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

by Paul Gitsham

  After a leisurely Sunday morning lie-in, they’d felt recharged enough to return to Granddad Jack’s by midday ready for Sunday lunch and the reception. Already, he had started mentally referring to the house as ‘Granddad Jack’s’, he realised, not ‘Nana Betty’s and Granddad Jack’s’ — despite all of the memories, it was as if her spirit had departed the house along with her body.

  Sitting down at the dining-room table, he switched on Susan’s laptop before remembering that his grandparents didn’t have wireless Internet. In fact they didn’t have any type of Internet connection. Digital TV had been the last big technological revolution to hit the elderly couple and only then because the government was switching off the analogue television signal whether they wanted them to or not.

  Apparently, Warren could ‘tether’ Susan’s laptop to his mobile phone and access the Internet that way — however, this was neither the time nor the place to try and figure that process out, so he resigned himself to the tiny screen on his smartphone.

  His work email box had continued to accumulate messages whilst he’d been away but none of them were urgent. Most were the routine, housekeeping emails beloved of any big organisation, plus a handful of reports and replies to questions or requests that he’d asked. Nothing of any great insight or importance. Tony Sutton had thoughtfully emailed him a set of minutes from the team briefings that he’d missed, but he’d summarised them in the first sentence with ‘No significant progress’.

  Nevertheless, Warren read all of the emails fully, replying where appropriate. After that, he caught up with the news on the BBC website and scanned Facebook to see if anything interesting was happening in his friends’ lives.

  Finally, he could put it off no longer and he turned back to Susan’s laptop. Waking it up from its pre-programmed sleep, he opened the Word document that he’d been agonising over for the past three days.

  It had never occurred to Warren that anyone other than he would deliver the eulogy at the funeral. Who else was there? Who else would be able to say all the things that needed to be said about her? Granddad Jack would be far too upset and he couldn’t see any of her friends from the church, lovely as they were, rising to the occasion. As for his various cousins and aunts and uncles, none of them knew her well enough. He couldn’t bear the thought that it might be left up to Father McGavin, who might have known Betty for over sixty years, but hadn’t grown up with her, had his scraped knees bandaged by her or loved her as Warren had.

  Nevertheless that didn’t make it any easier to write. Over the past few days he’d phoned friends and relatives of his grandmother, spoken at length to Granddad Jack and trawled his own memories for his fondest recollections. Everyone had been clear: it should be a happy speech. One that celebrated a life well lived and a person well loved. That, to his surprise, had been the easy part. There were so many memories to include that he struggled to whittle them down. His final paragraph would be an apology for those not mentioned.

  However, as it stood, the document was just a list of memories, of anecdotes, many amusing, but it lacked structure and an opening. He glanced at the clock. Come on, Warren, not long now. You need to get this around to Jane’s for printing — you can hardly haul a laptop up to the lectern.

  It reminded him of his A levels and GCSEs all those years ago, sitting at this very table, struggling for inspiration. Nana Betty would appear at just the right moment with a cup of tea and a plate of custard creams; it was as if she knew…

  Suddenly Warren started typing, his fingers stumbling over the keyboard as he tried to get down the words that suddenly fitted.

  “I didn’t know how to start this speech. I couldn’t think what to say. I sat at the oak dining table in Nana and Granddad’s dining room and struggled for inspiration. It was as if I’d gone back in time twenty years to when I sat at that same table and did my schoolwork. Often then I would struggle, as I did today, and just when I thought I’d never get it Nana would appear. Cup of tea in hand and a plate of custard creams. The break was just what I needed. This morning, it was as if she was with me again, cup of tea and biscuits at the ready — helping me out of another tight spot…”

  * * *

  By the time Gordon and Rory had loaded up the old Toyota pickup truck with tools and trundled over to the far field, the sun was starting to appear. It was still too faint to chase away the night chill; nevertheless the extent of the day’s work was clear to them in its weak rays.

  A particularly gusty weekend had finally brought down an old tree. It in turn had uprooted the better part of thirty yards of wooden fencing separating his field from the bridle path that encircled his neighbour’s field.

  Annoyingly, he’d marked that tree out for attention only a few weeks ago, but at the time he’d been busy sowing his winter crop. Now that he had a bit of time to deal with it, it was too late.

  “Looks as though we’re going to have disentangle the fence wire from the tree and pull the tree out. We can probably use an axe to chop the roots off and then loop a chain around the back of the truck.” A couple of hours’ work at least.

  Rory was walking along the line of downed fence. “At least there’s some good news, Dad. Most of these fence posts are intact — they’ve just been pulled out of the ground. No need to waste money on new ones.”

  “Well, that’s something, I suppose.” The old man reached into the back of the truck and pulled out an ancient, but well-maintained woodman’s axe. “Right. I’ll start chopping this old tree up and you start pulling out the broken fence posts.”

  Without another word, the two men started their tasks. Another day on the farm, mused Gordon. His grandson had a rather rude T-shirt that summed it up pretty well — “Same shit, different day”.

  * * *

  The funeral service was beautiful, as was his speech. That was what everyone said as they shook his hand or kissed him on the cheek. Warren was just glad it was all over. The empty beer glass in front of him neatly summed up how he was feeling — drained. Or perhaps the paper plate in front of him, stained with the remnants of some of his grandmother’s home-made chutney, worked better — empty. There was a certain irony to them eating his grandmother’s chutney at her funeral, he thought.

  OK, enough. He shook himself mentally, his wandering thoughts a sign that he’d had enough to drink, he decided.

  The service had been standing room only and the large congregation had all joined in with the hymns, most of which had been selected by Nana Betty herself. The order of service was a work of art. Put together by his second cousin Jane’s husband, a graphic designer, everything from the choice of photographs to the powder-blue titles, carefully matched to his grandmother’s favourite colour, was just right. Warren couldn’t thank him enough.

  Warren’s eulogy had gone down well, with his choice of anecdotes well received. At the end of it the congregation were both crying and smiling — pretty much what he’d hoped for. And if his voice had wavered once or twice — well, no one was saying anything.

  The weather had behaved itself and the skies had remained clear, as Warren had stood with his back to his parents’ grave and lowered the coffin on canvas straps into the freshly dug hole next to them. A few prayers had been said and then it was back to the local Catholic club for the wake.

  The next few hours had passed in a blur of yet more handshakes, kisses and half-remembered faces from years gone by. As the drinks had flowed, though, the mood had changed. Funerals were a funny contradiction, he thought to himself. On the one hand, they were by their nature a sad time and no one wanted to go to one — on the flip side, they were like weddings. A time when scattered members of the family came together, perhaps for the first time in years. And that was no bad thing. Inevitably, when celebrating the life of someone who’d had a long and fulfilling existence such as Nana Betty, the good memories outnumbered the sad ones. It wasn’t long before the quiet, respectful muttering had become a vibrant babble with laughter ringing out from all corners of the r
oom. Even Granddad Jack, sitting with friends from the couple’s over-sixties social club was chuckling as they recounted memories.

  Finally, the room started to empty out. More handshakes, more kisses and promises to keep in touch. As the last few mourners headed home Warren found himself sitting in a corner with Susan, Jack, Bernice and Dennis.

  To his surprise, Warren felt oddly happy. Perhaps it was the alcohol, combined with the relief of stress, but it seemed that for the time being the feeling of emptiness had been banished.

  “You know the worst thing about today, son.” Granddad Jack’s voice was slightly slurred but his eyes were bright. “Your nan loved a good party — she’d be gutted she missed this one.”

  * * *

  By lunchtime, the old tree had been uprooted, chopped into manageable chunks and loaded onto the back of the pickup. Rory had retrieved most of the broken fence posts and reckoned they needed no more than six replacements — a few less than he’d feared. He offered to nip down to the building supplies merchant and pick them up. With the shortest day of the year pretty much upon them, both men would be eating their lunch on the go, trying to squeeze as much out of the daylight as possible.

  By two p.m., the two farmers were back by the fence line, Rory on the far end wrestling with the last overturned post. It was still partly embedded in the ground and was proving especially difficult. Pausing to catch his breath, he contemplated how much easier backing the pickup and wrapping the chain around it would be. Unfortunately, he couldn’t see any easy way to secure the chain and, even if he found a way, the last thing he wanted to risk was splitting the wood and having to fork out for another post.

  As he leaned on his stubborn adversary, he spotted a flash of something pale partly buried in a small clump of blackberry bushes further along the bridleway. His curiosity piqued, he walked the fifteen yards or so along the fence line. Moving closer, he saw that whatever had caught his attention was partly obscured by discarded carrier bags blown in the wind and now hanging off the bare branches of the bushes like cheap and nasty Christmas decorations.

  He leant closer, trying to see what was hidden in the bush.

  Gordon Hathaway would never forget the shout of horror as his forty-five-year-old son fell backwards, scrabbling in the mud, before throwing up his lunch.

  * * *

  The mourners had returned to Granddad Jack’s and were now sitting in the living room, working their way through a bottle of wine. Was it the second bottle or were they still on the first? Warren wasn’t entirely sure.

  Now that the wake was over, the empty feeling had returned. What now? Carry on as normal? After all, the world kept turning. The whole point of today was to put a lid on events, to help people move on. Warren looked over at Granddad Jack, snoozing in his favourite armchair. How was he going to move on? Even now his left hand was draped over the armrest of the seat next to him — Nana Betty’s chair. How many nights had they sat here watching TV or chatting, Granddad Jack gently caressing the arm of the woman he loved? Warren was sure he could see a slight smile on the old man’s lips. Happy dreams, Granddad, thought Warren, sadly.

  The silent vibration of his phone in his pocket jerked him from his reverie. Getting up, he walked quietly into the kitchen, closing the door behind him. It took three attempts to get the damned slide thing on the touchscreen to work and Warren was worried it would divert to voicemail before he could answer it.

  Finally, he answered it in a more or less coherent fashion. “Jones.”

  It took a moment for him to recognise Tony Sutton on the other end of the line. “Guv, it’s me.” An awkward silence. “How did it go today?”

  “Fine. It went fine. Thanks to everyone in the office for the card and the donation — it was much appreciated.” There was a silence on the line again. Warren waited. Tony Sutton hadn’t rung him up to ask how his grandmother’s funeral had gone.

  “I’m sorry to ring you, guv, but I know you’d want to be told. We’ve found another body.”

  Tuesday 20th December

  Chapter 41

  Leaving at six meant that Warren beat the rush-hour traffic and he arrived in Middlesbury at seven-thirty a.m. As it was now the school holidays, Susan had stayed with Granddad Jack. They had originally planned to stay until Tuesday night before returning home. Warren would need to return to work and she wanted to finish some marking — or at least that was her excuse. Susan could see the writing on the wall and knew that Warren was dangerously close to cancelling his holiday leave and working Christmas. If he did that and Susan was still in the Midlands it would be very difficult for her to extricate herself from her well-meaning parents and return to be by his side.

  Because that was where she intended to spend her Christmas. Even if Warren spent his Christmas Day in the CID office, she would be waiting at home for him. This year he needed her more than ever.

  She would have to come back down to Middlesbury at some point before Christmas, if only to get some fresh clothes for the holiday. They’d figure the logistics out for that at a later date. There was a regular train service between Middlesbury and Cambridge and equally frequent trains from Coventry to Cambridge.

  The atmosphere was leaden in the CID office as Warren entered. He knew that at least some of that was due to his own personal circumstances — that was human nature.

  “Before we start, I’d just like to thank you all for your thoughtfulness. The card and the contribution to Nana Betty’s favourite charity was very much appreciated.”

  There was a collective sigh of relief. Clearly the boss wasn’t going to collapse in a heap on the floor and they wouldn’t need to tiptoe around him.

  “Tony, can you bring us all up to speed on this latest murder?”

  “We have a positive ID: Gemma Allen aged twenty-three. As you can see, blonde-hair and pretty — just like the other two. The missing persons report actually came in as we were attending the scene; it seems that she was due to start a shift in her local Costcutter first thing yesterday morning. When she didn’t appear, her manager Mr Hardeep Singh tried to contact her, ringing her parents and her mobile. Eventually, he closed up and drove around to see her in her flat. When the neighbours said they hadn’t seen her since Saturday morning — when she left to go to work — Mr Singh hit the panic button and rang the police. I suppose that’s at least one positive effect of all this publicity — people don’t hesitate to contact us.

  “Once we were confident of her identity, myself and DC Hastings travelled to Stevenage to meet her mother. She took it very hard and we had to call a doctor to sedate her. Family Liaison stayed whilst her sister came over.” He looked apologetic. “Sorry, she was in no fit state to be interviewed. We’ll try again this morning.”

  Apparently, the body had been discovered at about two p.m., partly concealed in a blackberry patch off a bridle path between two farms. It had been gone ten p.m. before Sutton had phoned him. At first Warren had been annoyed — he was the senior investigating officer and he needed to know these things as soon as possible. But as usual, Susan had spoken sense to him. Two p.m. was in the middle of the wake; no way would Sutton be crass enough to phone him then.

  If he’d phoned earlier in the evening, then what could Warren have done? He wasn’t in a fit state to drive to Middlesbury and so he’d have just spent all evening worrying about it and harassing them by phone. As it was, by the time Sutton had called him, pretty much everything Warren suggested had already been done, the team moving swiftly and smoothly. At Warren’s insistence, Sutton had sent photographs of the crime scene and the victim but, with no wireless connection or obvious means to transfer the photos to Susan’s laptop, he’d been reduced to looking at them on the phone’s tiny three-inch screen.

  Sutton, with the blessing of Det Supt Grayson had moved quickly. A preliminary search of Gemma Allen’s apartment had revealed no signs of a struggle. It also suggested she had lived alone — something that her mother had yet to confirm. Photographs suggested that she
might have a boyfriend; however Mr Singh, the shop owner, wasn’t entirely sure.

  With the time of death as yet unconfirmed — but probably at least twenty-four hours previously and the autopsy scheduled for first thing Tuesday — Sutton had decided that it would be prudent to assume that Gemma Allen had been abducted on her way home from work on Saturday night. He’d blocked off the streets on her route home and organised parties of police officers to go door-knocking. Starting first light today, teams of officers would scour the roads, looking for evidence.

  In this case, everyone was hopeful that the streets might yield something useful. A small pool of dried blood had already been identified close to a junction and samples taken for typing. At first glance, pictures of Gemma Allen’s battered face indicated that she had ended up face first with considerable force on a surface consistent with pavement at least once. The area immediately adjacent to the blood spot would serve as one of the focal points for the search.

  Meanwhile, a list of Gemma Allen’s workmates and friends was being drawn up. The list was short so far as her mother was too shocked to speak still and Mr Singh knew precious little about his employee. One thing was for sure, however: at seventy-nine years old with an artificial hip and a cataract in his left eye, the old man wasn’t very high on the suspect list.

  Because of the injuries to her face, the team was so far cautious about linking this latest murder to that of Sally Evans and Carolyn Patterson. Her age, build and long blonde hair weren’t really sufficient to do so. The autopsy might reveal a closer link.

  Whether the attack was linked to Melanie Clearwater, the battered prostitute lying unconscious in hospital, was a different matter. Both women had serious facial injuries with a possible attempt to batter them to death; however, Clearwater hadn’t been raped so far as they could tell. Had Gemma Allen supplemented her wages at the Costcutter with work as a prostitute? It was a line of inquiry worth pursuing, decided Warren.