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

by Paul Gitsham

  Tony Sutton had suggested roles for the team and Warren signed off on them. With the meeting concluded, the team leapt to their feet, a sense of urgency in the air. Three murders plus an attempted in two and a half weeks. The signs were ominous. If this was the work of just one man, he was now officially a serial killer and everybody was worried that it wasn’t going to end until he was stopped.

  Chapter 42

  By ten a.m. it was time for yet another visit to grieving relatives. The routine was becoming depressingly familiar and part of Warren had wanted to take up Tony Sutton’s kind offer to perform the duty on his behalf. However, Warren was too involved now. He couldn’t imagine not being there.

  Checking his tie in the mirror one last time, he met Tony Sutton and Karen Hardwick in the car park. The young detective constable had shown a finely judged mixture of compassion and insight in her previous dealings with the victims’ loved ones and Warren was keen for her to take part in this latest interview.

  The three police officers were silent during the half-hour drive to Gemma Allen’s mother’s house in Stevenage. Warren had the car radio tuned to the local BBC radio station, listening to the news. The body’s discovery was reported in detailed fashion and, despite the lack of information released by the police, speculation was rife that the murder was linked to the previous two cases. Detective Superintendent Grayson was expecting to give another press conference later that afternoon. Warren resigned himself to the fact that he would be spending yet more time in front of the cameras.

  Gemma Allen’s mother lived in a shabby-looking two-up, two-down in one of the housing estates a mile or so from the leisure complex. Blocky grey high-rise flats cast their shadows over the untidy street. A police car sat outside the house, a uniformed constable deterring reporters and the curious. Although Gemma Allen had yet to be named, word had spread fast through the community and already bunches of flowers and soft toys had been left either side of the front gate.

  Parking his car under the watchful gaze of the PC, Warren led the team up the cracked front path. Before he got a chance to ring the doorbell, the door swung open, a family liaison officer greeting them.

  According to the details given to the team before they arrived, Gemma Allen’s mother, Lucy Allen, was a fifty-year-old cleaner-cum–dinner-lady at the local primary school. Gemma was her only child. Gemma’s father had left when she was three years old, leaving her upbringing to her mother, assisted by her grandparents and her mother’s older sister.

  The woman sitting on the couch could have been in her sixties, Warren decided, the stress of the previous twenty-four hours adding years to a face already aged by a lifetime of poverty and hard work. Traces of her daughter’s pretty features could clearly be seen, beneath the lines and creases; nevertheless, she looked more like Gemma’s grandmother than her mother. Sitting next to her, holding her shoulders, was another woman, probably her sister.

  Paramedics had sedated the poor woman the night before; her shaking hands and unfocused eyes, along with the smell of whisky, suggested that she had also been self-medicating. Nevertheless, her voice was clear without slurring and she insisted that she was ready to talk.

  After accepting a cup of tea and expressing the team’s condolences, Warren started with a bit of general background. Gemma was twenty-three years old and had lived in Middlesbury for the past year and a half. By her mother’s own admission, the two had had a difficult relationship since the girl’s late teens. Gemma had been ‘a bit of a handful’; skipping school, smoking, drinking and dabbling in drugs. Warren had already read the police reports, noting a couple of cautions for shoplifting in her late teens. She’d moved out of the family home to stay with some friends at seventeen and had drifted in and out of casual jobs for the past few years.

  However, about eighteen months ago, she’d finally realised that her life was going nowhere and decided to get back on track, renewing her relationship with her mother and restarting her education.

  “It was that Facebook thing that did it. I don’t understand computers myself, but apparently you can get in contact with people you went to school with and that. She said that she was reading about some of the girls she remembered from class. Some were married with kids, others had been to university or were settled down in good jobs. She said she realised that if they could have a nice life like that, so could she.

  “She also had a bit of a scare after a one-night stand at a party. It turned out to be a false alarm, but she realised that she didn’t want to be a single mum on benefits in some shitty housing estate like this.” Lucy Allen smiled through her tears and laughed hollowly. “At least she learnt something from her old mum.

  “Anyway, she decided she needed a clean break. She moved to Middlesbury and managed to wangle a job at a corner shop, then went to the local college. She passed her GCSEs in English and Maths last summer.” Lucy Allen’s voice broke. “I was so proud of her.”

  Her sister handed her another tissue and whispered comfortingly in her ear.

  “Anyway, she’d just finished a six-month hair and beauty course at the college and enrolled on a new, more advanced one. She was going to start in January. She was going to come and spend Christmas with me for the first time in years.”

  This last pronouncement resulted in yet more tears from the distraught woman and Warren and the team waited patiently whilst her sister comforted her.

  “I’m very sorry, Ms Allen, but we are going to need to ask some more questions.” The woman nodded and Warren continued, “Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt your daughter? Perhaps somebody she knew before she moved to Middlesbury that she didn’t get on with?”

  Her mother shook her head. “She had the odd falling out with people, but nothing recently. She was generally pretty popular.”

  “Did she have a boyfriend, anyone she was seeing?”

  Again a shake of the head. “She was too busy. She was working as many hours as the social would let her without losing her benefits and she was getting ready for college.” Her mother paused again, before deciding to continue. “She was also doing a bit of cleaning on the side, to make a little extra money. I don’t think she had the time.”

  Given the previously poor relationship between the mother and daughter, Warren was uncertain that she would have necessarily known about Gemma’s social life — especially since she lived in a different town. He was deciding how best to phrase the question, when Karen Hardwick spoke up.

  “You said that she made a clean break of it when she went to Middlesbury. Do you know if she had any special friends that she kept in contact with after she left Stevenage?”

  Her mother thought for a moment. “She kept in touch with her friend Chantelle. I don’t have her phone number, but her mum lives across the road at number forty-five. I know that she used to catch the train to Middlesbury occasionally to spend the weekend with her.”

  Mrs Allen was clearly becoming distraught again and so the three officers agreed to take a break for a few minutes. In the meantime, Tony Sutton suggested that they had a look at Gemma’s old room.

  The moment he entered the room, Warren figured it was probably a waste of time. The room was pretty much empty, the only remaining furniture a single bed with a plain pink duvet set, a wooden wardrobe and a bedside table with a cheap reading lamp. Faded rectangles and scraps of Blu-Tack on the wallpaper suggested the removal of long-standing posters. Faint indentations in the carpet hinted that bookcases and a desk might have once sat there; Warren was willing to bet that furniture matching the dimensions of the marks would probably be found in Gemma Allen’s Middlesbury flat.

  The wardrobe was almost empty, save for a few empty clothes hangers. The bottom two drawers of a three-drawer unit inside the wardrobe yielded only dust-bunnies. The top drawer had a couple of pairs of plain knickers and bras, some faded T-shirts and a small wash bag with a used toothbrush and toothpaste. The toothbrush was dry. Probably in case she visited and decided to stay overnight un
expectedly, Warren decided.

  With the help of Tony Sutton, Warren lifted up the single bed, looking for anything that might have slipped down the back or underneath. Karen Hardwick meanwhile removed the drawers from the wardrobe and the bedside cabinet, checking for anything concealed within.

  It took little more than five minutes before the team had exhausted all of the possibilities in the small room. It was clear that when Gemma Allen had moved out, she’d taken everything with her. Her flat in Middlesbury was now her home; her childhood bedroom just the guest room where she stayed when visiting.

  Returning to the living room, Warren was taken to one side by the young woman serving as Family Liaison Officer. “If you want to ask Lucy any more questions, I’d suggest that you do so sooner rather than later,” she whispered quietly, nodding discreetly towards the grief-stricken woman. “She had another large glass of whisky whilst you were upstairs. I don’t think she’ll be much use to you if you delay any longer.” She bit her lip, clearly not sure what to do. “I think she has a drinking problem. What should I do?”

  “There’s not a lot you can do, Constable. It’s not our place to intrude at the moment. Just keep an eye on her and maybe put her to bed if needs be. See if you can get her sister to help out.”

  Walking back into the room, Warren could see that Lucy Allen was increasingly under the influence. After a couple more questions, it was plain that she was fading fast, her words slurred and her eyelids drooping. She’d probably fall asleep soon.

  Getting up, he promised to keep her informed and once again passed on his condolences. As he headed towards the door Lucy Allen suddenly lurched to her feet, grabbing his hand.

  “Please promise me that you’ll catch this animal. Please,” she slurred through the tears. “I wish we lived in America, where they have the death penalty. Prison’s too good for him, after what he’s done to my little girl and those other poor women.” She pulled Warren closer. “Please promise me that if you catch him, you won’t let him go. He has to pay for what he’s done.”

  “I promise you, I won’t let him go. He’ll be locked up for a very long time.”

  “It’s not enough,” she sobbed. “My little girl is dead and he gets to live. He shouldn’t get to live. Not after what he’s done. How is that right?”

  Warren couldn’t answer that question.

  * * *

  Arriving back at the station, Warren was pleased to see that there was a message from the pathologist waiting for him on his voicemail, asking him to call.

  Professor Jordan picked up immediately. “I have just finished the PM on Gemma Allen, the latest victim. Results of tests are still pending, of course, but I thought you’d want to know what I’ve got so far.”

  “That’s great, Professor, and thanks for doing it so quick.”

  “Like I said before, it’s getting personal now. I want this bastard put away as much as you do.

  “First up, I’d say it’s almost certainly the same attacker, but his method has changed. I think this attack may have gone wrong. We found the same traces of latex and adhesive around the genital areas — he prepared himself for the rape in the same way. What I didn’t find was any evidence of sedation by chloroform. However, he wouldn’t have needed it. You saw the scrapes to her face? Traces of gravel embedded in the wound suggest that she fell face first onto the pavement — probably where that puddle of blood was found. The impact loosened some teeth and broke her nose, probably enough to make her woozy, maybe enough to briefly lose consciousness.

  “However, he then turned her over and slammed the back of her head into the concrete, at least once. Reddening of the scalp and the loss of a small clump of hair suggests he grabbed a fistful of her fringe and used that to do it. The result was a fractured skull with serious bleeding on the brain. If it’s a comfort to the family she would have certainly been unconscious from then onwards.”

  “What next?”

  “It followed the usual pattern, minus the chloroform. He took her to the dumping spot and probably raped her there. He then strangled her, although this time she didn’t have a scarf so he used the belt of her coat. That was probably unnecessary; the amount of internal bleeding in her skull would have killed the poor woman pretty soon anyway.”

  “So we basically have more of the same. Have you spoken to the crime scene manager recently?”

  “Yes, they are still doing a fingertip search of her route. They’ve taken samples of the blood patch and are waiting for a positive match to the victim. Apparently, they’ve also found some glass fragments with a strong solvent smell about ninety metres from the patch of blood. We’ve sent it off for analysis. It could be the chemical that he uses to sedate his victims.”

  “If he dropped the glass bottle or whatever he keeps his solvent in, that might explain why he had to bash her bloody brains out on the pavement.”

  “Quite possibly. It’s also possible that she put up a bit of a fight. I’ve found traces of what looks like rubber under her fingernails — I’m sure you’ve read the original reports of those girls that were raped in the nineties. The attacker wore a rubber mask when he attacked them. I’ve sent the samples off for analysis.”

  Warren felt his heart skip a beat. “It was the use of a distinctive rubber mask that led to Richard Cameron’s arrest back then. Could history be repeating itself here?”

  “I wouldn’t necessarily get your hopes up based on that, Chief. They were lucky in the nineties that the mask was so unusual. You might not be so fortunate this time. However, that’s probably just the icing on the cake. If it was Richard Cameron up to his old tricks again, we’ll know soon enough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It seems like he was a little careless. If I had to guess, I’d say the condom split. We found a semen sample. If you’re willing to sign off on a priority request, we can have a DNA profile by tomorrow morning.”

  Wednesday 21st December

  Chapter 43

  Warren had left clear instructions that he be told immediately when the DNA test results came in from the semen sample retrieved from Gemma Allen. This caused a slight conflict for the young administrative assistant who took the call, given that Detective Superintendent Grayson, with whom Warren was meeting that morning, had stipulated that he wasn’t to be disturbed. In the end common sense won out and he knocked tentatively on the senior officer’s door. It was the right decision, with Grayson ordering the call be rerouted directly to his office phone, which he placed on speaker.

  The technician on the end of the phone had no idea what the results were that he was reporting on — it was simply a rush job that he had been asked to process asap, with the results passed on immediately. Slightly fazed by the fact that he had been placed on speaker phone to at least two senior officers and goodness knew how many other, unannounced listeners, the poor lad stammered a bit at first, before rallying and reading directly from the printout in his hand.

  “A complete copy of these results are available on the server and a direct link has been emailed to you, DCI Jones, but, in summary, sample no 2011/12/NH116-A12 — sample of semen retrieved from victim Gemma Allen — positively matches an historic DNA sample on the DNA database 1998/01/NH002-C34 — a mouth swab taken from a suspect, Richard Cameron.”

  “Gotcha”, said Warren quietly.

  * * *

  The briefing room was a babble of competing voices as pretty much the entire CID team gave their opinion on the shock results.

  Warren and Tony Sutton had been making numerous, hasty calls for the last fifteen minutes; Superintendent Grayson was locked in his office, starting the ball rolling on the next part of the operation. Finally, Warren had time to address the team.

  “OK, everyone, quieten down. As I’m sure you have all heard, a positive match has been found between the semen left at the scene of Gemma Allen’s murder and the previously convicted serial rapist Richard Cameron.

  “As we speak, Superintendent Grayson is organising
an arrest and search warrant, which we will be executing as soon as possible. The last thing we want is for him to slip through the net and go on the run.”

  DS Hutchinson raised his hand. “What about Sally Evans and Carolyn Patterson? What happens to those investigations?”

  “They proceed as before — the DNA profile only links Cameron to Gemma Allen so far. We need far stronger evidence than we have to link him to those other two killings. It’d be nice if he put his hand up to those as well, but, as you all know, even a confession can be overturned these days with a smart enough lawyer.”

  DS Richardson this time. “What about other avenues aside from Cameron? Should we continue pursuing those?”

  Warren nodded. “Yes. We can’t be certain that Cameron was working alone or even that he committed all three murders. We need to keep on tugging at those other leads, see what happens.”

  It had been almost three weeks since this nightmare started. Warren exchanged a tight smile, with a similarly tense Tony Sutton. Time to bring this to an end.

  * * *

  The atmosphere in Jones and Sutton’s unmarked patrol car was tense. Tony Sutton was driving, whilst Warren rode shotgun, juggling his radio and his mobile phone. By now, it was pitch black, clouds obscuring the stars and moon on the shortest day of the year.

  A preliminary scout team had reported that lights were on in the Cameron farmhouse with movement spotted behind the curtains. Michael Stockley’s Jaguar was parked in the driveway. The elderly Land Rover with its canvas roof was nowhere to be seen; however the large barn, easily big enough for both vehicles, was closed for the night.

  The relative isolation of the farmhouse made securing the area a lot easier than a residential street; nevertheless, the arrest team had an eight-member armed-response unit as well as a forced entry team, complete with battering ram and a large team of uniformed officers. Approximately five miles away, a surveillance helicopter from Chiltern Air Support was hovering, awaiting a call if Cameron escaped.