No Smoke Without Fire

Again, Evans’ face crumpled, but he managed to speak. “I had to. I had to make her see sense. She’d come round eventually, I knew that. It would just take time.” He paused, reaching for the necessary words. “But she didn’t have that time, did she?”

Warren paused a few moments respectfully before continuing again. “Tell me, Bill. You said that it was Darren Blackheath’s fault that she was dead. Why do you think that?”

“She was going to break it off with him. We met up the day before…you know. She told me that she thought Darren was going to propose and suddenly it wasn’t a game any more. She didn’t say as much, but I think she was worried about what sort of husband he would be. Those holidays that she went on with Cheryl? I reckon that he thought they gave him a green light to go and sleep around on his football tours. I’ve heard the rumours: wild parties, drugs and hookers.

“When she married him that would be it — before you know it she’d be pregnant and trapped. She’d be one of those women you see down on the estate, three kids, working full time, whilst the husband pisses all their money up the wall of the local pub.

“He had it bloody good with Sally. If she left him, he would end up living with his mum and dad and fitting tyres for the rest of his life — where was he going to find a girl like Sally again?”

* * *

The two detectives decided to take a break for a few minutes to process what they had just heard. Evans was not under arrest, so they arranged for the custody sergeant to take coffee in for him and see if he needed the bathroom.

“Well, I’m confused now,” confessed Warren. “This morning, Karen Hardwick and I heard nothing but praise for Darren Blackheath. I’d pretty much crossed him off the list. Now, we have the victim’s father spelling out quite plausible reasons why he thinks he’s a murderer.”

Sutton gulped his coffee before answering. “He makes a good case, I’ll give him that. We’ll have to check the forensics out. But then what about him? He’s admitted he was angry with her and he clearly hates Blackheath. It’s not impossible to imagine a scenario where he kills his daughter and tries to pin the blame on her boyfriend. If they were from the Asian community, we’d call it an ‘honour killing’, but human nature is universal.”

“I tend to agree. What’s the betting that when they met the day before the killing he picked her up in his car? That’d put the kibosh on any trace evidence.”

“What doesn’t fit is that Cheryl claimed she was excited that Darren was going to propose and her workmates said that she was her ‘usual cheerful self’. That doesn’t fit with what her father said.”

“I figure that leaves two possibilities — either he’s completely misjudged her attitude and is seeing what he wants to see, or he’s lying about Blackheath. It could be that she revealed to him that she knew he was going to propose and that made him mad enough to kill her.”

Sutton nodded his agreement. “If so, then he is a sick bastard. From what we know of the crime it was well planned and of course he raped his own daughter. There is one other possibility though. He could be right. He might be the only one to have seen through Blackheath. We’ll need forensics and eyewitnesses that can place Blackheath’s car outside his house when he says it was.”

“So it seems that in both cases it comes down to forensics and alibis. Great. Well, we have one more thing to try him on. Let’s see his reaction when we bring up his priors.”

Sutton looked sceptical. “It’s a hell of a jump, don’t you think, from some alleged willy-waving over a decade ago to strangling and raping your daughter?”

“These perverts have to start somewhere.”

* * *

Sutton’s scepticism seemed well founded. When confronted with the conviction and all that it implied, Evans was contemptuous, with no hint that he was at all concerned.

“Ancient history and total bullshit anyway. All that happened was I got very drunk at lunchtime after we won a big contract at work. I decided to walk home to clear my head and got caught short. I was in the middle of pissing in a big bush when I heard two women yelling and I realised I was next to a bloody primary school. I should have done a runner, but I decided to stick around and try to explain. They called the police and I was arrested for indecently exposing myself. Unfortunately, it was raining so there was no piss to back up my story.

“When it got to court, they decided that since the pupils were all inside with no realistic way they could see me or I could see them, they’d drop the more serious charges. In the end they fined me for being drunk and disorderly, urinating in a public place and indecent exposure. If those two women hadn’t made such a bloody song and dance about it, it wouldn’t have even gone that far. Like I said, ancient history. Now, if you want to drag up relevant past history, ask Darren Blackheath about Kim Bradshaw. See if you still think he’s Mr Bloody Perfect after you hear what he did to her.”

Chapter 11

It was nearly eleven by the time Warren and Sutton finished at the station. Bill Evans had been picked up by his wife after handing over the keys to his BMW. The car was now on a flatbed truck, heading towards the vehicle crime specialists where it would join Darren Blackheath’s pride and joy.

As he walked across the car park the icy wind did little to lift the fatigue that settled around Warren like a blanket. It was always the same. The first few days of any murder investigation were necessarily frenetic. At this stage, the passage of hours mattered. The perpetrators had time to cover their tracks, witnesses’ memories started to fade and delicate evidence would degrade or disappear.

Climbing into his car, he caught the reflection of the station’s lights in the wing mirrors. Almost every window was brightly lit, shadowy forms moving around inside. Grayson’s office and his were the only dark windows.

A brief stab of guilt was quickly repressed. He could go back in and easily work through the night, but experience had taught him his limits. There was a whole team following the leads that had already been generated; he would just be getting in the way. Besides, he needed the rest to lead effectively; far better to get a good night’s sleep and hit the ground running early the next morning. If anything urgent turned up, he trusted his team’s judgement to decide if he should be called or if it could be added to his morning task list.

Waving goodbye to Sutton, Warren drove the short distance home. Letting himself in, he found Susan sound asleep on the sofa, two piles of red exercise books next to her, another book open on her lap. One pile was much taller than the other — Warren sincerely hoped that was the completed set. The TV played quietly in the background: some dreadful-looking ‘reality’ show that he knew his wife would have immediately turned over if she had been awake.

The slight draft from the open door caused Susan to stir. “What time is it?” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

“Late,” replied Warren, bending over to kiss her forehead. She smiled, before glancing down at the pile of books.

“Oh, no. I promised 9D2 I’d mark their books before the lesson tomorrow.” She groaned. “I shouldn’t have sat on the sofa to mark. I knew I’d fall asleep.” She picked up her red pen again. “I’ll be another hour at least.”

Warren knew better than to argue with her. If there was one profession that could engineer spurious guilty feelings from never doing enough work, it was teaching, he mused. He’d been with Susan long enough to know that, just like detectives, teachers could never do too much. There was always another job that could be done.

Warren felt a debt to the victims and families to turn over every stone; Susan felt the same way about her pupils. If she wasn’t marking their work, she was preparing lessons or devising new ways to teach difficult concepts, all in the hope that what she taught next lesson might be instrumental to them fulfilling their future dreams.

Warren kissed her again before heading upstairs to bed. Often, if one or the other was working late, they used the guest bedroom so as not to wake the sleeping partner. Warren vowed that he wouldn’t let Susan go to sleep alone tonight and so, after cleaning his teeth and getting ready for bed, he picked up the David Baldacci novel he was currently reading.

The plot was as gripping and suspenseful as ever, with ingenious twists and turns. So good that when his eyes closed of their own accord barely thirty pages in, his dreams were a riot of unconnected facts and strange occurrences.

An hour later Susan switched off the bedside reading light, carefully closed the book and carried her nightdress into the guest bedroom.

Wednesday 7th December

Chapter 12

The arrival of Wednesday was announced by the insistent ringing of Warren’s mobile phone, which pulled double duty as his alarm clock. Somehow, he managed to locate it and perform the complicated swiping gesture necessary to silence it. A few moments later, a similar sound emanated from the guest bedroom. He groaned as he glanced over, noticing for the first time that Susan’s side of the bed hadn’t been slept in.

Despite the couple waking up in different rooms, their morning routine was pretty well established. Susan would jump in the shower first, whilst Warren put the kettle on and got breakfast ready. Although he wasn’t much of a breakfast person, Susan was and he dished up cereal — sultana bran, this month — with another handful of dried fruit on top and a chopped banana. He left the skimmed milk to one side, not wanting the cereal to get soggy, and poured a generous glass of apple juice.

As he waited for the kettle to boil he made their lunches. Susan got bored with sandwiches very quickly and was always on the lookout for new combinations. This week was some sort of fishy, Greek paste that she’d found in the supermarket. The smell alone was enough to turn Warren’s stomach as he spread a generous helping on top of some sesame-seeded bread and buried it under lettuce and tomato. The odour reminded him of the time he’d been left to feed his best friend’s cat when he went away on holiday.

After a moment’s thought, he added a bit more spread to the sandwich. Susan would appreciate the extra filling, whilst Warren hoped that it would accelerate the pot’s emptying. He doubted her next discovery could smell any worse.

Carefully discarding the knife and selecting a new, uncontaminated utensil, Warren constructed his own sandwich. Mature Cheddar cheese on brown bread. No margarine — he couldn’t see the point. A banana, a fistful of grapes and a bag of unsalted cashew nuts apiece filled the rest of their plastic boxes. He poured both coffees and, leaving them to cool, he headed back upstairs, just in time to meet his wife coming out of the bathroom.

Her citrus-scented shampoo smelled lovely and the taste of mint toothpaste as they kissed good morning was delicious. Unfortunately, their cuddle was all too brief and Warren had to ignore the allure of the soft curves that he knew lay beneath the fluffy bathrobe.

By the time Warren had showered, shaved and dressed, Susan was fully dressed, her breakfast dishes were in the sink and she was cramming exercise books into a hemp bag-for-life; the sturdy, £1 eco-bag was one of the best ways yet invented to carry heavy books to and from school.

Downing his slightly too hot coffee in one go, Warren grabbed his briefcase and sandwiches and headed for the door, Susan following, book bag in one hand and keys in the other. The burglar alarm was set and the door closed behind them. A perfunctory, coffee-tasting kiss on the front doorstep and seconds later the couple’s cars were heading in opposite directions.

Seven a.m., another day started.

* * *

The office was quiet when Warren arrived a few minutes later. The phones were silent and the quiet working buzz of the office had yet to get going. Even in policing, seven fifteen wasn’t considered ‘office hours’ and phoning witnesses or calling colleagues in other departments was discouraged unless it was an emergency. Even the most helpful eyewitness was unlikely to be entirely co-operative if you woke them up in the early hours of the morning or the middle of the night.

Nevertheless, those pulling the night shift had been busy and a glut of new reports sat in Warren’s in-tray and his computer’s inbox. It was an encouraging start to the day, he decided, gauging the thickness of the pile, but he doubted there was anything too exciting in there otherwise he’d have been called at home. By a quarter to eight he had a couple of pages of notes and had planned out the next few hours’ worth of activities for him and his team.

First order of the day was to revisit Darren Blackheath and question him about Kim Bradshaw. After Bill Evans’ outburst the previous evening he had requested details of the incident. The report sat in his tray, waiting to be read fully.

The results of more tests from Sally Evans’ PM were expected soon and he was going to ask that they be run through HOLMES. Ideally, they’d pick up some matches later in the day.

In the meantime, different teams of officers would be trying to catch up with witnesses to try and pinpoint Darren Blackheath’s whereabouts on the night of the murder. Warren still felt that the young man was innocent, but there was work to be done before he could be discounted entirely.

Similarly, Bill Evans also needed his alibi corroborated and specialists in Welwyn would be trying to track down his mistress. Warren’s gut was giving him conflicting signals about the man. On the one hand, the man’s distress seemed genuine; on the other hand he seemed shifty. Whether that was just a result of Warren’s personal distaste towards the man’s private life he couldn’t be sure. He was only human after all; try as he might, his feelings could be influenced by his personal prejudices as much as anybody’s.

Chapter 13

As soon as the morning briefing concluded, Warren snared Tony Sutton and Karen Hardwick and the three officers drove to the flat where Sally Evans and Darren Blackheath had lived. Tony Sutton had yet to meet Blackheath and, if he was in the frame, Warren wanted his second-in-charge to get a good look; on the other hand, DC Hardwick had been with Warren for the initial interview. If there was any change in the man’s demeanour he hoped that the insightful young officer would pick it up.

After ringing the doorbell twice and receiving no reply, Warren knocked on the neighbour’s door. After a few moments, it opened slowly and a gnarled, weather-beaten face appeared.

“Whatcha want?”

The voice was so gravelly and the face so wrinkled that only the pink dressing gown hinted at the occupant’s gender. A cloud of stale cigarette smoke drifted out.

Warren held his warrant card open. “DCI Warren Jones, madam. I wonder if you could tell me the whereabouts of your next-door neighbour, Mr Blackheath.”

“I already spoke to the police. I was at me club on the night the poor girl was murdered, God bless ’er soul. I didn’t see nothing and have no idea if that young fella of hers and his silly car were around.”

The old lady either hadn’t heard or had misunderstood Warren’s question. He raised his voice and enunciated his words more clearly. “No ma’am. I wondered if you knew where he is this morning. We’ve knocked on the door and there was no reply.”

“Well, he’s gone to work, in’t he? When you towed that car of his away, I’d hoped that’d be the end of all the noise first thing in the morning. The bloody thing makes such a racket, especially the way he revs the engine. But the lad who picked him up made even more noise. I reckon he must have loosened that exhaust pipe ’specially, just to annoy folks like me in bed.”

“So you’re saying he’s returned to work?”

“Yeah, he went in yesterday. I spoke to him last night, just to pass on my condolences, like, and he said he needed the company.” For the first time, the fierce visage softened slightly. “Poor lad. He might be a bit noisy and he won’t be gettin’ a Nobel prize any time soon but he was nice enough and he helped me no end when I was burgled last autumn. Now he’s all alone. I remember what that’s like from when my Stan died… Maybe I’ll take him round something to eat. He’s hardly had a single visitor ’cept the police and you don’t count. No offence.”

Warren was getting the feeling that the elderly lady didn’t get too many visitors herself and might just welcome a bit of a gossip. She might not have been here the night that Sally Evans disappeared — which explained why she hadn’t been flagged as ‘of interest’ by the door knockers — but with the right questions, she might provide insights into the couple’s private life. Time for a little charm, he decided.

“Please forgive my bad manners — I haven’t asked your name. This is Detective Inspector Tony Sutton and Detective Constable Karen Hardwick and you must be getting chilled with this door open.”

“Maeve Cunningham.” She stepped back as Warren had hoped she would. “Why don’t you come in out of the cold?”

The three officers stepped over the threshold into the house, the stale fug of tobacco hitting them hard. At least it was warm. Up close, the woman was even older than Warren had first guessed. She was bending over a metal walking stick with a bird-like frame, and her hands were twisted, the knuckles swollen with arthritis. The fingertips on her right hand were stained the dark yellow that only a truly dedicated smoker could achieve. Her teeth and even the fringe of her thinning white hair were similarly affected, almost as if she had started to dye her hair blonde, before giving up.

After slowly leading the three officers into her living room, she carefully sat down on what was clearly her favourite chair. A bag of knitting lay next to an open newspaper and a TV remote control. A packet of Marlboro Red cigarettes and a lighter sat next to an overflowing ashtray, although much to Warren’s relief she made no move to light one.

After clearing her throat a few times, a wet, wheezy sound that made Warren wince inwardly, she was settled.

“So you were saying that Darren has had very few visitors since Sally’s disappearance? What about his parents? Or her parents?”

The old lady shook her head. “I don’t like to gossip, you understand, but I heard that he doesn’t get on very well with his parents any more. Not since the incident with that Kim Bradshaw. He thinks that they betrayed him.”

There was clearly much to this story, Warren was beginning to realise, and it seemed to be common local knowledge. Unfortunately, Mrs Cunningham knew, or was willing to admit to knowing, few details and so he dropped the discussion.

“Tell me, how well did they get on as a couple, do you think?”

“They always seemed happy, whenever I saw them. Dead close. But then I suppose that you have to be, when both of you have been practically disowned by your parents. I suppose it’s romantic in a way — bit like Romeo ’n’ Juliet.”

“So you were aware that Ms Evans’ parents didn’t like Darren Blackheath?”

The old woman cackled, her eyes suddenly dancing with amusement. “I’ll bloody say I did. A few weeks after they started living here, her dad turned up, didn’t he? He was drunk and he started shouting at Darren to come out. It was late at night, so I got up to see what was going on. Anyway, he starts banging on the flat door. Well, the original doors in these flats are cheap and flimsy and it popped open. I had mine replaced after I was broken into but they haven’t yet.

“I heard shouting and came back in here to call the police, but it stopped. A few seconds later, what do I see but Darren Blackheath, wearing nothing but a bath towel, climbing down the fire escape!”

The old woman burst out laughing, before subsiding into a coughing fit. She leant forward and patted Karen Hardwick’s knee and winked.

“I can’t say he was the finest specimen I’ve ever seen — boy needs a good feeding — but when you get to my age you take what you can.”

Warren couldn’t help smiling; the old woman’s good cheer was infectious. Sutton was grinning from ear to ear.

“Do you have any idea why her father disliked Darren so much?”

The old lady paused, thinking. “Obviously, I can only tell as what I hear down the club, but Mr Evans is a bit of a snob. He looks down on us working-class types. He forgets that a generation ago his parents worked in the factory. Then there was the whole Kim Bradshaw incident. He figured his little girl was better than all that.”

She shook her head. “But they were in love. And they were happy. Seems a shame he couldn’t deal with that.”

After a few more questions, it soon became obvious that Maeve Cunningham had little more to say. Besides which, she kept on glancing at her cigarettes. Finally, standing up, the three detectives took their leave of the elderly lady.

“Thank you very much for your time, Mrs Cunningham. Can I leave you my card in case you remember anything else?”

“Of course. But it’s Miss Cunningham. Why did you think I was married?”

Warren blinked, completely nonplussed. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed. You mentioned how lonely you were after Stan died and, well, you know, I thought he was your husband.”

“Well, I’d heard about how strange folks were in Birmingham, but I didn’t realise they married their dogs.”

The three officers could still hear her laughter as they turned the corner of the corridor.

Chapter 14

Back in the car, Hardwick and Sutton unsuccessfully tried to hide their smirks.

Warren sighed. “OK, you two, be honest, do I really sound like a Brummie? I’m from Coventry and I only worked in Birmingham for a few years.”

The two more junior officers glanced at each other before Sutton took the lead, clearing his throat. “Well, sometimes. You know, certain words and phrases.”

“It’s more of a general West Midlands twang,” supplied Karen Hardwick helpfully from the back seat. “You know, a bit like Lenny Henry.”

“Lenny Henry! He’s from bloody Dudley! No way do I sound like that.” Warren was amazed, how could they not hear the difference?

“It’s just a regional thing, guv,” Sutton interjected quickly. “You know the way most English folks can’t tell the difference between Northern and Southern Irish, or different parts of the North East. You have to live somewhere ages to tell the difference.”

“I imagine the local accents down here are a bit difficult to distinguish for you as well, sir.”

A fair point, Warren acknowledged grudgingly. He had lived here for six months and, although he was slowly starting to recognise the difference between Eastern accents and London, this whole corner of England sounded remarkably homogenous. He was sure that there must be a difference between an Essex and a Hertfordshire accent, but he had yet to figure it out. He admitted as much, even letting slip that he couldn’t distinguish between the Cockney accents on Eastenders and Essex accents. His two colleagues shook their heads in disbelief.

Warren grunted and scowled. Truth be told, though, he was enjoying the banter. The atmosphere had been heavy the previous twenty-four hours, with only the darkest humour glimmering. He was confident that details of the conversation would circulate the office in record time. Hopefully a little good-natured teasing would improve morale and even make him seem a bit more human.

The time for levity soon passed though, as the car pulled into the customer parking bay of the tyre fitters that Darren Blackheath worked for. The three officers made their way into the small, glass-walled customer waiting area. At one end of the room was a small desk with a computer. A middle-aged man with greying hair was busy pecking away, two fingers at a time, on a battered keyboard, as he grunted and ‘uh-huh’ed into the mouthpiece of the phone clamped between his shoulder and ear. A small name badge identified him as ‘Jack Bradley — Manager’.