Read No Smoke Without Fire (A DCI Warren Jones Novel - Book 2) Online
Authors: Paul Gitsham
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 7
th
December
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.
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.
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.”