Read No Smoke Without Fire (A DCI Warren Jones Novel - Book 2) Online
Authors: Paul Gitsham
“Like I said, it’s your choice, Mr Hedgecox.”
For the next few seconds, all that the three officers could hear was muffled swearing. Eventually that subsided and was followed by the sound of heavy locks and chains being undone.
It was clear that they had woken him up, thought Warren with some satisfaction. The man in front of them had a dark, swarthy complexion, with heavy stubble. About six feet two inches and medium build, he wore a grey-and-black-striped felt dressing gown, with tufts of black chest hair visible, just below his neck. His shaved scalp made it impossible to place the age of the man; he could have been anything between thirty-five and fifty-five.
“I suppose you’d better come in, then,” grunted Hedgecox after introductions, leading the three officers into a large living room whose décor suggested a man with more money than taste. There was no question in Warren’s mind that had they been having this meeting thirty years ago, the wall above the fireplace would have been home to three china ducks positioned as if they were flying home.
Sitting down on an uncomfortable, rather firm leather sofa, Warren began, “I believe that you employ a young girl named Mel — short for Melanie.”
Hedgecox immediately raised a finger in correction. “I don’t employ anybody, Officer. I am merely involved in introducing girls that I know to clients who wish to spend time with those girls.”
“For which you charge a handsome fee,” Sutton pointed out.
Hedgecox shrugged. “I’m a legitimate businessman. I pay my taxes and do nothing illegal. The girls negotiate their own terms with a client.” He turned to Yvonne Fairweather. “Haven’t we been through this before, Officer? Don’t I do my best to co-operate with the police to keep the girls safe and ensure that rules are followed?”
Interrupting before Fairweather had a chance to speak, Warren interjected, “Your understanding with the authorities is none of my concern. What I want to know is what you know about this attack, which took place last night.” He showed the pimp the screen of his phone on which he had taken a photograph of Melanie Clearwater as she lay in the hospital bed.
The sudden intake of breath and the draining of blood from his face couldn’t be faked, decided Warren as he carefully observed the startled escort agent.
“Jesus…is that little Mel? What the hell happened?” The man’s voice shook. The photograph had left little to the imagination.
“All we know is that she was attacked last night with a piece of wood and left to die. Her handbag and emptied purse were found a few metres away over a fence. We want to know why.”
“Is she dead?”
Warren realised that the photograph was rather ambiguous on that score. The bandages and swelling and her grey pallor could easily have suggested a post-mortem photograph. Nevertheless, Warren saw no reason to lie. “Not quite.”
“Will she be OK?”
Credit to him for asking, decided Warren grudgingly.
“We don’t know. The next forty-eight hours are crucial. As for the long-term…” He shrugged.
Hedgecox shook his head slowly in disbelief. “Poor kid. Do you think it was a robbery? Seems a bit violent.”
Warren shrugged again. “We’re keeping an open mind, but you are right, it is violent. Most muggings are quick affairs. People get stabbed or injured all of the time, but as soon as the mugger has what they want it ends. But this was multiple blows to the head. We’re treating it as an attempted murder.”
“Where were you last night, Mr Hedgecox?” Tony Sutton had said little so far and now he leaned forward. From what Yvonne Fairweather had told them and Hedgecox’s reaction to the photograph none of the officers really suspected Hedgecox of being directly involved; nevertheless the perception that co-operation was in his best interest might help loosen his tongue even more.
As expected Hedgecox recoiled in surprise. “Woah, you don’t think I had anything to do with this, do you?” He turned to Fairweather. “Tell them. I’m just a businessman. As long as the girls turn up for meetings and don’t try and rip me off, we’re cool. I only arrange meetings with clients who contact me through the agency. I don’t have anything to do with what they do down on Truman Street — that’s their own business.”
“So where were you last night, between about ten and midnight?”
“Where I always am — down my brother’s club having a drink, waiting for phone calls from the girls. I can get you the address. I’m sure I’m on the security cameras.” He was clearly eager to please now and Warren decided to press home the advantage.
“Had Mel worked for you recently?”
Hedgecox’s brow furrowed as he thought hard.
“Not for a couple of weeks, no. She’s not the most popular of our girls, to be honest.”
“Can you be a little more precise? I’m told you pay your taxes, so presumably you must keep a record of each job.”
Hedgecox scowled briefly, before sighing and getting up.
“Yes, I keep detailed records on my laptop for my accountant.” As he walked over to a laptop sitting on the coffee table Warren asked him what he meant by Mel not being so popular.
“To be honest, she was a bit too skinny and young looking — sure, some guys like that sort of thing, but the majority of my business these days comes from lonely, middle-aged businessmen looking for a date or an escort to a business function. They want an attractive but respectable-looking woman in her thirties or forties. The sort of woman that if they are seen with in public will get them admiring glances, not suspicious stares. They don’t want a skinny young waif — too many questions.”
As he told them this he booted up the laptop and opened an Excel spreadsheet. Warren couldn’t help trying to look at the screen, but Hedgecox twisted the laptop away from him. “Not without a warrant, Chief Inspector,” he said with a smirk. “I’ll help you track down whoever hurt Mel, but you aren’t sniffing through my files.”
Warren shrugged non-committally. Hedgecox manipulated the track pad before clearing his throat. “Just as I thought. I last placed Mel with a client three weeks ago.” He smiled slightly. “The guy’s a regular. Never had any bother with him before.” He clicked the track pad again. “Feedback is clear. No complaints from him, feedback from Mel and other girls who’ve met him note nothing unusual — just your usual lonely, middle-aged man looking for a bit of company.”
“And that’s it?”
“Well, it depends how far you want to go back. She had a bit more work over the summer, with the tourists and, to be honest, before she lost so much weight. You’ve seen her, no doubt — stick-thin. She used to have a bit more meat on her bones.” He looked at Fairweather. “You remember, I’m sure. Bloody drugs, I’m guessing. At least she has the sense not to use them in front of the clients.”
The constable nodded her agreement. “If anything good can come of this, we may be able to wean her off them now she’s in hospital.”
“I’d like the name of that client, if you don’t mind, Mr Hedgecox.”
“No way.” He shook his head violently. “Not without a warrant. If word got out that I gave my clients’ details away to anyone who asked, I’d be out of business. We’re called ‘Discreet Companions’ for a reason. Besides which, this was three weeks ago. I doubt very much that he’s responsible.” He folded his arms resolutely.
Warren eyed him for several long seconds before turning to Sutton.
“DI Sutton, could you pop back to the station and get a warrant drafted? Constable Fairweather and I will stay here and keep Mr Hedgecox company.”
Sutton stood up. “Certainly, guv. Should I take your car or organise a lift?”
“I think the tax-payer can afford the petrol. Why don’t you phone the station and ask for a patrol car and a driver? Tell them to use the lights and the siren — we don’t want them to get stuck in traffic and waste any more of Mr Hedgecox’s time.”
Hedgecox slumped back on his chair with a look of disgust. It was clear that he was weighing up the potential damage to his business from naming a client and the very real damage to his personal reputation from having a police car with lights and sirens parked on his front driveway. In the end personal reputation won over any slight risk to his business and he grudgingly wrote down the mobile-phone number and contact details of the client.
“It’s likely that this gentleman will have nothing to do with this and have an alibi, but I assume that we can rely on your discretion to keep this between us, Mr Hedgecox?” Warren and his two colleagues were on their way out of the front door, having got what they came for.
Hedgecox snorted. “He won’t hear anything from me.” His expression turned uncomfortable, before he addressed Constable Fairweather. “I’d like to send Mel some flowers. Maybe pop in and see the poor kid. She’s had a hard life — she didn’t deserve this shit. Where is she?”
He seemed sincere; nevertheless Warren was relieved when Fairweather shook her head. “I’m sorry, Daryl. She’s a vulnerable young woman. It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to divulge that sort of information.”
He looked a little non-plussed, before nodding his head. “I understand — in that case, could you hold on a moment?” Before they could reply he darted back inside again, before emerging a few seconds later with a bulging leather wallet. Without pausing he opened it and peeled off a pile of ten-pound notes, pressing them into the startled Yvonne Fairweather’s hand.
“Buy her some flowers, will you, and use the rest to get her anything she needs? Judging by the photos, she may be in some time. No need to tell her who it’s from.”
And that’s why police work will never get dull, thought Warren. You really do see every facet of human life.
Three hours later, Jones and Sutton pulled up outside the bungalow of Mr David Woods, Melanie Clearwater’s last client through Daryl Hedgecox’s Discreet Companions Agency. A search of the Police National Computer had revealed no records and they’d relied on the mobile-phone company to provide them with an address. With no evidence that the man had done anything wrong, the officers had no justification for pulling him in and so had decided an informal interview was the best approach.
Parking outside the house, the two officers started up the driveway.
“Something’s not quite right, guv,” muttered Sutton quietly.
“I feel it, too. I’m sure we’re missing something.” He looked around at the neatly manicured garden. It seemed as though Mr Woods was home; his car sat on the drive. Again something didn’t quite seem right.
The two officers looked at each other. With nothing more to go on than a vague feeling of uneasiness, Warren couldn’t justify calling in reinforcements. Nevertheless, he took a deep breath, exchanged glances with Tony Sutton and counted down from three before ringing the doorbell.
After what seemed like an age, the door opened. Neither man could have been prepared for what they saw.
* * *
“That bastard Hedgecox must have known,” ranted Sutton in the car on the way back to the station. “I’ll bet he’s laughing all over that stupid, smug face of his.”
“You’re probably right.” Warren stole a glance at his colleague, whose foul temper was as much to do with a lack of sleep as a genuine grievance.
“You’ve got to admit, it was pretty funny, though.”
Sutton scowled, before slowly shaking his head and eventually breaking into a grin. “We must be knackered. I can’t believe we missed all of the clues. The car, the driveway… It was all there in front of us.”
“Well, at least we know he wasn’t responsible for last night’s attack — he’d never have got down that narrow alleyway.”
Both men burst out laughing.
“I’ll remember the look on your face as long as I live.” Sutton chuckled. “The way you were staring at eye height as the door opened, before slowly looking down until you saw him. Then the way you asked, all hopeful, ‘Is Mr Woods in?’ and he replied, ‘I am Mr Woods.’”
Warren shook his head, enjoying the brief moment of levity. The suspect had been a surprise to both of them. A hugely obese, older man, he had appeared at the door to his especially adapted bungalow on his mobility scooter.
“Still, can’t be too careful, boss, and I think it was quite right that you didn’t make any assumptions and asked if he could account for his whereabouts last night.”
“Yeah, I thought he was a bit rude, to tell the truth. Probably a good job I didn’t ask him about the last time he had an escort around the house.”
Back at the station, Warren was definitely feeling the effects of his early wake-up call. He chugged yet more coffee as he sat back at his desk, reading reports. It seemed that some progress had at least been made with the mysterious woman that Sally Evans’ father claimed to have been with the night that she was killed. DC Willis and DS Johnson had been working with the IT department, the financial crimes section and local magistrates to put pressure on the dating site to reveal details about Bill Evans’ lover, ‘Boadicea’.
They finally traced her payment details, linking it to a credit card belonging to the rather less flamboyantly named ‘Mary Samson’, who lived in the small village of Cottenham just north of Cambridge. Aware of the need for a degree of sensitivity, Warren decided to take only DC Annabel Willis along with him to interview her.
They arrived unannounced at a smart-looking cottage on the outskirts of the village, close to the local secondary school. After they rang the bell, the door was answered by an older man in his late fifties or early sixties, wearing a clerical collar. Two small, identical faces peeked around his legs. His heart sank. The possibility of red faces all around had just increased exponentially. He’d have to be tactful here.
“Er, hello, my name is Detective Chief Inspector Warren Jones and this is Detective Constable Annabel Willis. We’re looking for Mrs Mary Samson. Is she home?”
“Reverend Christopher Samson. I’m afraid that she has just popped out to take some cakes over to the school disco. You’re welcome to wait for her. She’s due back any moment — although she’s chairing a council meeting in an hour or so. Is there anything I can help you with?”
Oh, dear God, this just gets worse, thought Warren. Vicar’s wife and mother, local councillor, heavily involved in the local school… He would be treading lightly to say the least.