit trousers and smart leather shoes, his jacket an expensive-looking Gore-Tex affair. A collar and red tie peeked out above the partially unzipped front.

“Michael Stockley. I own this farm.” The man’s accent was clearly the same as his father’s, but his diction spoke of a better education and years spent in university and managerial workplaces, rather than low-paid, menial jobs and prison.

So he still goes by his mother’s maiden name, noted Warren.

“We are inviting your father to attend a voluntary interview at Middlesbury police station.”

Stockley curled his lip. “And you say that he hasn’t been arrested?”

“Not unless he refuses to co-operate — in which case I’ll serve the arrest warrant and contact his parole officer.”

Acknowledging his father for the first time since arriving, Michael Stockley nodded in his direction. “You aren’t under arrest, Dad. You don’t have to answer any questions. In fact say nothing until I’ve arranged a solicitor.”

The older man nodded mutely, looking scared and bewildered. Stockley turned back to Warren.

“I didn’t catch your name, Officer — nor have I seen any identification.”

Warren locked eyes with the man for several long seconds, before fishing out his warrant card, which he held up in front of the man’s face. Stockley nodded once.

“What’s this about?”

“Just some questions relating to an ongoing enquiry.” Warren had no intention of giving away any more information than he had to. He wanted to keep the man on the back foot for as long as possible.

“I believe that my father is entitled to have somebody with him during this questioning and that a solicitor may be present,” he all but smirked.

Warren didn’t like the way that this was going; he had to do something to shift the balance of power away from this smartly dressed amateur lawyer.

“Of course, assuming that Mr Cameron has something to hide, we can wait for a solicitor to arrive.” Warren nodded back to the older man, who paled slightly.

“The exercising of his legal rights should not be inferred as any admission of wrongdoing on my father’s part. And I believe that any attempt to deter him from seeking representation — or indeed questioning him before his solicitor arrives — would be contrary to the rules laid down in the Police and Criminal Evidence Act.” This time he did smirk.

On the other side of the barn he could see Tony Sutton rolling his eyes in disgust. Warren agreed. Spare us from barrack-room lawyers, he thought.

Sensing a victory of sorts, Stockley pressed on. “I suggest you return to your cars, Officers, whilst my father and I go into the house and call for his lawyer. I’ll let you know when he arrives.”

Warren shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so, Mr Stockley. I was rather intending to do this at the police station. You can wait for your lawyer there.”

Richard Cameron shook his head violently. “No, I’ve always said I’d rather die than set foot inside another prison cell and I mean it.”

“My father is undergoing questioning voluntarily,” Michael Stockley reminded them. “You cannot force him to attend the police station and you certainly can’t put him in a prison cell whilst he awaits his lawyer.”

Warren was getting impatient. “First, nobody has said anything about your father being placed in custody, let alone a cell. Second, I would remind you that I have a signed arrest warrant, so I certainly can compel him to attend the questioning. I’ll let you decide how you want to do this.”

The two men glared at each other. Finally, it was Richard Cameron who spoke up. “All right. Let’s get this done with. But I ain’t saying nothing until my brief arrives.” With that, he slouched out of the door, heading for the parked cars. At a signal from Warren, one of the uniformed constables opened the rear door of his patrol car.

“Mind your head,” he grunted, pushing down on the older man’s unruly mane.

Stockley stepped towards the car.

“Hold on, Michael.”

Now that he had them, Warren’s instinct was to minimise contact between father and son as much as possible. He didn’t like the way the younger man was calling all of the shots. Stockley blinked. “I’m accompanying my father to the police station.”

“Not in there, you’re not. Health and Safety,” he lied, motioning towards the remaining patrol car, whose driver stood by the open rear door like a chauffeur.

“Health and Safety? Bollocks!” He made as if to protest further, but Warren merely waved the arrest warrant in the air. With a sound of disgust, the younger man turned on his heel and marched towards the waiting car.

With both men locked in separate cars, Warren addressed the remaining officers.

“DI Sutton will co-ordinate the securing of the property and then return to the station. I want a search team standing by and ready to go in case he gives us enough to raise a search warrant. We need to move fast before his lawyer starts putting up the roadblocks.”

He turned to Sutton, who was smiling. “I liked the way you handled that, boss. His lawyer will be pissed, though.”

Warren shrugged. The man was a convicted rapist out on licence. His complaints would fall on deaf ears.

“Tough. More to the point, though, if we can’t get anything off Cameron in interview, we may have to let him go. And his lawyer will almost certainly challenge the grounds for any search warrant.” As an afterthought, he fished out his own car keys. “Drive yourself back rather than wait for a lift. I want you in on any interviews. I’ll keep Mr Cameron company on the way to the station.”

Chapter 18

By the time Cameron, Stockley and Warren arrived back at Middlesbury police station, Stockley had already telephoned his father’s solicitor. Although he wasn’t under arrest, Cameron was still processed by the custody officer, who reminded him of his rights and directed him to a small room to await his lawyer. He ostentatiously left the door wide open so that he could listen in to anything the father and son might say, a mute reminder that their conversation would not be subject to the same privileges that a lawyer and client would be entitled to.

Thirty minutes later, Cameron’s solicitor arrived. A portly, balding man in his late fifties, he’d not represented Cameron at his first trial — that solicitor had retired some years ago — but he had negotiated his release and the terms of his parole.

“What’s he in for? I understand he’s attended voluntarily for questioning, but you have an arrest warrant and have left a team in place should you be able to raise a search warrant.”

Warren shrugged. “Just doing it by the book — complete chain of evidence and all that.”

The solicitor grunted. “Not a lot of information for me to go on here, but I can read between the lines and I’ve heard the news. Can I see the arrest warrant?”

“No need, it hasn’t been served.” The arrest warrant contained details that Warren would only share if necessary.

The solicitor grunted again, letting it pass, although Warren was under no illusions that it would be forgotten about. Leading him towards the small room containing Cameron and Stockley, neither of whom had said a word yet, Warren let the door close behind him. Everything said inside that room would now be privileged.

Grabbing a coffee from the vending machine, Warren went to greet Sutton, who had just returned from the farm.

“The farmhouse is secure and a SOCO team are on standby.”

“Good, but don’t hold your breath. I’ve got a feeling that we aren’t going to get much from Cameron. That bloody son of his is too smart by half and his brief is pretty experienced also, by the look of him.”

“He is,” confirmed Sutton, who’d been at Middlesbury for years. “He’s pretty reasonable for a solicitor and knows when to fight his battles, but he does a thorough job and won’t stand any bullshit.”

“Well, then, let’s see what Mr Cameron has to say for himself.”

* * *

The opening volley of the interview came, unsurprisingly, from Cameron’s lawyer. Warren had led Cameron and his lawyer into the small interview room. Unexpectedly, Michael had opted to remain outside, leaving his father in the hands of his solicitor. After ensuring that the voice recorder was set up and that Sutton had read the man his rights, Warren had sat back, arms folded, and waited patiently. Cameron’s solicitor had started by complaining loudly and forcefully about his client’s treatment thus far.

In a two-minute diatribe he accused Warren and his officers of being on a fishing trip; of bullying Cameron into attending an interview ‘voluntarily’ by implying arrest if he didn’t do so, then making up bogus Health and Safety regulations to isolate his client from his accompanying adult.

Warren could almost see the quotation marks hanging in the air around the word ‘voluntarily’. When he’d finished he sat back in his chair.

Warren looked over at Sutton, who appeared to be in the process of picking his nose. A gesture that couldn’t be heard on the tape, it nevertheless clearly stated the officer’s contempt for the alleged trampling of the suspect’s rights that had just been outlined. Warren fought back a smile. Sutton had a style all of his own.

Ignoring what the solicitor had just said, Warren leant forward in his chair.

“Mr Cameron, can you tell us where you were on the evening of Friday second December?”

Cameron glanced towards his lawyer, licked his lips and mumbled, “No comment.”

Warren shook his head. “Come on, Mr Cameron. The sooner you answer our questions, the sooner you can go home.”

The lawyer leant forward. “May I remind the detective chief inspector that my client is here voluntarily and that he is in fact free to leave at any time. Nor is he under any obligation to say anything that may incriminate him.”

Warren nodded, as if conceding the point. “Absolutely right. Until — sorry — unless we arrest Mr Cameron, he is free to leave at any time. And of course you are right — Mr Cameron has no need to say anything that might incriminate him.”

He looked back at Cameron. “Can I assume that what you might have to say is incriminating?”

The lawyer’s response was swift. “No, you may not, as you well know. Failure to answer a question may not be seen as an admission of guilt.”

“Of course, you are absolutely right. However it is quite possible that if Mr Cameron can account for his whereabouts on the night in question, he might just remove himself from any suspicion.”

“That is a decision that Mr Cameron has the right to decide for himself and he should not be coerced.”

There remained a silence for a few seconds, before Warren pulled open an envelope. He carefully laid out several A4 photographs, face down onto the table.

“Let’s try something else. Are you familiar with the travel agents Far and Away?” Again Cameron glanced at his solicitor, before shaking his head. “No comment.”

“Perhaps you are familiar with one of its sales advisors, Sally Evans.” A flash of recognition appeared in the older man’s eyes before being carefully suppressed. “No comment.”

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