No Smoke Without Fire (A DCI Warren Jones Novel - Book 2) (29 page)

By ten p.m., Warren had found a quietish corner and was enjoying a debate with the head of physics about the comedy show
The Big Bang Theory
and whether it was doing the reputation of physicists good or reinforcing negative stereotypes about them. By way of comparison Warren held that the many police parodies over the years had softened the public’s perception of the service.

By now, there were more than a few merry souls lurching around the dance floor and Warren was struck by the similarities between this and a typical police party. In the far corner a group of young NQTs — Newly Qualified Teachers — were guzzling shots, eying up their colleagues and bouncing around their part of the dance floor like things possessed — the teaching profession’s equivalent of probationary constables, Warren decided. Standing around chatting or dancing in small groups were older, more experienced teachers, ranging in age from about twenty-five to fifty. These would be the equivalent of the middle ranks; they made up the bulk of the workforce and did the lion’s share of the work.

Standing back from the action and talking earnestly over pints were the people Warren had mentally classified as inspectors through to chief superintendents: middle- and senior-management types. These would be heads of year or subject leaders, maybe even the odd assistant head. Warren noted that the chief constable and his deputies — the head and deputy head teachers — had already left. They’d been there at the beginning of the evening, awkwardly wishing colleagues season’s greetings, before leaving the troops to enjoy themselves and behave in a manner that they wouldn’t normally dream of doing with the boss in the room.

Finally, sitting in their own small groups chatting amongst themselves were a mixed bunch of mostly women ranging in age from barely twenty to mid-sixties — admin staff and the site team, Warren judged. A bit like the civilian support workers that were essential to the police running smoothly from day to day; if they disappeared overnight, things would grind to a halt within twenty-four hours.

Feeling rather pleased with his insight, Warren shared his thoughts with Susan and Rachel the next time they decided to take a break from the dance floor.

“You forgot the LSAs,” Susan shouted over the music, her words slightly slurred.

“The what?”

“Learning Support Assistants.” Rachel pointed towards a mixed group of revellers propping up the bar. “You can’t do anything without them. They’re like an extra pair of hands, one-to-one tutor, translator, shoulder to cry on and bouncer rolled into one. They deal with more challenging individuals and let you get on with teaching the class.”

Warren thought for a moment. “PCSOs. Community Support Officers. They deal with a lot of the low-level crap and the public so you can focus on your job.”

Susan nodded her agreement. “A pretty good summing up, DCI Jones, but you got one thing wrong.”

“Oh, what’s that?”

Susan pointed to a huge woman with massive shoulders and an even bigger scowl dancing as if she were shadow-boxing Muhammed Ali. Warren noted that, despite the crowded floor, there was nobody within arm’s reach of her.

“That’s Caroline. She runs the school. Everyone’s terrified of her.”

Warren blinked in surprise; he’d met the head teacher at a welcome evening for new staff a few weeks ago. He was a man and about half the size of this gorilla. None of the deputy head teachers or other senior staff bore any resemblance to this flesh mountain.

“Head of the governing body? Chair of the PTA?” Warren tried.

“Nope, far more powerful. She’s Head of Reprographics. Piss her off and you don’t get any of your photocopying done for a week.” Susan shuddered.

Remarkable, thought Warren. The civilian support worker in charge of Middlesbury police station’s reprographics was similarly feared. Was it something to do with the toner fumes?

Wednesday 14
^th
December

Chapter 36

Six-thirty a.m. The lie-in was in deference to the previous night’s revelry, but the extra half-hour was not nearly enough. The DJ had finished his set at midnight with the obligatory ‘New York, New York’; however, the hotel had been in no particular rush to force the partygoers to drink up and leave. By now, despite several pints of full-sugar Coke, Warren was dead on his feet. Finally, he managed to pull Susan and Rachel away from workmates that they were hugging in a manner that belied the fact that they were going to be seeing them again in less than eight hours.

By the time they got in it was a lot closer to two a.m. than one a.m. and Warren was so tired that he was convinced that without the drunken giggling from his passengers he might have fallen asleep at the wheel. Nevertheless a sharp ache in his stomach demanded it be filled and he forced a couple of cheese sandwiches down his neck in record time, before collapsing, socks and T-shirt still on, into bed.

Walking into the CID office, Warren was not happy to see a jovial Tony Sutton busy joking with Gary Hastings and Annabel Willis. They all looked as if they had slept for a week, with bright eyes and a palpable sense of energy. Grunting good morning, he headed into his office to check his email and finish a second cup of coffee whilst he prepared for briefing.

An insistent warning buzz from his mobile phone reminded him that he had forgotten to plug it in to charge overnight and that the power-hungry device was down to its last few percentage battery-life. He’d have to ask around the office after briefing to see if anybody had a compatible charger.

The morning briefing was a complex affair, with three cases now under investigation simultaneously. The Sally Evans and Carolyn Patterson murders were obviously the most advanced, being attacked on multiple fronts by several teams following leads and looking for links between the two crimes.

The jury was still out on whether the attempted murder of Melanie Clearwater was linked to the other two killings, so it had been decided to also keep the case in-house at Middlesbury CID, rather than handing it over to a team from Welwyn. Later today a number of additional detectives from HQ would be relocating to Middlesbury to increase their available manpower. Warren was glad — his small team was getting stretched and, with the holiday season approaching, it would only get worse. That being said, he wasn’t sure where they were going to house all of the new people. It looked as though at least one of the briefing rooms was going to be filled with tables, chairs and laptops, but it would be a squeeze.

In the meantime, it was all hands on deck chasing down potential leads. Warren decided he would continue to follow up on Alex Chalmers and track down his ex-girlfriend — the one who he had reportedly assaulted on three occasions between 2002 and 2005. He doubted that she would have much insight into whether he was responsible for Carolyn Patterson’s murder, but he was interested in a further glimpse into the man’s life.

Pulling the appropriate file from the archive, Warren read the scant details available before setting about tracking down the whereabouts of his alleged victim, Josephine Bogg. The electoral register listed a Josephine McCaulley (nee Bogg), with the same date of birth, as living with a Lewis McCaulley on the opposite side of town to where she’d lived with Alex Chalmers until they split in 2005.

With the team so stretched, Warren felt it was hard to justify taking a second officer to accompany him on such a tangential part of the investigation. He probably should have assigned a junior officer to the task, but he needed to get out of the office. The warm stuffiness of the central heating was doing nothing to help him fight his fatigue.

Outside it was raining and the air had a decided bite to it; nevertheless, Warren drove with the window partly open, enjoying the freshness. By the time his satnav informed him that he had reached his destination, he was more invigorated.

The house was a small affair, designed with a couple or new parents in mind. The doorbell was answered immediately with the muffled instruction to wait for a moment. The better part of a minute passed before the door was opened by a slightly dishevelled woman of about thirty, carrying a contented-looking baby with a slightly crooked nappy.

“I’m sorry if I caught you at a bad time,” Warren apologised as he held up his warrant card.

“Don’t worry, there’s rarely a good time when they are this age. Isn’t that right, you mucky devil?” She directed this last part of the comment at the squirming baby, who had suddenly become fascinated with his mother’s ear and was trying to cram it into his mouth.

“Mrs McCaulley, I presume? I wonder if you would be willing to give me a few moments of your time to help with an ongoing enquiry.”

“Of course.” The woman suddenly seemed interested. A bored housewife, Warren decided. Stuck at home with the baby all day and craving a bit of adult conversation, she’d jump at the chance to help the police. It was probably the most exciting thing that had happened all month. He felt a little guilty that he was about to burst the bubble by dredging up unpleasant memories.

The living room was plainly decorated, but filled with brightly coloured plastic toys and baby equipment. Clearing a space on a couch covered in freshly laundered ironing, the harried young mother gestured for him to sit down. As he did so, Warren felt a vibration from his pocket. Apologising, he retrieved his mobile phone from his pocket. Expecting a text message, he was annoyed to see a flashing warning about his fading battery life, before the screen went dark. Cursing himself for forgetting to charge the phone before he left, he returned the useless handset to his pocket and turned his attention back to the young mother in front of him.

Sitting opposite, she balanced the young baby on her lap. Warren’s inexperienced eye suggested that the baby was still some months shy of his first birthday, but old enough to sit up comfortably. Nine months?

“How old is this young man, then?” asked Warren awkwardly as he cast about for a way to bring up what was likely to be a painful subject.

“Alfie here is nine and a half months,” she answered proudly.

“I see. And, er, what about Mr McCaulley? Is he out?” Warren asked carefully, trying to work out the family dynamics before he got into the questioning.

“He’s at work today. He manages a small bookstore in town.”

“I see. Before we start, were you previously known as Josephine Bogg?”

“Yes, I married Lewis two years ago and took his name.”

“Mrs McCaulley, what I am about to ask you may be uncomfortable or even upsetting and for that I apologise. However the information that you have may be significant in a serious investigation currently under way.”

The woman opposite him started to look worried.

“Did you have a relationship with an Alex Chalmers between 2002 and 2005?”

The woman took a sharp intake of breath.

“I never thought I’d hear that man’s name again,” she murmured, her hands starting to shake. Sitting on her lap, Alfie squirmed slightly, as if picking up on his mother’s discomfort.

“I’m very sorry to bring up painful memories for you. According to our reports, neighbours called the police on three separate occasions between 2002 and 2005, concerned for your safety.”

Josephine squeezed her eyes shut. “I’d rather not talk about it.” She gestured with her head to the room and her son. “I’ve moved on in my life and I’ve no intention of revisiting old wounds.”

“I fully understand, Mrs McCaulley. I’m not here to discuss pressing charges or anything like that — although if you wished to do so, I could put you in touch with one of our specialist domestic violence officers — rather I am trying to build a picture of what sort of a man Alex Chalmers is, to help us with an ongoing investigation.”

She took a shaky breath, before fixing Jones with her gaze. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? You were on TV. That young woman who was murdered. And wasn’t another dead body found at the weekend? Is Alex a suspect?”

“I can’t really go into any details, I’m afraid. I’m just making routine enquiries.”

She eyed him in silence for a long moment, before sighing deeply.

“I met Alex in the middle of 2001. I was working in a bar in town, a student, earning some extra cash. He was a lot of fun at the time. He had a good job at the post office and had a bit of a reputation as a ladies’ man. He was also pretty hot.” She blushed slightly. “Lifting all those parcels, he had a really big upper body.

“Anyway, we started dating and by the middle of 2002, when I finished my course, we decided to move in together.” She looked wistful. “I was naïve, I admit that. It was my first serious relationship and I didn’t know what to expect.

“I probably could have been a bit more understanding but I had a large group of friends from college and still wanted to party like things hadn’t changed. Alex, of course, is a postman. He gets up at four a.m. for some shifts. I was working in a clothes shop — I didn’t have to get into work until nine. I didn’t go out in the week very often, but I would often go out on the weekend until all hours.

“On the other hand, Alex finished work some days at one p.m. He’d go out drinking with his mates after work and by the time I arrived home at six, he’d be really pissed. It was that which started the arguing.

“Looking back on it, we should have split up ages ago. We just weren’t compatible, not on a practical level at least. But we were such a good couple and he was always so apologetic after we argued. I was terrified that if I left him I’d never find anyone like him.”

“So when did he start hitting you?”

“It was just before Christmas 2002. I’d gone out for a drink with colleagues after work, nothing much, just a couple of glasses of wine. I got home about eightish, to find Alex really drunk. He’d been in the pub since one, before getting home at six expecting to find me there. Instead of phoning to see where I was, he’d decided to keep on drinking, and by the time I got back he was practically incoherent. He accused me of having an affair and called me a slut. We ended up screaming at each other. Finally, he threw a punch at me. He was so drunk he missed me completely and smashed a vase. It was then that the police arrived.