Silent As The Grave

“So the court case starts next month? How do you feel about it?”

Sutton sighed. “I’m torn. The bastard deserves to go down—but I still can’t quite believe it.”

“What do you think they’ll ask you about? The investigation cleared you of any involvement.”

“Yeah, but it’s still going to look bad for me. I was his friend and his immediate subordinate—people are going to question why I didn’t suspect anything. You know how mud sticks—people will think either I was in on it or I’m a fool.”

Sutton shook his head. “Maybe I was. I didn’t spot the signs—or rather I chose to ignore them. The sudden phone calls, the unexplained absences…” He snorted derisively. “I thought he was having a bloody affair.” He shrugged. “I didn’t approve, but then who am I to lecture?”

Warren nodded in sympathy. Sutton was right. He had a chequered history when it came to extra-marital affairs. His first marriage had imploded after Sutton had indulged in a drunken one-night stand. Years later he was still rebuilding the pieces of that relationship and Warren knew that he felt ashamed and guilty, even as he and his former wife forged new relationships and co-operated to bring up their teenage son.

“Well, Tony, you know that you have my support.”

Sutton nodded. “Thanks, Boss. I guess I’ll just have to tell the truth, answer their questions and let the cards fall where they may.”

* * *

His conversation with Tony Sutton had left Warren feeling downbeat. As much to clear his head and stretch his legs as to fulfil his caffeine and sugar needs, Warren decided to treat himself to a decent coffee and Danish pastry from the canteen, rather than simply adding another fifty-pence piece to the honesty jar next to the communal coffee urn. At last count, there had been twelve pounds fifty in the jar—all of it Warren’s.

There was a copy of the Middlesbury edition of the Cambridge News lying on a table. Reggie Williamson’s picture—the one with Smiths naturally—took up over half of the front page, along with a suitably lurid headline. The story was continued on page three, where another picture—this one a long-lens shot of white-suited CSIs working the scene up on the common—dominated.

The story was essentially a report of the press conference, along with a few tributes from various drinkers in the Merchants’ Arms.

The shrill ringing of Warren’s mobile phone made him jump.

“It’s Tony, Boss. Where are you?” The DI’s voice was excited, with no hint of the depression he had been exhibiting barely minutes ago.

“Downstairs in the canteen.” Warren felt a thrill go through him; he hadn’t been away from his desk for five minutes. Sutton wouldn’t have called him on his mobile unless it was extremely urgent.

“It looks like we were too hasty releasing Mateo Menendez yesterday.”

* * *

Mateo Menendez was extremely unhappy about being picked up for a second time. This time he refused to come voluntarily and Warren was given no choice but to serve the arrest warrant that Grayson had signed. He immediately requested a lawyer.

By the time a police solicitor had been arranged, a search of the flat that Menendez shared with his partner and their two young children was well underway and the life and background of the Spanish national was under the spotlight, with records requested from Spanish sources as well as UK authorities. His girlfriend was currently being questioned and specialist officers were assessing whether the older of the two children, three-and-a-half-year-old Tyson, would be any use as a witness.

The paper-suited man in front of Warren and Sutton was a lot less confident now. His clothes had been collected for evidence and his mobile phone, which had been so helpful up to this point, had now been formally confiscated and was undergoing rigorous forensic examination at the computer crime division in Welwyn Garden City. Twenty-four hours previously, the young man had been unpleasantly arrogant, even trying to flirt with Karen Hardwick. Now he just looked scared.

“Before we start, I would like to know why my client has been called in again. In his last interview—which he gave without counsel present, I might add—it was established that Mr Menendez was at home at the time of the attack on the unfortunate Mr Williamson.”

Warren ignored the implied rebuke concerning the previous interview. The recording on the PACE tape recorder would clearly show that Warren had advised Menendez of his rights; furthermore, he had not been under arrest at the time.

“Mr Menendez, I would be grateful if you could describe again your movements on the night of Thursday the twenty-second.”

Menendez licked his lips nervously. “No comment.”

“Are you sure about that, Mateo? We have you on tape already. I just want to clarify a few details.”

He glanced over at his solicitor, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

“It’s like I said, I took the kids to McDonald’s then to the park up on the common. Then when it got dark, I took the kids back to Candy’s and put them to bed.”

“And are there any witnesses who can corroborate this?” It was the first thing that Tony Sutton had said after identifying himself for the tape.

Menendez hissed in frustration. “We’ve already been through this. The kids are too young, but Candy saw me when she came in about half nine.”

Warren watched the man closely. On the face of it, his reaction was appropriate, but it seemed forced. As if he knew what reaction was expected of him and didn’t want to disappoint.

He decided to give the man a bit more rope to hang himself with. “Just to be clear; the sun goes down about quarter past six this time of the year. Are you saying that you left Middlesbury Common and returned to your partner’s flat, number 27b Eastcotes Terrace, at that time? It’s not very far; did you go home directly?”

The man’s eye twitched slightly. “Yes, straight home.”

“So you would have been in from about what, six-thirtyish until your partner returned from Zumba a bit after nine-thirty?” Sutton again.

“About that.”

“Did you stay in for the rest of the night?”

“Yes, we watched a bit of telly and then went to bed.”

“And again, can your partner corroborate this.”

“Absolutely.” The man’s voice was confident again.

Warren nodded and scribbled on the notepad in front of him.

“OK, you’ve been very helpful, Mr Menendez.”

The man blinked in surprise.

“Am I free to go?”

His solicitor, an experienced-looking middle-aged woman narrowed her eyes slightly, but said nothing.

“Just one more thing,” Sutton spoke up. “Do you carry your mobile phone with you at all times?”

Before his solicitor could interject, the man nodded his head.

“Yeah, ’course. Who doesn’t?”

“And you had it with you on Thursday evening?”

“May I ask where this is going, DCI Jones?” Menendez’s solicitor was looking decidedly anxious now and was directing her question to the senior officer in the room. She had clearly worked out what was happening, even if her client hadn’t.

“Just clarifying something,” responded Sutton. Warren said nothing.

“Like I said, yeah I carry it everywhere. I definitely had it Thursday.”

Now it was Warren’s turn to speak up. “Given everything that you’ve told us, could you explain why cell-tower triangulation places your smartphone at Middlesbury Common from ten past five until almost twenty past nine and why your partner thinks that you lied about bathing the children that evening?”

Thursday 29th March

Chapter 7

Warren and Sutton’s elation lasted barely twelve hours. Nine a.m. the following morning found them perched between piles of unironed clothes on the edge of a suspiciously grubby sofa. Every surface in the flat, the two detectives included, was covered by hairs from the numerous cats wandering around the dwelling. The smell of cat’s pee and old food was poorly masked by cheap air freshener and cigarette smoke.

Exactly what Mateo Menendez saw in Nicky Goven, was something of a mystery to Warren and Sutton. Perhaps it was her phlegmy cough, the hard-to-discern tattoo that covered pretty much her entire right calf or maybe he just liked the smell of incontinent domestic pets. At least four of the animals had wandered through in the few minutes that the two police officers had been there.

Her apartment on the edge of the common shared the same cell tower and this, Menendez claimed, was the reason why his smartphone was registered as at or near the common—rather than at home as he’d first claimed—for the hours either side of Reggie Williamson’s murder.

“When did you last see Mr Menendez?”

Nicky Goven squinted at Warren from behind a peroxide-blonde fringe.

“Thursday evening. He always comes around then. He has Thursday evenings off work.”

Warren glanced at Sutton.

“Where does Mr Menendez work?”

“He works in a call centre for the emergency services.” There was a palpable pride in her voice. “He helps give advice for people whilst they wait for an ambulance.”

Warren said nothing; there were no operational control centres within fifty miles of Middlesbury. It looked as though Menendez’s habit of lying to women was not limited to Tabitha Williamson.

“What time was Mr Menendez around here?”

The young woman paused for a moment. “He turned up a bit after five, I guess, and stayed for a few hours.”

“Could you be a bit more precise? When exactly did he leave you?”

For the first time since they arrived, Nicky Goven looked worried.

“Why? What’s he done? Is he in trouble? Is this anything to do with that bloke who was killed on the common last week? I already spoke to a policewoman who knocked on the door Monday night.”

“It’s just part of a routine inquiry,” soothed Warren.

She shrugged. “A bit after nine I guess.” She thought for a moment. “Yeah that’s right. There was a film starting and he said he’d like to stay and watch it but he had to leave because he was working the early shift.”

The times certainly added up. However, Warren wouldn’t be entirely satisfied until he got another independent confirmation. It was always possible that the fragrant Ms Goven was helping Menendez.

“Was there anyone around who may have seen Mr Menendez arrive or leave your flat?”

She thought for a moment, before scowling. “That old bitch—’scuse my French—who lives in the flat next along is always complaining that we make too much noise, ’cause the walls are so thin.” She grinned wickedly. “I hadn’t seen him all week. We gave her plenty to moan about.”

Assuming the neighbour was in, and confirmed Nicky Goven’s story—and by extension Mateo Menendez’s new, more seedy alibi—then Menendez was no longer a suspect.

However, before he left Warren had a bit more business. Strictly speaking, it was nothing to do with him, but Warren felt sorry for the young woman—yet another victim of Middlesbury’s self-styled Cassanova.

“Do you work, Ms Goven?”

She shrugged. “Yeah, I’m a hairdresser. I do a few shifts each week down the ‘Clip Joint’, on the High Street.”

“And have you ever used any of those payday loan companies?”

If she thought the question strange, she didn’t let it bother her. “Sure, once or twice.” She smiled. “Actually, I let Mateo sort that out for me. I’m not very good with numbers.”

Warren and Sutton swapped glances. It was stepping over the line, but a barely perceptible nod from Sutton erased any nagging doubts that Warren had.

“Don’t. I can’t say any more, but don’t let him anywhere near your finances.”

She looked shocked.

Sutton spoke up. “And whilst you’re at it, I’d ask for a bit more information about his job. Perhaps he could show you his ID card. Does he drive?”

She shook her head.

“Then ask him which call centre he works at and have a little look on the web to see how far away it is.”

The woman’s bottom lip trembled slightly and Warren felt a rush of sympathy for her. It was now clear what Menendez had seen in her—a young woman, living on her own with her cats. She had a job and was clearly quite naïve.

The two detectives rose to leave, but before they did, Sutton took one last look around the grubby living room.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what did you do with the kids whilst you and Mr Menendez were, umm, busy?”

Nicky Goven frowned in confusion. “What kids?”

* * *

Three hours later, Mateo Menendez was a free man. But his troubles were far from over. The older lady in the apartment next door to Nicky Goven had been very clear that Menendez and Goven were in that evening at the time when Reggie Williamson was being stabbed to death on the opposite side of the common. She’d been somewhat disgruntled when it transpired that Sutton and Warren weren’t from the council to deal with her complaints about the noise, not to mention the smell, from the flat next door.

However, social services were now in the process of questioning his eldest child about how often Daddy left them on their own whilst Mummy was out. Interestingly, Menendez’s partner did two other classes each week, again leaving the children in the care of their father.

“The bloke’s a complete Fanny-Rat,” opined Sutton. “I wonder how many other women he’s milking for money. I just wish there was something we could do about it.”

Warren agreed. The whole affair had left a nasty taste in his mouth.

More importantly, Warren had just crossed his name off the wheeled whiteboard in the main office. The suspect column was now blank.

Saturday 31st March

Chapter 8

The note had been pushed through the letter box sometime during the previous night. It was printed with an inkjet printer, on plain paper. Susan had found it when she went downstairs to put the kettle on.

‘I have information about Reggie Williamson. Meet me in the car park of the Feathers 4 p.m. Come alone.’

Warren had been sitting waiting since a quarter-to-four. Despite the lingering warmth from a sunny afternoon, he wore a heavy coat in an attempt to conceal the stab vest Tony Sutton and the rest of the team had insisted that he wear.

Arguments had raged all morning over what should be done about the mysterious note. It could just be the work of a crank of course; however, the fact that the author of the note knew where Warren lived was disquieting. At Grayson’s insistence, both marked and unmarked patrol cars were stationed in the Joneses’ street, keeping an eye out for any unusual visitors. Susan had agreed—reluctantly—to stay in and do some schoolwork, rather than meeting up with friends in town on the first day of the school Easter holidays. Unfortunately, a rush job from the document analysis department had reported that the paper and envelope were widely available commercially and that the printer used was a popular home model. Even if a suspect were identified, simply discarding the ink cartridge and printhead would make linking the note with an individual printer all but impossible. Needless to say, the writer hadn’t left fingerprints or licked the envelope. None of Warren’s neighbours had seen or heard anything.

In the end, it was decided that the note couldn’t just be ignored. The case had all but ground to a halt over the previous thirty-six hours and the empty suspect column on the whiteboard continued to taunt Warren. A leafleting campaign on the common and the surrounding areas on Thursday evening, the one-week anniversary of the murder, had produced nothing and forensics had been unable to produce any concrete leads. Even the flurry of crank calls and confessions that had followed the press conference had now dried up; the nutters and the fantasists no doubt moving on to pastures new.

Background checks on anyone who had conceivably come into contact with the retired gardener in the past couple of years had proven similarly fruitless. The handful of historic convictions for teenage shoplifting, Friday night fisticuffs and driving offences that his circle of acquaintances had amassed over the past fifty-odd years were of no interest to the team and were about as numerous as one would expect for a similar-sized group of people who had spent most of their life in a small, North Hertfordshire market town.

It was starting to look more and more like a stranger killing, or a random mugging gone wrong. But it didn’t feel like it to Warren; the killing was too efficient, the lack of forensic evidence unusual to say the least.

With all that in mind, Warren had decided to meet the author of the note and see what they had to say.

Of course, he had no intention of meeting them alone. Reggie Williamson had been stabbed to death—it was entirely possible that his killer had written the note and Warren was uncomfortably aware that he was potentially placing himself directly in danger.

At the very least, it would be helpful to identify the person who claimed to know about the attack. So, in the hours preceding the rendezvous, various officers had stationed themselves in and around the pub. By the time Warren arrived a nondescript Transit van, a team of concealed, uniformed officers wearing stab vests and batons had been parked three spaces over for two hours. Small holes drilled in the side panels allowed the video surveillance team a clear view. At both ends of the road unmarked cars sat ready to form roadblocks if needed; more officers were on standby if necessary.

The clock on the dashboard of Warren’s Ford Mondeo clicked over to two minutes to four. Across the car park, drinkers sat in small groups around wooden trestle tables, enjoying the warm weather. A waitress in her late teens cleared dishes for a young couple who appeared absorbed in one another and oblivious to the world around them. Warren just hoped that Detective Constables Karen Hardwick and Gary Hastings were paying as much attention to their concealed earpieces as they were to one another. You never could be sure with those two.

Four p.m. came and went. Warren shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His mouth was dry and he wished he was inside the pub, enjoying a pint of something frothy.

Suddenly a voice crackled in his earpiece, “Possible target approaching, on foot from main road. White IC1 male, average height, wearing a grey, hooded jacket and a baseball cap. His head’s down. We can’t make out his features.”

Warren tensed, all thoughts of a drink vanishing.

A few seconds later the man emerged. Keeping his head low, he crossed the car park without glancing in either direction, heading straight for Warren’s car. Warren opened the door and stepped out, ready to greet the man.

The visitor barely looked up; all Warren could make out was the grey of a beard beneath the shadow of the cap’s brim.

“It’s not safe to be seen. Get back in the car.”

The man’s voice was harsh, quiet. An older man, late-middle-aged, Warren surmised. He looked the visitor up and down. In response, the man pulled out the pockets of the hoody, showing them to be empty. He could still be concealing a knife elsewhere on his person, but Warren had to take the chance. Besides which, he already had a suspicion who it was and he was burning with curiosity.

Nodding, Warren slipped back behind the wheel of the car. The hooded man opened the passenger door and climbed in. Closing the door behind him, he turned in his seat.

“Hello DCI Jones, my name’s Gavin Sheehy and I need your help.”

Chapter 9

Warren stared at the man, taking in his dishevelled appearance; his scruffy grey beard and unkempt hair were both in desperate need of a good trim and the man’s face was lined, with dark smudges beneath his eyes. Eyes that were slightly bloodshot, Warren noted. Up close the man’s cologne was almost overwhelming and he smelled as if he’d just eaten two whole packets of extra-strong mints.

“I thought you said that you had information about Reggie Williamson?” Warren ignored the man’s proffered hand. He was surprised at the intense feelings of anger he felt towards the man. Police corruption was something that Warren had felt strongly about ever since he’d joined the force; the betrayal of the public trust was a slap in the face to the thousands of dedicated officers who risked their lives day in, day out in an often-thankless job. Since moving to Middlesbury, the feelings had intensified as he saw firsthand the devastating effects that such betrayal had on those officers closest to the traitor.

Sheehy dropped his hand. It shook slightly, Warren observed. Clearing his throat the older man unzipped his coat slightly, revealing the edge of a manila folder. “I have. But first we need to take a drive.”

The car park was full of Warren’s colleagues, all of whom were tensed and ready to rush in at the nearest hint of any trouble. To leave with Sheehy would be a breach of protocol and absolute madness, although Warren felt it unlikely that he was in any physical danger.

“Not a chance. If you have information on the murder then you can share it here.”

Sheehy shook his head. “No. What I have is for your ears only.”

“If that’s your attitude, how about I run you down the station and charge you with obstruction and help myself to the information?”

Sheehy snorted derisively. “Investigation going well, is it? Lots of suspects all lined up?”

The man was right. They had drawn a complete blank; whatever information Sheehy possessed about the old man’s murder, Warren needed to know it.

Warren looked at him long and hard.

“How do I know you didn’t kill Reggie Williamson? That you’re not some deranged killer who’s going to stab me as soon as we move on?”

“If you thought that, you wouldn’t be sitting here with me, even with a van full of rugby players three spaces along and Gary staring all gooey-eyed at that new detective constable over in the beer garden.”

Warren’s mind raced through the possibilities, but he’d already made his mind up. He slipped the car into gear.

“Where are we going?”

“I’ll point; you drive.” Sheehy wasn’t silly enough to announce their destination to whoever may be listening. He raised his voice.

“And if that’s you on the other end of DCI Jones’s open radio link, Grayson, tell the officers parked at either end of the road to stay where they are. And it’s a clear day with good visibility. I’ll see the chopper a mile off and you can kiss goodbye any information that I’m going to give him.”

Sheehy put a hand out. “Remove the earpiece. Save yourself an earbashing.”

“Do as he says,” instructed Warren to the surveillance team, a small part of him enjoying the sudden silencing of DSI Grayson’s squawking as he pulled his hidden earpiece out and Sheehy tossed it out the window. He’d get it in the neck when he returned to the station, but he’d deal with that then. Hopefully the information Sheehy claimed to have would be worth it.

* * *

Sheehy’s directions had been by hand gesture only; he was too experienced to think that Warren’s earpiece was the only open communication channel from the vehicle. After passing the unmarked cars at the top end of the street—the officers glared openly, but made no immediate move to follow them—they were soon heading towards the north end of town. It didn’t take Warren long to work out where they were headed.

“It’s a lovely evening, Warren. You won’t need your coat.”

Warren sighed, tossing the heavy jacket with its hidden microphone onto the rear seat. He pointedly didn’t remove the blue stab vest, but as they left the Mondeo in the small car park on the edge of Middlesbury Common he was uncomfortably aware that he was leaving behind his last means of communication with the surveillance team. He was going to have a lot of explaining to do when he got back.

“Is that where Reggie Williamson was killed?”

It was a rhetorical question—blue-and-white police tape still fluttered in the breeze.