Read No Smoke Without Fire (A DCI Warren Jones Novel - Book 2) Online
Authors: Paul Gitsham
Warren smiled reassuringly. “No problem at all, Mr Cartwright. We’re just doing some routine enquiries and Robbie might be able to help us with a few questions. It won’t have any effect on his job and, as I said when we first met, he is not in any trouble at all.”
Reassured, Pat Cartwright stood up and called his son into the office.
Robbie Cartwright was a short man in his early twenties, with a full head of blond hair, which his father ruffled as he came in. He looked worried when Warren and Tony Sutton introduced themselves, but after reassurances from his father relaxed.
“So how many days a week do you clean the vans here, Robbie?” asked Warren.
“Three times, Mr Jones. Tuesday evenings, Thursdays and Saturdays. I use the big hosepipe.”
“You do a pretty good job, Robbie. Whenever I see the vans they are always gleaming and clean. We should get you to come and clean some of our police cars.”
The young man smiled, shyly.
“Do the vans get very dirty on their runs?” asked Tony Sutton.
“Sometimes. Especially if it’s been raining. They splash through dirty puddles and I have to clean underneath them. Mr Carroway says it’s really important to do that in winter because the salt on the roads can make them rust. You should make sure you clean your car regularly as well, or it might get rusty,” he advised.
“Thank you, I’ll have to remember that,” said Warren seriously.
“Thinking back, have any of the vans come back unusually dirty? Perhaps with more mud than normal. Maybe the wheels were very covered in mud?”
Robbie thought for a moment, then looked at his feet.
His father frowned, clearly recognising the change in his demeanour.
“Robbie, answer the question.”
“Sometimes they come back more muddy than normal. The wheels and the bits above the wheel are all covered,” he mumbled, still not looking up.
“What aren’t you telling us, Robbie?” asked his father. “Remember these are policemen. They need your help.”
“Sometimes they come back really dirty. The man driving them told me to make sure I cleaned them extra well, especially the wheels, and gave me a ten-pound note to do a really good job.”
“Robbie!” His father sounded shocked. “It’s your job to clean the vans. You shouldn’t be taking money off someone just to do it properly.”
The young man stared morosely at his feet. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
“We’ll talk about this when we get home,” his father admonished.
Warren and Tony Sutton exchanged glances.
“Robbie, can you remember when this happened?”
Robbie shook his head, still not meeting anybody’s gaze. “About a week ago. And before Christmas.”
“Can you remember who it was that asked you?”
“Don’t know his name. I see him around sometimes.”
“Do you think you’d recognise him if you saw him again?”
Robbie nodded his head, finally looking up.
“Are you going to arrest me?”
Warren shook his head, trying hard not to smile. “No, you haven’t done anything illegal. But you should be careful taking money off strangers. They might be up to no good and get you into trouble as well.”
“Listen to the man,” said his father reprovingly. “I don’t want to hear about you taking money off people and getting yourself locked up for helping them commit a crime.”
Suitably chastened, the young man nodded.
Rising to his feet, Warren stepped outside the office where Angus Carroway stood waiting.
“Do you think it would be possible to have a printout with photos of all the members of staff that work here?”
Carroway thought for a moment. “It should be possible. Andrea, my assistant, has access to personnel records. I’ll see if she can help.”
It took only a few minutes for Andrea, the young woman in the adjoining office, to access the list of employees and send their headshots to the colour printer. There were several sheets, each containing twenty photos in a four-by-five grid.
Leafing through them, Warren verified that Alex Chalmers’ photograph was amongst them. Placing the sheets in front of Robbie, he told the young man to take his time. After going through the sheets three times, the young man’s answer remained the same.
The man who paid him was not on the list.
Back at the station, there was more news awaiting them. A team of door-knockers had revisited houses close to where both Gemma Allen and Saskia Walker had disappeared and when prompted at least a couple of witnesses at each location had recalled a Royal Mail postal van parked nearby. None of them had thought to mention it when questioned the first time, confirming how easily overlooked the vans were.
Warren and Tony Sutton arranged a briefing with Superintendent John Grayson to discuss their progress and their next steps.
“It’s a damn shame that Robbie Cartwright couldn’t identify who slipped him that tenner. Maybe he can do it in a line-up. Those photos were pretty old and Alex Chalmers has a completely different haircut now,” said Warren.
“Nevertheless there’s been some good work here. Now you just need to work out how this damned Richard Cameron fits into all of this. What’s your next step?”
“We’re drafting a search warrant for those Royal Mail vans as we speak; we’ll get Forensics to give them a good going-over. Hopefully Robbie wasn’t quite as thorough with the hosepipe as he could have been. We don’t have a registration number for the vans seen near Gemma Allen or Saskia Walker, so we’re going to have to impound the whole fleet.”
Grayson winced. The Royal Mail were not going to be happy about having their entire fleet of delivery vans impounded and no doubt he’d get pressure from above to resolve it quickly. Thank God it wasn’t the week before Christmas…
“We’re also about to bring in Darren Blackheath and Alex Chalmers for questioning. We may even be able to arrest and charge them. The main thing is to try and get them to give up Richard Cameron to us.”
Grayson frowned slightly. “I agree that Alex Chalmers is a definite; it’s too much of a coincidence that these Royal Mail vans have been seen in the area of both attacks. However, this Darren Blackheath is a bit more of a stretch. He seems to be part of this largely through circumstance.” He raised one hand, marking off each point with a finger. “He happens to know Alex Chalmers and presumably Carolyn Patterson; we can’t prove his alibi at the time of the attack; he has a dropped charge of rape and he is the boyfriend of the first murder victim. The CPS will never let us charge him on that basis.”
“I see what you are saying, but I still think it’s enough to bring him in for questioning and to hold him for a period of time if necessary. It’s vital that we do so if we are bringing in Alex Chalmers, because if we leave Darren Blackheath free he may well contact Richard Cameron and tip him off. We can’t risk that.”
After a few moments’ consideration, Grayson nodded his agreement. “OK, we’ll do it your way. Bring them in and as soon as the warrants are prepared I’ll arrange for them to be signed and then somebody can go and give the Royal Mail the good news.”
Leaving Grayson’s office, Sutton muttered to Warren, “I notice we’re doing it ‘your way’ again. I wonder who will carry the can for this if we’re wrong and who will take the credit if we’re right?”
“Yeah, well, such is life, Tony. Look on the bright side though. That little weasel Angus Carroway is going to have some explaining to do when his bosses at the Royal Mail want to know why all of their delivery vans are impounded in Welwyn.”
* * *
Arresting the two suspects was a simple and smooth affair. Alex Chalmers finished his shift at exactly one p.m., heading out of the sorting office into the biting wind. Pausing only to light a cigarette, he slipped his headphones in, hunched his shoulders against the snowflakes and started walking, seemingly oblivious to the world around him. He almost jumped out of his skin when Warren tapped him on the shoulder; flanked either side by two burly detective constables on loan from Welwyn. His only protest as he clambered into the back of the unmarked Audi was that he had missed his morning smoke break and they wouldn’t let him finish his cigarette in the car.
Darren Blackheath was manhandling a new tyre onto an old Ford when Tony Sutton appeared at his side. He placed the tyre down, making no move towards any of the dangerous-looking tools within arm’s reach, and followed the three officers to their car. The young man looked tired and worn-down. Sutton couldn’t tell if he was a guilty man resigned to his fate or an innocent man still too grief-stricken to care.
Both men were taken to Middlesbury CID, but processed separately and installed in interview suites at opposite ends of the building. Warren was confident that neither man knew that the other was present.
As soon as Alex Chalmers was safely tucked away, Warren contacted Karen Hardwick. Wishing her luck, he told her to proceed with the next stage.
Four miles away, Karen Hardwick rang the bell of the shabby house, an officer from the domestic violence unit by her side. After a few moments the door opened. Katie Oliver was even bigger than before; it couldn’t be long before she gave birth. Today, no amount of make-up could conceal the split lip.
“Hello, Katie, do you mind if we come in? It’s important.” The young woman nodded silently.
Less than thirty minutes later, Karen Hardwick was on the street again, mobile phone pressed to her ear. Inside, her colleague from the domestic violence unit was helping Katie Oliver pack a suitcase.
“Good news, guv. Katie Oliver confirms it. Alex Chalmers has no alibi for the dates in question — apparently he’s out who knows where several nights a week and she can’t account for his whereabouts. And if you need another reason to hold him, you can finally charge the bastard with assault and ABH.”
Alex Chalmers was in a combative mood by the time Warren and Tony Sutton joined him in the interview room.
“What’s this crap all about? I’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve got nothing on me.”
Tony Sutton ignored his bluster.
“Where were you nine-thirty p.m. on Thursday eighth December when Carolyn Patterson went missing on her way home from the Middlesbury Sports and Leisure Centre?”
“I already told you before. I was having a night in with my missus. Ask her.” He folded his arms triumphantly; however there was a slight tightening of his eyes.
Sutton ignored him. “What about six p.m. or thereabouts on Friday second December?”
“Again, I told you. I was with the missus. In case you ain’t noticed, she’s more than eight months pregnant. Fit to burst any minute. In fact, the sooner you hurry this along, the better. I’d hate to miss the birth.” He smirked, but his cockiness was forced. The man was clearly worried about something.
“How about Saturday seventeenth December? Or a week later, Friday the twenty-third?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to check my social calendar.”
Warren leaned forward. “We know that you weren’t with your girlfriend, Mr Chalmers. I suggest you have another think.”
Chalmers stood up abruptly. “This is bullshit. You haven’t got anything on me. You said yourself, I’m not under arrest, I’m just ‘helping you with enquiries’ — well, I’ve decided to stop helping.” He addressed this last statement directly to the PACE recorder sitting on the table, then raised his middle finger to the ceiling, presumably towards whatever non-existent video-camera he thought was recording the session for posterity.
“I’m off home to look after my pregnant girlfriend.”
“Sit down, Chalmers. We’re not done yet.”
Warren’s voice was low, barely raised, but it had the desired effect. Chalmers paused on the way to the door.
“She won’t be there.” He pointed silently at his lip.
Chalmers got the reference immediately. He paused. Warren could almost see the thoughts whirling around the man’s mind. With no other way out, he resorted to his favourite strategy. A sneer appeared on his lips.
“Oh, that’s what this is all about? A little revenge from Katie.” The man was clearly fabricating on the fly. Warren almost wished there were a camera in the room; Chalmers clearly had no idea how much his innermost thoughts were reflected in his face.
“Well, that’s no good, it’s my word against hers. And this—” he pointed towards his lip “—was self-defence.” His voice turned whiny. “You know what pregnant women are like. They’re all full of hormones and shit. They fly off the handle at the smallest thing. She was threatening me with a knife, one of the big ones from the kitchen. I didn’t want to hurt her, but we wrestled and she caught her face on the cupboard door.” He smiled broadly, trying to look magnanimous. “Anyway I didn’t want any fuss and I forgive her, so I decided not to call the police. She doesn’t need the stress, what with the baby and all that.
“She’s clearly still upset. She’s trying to cause trouble. I’m a good father. I’m in every night looking after her, so she’s my alibi and she knows that. Like I said, it’s her word against mine and no jury in the land will convict me on that. I had nothing to do with those girls’ deaths. You’re just fishing cause of some bullshit allegations from years ago. You ain’t got nothing else, or you’d have arrested me and charged me.”
He sat back, his face smug.
Warren looked at Sutton, who sighed theatrically, his expression clearly saying, “Where do we begin?”
Warren started. “You don’t know much about juries. Let me paint you a picture. This is what they will see. Photographs of a heavily pregnant young woman with bruises on her arms, and her chin and a split lip. They will then see her boyfriend, a big tattooed thug. The neighbours have already called the police once, claiming that you were beating her. We’ll apply to the court to have permission to submit the previous allegations as evidence of bad character and, of course, we’ll get Carolyn Patterson’s mum on the stand to give evidence regarding the bruises that she saw.
“They won’t see a young woman trying to get revenge by causing trouble for her boyfriend. Oh, no. What they’ll see is a brave young woman who was terrorised by her violent boyfriend into giving him a false alibi, who finally plucked up the courage to do the right thing and admit she was lying.”