Read No Smoke Without Fire (A DCI Warren Jones Novel - Book 2) Online
Authors: Paul Gitsham
Warren leant back in his chair. “Tell us what you were doing on those nights or we’ll charge you and you can take your chances with a jury.”
Chalmers stared at them, trying to maintain a poker face, but his darting eyes and the beads of sweat gave him away. Finally, he came to a decision.
“It’s bullshit. If that’s all you’ve got, then screw you. I wasn’t doing anything on those nights and you can’t prove anything. If you have nothing except me not having an alibi, then charge me and we’ll see what the court says.”
He leant back, arms folded. It was his last desperate ploy and on the face of it a good one. A lack of alibi was circumstantial at best and, even with his past history as an abuser, the principle of ‘no smoke without fire’ wasn’t yet enough to convict a man in an English court of law.
Tony Sutton glanced over at Warren, who nodded slightly.
“You have a good job at the post office, yes?”
The change in direction threw Chalmers off balance. “Yeah, it’s OK, I suppose. A bit crap in weather like this,” he tried to joke.
Sutton smiled, but he didn’t look amused.
“Well, I suppose that when the weather gets really bad and you have loads of parcels, they let you put away the bicycles.”
“Yeah, of course.”
“What would you say if I told you that every time one of those young women disappeared, a Royal Mail postal delivery van was spotted in the area at the same time?”
Chalmers shrugged, the confusion written clearly across his face.
Warren took over. “Tell me about your little agreement with Angus Carroway and the keys to the delivery vans. He tells us you’ve borrowed a van quite a few times.”
Chalmers squirmed in his seat. Warren could see the man trying to work out the implications of what Warren had just accused him of. Not wanting to give him any time to fabricate an answer, he pressed on.
“Tell me, how did you and Darren Blackheath hook up with Richard Cameron?”
It was like a slap across Chalmers’ face. His eyes widened in horror as he clearly recognised the name of the man the papers had dubbed the ‘Middlesbury Monster’.
“Oh, no. No way.”
Warren and Tony Sutton watched in fascination as the man in front of them crumbled. All of his cockiness disappeared and he seemed to shrink in on himself.
“OK,” he croaked, “I admit, the alibis aren’t real. I’ll tell you where I was on those nights, but it isn’t what you think.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Tony Sutton and Warren Jones emerged from the interview room. The two men had a lot of information to process. Warren’s head was spinning and he couldn’t decide what to believe and what it meant. A few moments later a beaten and defeated Alex Chalmers emerged, held firmly by the station’s custody sergeant.
“You remember that bit at the beginning where I said that he had the right to a lawyer and that he didn’t have to answer anything?” Warren asked. Sutton nodded. “Silly bastard should have listened.”
It was time for another brainstorming session as Warren shared the day’s developments so far.
“So basically, Alex Chalmers has been out dealing in stolen goods and using the postal delivery vans to move large items around.” Karen Hardwick sounded incredulous.
“That’s what he claims. He admitted it when he thought we were going to charge him with the murders. However, there’s a fly in the ointment. He swears blind that whilst he was not in the house on the nights of the murders, he hadn’t borrowed a van. In fact, he made the exact same point that we did — why would a postal delivery van be out and about at half-nine at night? He reckons he only borrowed them in the afternoon after he finished his shift.” Warren raised his palms in surrender; he knew it was a big coincidence.
“So, assuming that we believe him, the van was being driven by somebody else those nights?” asked Gary Hastings. “And what about Darren Blackheath?”
“We haven’t questioned him yet — he’s still cooling his heels downstairs. Chalmers admits that they are friends but swears that Blackheath has nothing to do with his fencing operation.”
“Could Blackheath have got access to a delivery van through him?”
“Anything’s possible, but Chalmers claims not. He also claims not to have any knowledge of Richard Cameron.”
“Although I don’t think that’s much of a surprise,” Sutton grumbled.
“Right, we need to check out both men’s stories. Let’s see if we can find somebody willing to vouch for Chalmers on the nights in question. I’ll leave it to you, Tony, to figure out how to get hardened thieves to incriminate themselves by admitting they were fencing stolen goods with Alex Chalmers on the nights in question.”
“Thanks, guv,” grumbled Tony Sutton.
“We should also take a look at the rest of the names in Carroway’s motor pool and see if any more of them have form or any links to Richard Cameron. And check the CCTV at the depot — maybe there’s footage of whoever borrowed the van.
“In the meantime, let’s look at this from another angle. I can’t believe it’s a coincidence that a post van was seen at every scene. What does that mean? How can that be linked to Richard Cameron? Take a few minutes, have a coffee and get your imaginations going, everybody.”
As everybody filed out of the room, Warren closed his eyes briefly, half listening to the babble of conversations. He tuned them out, trusting his team to thrash their way through any suggestions, testing them for plausibility before bringing them to him.
“I’ll say one thing, Chief, this is definitely a birthday you’ll remember.” Tony Sutton patted his boss’ back in sympathy.
Warren chuckled, despite himself. “Yeah, when people ask me how I spent my thirty-fifth birthday, I’ll be able to tell them I spent it hunting a serial killer in an office full of Christmas decorations as the snow came down outside.”
Sutton snorted. “Thirty-five my arse. We’re detectives, no point trying to lie about your age.” He looked out of the window at the blustery blizzard. “Looks as if it’s going to settle. It’s a good job you’ve got that nice new coat.”
“Yeah, Susan’s sister sent it to me from the Alps, would you believe?”
“Bloody hell. Got a few bob, have they? What was the postage like?”
“Too much, you don’t want to know…” Warren’s voice trailed off. Sutton opened his mouth, but closed it again immediately as Warren raised his hand.
Sometimes it just struck you. Like a puzzle with all the pieces when the final pattern suddenly started to become clear. Warren was reminded of the dream he’d had the night that Melanie Clearwater was attacked. A half-dozen pieces seemed ready to click into place and for a moment Warren was paralysed with indecision. What to do first? Leaping to his feet, he pulled out his mobile, hurrying into the main office and at the same time calling over his shoulder to Tony Sutton.
“We’ve been barking up the wrong tree. Completely. We’ve been so obsessed with finding a link between Blackheath, Chalmers and Cameron and tying them to their victims that we’ve completely missed what’s under our nose.”
* * *
Warren startled Gary Hastings, who was deep in conversation with DS Kent.
“Gary, do you have any enhanced images of the team tops that the football team were wearing?”
“Nothing enhanced, but some of them are clearer than others.” Opening a folder on his PC revealed a series of thumbnail images from the leisure centre’s CCTV footage.
“See if you can work out what the logo is on their left chest. Bring up the best image you have on the screen.”
As Gary Hastings complied Warren dialled Susan on her mobile phone. Just as he’d hoped, his wife was at home. Unfortunately, she was busy preparing Warren his favourite meal — a meal that he had forgotten all about. Her voice was decidedly chilly by the time Warren admitted that he couldn’t promise to be home at a decent hour. ‘Channelling the spirit of Bernice’ was how Warren privately thought of it. Nevertheless, she agreed to his request.
Turning to DS Kent, Warren asked him to look through the interview files. He needed full confirmation of something that he half remembered, before he could put all of the pieces together.
“Got it — it’s their team sponsor,” said Gary Hastings, pointing out the logo. “But if you want a better image than that, it’s splashed all over their website and Facebook page.”
At that moment Warren’s mobile beeped — a text message with an attached photo from Susan.
“There you are, sir — World Wide Parcel Logistics.” A bright yellow logo, comprised of a stylised, wire-frame globe and a sweeping arrow with an envelope giving the impression of mail being rushed across the globe, all sitting upon a pedestal composed of the letters WWPL with a trademark sign.
Warren opened the photo message on his phone; the same logo was affixed to the parcel delivered to him just that morning. The parcel delivered to him by Parcelforce — the Royal Mail’s parcel delivery and courier service.
Without being asked, Gary Hastings opened a new webpage, following the link from the Middlesbury Football Club’s homepage. Clicking on ‘About’, he scanned the page.
“World Wide Parcel Logistics is a European-based company, specialising in the delivery of mail and packages of all sizes throughout the European Union and beyond. The majority shareholder is Royal Mail, which has delivered WWPL mail in the UK via its existing Parcelforce delivery network since 2008.”
“Click on the link marked ‘Depot Finder’,” instructed Warren, his heart pounding.
Hastings typed CID’s postcode into the pop-up box.
Red push-pins denoted the locations of WWPL depots across a map of the East of England. Centre of the map, less than one mile from CID headquarters, was the nearest WWPL depot: based at the Royal Mail sorting office.
DS Kent appeared at Warren’s elbow, a piece of paper in his hand. “Good memory, sir. Cameron’s son, Michael Stockley, works for a logistics firm. Care to guess which one?”
“WWPL?”
“Bingo.”
Warren instructed Tony Sutton to round everybody up, Detective Superintendent Grayson included, in the briefing room in ten minutes. He wanted everybody to examine his theory before they started making arrests. In the meantime, Warren phoned Yvonne Fairweather.
“Constable, are you with Melanie Clearwater?”
“No, I’m in Stevenage.”
Warren swore, then apologised.
“However, one of my colleagues was due to meet her this afternoon, now that they’ve reopened the ward. She might still be at the hospital.”
“Is there any way you can send some pictures over for Mel to look at, to see if she recognises them?”
“Sure, if you text them to me, I’ll forward them on.”
It seemed to take an age for Warren’s handset to upload two good quality images over the mobile network. As it did so, he paced his office. If his hunch with the photos was right then it added yet another layer of complexity to the story. There was great potential here for a world-class screw-up, he realised, with all of their hard work destroyed through carelessness. The killer had expertly covered his tracks. Most of the evidence was still circumstantial; they had to make certain that everything was in place before they made their arrest.
Finally, Warren’s phone rang; he didn’t recognise the number.
“DCI Jones?”
“Speaking.”
“It’s Fatma Mehmet from the vulnerable persons unit.” She sounded irritated. “I wish you’d given me some more warning before that stunt you just pulled.”
Warren’s breath caught in his throat. “Did she recognise either of them?”
Mehmet snorted. “You could say that. The poor girl’s beside herself. She recognised them both.”
* * *
The team were back in the briefing room, yet again.
“So basically, it’s been Michael Stockley helping his father all along?” summarised Karen Hardwick.
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think Richard Cameron has anything to do with it. Melanie Clearwater just confirmed the last piece in the puzzle. A few days before she was beaten up and left for dead, Michael Stockley picked her up and took her to a bed and breakfast where she had sex with an older man she has identified as Richard Cameron. Looking at the date, it was probably his idea of a birthday treat for the old man. Stockley was apparently obsessed that his father reached climax, even going so far as to check the waste bin for a used condom. What I think happened then was that he took the condom and stored it in a refrigerator, then used it to plant his father’s semen at the scene of his next rapes and murders. That would explain why the technician spotted such a big drop in sperm motility. They can only survive for a short time without being properly stored and frozen.”
“So where’s his father in all of this?” asked Gary Hastings.
“My money’s on dead. I reckon if we take the sniffer dogs out to one of their far fields we’ll find evidence of a freshly dug hole. Richard Cameron would provide a convenient scapegoat for all of this, letting Stockley carry on raping whilst we chase after the ghost of his father.”
“So when do we bring him in?”
“Any moment now. We’re preparing the warrants as we speak and the Crown Prosecution Service is going over our evidence before we arrest. We can’t afford for him to go free on a technicality. Who knows what he might do?
“DI Sutton is over at the depot leading the search of his office; Stockley finished work a few hours ago. He has all sorts of equipment that he needs for the attacks, yet we haven’t found a trace of it at the farmhouse. He must be storing it somewhere. Tony found a locker key taped to the bottom of a drawer in his desk and he’s checking all of the staff lockers to see which one the key fits.”
Gary Hastings smirked slightly, but restrained himself from saying anything.
Warren’s phone rang and he glanced at the caller ID. “That’s him now. Tony, what have you found?”
Warren’s face became grimmer and grimmer as the call went on. Eventually he told Sutton to return to the station, before hanging up.
“He’s identified the locker, but it’s empty. Worse than that, he says that the vehicle forensics team down at the postal depot have been discreetly bringing in the delivery vans and impounding them as they finished their morning runs. They’re missing one. It looks as if somebody in Angus Carroway’s unofficial motor pool has helped themselves. If he has taken his rape kit and he has got himself a post van I think we have to assume he’s getting ready to strike again.”