No Smoke Without Fire - Paul Gitsham DCI Warren Jones

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Chapter 11

      It was nearly eleven by the time Warren and Sutton finished at the station. Bill Evans had been picked up by his wife after handing over the keys to his BMW. The car was now on a flatbed truck, heading towards the vehicle crime specialists where it would join Darren Blackheath’s pride and joy.

      As he walked across the car park the icy wind did little to lift the fatigue that settled around Warren like a blanket. It was always the same. The first few days of any murder investigation were necessarily frenetic. At this stage, the passage of hours mattered. The perpetrators had time to cover their tracks, witnesses’ memories started to fade and delicate evidence would degrade or disappear.

      Climbing into his car, he caught the reflection of the station’s lights in the wing mirrors. Almost every window was brightly lit, shadowy forms moving around inside. Grayson’s office and his were the only dark windows.

      A brief stab of guilt was quickly repressed. He could go back in and easily work through the night, but experience had taught him his limits. There was a whole team following the leads that had already been generated; he would just be getting in the way. Besides, he needed the rest to lead effectively; far better to get a good night’s sleep and hit the ground running early the next morning. If anything urgent turned up, he trusted his team’s judgement to decide if he should be called or if it could be added to his morning task list.

      Waving goodbye to Sutton, Warren drove the short distance home. Letting himself in, he found Susan sound asleep on the sofa, two piles of red exercise books next to her, another book open on her lap. One pile was much taller than the other — Warren sincerely hoped that was the completed set. The TV played quietly in the background: some dreadful-looking ‘reality’ show that he knew his wife would have immediately turned over if she had been awake.

      The slight draft from the open door caused Susan to stir. “What time is it?” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

      “Late,” replied Warren, bending over to kiss her forehead. She smiled, before glancing down at the pile of books.

      “Oh, no. I promised 9D2 I’d mark their books before the lesson tomorrow.” She groaned. “I shouldn’t have sat on the sofa to mark. I knew I’d fall asleep.” She picked up her red pen again. “I’ll be another hour at least.”

      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 7th 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

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