At First Glance (novella)

PAUL GITSHAM started his career as a biologist working in the UK and Canada. After stints as the world’s most over-qualified receptionist and a spell ensuring that international terrorists hadn’t opened a Child’s Savings Account at a major UK bank (a job even duller than working reception) he retrained as a science teacher.

Also by Paul Gitsham

The DCI Warren Jones series

The Last Straw

No Smoke Without Fire

Blood is Thicker than Water (Novella)

Silent as the Grave

A Case Gone Cold (Novella)

The Common Enemy

A Deadly Lesson (Novella)

Forgive Me Father

At First Glance

Paul Gitsham

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Paul Gitsham 2020

Paul Gitsham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © March 2020 ISBN: 9780008320591

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For Cheryl – not long now!

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Prologue

Day 1: Friday

Day 2: Saturday

Day 3: Sunday

Day 4: Monday

Day 5: Tuesday

Day 6: Wednesday

Day 7: Thursday

Day 8: Friday

Day 9: Saturday

Want More?

Acknowledgements

Letter from the Author

Dear Reader

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue

The car sits still, the engine idling. When the vehicle rolled off the production plant in Bavaria, more than ten years earlier, its makers had prided themselves on their precision engineering, its finely tuned engine producing barely a whisper.

Extra-wide stainless-steel exhaust tips had put an end to that, giving the diesel engine a throaty grumble that belied the fact that the car was the least powerful model in its range. The new M3 badge, added by the driver after he’d bought the crash-damaged car for a song in an online auction, reinforced the lie. There was no point wearing a fake Rolex to impress the foot soldiers if your choice of motor gave you away.

He pressed the throttle and the engine gave a louder growl, amplified as it bounced off the concrete walls and metal doors of the lock-up garages, adding its own discordant note to the bass beat pumped out by the top-of-the-line speakers he’d installed.

He told everyone that he kept the engine running so he could make a quick getaway if the police showed up. In reality, he did it because he could. A few months ago, some old bird came out to have a go. She knew why he was there, as did her idiot son – he could see the terror in his eyes as he hung back, his balls too small to back up his mum – but she didn’t say anything about his business.

‘If you’re going to sit here all night, switch the engine off and turn down the radio. It’s keeping the kiddies awake and polluting the atmosphere.’

She had guts – he’d give her that. But he couldn’t let that sort of disrespect go unchallenged. This was his territory. His turf.

He’d been tempted to flash the gun he kept under the seat. It was a fully loaded ancient revolver he’d bought down the pub, with half a dozen spare bullets. He only had two rounds left after he’d spent an afternoon out in the sticks trying to knock bottles off an old oil drum. Ten shots later, the drum had two new holes, and the bottles were untouched. He’d returned to the pub that night to buy some more ammunition and found out why the weapon had been so cheap. He’d been angry, but not angry enough to demand his money back for a gun that used obsolete bullets; getting into an argument with a gun dealer when all you had to back you up was an almost empty piece that you could barely aim was the very definition of stupid.

In the end, he’d told her to mind her own, and carried on revving the engine. She’d looked as though she was going to make something of it, but her son had pulled her away.

He’d won the battle, but spent the rest of the evening with one eye on the rear-view mirror, ready to floor it if the silly bitch called the police.

That had been months ago. She hadn’t called the police then and she hadn’t called them since. To be honest, he’d be surprised if she was still around; he was no doctor, but the yellow sagging skin, the hollow eyes and the sloppily tied headscarf that accentuated her lack of hair, rather than concealed it, told him all he needed to know.

He revved the engine again; this was his territory. He called the shots around here.

He looked at the dashboard clock. Where were they? Sunset was after nine this time of year, but they should have been here by now.

He wasn’t worried; even if they had been lifted and the police turned up, the gear was safe. He kept it in a hollowed-out compartment accessible only by a secret panel hidden in the glovebox. The bloke who’d installed it reckoned it would easily fool the local plods in Middlesbury. On the downside, if the car was ever in a head-on collision, the front passenger was screwed; wraps of heroin and bundles of twenties were no substitute for an airbag. He’d thought it best not to mention that to his girlfriend.

He saw a flash of movement in the rear-view mirror. An individual in a hoodie, head down, face concealed by the peak of a baseball cap, shuffled into sight.

Finally. Where had they been? Their customers would be crawling up the wall by now. Not that he gave a shit about some junkie’s cravings, but he wasn’t the only game in town and even heroin addicts had minimum service expectations.

He released the door lock as the figure drew alongside the car.

This was his territory.

He ran it.

Nobody was going to mess with him on his own turf.

Were they?

Day 1

Friday

The blood covering the interior of the BMW 3 series was already partly clotted by the time DCI Warren Jones arrived at the scene. Early June and it had been dark for less than two hours by 11 p.m. The hastily erected arc lamps threw confusing shadows against the white screens that shielded the scene, interspersed with the blue, strobing effect of the half-dozen police cars sealing the immediate area around the lock-up garages where the car had been found.

‘Any idea who the victim is yet?’

Detective Sergeant David Hutchinson flicked the page over in his notepad, his paper suit rustling. ‘The car is registered to a Kyle Hicks, known to his associates as “Kicks”. He’s on the computer for a range of drugs offences. I sent a photo back to Rachel Pymm and she says it matches his mugshot.’

Warren leaned through the open driver-side window; the smell of blood mingled nauseatingly with the man’s post-mortem bowel movement. The Christmas-tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror didn’t stand a chance.

‘Looks like a single swipe, right through the carotids. It must have been a very sharp blade.’

The man’s head was arched back, his glassy eyes wide with terror, his mouth agape in a silent scream. The man’s right hand was still pressed ineffectually against his ruined throat, but the crimson stains on his left hand and sleeve suggested that he’d tried to stem the bleeding with both hands. The sheer volume of blood coating the windscreen, dashboard and steering wheel attested to the futility of the gesture.

Warren stood up straight – he’d seen Crime Scene Manager Andy Harrison approaching.

‘Any indication of how long ago it happened?’ Warren greeted him.

‘Coagulation of the blood was well underway by the time the first responders arrived, so I’d say it happened at least fifteen minutes before then,’ said Harrison.

‘That’s consistent with the time given by the dog-walker who found the body. He called 999 at 21:55 hours and they arrived in less than five minutes,’ confirmed Hutchinson.

‘Any witnesses?’ asked Warren.

Hutchinson shook his head. ‘None so far. Most of the rubberneckers turned up to see what all the fuss was about.’

‘What’s the status of the cordon?’

‘An inner exclusion zone around the lock-ups, roadblocks on all surrounding streets, with Stop and Search in force. The Brownnose Brothers are supervising, but the streets are a maze.’ Hutchinson scowled. ‘If the killer didn’t hang about, he’s probably long gone.’

‘Can’t be helped, Hutch. Get Mags Richardson to start collecting CCTV, I want to know who was in the area. Get Jorge and Shaun to organise a house-to-house, let’s see if we can loosen some tongues.’ Warren refrained from calling the two new sergeants, Martinez and Grimshaw, by their less than flattering moniker, however apt it may be. He was the boss, after all, and they weren’t the only officers in the force to be so transparent about their future career ambitions.

‘If the victim’s a dealer and this is his patch, then the locals may know something. Get Rachel to set up an incident desk and start entering everything into HOLMES.’

‘If it’s drugs, we should probably let Serious and Organised Crime know sooner rather than later, you know what SOC are like,’ said Hutchinson.

Warren sighed. ‘You’re right. Is DSI Grayson back on duty?’

Hutchinson smirked slightly. ‘I believe he was seen going back into the office dressed for the theatre and looking pretty pissed off.’

‘Then I shall let the Superintendent inform our colleagues in Welwyn. Who knows, we might even get a couple of hours to do some detective work before SOC come and steal all the limelight.’

Lenny Seacole was a well-built, shaven-headed man of indeterminate age. He’d already spoken to the first officers on the scene after he’d reported the murder, but Warren wanted to speak to him personally, now that the adrenaline had worn off and before his memory started to cloud. However, Warren was beginning to wonder just how much of an adrenaline jolt the discovery had given the man. He’d been entirely unfazed by the CSI’s request to surrender his shoes for analysis; he’d declined the offer of a cup of tea.

‘I come down here most nights. It’s a straight walk to the park.’

Seacole held a rather sorry-looking tennis ball. Dressed in black jeans and a plain black T-shirt; the blue plastic bags tucked into his trouser belt and the forensic booties covering his massive feet provided the only splash of colour. Despite the rapidly cooling night air, his lack of jacket didn’t seem to bother him, with no trace of goose bumps on his tattooed forearms.

‘Was the car parked up when you went to the park?’ asked Warren.

‘No, he doesn’t usually turn up until a bit later.’

‘So, he’s a regular?’

‘Most nights.’ Seacole smiled humourlessly. ‘He’s like an ice-cream van, although he does as much business in winter as he does in summer.’

‘What time did you set out?’

‘Five past the end of EastEnders.’

That placed a limit on how early time of death could have been – 8.30 p.m. if Warren’s memory of evening TV schedules served him correctly.

‘How long were you in the park for?’

‘A bit more than an hour – he needs a lot of exercise.’

Warren didn’t doubt it. Even for a Rottweiler, Sinbad was a big dog. He suspected that the lifespan of the tennis balls was measured in days rather than weeks.

‘And do you usually walk back this way?’ he asked.

‘Like I said, it’s a straight walk.’

‘And the dealers don’t bother you?’

Seacole looked meaningfully over at Sinbad.

‘I see your point,’ said Warren. ‘When did you realise something was wrong?’

‘It was Sinbad that spotted it. He started pulling at the lead, which he doesn’t usually. He dragged me over and that was when I spotted the state of the windscreen. I figured that he must have been shot in the head or something to spray that much blood about. Anyway, I had a looksee and saw he’d been slashed. It was obvious he was dead, so I called you guys and backed away.’

‘Thank you for your time, Mr Seacole,’ said Warren.

Seacole nodded in response and led his dog away. Warren watched him leave. Seacole had just stumbled across a man with his throat slashed wide open. Why was he so calm?

An hour had passed since Warren had arrived on scene, and everything was running to plan. Teams of uniform officers coordinated by Detective Sergeants Jorge Martinez and Shaun Grimshaw had already interviewed most of the onlookers and started canvassing the houses in the streets surrounding the lock-ups, but it was dark, and so far nobody had admitted to seeing anything.

Andy Harrison’s team of CSIs were working their way outwards from the car, looking for the murder weapon and other evidence. The duty coroner was due in the next hour to do a preliminary examination of the body before it and the car were removed. And best of all, nobody from SOC had turned up to ruin the party.

‘There were no direct witnesses to the attack, but a number of neighbours confirmed what Lenny Seacole told us about that area being used by dealers,’ said DS Jorge Martinez. A skinny man in his mid-thirties, it was the first murder the officer had been involved in since he had been assigned to Middlesbury CID, and he was keen to please. Very keen.

‘A couple of old biddies confirmed that a car corresponding to Kyle Hicks’ BMW would regularly park up, engine running and sit with the windows down and music playing. One of them gave a description of the driver that matches Hicks.’ Grimshaw took up the story. He too had been recently assigned to Middlesbury, alongside his friend, and now rival, Martinez. He too was eager to please. If there was to be a new opening for a detective inspector position on Warren’s team, both men were embarrassingly desperate to fill the role, hence the pair’s unflattering nickname. Warren had spent the afternoon going over both officers’ paperwork, checking everything was in order before they started the process.

At times like this, he really missed his old friend and colleague DI Tony Sutton.

‘Good work. What about his dealers?’

Martinez took over again, ‘People were reluctant to talk but some reckon there were one, sometimes two of them. Young, probably no more than twenty. They usually wore hoodies and baseball caps and were white. That’s all we’ve got. I doubt their buyers would be willing to give us anything more concrete and I get the impression that everybody else in the area turns a blind eye.’

‘To be honest,’ continued Grimshaw, ‘the general grumblings were that something like this was inevitable. They reckon they stopped reporting the dealing months ago as we never seemed to do anything about it, and they didn’t want any trouble.’

It was a depressingly familiar tale. Cutbacks to the numbers of foot patrols and community-based police officers had eroded what little faith the residents of estates such as this had in the police. Kyle Hicks and his ilk largely enjoyed free rein.

Before Warren could reply, CSM Harrison called out. ‘Sir, you need to see this.’

The CSI was standing past the end of a passageway between two of the lock-up garages next to a white-suited female technician. Another colleague was holding a portable lamp. Three yellow, numbered flags had been placed at roughly equal distances leading through the narrow gap.

‘Blood spots. Leading through here and up that alleyway.’ The technician directed the light obligingly.

Warren felt his breath catch in his throat. The far end of the alleyway ended in a brick wall. The only way out was either back between the garages or through the rear of one of the gardens that the alleyway served.

‘Stop what you are doing. Retrace your steps and make sure everyone is safe and accounted for.

‘The killer might still be here.’

With the possibility that the killer might still be in the area, potentially armed and certainly dangerous, forensics took a back seat. CSM Andy Harrison stood down his team of paper-suited CSIs – their safety now his number one priority. Nevertheless, Warren could see the pain on his face as groups of body-armour clad officers prepared to trample through his crime scene.

The trail of blood spots led from the car, through a gap between two garages, up a narrow alleyway that ran alongside the rear fences of a row of terraced houses, and through the only open gate.

The front of the house had been identified and another group of officers were assembling on the street. The road had been sealed and curious onlookers ushered to safety.

‘Everyone in position?’ asked Warren over the radio.

A series of quiet confirmations followed.

‘Execute.’

Immediately the air was filled with the sound of heavy boots running on tarmac, followed by shouts of ‘Police.’

Splintering wood signalled the forced entry of the front door.

‘Rear door is already open,’ called out the lead officer, before heading in, his TASER drawn.

Warren stood with Hutchinson at the end of the garden path listening to the shouting. Warren could feel the nervous energy radiating off his colleague and friend, but both men knew that forced entry was a job best left to the professionals.

‘Downstairs secure. Heading upstairs.’

There was an agonising wait, broken only by the muffled shouting of the forced entry team, before finally the radio crackled into life.

‘Urgent medical assistance required.’

The body on the stretcher was pale and still, the only sign of life the face mask; you don’t waste oxygen on a dead man.

The man’s hands were sealed inside plastic evidence bags, preserving the blood covering them. Up in the bedroom where he’d been found sprawled facedown and unresponsive, Andy Harrison’s team were busy bagging blood-smeared clothing and bedding. The bloody butcher’s knife in the kitchen sink had been photographed in situ before being retrieved.

‘Literally caught red-handed,’ opined Grimshaw. He’d reappeared alongside Martinez, the breath mints he was sucking on doing little to hide the smell of fresh cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes; at least he’d had the sense to step outside the cordon before lighting up. ‘Nice to get an easy one now and again.’

‘Yeah. Perhaps,’ said Warren. The uneasy feeling that had started in his gut when he spoke to Lenny Seacole was now even stronger.

Day 2

Saturday

Eight a.m. and morning briefing was full, and the mood upbeat, even though many in the room had not been to bed until very late.

‘It looks as though it’s going to be quite a straightforward case,’ concluded Warren after a brief summary. ‘However, our chief suspect, Bradley Wiseman, is still in hospital, recovering from what appears to be an overdose of pills and alcohol. Furthermore, he has a history of mental illness and there are indications that he may have been off his meds, so I’m not expecting to interview him any time soon. He is known to social services and has a file on the system for low-level offences. Forensics are pending on the knife and blood found at the scene, and we’ll be getting a report from the post-mortem as soon as it can be scheduled.

‘The biggest question concerns motivation. Did the victim and our suspect know each other? Was the killing drugs-related? Or was the attack simply the result of a disturbed mind? DS Grimshaw and DC Ruskin, I want you to keep on talking to the locals, particularly Wiseman’s neighbours.

‘The weapon appears to have been a butcher’s knife. Forensics reckon it looks pretty new, so let’s see if we can tie the purchase of the knife to our suspect – that may indicate pre-meditation. Jorge, I’d like you to chase that down.’

‘What about the victim’s house? Have we searched it? Have his next-of-kin been informed?’ asked DC Moray Ruskin. The probationer was asking all the right questions.

Warren smiled tightly, his answer deliberately non-committal.

‘That’s currently being handled.’

‘Kyle Hicks is “a person of interest” to Serious and Organised Crime’s Drugs Division, but they claim never to have heard of Bradley Wiseman,’ said DSI John Grayson over a mug of steaming coffee. Ordinarily Warren would be relishing the Superintendent’s expensive brew, but at this moment he barely tasted the bitter liquid.

‘Since when did the SOC get to interfere in a murder investigation? I need access to Hicks’ house, and I need to interview his acquaintances.’