No Smoke Without Fire (A DCI Warren Jones Novel - Book 2)

by Paul Gitsham

  After what seemed like an age, the door opened. Neither man could have been prepared for what they saw.

  * * *

  “That bastard Hedgecox must have known,” ranted Sutton in the car on the way back to the station. “I’ll bet he’s laughing all over that stupid, smug face of his.”

  “You’re probably right.” Warren stole a glance at his colleague, whose foul temper was as much to do with a lack of sleep as a genuine grievance.

  “You’ve got to admit, it was pretty funny, though.”

  Sutton scowled, before slowly shaking his head and eventually breaking into a grin. “We must be knackered. I can’t believe we missed all of the clues. The car, the driveway… It was all there in front of us.”

  “Well, at least we know he wasn’t responsible for last night’s attack — he’d never have got down that narrow alleyway.”

  Both men burst out laughing.

  “I’ll remember the look on your face as long as I live.” Sutton chuckled. “The way you were staring at eye height as the door opened, before slowly looking down until you saw him. Then the way you asked, all hopeful, ‘Is Mr Woods in?’ and he replied, ‘I am Mr Woods.’”

  Warren shook his head, enjoying the brief moment of levity. The suspect had been a surprise to both of them. A hugely obese, older man, he had appeared at the door to his especially adapted bungalow on his mobility scooter.

  “Still, can’t be too careful, boss, and I think it was quite right that you didn’t make any assumptions and asked if he could account for his whereabouts last night.”

  “Yeah, I thought he was a bit rude, to tell the truth. Probably a good job I didn’t ask him about the last time he had an escort around the house.”

  Chapter 35

  Back at the station, Warren was definitely feeling the effects of his early wake-up call. He chugged yet more coffee as he sat back at his desk, reading reports. It seemed that some progress had at least been made with the mysterious woman that Sally Evans’ father claimed to have been with the night that she was killed. DC Willis and DS Johnson had been working with the IT department, the financial crimes section and local magistrates to put pressure on the dating site to reveal details about Bill Evans’ lover, ‘Boadicea’.

  They finally traced her payment details, linking it to a credit card belonging to the rather less flamboyantly named ‘Mary Samson’, who lived in the small village of Cottenham just north of Cambridge. Aware of the need for a degree of sensitivity, Warren decided to take only DC Annabel Willis along with him to interview her.

  They arrived unannounced at a smart-looking cottage on the outskirts of the village, close to the local secondary school. After they rang the bell, the door was answered by an older man in his late fifties or early sixties, wearing a clerical collar. Two small, identical faces peeked around his legs. His heart sank. The possibility of red faces all around had just increased exponentially. He’d have to be tactful here.

  “Er, hello, my name is Detective Chief Inspector Warren Jones and this is Detective Constable Annabel Willis. We’re looking for Mrs Mary Samson. Is she home?”

  “Reverend Christopher Samson. I’m afraid that she has just popped out to take some cakes over to the school disco. You’re welcome to wait for her. She’s due back any moment — although she’s chairing a council meeting in an hour or so. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  Oh, dear God, this just gets worse, thought Warren. Vicar’s wife and mother, local councillor, heavily involved in the local school… He would be treading lightly to say the least.

  “I’m afraid that we need to speak to Mrs Samson directly; just a couple of questions to help us in a routine enquiry. Your wife isn’t in any trouble, I assure you.”

  The vicar laughed heartily.

  “I never thought for one second that she was. She’s as honest as the day is long, my beautiful Mary. Please, come in. The kettle has just boiled.”

  Entering the house — the vicarage, Warren now realised — they made for the living room. As the priest headed for the kitchen Warren turned to DC Willis.

  “I know what you’re going to say, sir, and I’m quite happy to let you do the talking,” she interrupted, grinning puckishly.

  “Probably for the best. This one has the potential for embarrassment all around.” Warren sighed.

  The two officers sat awkwardly for the next ten minutes, sipping tea. The Reverend Samson was a genial host and, whilst he was clearly very curious about the reason for their visit, he managed to avoid asking any questions.

  Finally, the front door opened and a short, skinny, dark-haired woman Warren guessed to be in her early forties bustled through the door, carrying an armful of empty Tupperware cake boxes. A young teenage lad followed behind, similarly laden.

  “The cakes went down well, sweetheart,” she called out as she entered the room. Seeing the two officers, she stopped.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you had company.” She didn’t seem at all surprised; unexpected visitors were clearly not unusual in the vicarage.

  “Actually, my dear, they are here to see you.” The Reverend Samson stood up.

  Mary Samson looked surprised, but her open face was guileless.

  Warren introduced himself and Annabel, before reassuring her that she wasn’t in any trouble, they just needed her assistance in a routine enquiry. The Reverend Samson was either very tactful or it genuinely was time for the twins to get ready for bed, so Warren was spared the awkwardness of having to ask for a private word.

  When he had gone, Warren gestured for her to sit down. Looking at her, he could see that she was even younger than he had first thought; he wondered if she had even had her fortieth birthday yet.

  “What is this about, Officer?” she inquired. She still looked bemused, with no traces of guilt. The woman obviously had a clear conscience, at least as far as the law went.

  “Can you tell me if you know a Mr Bill Evans?” started Warren.

  The woman in front of him thought for a moment, before shaking her head.

  “No, I don’t believe so. We have a large parish and I can’t claim to know the names of everyone, but the name isn’t familiar.”

  Warren resigned himself to the fact that she wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

  “You may know him by another name, Arthur, and he would know you by the name Boadicea.”

  It was as if he’d slapped her across the face. The flush of redness was almost alarming and she nearly dropped her cup of tea.

  “How…? Who…? How did you know about that?”

  “That’s not important, right now. Could you tell us how you know Mr Evans?”

  The woman stared at the floor, before continuing in a shaky voice.

  “I don’t really know him at all. He’s just an…acquaintance. I don’t see what I could possibly help you with.”

  Warren leant forward. “Mrs Samson, we’re not here to cause you any trouble…” he glanced meaningfully at the door that her husband had left through “…and I appreciate that this could be a very delicate situation. I assure you that once we have found out what we need to know, you are unlikely to hear from us again.”

  Mary Samson took a handkerchief out of her sleeve and wiped her eyes with it. Taking a deep, shaky breath, she started talking.

  “I’ve known Arthur…er, Bill, for about a year. We met on the Internet on a special website catering for people who wanted, well, you know…” Warren nodded sympathetically, motioning for her to continue.

  “It’s not that I don’t love my husband. Really, I do, and we have three beautiful children. It’s just that he’s a lot older than me — twenty-two years, can you believe? When we first met, he wasn’t a priest, he was just a deacon. I’d finished a very stressful relationship and he was so kind to me… Anyway, one thing led to another and we ended up getting married. My friends all said it wouldn’t work, of course — he was nearing fifty and I was barely twenty-five — but it did and I haven’t regret
ted a single moment.” She paused for breath and Warren felt obliged to interrupt her.

  “You don’t have to justify your actions to us, Mrs Samson. We’re just here for information.”

  Mary Samson shook her head. “No. You are the only people apart from my best friend that I’ve told about this. The guilt has been eating me up inside. In fact my New Year resolution was going to be to break it off.”

  “So how did your arrangement work?”

  “Well, at first it works pretty much like any dating site. You put in your preferences and what you are looking for and they send you a series of matches. If you find someone that you like the look of, you can chat to them through their site. However, unlike normal sites, if you decide you want a bit more privacy and to move away from the site, they will — for a small fee — send you an unregistered Pay As You Go SIM card for your mobile phone and arrange anonymous email addresses so that you can continue getting to know each other.

  “Eventually, we decided to meet up for coffee. We decided from the start not to use our real names. I think he’s married as well. Well, we hit it off and one thing led to another… Anyway, we agreed early on that it was just sex. We had no desire to start a relationship beyond that, so we decided to just keep it as a regular appointment. A few days before the first weekend of the month, I’d log onto my email account and send him an email and we’d arrange when I could call. Then I’d put my SIM card in at the appropriate time and call him and we’d arrange when to meet up.”

  So far, the story matched Bill Evans’ version, but Warren wanted a few more details before he accepted his story and verified his alibi.

  “Can you tell us where this…liaison…takes place?”

  “There’s a Travelodge just north of Cambridge. As far as Christopher, my husband, is concerned, I go out to the movies with my best friend each Friday and stay with her overnight in Huntingdon. Christopher has no interest in the cinema and so he’s quite happy for me to go with Michelle.”

  “Can you tell us when the last time that you met up with Bill was?” asked Warren.

  “The first Friday of this month, our usual time — I guess the second.”

  “And at about what time did you meet?”

  “We don’t like to be seen around, so we meet at a country pub out in the sticks somewhere, have a meal, then go straight back to the hotel. We met up at about six p.m. in The Queen and Corgi near Peterborough last time.”

  A pub meal followed by a dirty rendevous in a Travelodge — how romantic, thought Warren wryly, concentrating on keeping a straight face. They’d need to verify what they’d been told, but it seemed that Bill Evans’ alibi was true and that he was the better part of fifty miles away when Sally Evans was kidnapped.

  After a few more procedural questions, the two officers stood to leave.

  “You won’t need to mention my name in whatever it is you are investigating, will you?” The dark-haired woman chewed her lip nervously.

  “I can assure you that it is very unlikely that we will need to name you publicly,” stated Warren, before taking his leave of the red-faced woman.

  Climbing into the car, Annabel Willis finally spoke up.

  “A vicar’s wife living in a tiny little rural village, having sordid sexual encounters in the local Travelodge. You couldn’t make it up, sir.”

  “You definitely see all sorts in this job,” agreed Warren.

  “I’ve also won a fiver as well, sir.”

  “Really? How so?”

  “Sergeant Johnson was convinced that with a username like Boadicea, she had to be tall, blonde and Nordic-looking with a huge cleavage. He’ll be ever so disappointed.”

  * * *

  It was approaching seven p.m. when Warren and Annabel pulled into the station car park. Waves of tiredness were starting to roll over Warren as he trudged wearily up the stairs. Just a quick word with the troops and one last check of his email for anything urgent and it was time to leave, Warren decided. He desperately needed a good night’s sleep.

  After a few minutes spent briefing a similarly exhausted Tony Sutton and the rest of the team, Warren found himself slumped in front of his office computer. Realising that he hadn’t been processing anything that he’d read for the past few minutes, Warren decided to right-click his most recent emails, re-categorise them as ‘unread’ and return to them in the morning.

  The sudden drill-like vibration of his phone, resting next to his elbow on his wooden desk, startled him into wakefulness.

  “I hope you haven’t forgotten that you were supposed to be picking me up and driving us to the party at seven,” was Susan’s opening line when he picked up.

  Warren glanced at the clock — ten-past, “No, of course not. I just got out of a meeting,” he fibbed. “I’m just about to leave. I’ll pick you up on the way.”

  He couldn’t tell from Susan’s tone if she’d bought the lie or not.

  “Don’t forget we’re also picking up Rachel and her husband Paulo on the way.”

  “Yes, of course. Ring them and let them know I’m on my way.”

  Hanging up, Warren allowed himself a brief ten seconds with his eyes closed. He groaned quietly. He had been looking forward to an early night; the last thing he wanted to do was attend Susan’s staff Christmas party. However he’d promised to drive her and her colleague, Rachel. The party was being held midweek in a local hotel — a venue large enough would have been prohibitively expensive on a weekend this close to Christmas.

  Apparently the Christmas party a few years ago had been a riotous affair, leaving such a legacy of gossip and ill feeling that the head teacher had stipulated that in future staff should be encouraged to bring their spouses or partners, in the hope that this would curb the worst excesses. Regardless, Susan had admitted that the following day the kids were likely to be treated to a selection of DVDs and rather less challenging lessons, and woe betide anyone who misbehaved before the staff had their morning coffee break…

  Fortunately, the unpredictable nature of his work meant that Warren kept a few different changes of clothes in a locker downstairs and he hastily changed into a pair of smart black jeans and a plain, short-sleeved shirt. With no time for a shower he made do with a quick puff of deodorant and a squirt of cologne.

  Running a comb through his hair in front of a mirror, he realised that he had nearly two days of stubble and hadn’t brushed his teeth in almost twenty-four hours. There was nothing that he could do about the beard — maybe he could pass it off as a fashion statement — but he could at least give his teeth a quick scrub to get rid of the worst of the coffee breath.

  By now, Warren’s stomach was rumbling. He’d skipped breakfast and only managed a cheese sandwich and a banana for lunch. Would there be food at the party? He hadn’t thought to ask. At least he was driving — the way he was feeling, the last thing he needed was alcohol on an empty stomach. That really would be asking for trouble.

  Snatching up his coat, he headed for the car park. At some point in the last twenty minutes it had started to rain heavily and he found himself playing a rather ungainly game of hopscotch as he tried to avoid the rapidly growing puddles.

  Susan’s first comment as she clambered into the car outside the house was a discouraging, “Is that what you’re wearing?”

  Susan was dressed, Warren noted, in a pair of sheer tights and a very nice red figure-hugging dress. He couldn’t recall ever seeing it before, suggesting that she perhaps hadn’t been entirely forthcoming when she told Warren the party was ‘just casual’.

  Warren’s apologies for being late fell on deaf ears and they drove the short distance to Rachel and Paulo’s house in silence. Fortunately, the mood lightened considerably when Rachel joined them. A buxom blonde Geordie, she was dressed in a dark green dress and wrapped all over in shiny red tinsel. From the amount of giggling it was clear that she’d already started partying at home. Her husband Paulo was an on-call IT trouble-shooter and had been called out at the last minute to fix a cli
ent’s computer. Consequently, Warren’s tardiness was suddenly a lot less of an issue.

  The party was well under way when they arrived and was pretty much what Warren had expected. A large multi-purpose function room decked with Christmas decorations — all safely out of the reach of drunken revellers, removing the need to redecorate after each party. A bored-looking twenty-something sat behind an Apple Macbook and a rack of portable disco lights, playing some sort of game on his mobile phone.

  To Warren’s disappointment, there was no sign of any food. He’d play it safe and wait until Susan was well oiled before he slipped out to find a chippy, he decided.

  Rachel insisted on getting the first round of drinks in as a thank you for driving her. By the time she had fought her way back from the bar, Warren had been introduced to everyone within arm’s reach and his head was swimming with names and faces. It didn’t help that some of the people he was introduced to didn’t work in Susan’s department, so their names hadn’t cropped up in previous conversations.

  Unfortunately, everyone seemed to know exactly who he was — the detective in charge of a double murder enquiry, he was something of a minor celebrity at Susan’s school. Despite his discomfort, Warren felt a slight warm glow. It was clear that Susan spoke of him at work. When she next came within arm’s reach he took the opportunity to give her a peck on the cheek and a gentle squeeze.

  By half-past eight, Warren found that he was actually rather enjoying himself. The DJ, for all of his flaws, was attentive to the audience’s mood, successfully identifying and then predicting the sort of music that would go down well, rather than trying to impose his own taste. After a couple of stress-filled weeks, this rare opportunity to unwind was welcome and he even found himself on the dance floor bopping to those seventies and eighties disco classics that any party DJ worth his salt had a hard drive full of.