The DCI Warren Jones Series Books 1–3 - Paul Gitsham

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The announcer then revealed that two men, believed to be former colleagues, had been assisting the police with their inquiries. This was followed by a brief statement from the university, which spoke of the shock of the loss of such a highly respected colleague and that he would be greatly missed, thus contradicting pretty much everything that Warren had been led to believe that morning.

      Glancing at the clock again, Warren saw that it was still only twenty-to seven. With any luck, he should make it in time to enjoy a quick plate of something before the show started. Relaxing a little, he retuned the radio to Heart; a guilty pleasure, their playlist reminded him of happy drunken nights in the students’ union so many years before. Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he couldn’t help humming along to the theme music to Fame. As he did so the tension seemed to drain out of him. His stomach rumbled and he started to fantasise about what he might have to eat. The restaurant was an Italian, he recalled, so something quick like a bowl of pasta, he decided. Meatballs would certainly fill the aching void. With lots of grated Parmesan. He glanced at the speedometer: sixty-five miles per hour. A bit over the limit, but not enough to get picked up. He decided to chance his arm a bit, since the road was so quiet, and edged up to seventy.

      Pretty soon, however, it was time to ease back as the road started to wind through the quaint-sounding villages of this part of south Cambridgeshire. Soon enough he entered the village of Foxton and slowed to thirty; then watched in disbelief as the warning lights of the railway crossing started their amber flashing. He was too far away. Even if he dropped the car to second gear and floored it, he would probably be caught on CCTV as he skirted under the lowering barriers. He could imagine the headlines now: ‘Police Chief Inspector Caught Dodging Trains at Level Crossing’. Christ, that was all he needed.

      As he eased to a halt the barriers finally clanked into place. Now other headlines filled his mind, ‘Police Chief Inspector Found Frozen to Death by Mother-in-law’s Disapproving Stare’ being the most prominent. Warren shook his head. Mother-in-law jokes? He must be tired. Drumming his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, Warren prayed for an express train. A minute passed.

      Nothing.

      With a sigh, he turned the engine off, deciding that he might as well save some fuel.

      Two minutes passed. The barrier was automatic, triggered by a passing train a couple of miles up the track. Unfortunately, the barriers didn’t differentiate between a fast-moving express train and a slow-moving freight train, the latter taking much longer to pass through than the express, of course. Finally the train arrived. Two locomotives hauling trucks laden with coal. It couldn’t have been travelling at more than twenty miles per hour. No wonder, thought Warren as almost two minutes later the fortieth and final truck passed by. Warren restarted his engine.

      Two minutes later he turned it off again. The alternating red lights remained stubbornly on, the barriers locked down. Finally a passenger train clanked past the barriers and into the station. Despite the train stopping past the crossing, leaving it clear, the barriers remained firmly in place. By now Warren was fantasising about ramming the barriers. In his mind’s eye he replayed scenes from 1980s’ TV shows, many of which featured reckless drivers either jumping over or smashing through level crossings without even scratching their paint.

      Finally, the passenger train started off again, crawling out of the station. Warren resisted the urge to start the engine again, a brief flash of superstition suddenly convincing him that to do so would simply result in the barriers remaining down for another train. Finally, with almost no warning, the barriers started to lift. Warren restarted his engine and shot over the crossing.

      He glanced at the clock. To his dismay, it was now gone seven and he had yet to buy any flowers and he still had to negotiate the Cambridge traffic. Entering the outskirts of the city, he sailed past the Trumpington Park and Ride. Even if he had the time to park up and wait for the bus, Warren had learnt the hard way that the park and ride was not designed for much more than afternoon shopping. He and Susan had decided to use it one Saturday but had then made the mistake of staying out on a whim for a quick bite to eat and an early-evening film at the leisure park. After waiting for thirty minutes in the rain opposite the sixth-form college, it soon became clear that the park and ride stopped running ridiculously early. A quick look on the internet had revealed a rather unpalatable choice between catching a regular bus to within a half mile or so of the park and ride then walking the rest of the way in the rain, or forking out fifteen quid for a cab to the car park. They chose the latter. The cab driver agreed with them that it was a farce and a disgrace, but seemed cheerful enough when they handed over their money.

      Warren kept his eyes peeled, looking for a garage. Finally, he spotted one and pulled into the forecourt. A plastic bucket by the front door held a single bunch of flowers. Warren didn’t know enough about flowers to even attempt to name the species, but he did know enough to see why these were the last bunch. Oh, well, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Entering the garage to pay for the flowers, Warren finally accepted that he had missed any chance of a meal at the restaurant. The small shop had a tiny refrigerator filled with cans and bottles of drink. He selected a bottle of Diet Coke for the caffeine, although he was tempted to go the whole hog and risk palpitations from one of the so-called ‘energy drinks’. The top shelf also held a couple of sandwiches and rolls. Picking through them, he saw that the selection included everything from mixed salad to ham and tomato and even coronation chicken, but no cheese. Not even something he could pick the crap off. The shelf below had a couple of Ginsters pasties — Spicy Chicken and Peppered Steak. Not even a Cornish or a cheese and onion slice. Warren’s stomach rumbled loudly. In desperation he turned to the snacks aisle. Finally, he settled on a couple of bags of crisps and a chocolate bar. As an afterthought, he also grabbed some strong mints to hide the smell of the crisps on his breath. Susan nagged him about his diet a lot. Since he’d met her, his palate had widened considerably; however Susan would eat pretty much anything and just couldn’t understand, try as she might, Warren’s faddy tastes.

      Back in the car, Warren texted Susan, telling her that he was in Cambridge and would meet her at the Corn Exchange, before setting off again. Warren disliked driving in Cambridge. The roads were narrow and the one-way system had no apparent logic. Added to that the seemingly endless roadworks and Warren could see why the park and ride, despite its limited running times, was so popular. Warren decided to follow the signs for the Grand Arcade car park, since that was the closest to the theatre. As ever, Warren kept his eyes firmly glued to the road, watching out for foreign students looking the wrong way when crossing and suicidally arrogant cyclists meandering from lane to lane without signalling.

      Somehow, Warren made it into the car park without any mishaps. He was exhausted. He tried to calculate how many hours he’d spent awake out of the past forty-eight, but his brain was too tired to process the calculation. He had a few minutes to spare and so devoured the crisps and chocolate bar. Temporarily sated, his stomach stopped rumbling for what seemed like the first time in hours. Unscrewing the bottle of Diet Coke, he chugged half of it before finally grabbing the flowers, locking the car and heading for the theatre.

      Warren arrived at the Corn Exchange at a quarter to eight. Pulling out his phone, he saw that he had just missed a text from Susan.

      ‘Inside. Your ticket’s at the box office.’

      No name or kisses. Damn, Susan must be pissed off, he realised. He’d hoped to at least make his apologies outside before going into the theatre, but never mind. Queuing impatiently, he finally retrieved his ticket.

      Glancing at the stub to remind himself what they were seeing, he realised that the show’s name meant nothing to him. He couldn’t tell if it was a comedy, a play or even a musical. Declining the offer of an exorbitantly priced programme from the young girl at the door to the auditorium, Warren made his way into the dimmed theatre. Whatever the play was, it was clearly popular. Almost every seat was filled. Naturally, his seat was in the middle of the row. Apologising profusely, he squeezed his way between the narrow seating, almost standing on Dennis’ foot, before finally reaching his seat. He was sandwiched between Susan and Bernice. At his arrival, he saw Susan relax. “Sorry,” he mouthed before turning to Bernice. “Happy birthday, Bernice, sorry I missed the meal.” He offered the flowers to her and pecked her proffered cheek.

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