No Smoke Without Fire

With the jobs assigned, Warren glanced at his watch: ten to three. “I’m due a briefing on the autopsy in a few minutes. Keep feeding back to the incident desk and we’ll meet again tomorrow morning eight a.m.”

The room emptied quickly, everyone eager to complete their given tasks, hoping to be the one that found the vital link. Human nature, mused Warren, just as it’s human nature to lose energy and become frustrated as time wears on with no new leads. They were less than twenty-four hours in and already Warren had a bad feeling about the case. If it was a true stranger murder then they were probably in for the long haul. And it would be up to him to keep his team engaged and focused all that time.

Chapter 7

Warren had never been a big fan of autopsies. Some of his colleagues were happy to go into the morgue and see firsthand with their own eyes the clues teased out by the pathologist. Warren privately accused them of having a lack of imagination and a touch of voyeurism. He had no problem visualising everything he needed in his mind’s eye using a few colour photographs and a well-written report. He could see nothing to be gained by looking at the corpse on a table. Truth be told, he wouldn’t know what he was looking for. Far better that a practised expert describe what he was observing.

The expert today was Professor Ryan Jordan, a fifty-something, American-born, Home Office Certified pathologist, and he was happy to meet with Warren at Middlesbury CID rather than calling Warren down to look at the body in the morgue.

He read from his notes.

“The body is that of a Caucasian woman, mid-twenties. One hundred sixty-one centimetres tall, weighing sixty-four kilogrammes. Average build, with no distinguishing scars or body decoration. Medically, she appeared to be of average to below average fitness, with limited muscular development and lungs consistent with that of a pack-per-day smoker of about ten years; some evidence of early cardiovascular disease. Her liver was again consistent with somebody who drank more than she should, showing early signs of inflammation. It is my opinion, however, that none of these conditions contributed to her death.” He glanced up. “Give it a few more years and I reckon she’d have had a hard time climbing the stairs though. You see a lot of young women like this in the UK. It’s a ticking time bomb and I don’t see how the NHS will cope.”

Warren nodded politely, not really interested in the American’s opinions on Britain’s binge-drinking and smoking culture. “How did she die, then, do you think?” he asked, steering the conversation back to the matter in hand.

“It’s largely as Andy Harrison guessed at the scene. She was killed Friday evening, judging from her stomach contents, which are consistent with a tuna sandwich and a banana eaten at about one p.m. Cause of death was strangulation with her scarf. Prior to death she underwent very rough intercourse, probably penile. Bruising confirms that she was alive; however, we can find no signs of any struggle, suggesting that she was either compliant or unconscious.”

Warren raised a sceptical eyebrow and Jordan raised his hands in surrender. “I’m just saying it as I see it, Chief. Or, more importantly, how the defence will try and portray it. Consensual sex gone wrong.”

“So we have no evidence of rape.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” He pushed a photograph across the table.

“Look how smeared her make-up is. Assuming it’s the same lipstick that she had in her handbag, it’s waterproof and long-lasting. It shouldn’t really smear like that. Unless it was dissolved in solvent.”

Warren was one step ahead. “You’re suggesting that she was subdued by some sort of solvent, like chloroform, which smeared her make-up? That’s a bit Agatha Christie, isn’t it?”

Again, the American pathologist raised his hands. “As I said before, I say it as I see it. We’ve sent off for blood toxicology reports to see if she was sedated, but they’ll be a few weeks. There is no evidence of irritation to her respiratory passages, which rules out some solvents, but not chloroform.”

“What else have you got?”

“Not a lot really, although that in itself may be interesting. We can hardly find any trace evidence from the attacker.”

“So he wore a condom?”

“More than that, I would say. With this sort of rough penetration, I would expect some genital-to-genital contact. It would be hard to avoid. We’ve looked under the microscope and combed her pubic area, but we haven’t found a single alien pubic hair, or skin flake. The only thing we’ve found are traces of lubricant, consistent with that used on pretty much all of the major brands of condom, some tiny chemical traces that the mass-spec machine suggest is dry latex powder, and a commercial adhesive, usually found on rolls of sticky-tape.”

“I thought dry latex powder was discouraged in condoms because it causes allergies?”

“It is, but you can still find it in some cheap rubber gloves. If I were a betting man, I would suggest that our killer wore a couple of condoms at least, in case of accidents, has a shaved pubic area and used a cut-up rubber glove and sticky tape to ensure that he left no trace where he made contact with her.”

Warren winced. This was a sick person and, it would seem, clever and well prepared.

“Anything else on her?”

“We have found some fine powder on her coat that seems to come from brown cardboard and a couple of fibres that may or may not be significant. We’ll look at the database and see if the fibres are interesting.”

“She spent the day unpacking cardboard boxes,” offered Warren.

“That could account for the cardboard powder,” mused Jordan.

“Was she murdered and raped in situ?” asked Warren.

“It looks that way. Skin lividity indicates that she died in that position and wasn’t moved post-mortem — gravity pooled her blood just the way we’d expect. Her coat has two muddy patches that line up with indentations on the forest floor, suggesting that he knelt on her coat as he penetrated her. As I said before, the bruising indicates that she was alive at the time, but probably unconscious or compliant. I couldn’t say whether she died during or after the rape. Hopefully the toxicology tests will show that she was unconscious throughout.”

Warren nodded soberly. It was a small mercy, but he’d take it, he decided.

Chapter 8

Next stop for Warren was the office of Detective Superinten Grayson to discuss their plans for the upcoming press conference. As always, Grayson had his dress uniform hanging on the back of his office door and Warren knew that he wouldn’t miss an opportunity to wear it in front of the cameras. Looking closely, Warren thought the man’s jowls seemed suspiciously shiny and his hair seemed even smarter than normal. The bugger’s had time for a bloody shave and haircut, Warren realised. For a second, he felt self-conscious — he hadn’t had a haircut for over a month and his early morning shave was some hours behind him — but then he shrugged mentally. If past form was anything to go by, he would barely say a word anyway and would almost certainly be edited out of the bulletin that was broadcast. He was only there because he was the named officer in charge of the investigation. One or two of his answers to more technical questions might be quoted in the broadsheets, space permitting.

The press conference would be a fairly formal, by-the-book affair. Since the family had informed everyone that needed to know about Sally’s fate, she would be named and her parents would both be present to make a plea for information. It had been decided that details of her death would be kept to a minimum to stop cranks and lunatics from wasting the police’s time with seemingly plausible stories full of authentic detail. No mention would be made of the rape. At the end of the conference, Detective Superintendent Grayson would attempt to remind young women about being vigilant at night without sounding overly alarmist.

The conference was scheduled for six p.m. Just early enough for the editors of the six-thirty local news to squeeze it into the end of their bulletin. Depending on what else was happening in the world, the story might make it onto the seven p.m. national broadcasts. It was a definite for the late-night news and the next day’s papers.

Grayson had ordered a police car to take them down to the main headquarters at Welwyn and they had a few minutes to spare. Truth be told, Warren would far rather have driven himself. It might not be strictly legal, but Grayson had enough pull for the police driver to put the lights and siren on. Previous jaunts down the A1(M) with the detective superintendent had left Warren feeling decidedly shaken. Lights or no lights, one hundred miles per hour plus in rush-hour traffic was far outside Warren’s comfort zone and it was all he could do to stop his feet trying to stomp on an imaginary brake pedal. Grayson usually read the newspaper or fiddled with his BlackBerry smartphone.

As Grayson used his mirror to check his appearance Warren enjoyed the last few mouthfuls of his coffee. One benefit of being called to the boss’s office was his expensive filter-coffee machine and selection of fine roasts.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this one, Warren,” mused Grayson.

Warren was forced to agree. “It’s looking more and more like a stranger killing. That immediately rules out half of our usual lines of investigation.”

“Worse, it increases the chance of him striking again.”

Again, Warren had to concur. Most murders had a reason, the victim or victims killed for a purpose or as a consequence of an event. That reason might not be fathomable to normal-minded people, but it did mean that the murders were limited. Once the perceived slight had been avenged or the goal accomplished, the killings stopped. With a stranger killing that might not be the case; the act of killing might be the reason and didn’t necessarily lead to a resolution for the killer.

As he returned his empty mug to its saucer and grabbed his coat off the chair back Warren felt a heavy weight settle onto his shoulders. A slight ache started in his stomach. They were signs he’d grown to understand — this case was going to be a nasty one.

Chapter 9

Warren and Grayson survived the headlong dash along the motorway and were soon in the room Herts and Beds used for major press conferences. An announcement earlier in the day about the finding of the body ensured that the room was pretty much full.

The aim of the conference was to formally identify the victim as Sally Evans and to appeal for help from the public, although as usual the press had managed to identify and name Evans some hours before. Mercifully her family and key friends had been notified before the press spilled the beans, but Warren always worried that one day some over-eager journalist was going to cause a lot of distress by breaking such news on air.

Key to the conference would be the presence of Sally Evans’ parents and her best friend, Cheryl. Between them, they would deliver a carefully written direct plea to the murderer or those that might know him to search their consciences and contact the police. Darren Blackheath was too upset to attend the conference — or maybe he was avoiding Sally’s father. There was definitely more to that story, Warren mused. Hovering in the background were the force’s press officer and a trio of family liaison officers, there to support the victim’s family and friends during the coming months.

Sally Evans’ parents had insisted on delivering a direct appeal to the public for information but after Bill Evans and then his wife choked up it fell to Cheryl Davenport to finish reading out the moving tribute to the murdered woman. Although it saddened him, Warren knew that the added drama had probably bought them a few extra seconds on the news and a couple of extra lines in the newspaper, which could only be a good thing. The press briefing packs included an uncropped version of the main picture that they were using, with Sally and Cheryl both laughing at the camera. No doubt at least one picture editor would use this to emphasise the human tragedy.

As he’d predicted, Warren had been introduced then promptly forgotten about. This early on in the investigation, he had little to offer the press and so a well-groomed John Grayson had answered the few perfunctory questions.

Finally, barely two hours after leaving Middlesbury, the two officers were back at the station. Grayson didn’t even enter the lobby, practically stepping from the back seat of the police car into the driver’s seat of his Mercedes, muttering something about his golf club’s awards ceremony. He left with a squeak of tyres and not so much as a backward glance. Warren sighed and glanced at his watch. Ten past seven. Turning, he headed back inside.

Chapter 10

Warren had barely taken his coat off, when an excited Gary Hastings appeared at his door. He waved him in.

“Got something interesting for you, sir. I was checking out Bill Evans’ alibi like you said and it seems that he wasn’t in Leeds the night of the murder. Better still, he hasn’t been up there for months. And a check of the PNC shows that he has previous convictions.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes after Hastings’ shock discovery, Warren called a short briefing in his office.

The team decided to bring in Evans for formal questioning. Why had Evans lied about his whereabouts on the night of his daughter’s disappearance? Was her upcoming marriage to a man he clearly disliked enough for him to lose his temper with murderous consequences? And, even worse than that, after killing his daughter, had Bill Evans defiled her body? Perhaps most alarmingly, according to the pathology report, the rape had been carried out with such care to avoid leaving evidence behind that it had to have been pre-planned to some degree. And what about his previous conviction?

According to the report, Evans had been arrested drunk outside a primary school twelve years previously, after exposing himself to a couple of mothers waiting to pick up their children. He had been hit with a raft of charges, but had eventually been convicted of being drunk and disorderly and public indecency and fined accordingly.

Conscious that every second they wasted was another second that the killer had to cover his tracks, the team headed straight for the Evanses’ house. As before, the house was full of family and friends giving comfort to the grieving couple, both of whom were still dressed smartly from the press conference.

Warren was acutely aware that in circumstances like this he would be judged as much for his tact and sensitivity as his deductive abilities. For that reason, Warren had decided not to flash an arrest warrant; rather he would ask Evans to accompany them voluntarily to the police station to answer some additional questions.

Nevertheless, despite Warren’s best efforts, they left the house with their ears burning. As far as the relatives were concerned, Bill Evans was supposed to have been in Leeds the night that Sally Evans went missing — so why were the police taking him away for further questioning? Maybe what he’d said about Darren Blackheath was true, they thought. Already, as Warren glanced back through the front windows, he could see at least two people on their mobile phones.

Passing Evans’ BMW estate, Warren made a note to have Forensics impound the car. As he opened the back door of the police car for Evans to enter Warren instinctively placed his hand on Evans’ head as the man climbed in, immediately regretting the action. The gesture was purely Health and Safety and CYA (Cover Your Arse) — it stopped passengers bumping their heads on the door frame and then trying to make something of it in court. Unfortunately to Joe Public, brought up on a diet of police shows, it screamed ‘you are under arrest’ as loudly as a pair of handcuffs. Warren’s ears burned even more hotly.

* * *

In the interview room, Warren finished advising Bill Evans that he was not under arrest and that he was there to answer questions on a purely voluntary basis. The man nodded wearily. He had aged in the past hours, Warren saw, looking even more haggard than he had during the press conference. Was it grief? Guilt? A mixture of the two? Warren’s gut was sending him conflicting signals. Bill Evans had something to hide; he was certain of that. But what? The scenario and timing just didn’t seem right to Warren. Everything pointed to a planned, premeditated kidnapping and attack but the only scenario under which Warren could see Bill Evans killing his beloved daughter was anything but that.

Beside him sat Tony Sutton. It was the first time that the detective inspector had met Evans and he stared at him with barely concealed fascination, the way one might look at a strange and dangerous creature in the zoo. Of course, it was all part of the act. Sutton’s role in this was to keep Evans on edge, making it more likely that he would slip up and reveal something that he didn’t want to.

With all of the legal requirements fulfilled, Warren decided to open with a quick, hard question designed to rattle the man’s cage.

“Tell me, Mr Evans, why did you lie to us about your whereabouts on the night of your daughter’s disappearance?”

Evans blinked in surprise. “I didn’t.”

“Come on, Bill, we’re not idiots. You claimed to have been up in Leeds overseeing one of your new branches. We phoned head office and they said that you hadn’t been in Leeds for months and that you had been working exclusively in the Cambridge office since the summer.”

Evans continued to look bewildered. “I never said any such thing. I hardly said two words to you before I left.”

Suddenly a cold feeling of dread went through Jones, followed by a flush of embarrassment. The man was right. He had said no such thing. It was Jane Evans who had claimed that her husband had been working away in Leeds; he had not even discussed his whereabouts that night. Shit! What a stupid mistake! And worse, he’d potentially squandered any opportunity of a ‘perverting the course of justice’ charge that would have at least given them a pretext to release him on police bail whilst they continued their enquiries.

Well, no use crying over spilt milk, Warren quickly decided.

“Well, your wife seems to think you have been working there — what are you doing there each month?”

As if sensing that Warren was on the back foot, Evans sneered, “I don’t see what that has to do with anything, Detective Chief Inspector. My private life is just that.”

“Be that as it may, Mr Evans. Perhaps we should confine ourselves to the night Sally went missing. Your wife appears to be under the impression that you were in Leeds. Your company claims otherwise. This gives you the perfect window of opportunity to take your daughter away from work, kill her and dump her body, before appearing at three a.m. to help with the hunt for her. We know all about the arguments that you had with Sally about her job and her boyfriend. What was it that caused you to snap Mr Evans?”

There was silence in the room, before the father in front of them started to cry — great wracking sobs that shook his shoulders and sent tears coursing down his face. Finally, he regained his composure enough to speak.

“You’re right, but not about killing Sally. I could never hurt my darling daughter.” He paused for a moment, then continued.

“I haven’t been to Leeds for months. It’s just an excuse. I’ve been seeing someone I met on the Internet. I think she’s married as well. I use the excuse of staying overnight in Leeds to spend time with her. She does the same.” He started to cry again. “I’m such a fucking coward. On the night that Sally went missing, Jane phoned me. I was supposed to be in Leeds. My little girl was missing and yet I stayed in bed with my lover in a bloody Cambridge hotel for two and a half hours before driving home to my family, just so I wouldn’t arouse suspicion. My place was with my wife…” He stopped, unable to continue.

Warren waited for the man to compose himself.

“You realise that we are going to have to check out your story, don’t you? We’ll need to contact this woman and get her to back you up. We’ll also need details of the hotel.”

The man nodded miserably. “I can get you the details of the hotel. I use my credit card — it just comes up as a Travelodge, doesn’t say where it is. The problem is, I don’t know the name of the woman.”

Warren blinked in surprise. “How does that work?”

Evans stared at the table-top, his voice now rough with embarrassment. “We met on the Internet. It’s a special, discreet site for people wanting affairs. No names, no details, just anonymous sex. If you want something more regular they supply an untraceable private email account and mobile phone SIM cards. We arrange to meet online.”

“Well, you must call her something.” Sutton struggled to hide the incredulity in his voice.

The man’s voice was barely audible. “Boadicea.”

“As in the ancient queen of the Britons? What are you called?”

“Arthur,” he mumbled.

“But that’s two completely different legends…”

Warren placed a hand on Sutton’s shoulder and cleared his throat. “I’m sure we can discuss the details later if necessary. In the meantime, how can we get hold of this…woman?”

Evans looked helpless.

“I don’t know. We arrange to meet up the first weekend of each month. I log on a couple of days before and she leaves me a message telling me when to keep my mobile phone switched on for her to call. Then she tells me when we are going to meet up. I book the room on my credit card.”

“Send her an email and ask to see her sooner.”

“It doesn’t work that way. We keep to the arrangement to avoid getting caught. She probably won’t read her email.”

“Can’t you phone her?”

“I don’t have her number — she blocks it when she calls me. Besides, I think she uses a separate SIM card — I know that I do. I don’t even put it in until I need to and I’ve never had a missed call. I think she does the same.”

Warren sighed in frustration. “You aren’t being much help here, Bill.”

The other man gestured helplessly. “The whole point of this set-up is not to make it easy to track each other down.”

Again he started to look tearful. “The thing is, I love my wife very much. She really is the one I want to grow old with and I know that she feels the same, ‘till death us do part’ and all that…”

“Isn’t the next line, ‘forsaking all others’?” interjected Sutton.

A brief flash of anger crossed the man’s face.

“Don’t be so fast to judge, Detective. My wife is not a well woman — we haven’t been intimate for years. A man has needs…” He broke off. “Anyway, I don’t need to explain myself to you.” With that he folded his arms and stared at a spot above both men’s heads.

Needing to get the interview back on track, Warren spoke softly.

“You are right, Mr Evans, the details of your private life are none of our concern. However we are in the middle of a murder investigation and it is our job to eliminate suspects. For that, we need your co-operation.”

After a few moments, Evans grunted softly and agreed to hand over what details he had of his mysterious lover and the mobile phone that he used to Welwyn’s IT specialists.

With the interview back on track, Warren steered it around to the sensitive subject of Darren Blackheath. Immediately Evans’ eyes flashed with anger.

“I can’t understand what she sees in that man. I really can’t. She was so beautiful and she had so much going for her… Why would she waste herself on that loser?”

Neither detective said anything; the question was clearly rhetorical.

“He was just leaching off her. I know for a fact that Sally paid most of the bills on the flat. She earned more than he did. And, of course, Jane was slipping her money each month. She thought I didn’t know but I’m not daft.”

“I believe that you had a big row with Sally and issued an ultimatum when she moved out?”