Silent as the Grave

by Paul Gitsham

  It was an empty threat. Low-level identity theft and fraud never came anywhere near Warren’s desk—but Menendez didn’t know that. He’d looked suitably shaken as he left.

  It was a small victory, but at the moment, Warren was taking them where he could.

  By six a.m, Warren had finally given up on sleep and slipped out early, taking care not to wake Susan.

  Professor Jordan had calculated a preliminary time of death roughly sixty to seventy hours before the body was found, which, allowing for the weekend’s clock change, made it between about eight p.m. on the Thursday evening and four on the Friday morning. The range fitted with Williamson’s mobile phone leaving the network at eight-thirty on the Thursday.

  It had got dark at approximately six-fifteen that evening, which if Menendez was to be believed was the time at which he had left the park and returned home. Candice, his partner, had returned from her Zumba class just after nine-thirty and confirmed that Menendez had been sprawled across the sofa watching TV.

  Warren had passed on the details of Menendez’s mobile phone to the team working their way through the cell dump and was waiting to see if it would confirm his movements. Fortunately, the man was an avid social networker and his phone regularly connected itself to the network to look for new content. The team had already confirmed that the common and the flat Menendez shared with his partner were far enough apart for the phone to use different cell towers at the different locations.

  The search of the common by the forensic team had not found any more clues within a two-hundred-metre radius of the body’s dumping spot, and DSI Grayson had authorised the cost of emptying all of the bins within a kilometre radius. It was almost a certainty that the killer would have had to dispose of heavily bloodied clothes and possibly even the murder weapon. Unless he’d covered himself up, he was unlikely to have walked too far before doing so; even in the dark, the chances of being seen would have been too great for any sane person to have risked it, Warren decided. Warren just hoped that the killer was at least partly sane. Otherwise all bets were off.

  He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. It was getting long; it probably needed a cut. Too late for that now. The press conference was scheduled for the late morning. Grayson, as usual, had mysteriously disappeared the previous afternoon and Warren was willing to bet good money that he’d be immaculately groomed for the cameras later.

  There had been little to report overnight and he didn’t expect anything until after the morning briefing, so Warren poured himself another coffee and settled down to do some paperwork. He chafed at the forced inaction, but took solace in the fact that if he could shrink his inbox to a more manageable size now he would be able to focus more clearly on the days and weeks ahead. That was the theory at least.

  DSI Grayson still hadn’t appeared by the time that Warren needed to leave Middlesbury to travel down to Welwyn Garden City for the press conference and Grayson’s mobile was going straight to voicemail. This suited Warren fine, as he could drive himself down to the County’s Headquarters. The cost of petrol was well worth it to avoid the terror of the high-speed jaunt down the A1 that Grayson favoured. The superintendent had the unsettling habit of finding the most reckless drivers in the pool, authorising use of blues and twos, then settling back and calmly playing with his Blackberry, whilst Warren—not a happy passenger at the best of times—would find himself stamping on an imaginary brake pedal all the way.

  Tabitha Williamson and Karen Hardwick were waiting for him when he arrived. The young DC had insisted on driving around to pick Tabitha up, despite technically being off duty.

  Grayson was apparently somewhere in the building in a meeting. Warren knew nothing about it, which suggested it was unlikely to be connected to the day-to-day workings of Middlesbury CID. Laying the groundwork for that next promotion, Warren thought sourly, before mentally pinching himself for his uncharitable thoughts—the meeting could be about anything from budget setting to a statistical analysis of their latest performance figures. If that was the case, Grayson was welcome to it.

  Tabitha Williamson was nervous and pale, but nonetheless adamant that she wanted to make an appeal for information. The Force’s press officer therefore took her away to familiarise her with the set-up of the briefing room and explain to her what to expect. Karen Hardwick went with her.

  “She’s turning into a fine young officer, that Karen Hardwick.” Grayson had pulled his uncanny trick of managing to appear, ghost-like and without Warren noticing. He was glad that the unit’s commander had noticed her.

  “She is. She’s got good instincts. Having said that, she’s doing the role of a family liaison officer, which isn’t her job. I know Reggie Williamson wasn’t Tabitha Williamson’s father and he didn’t bring her up, but she’s pretty vulnerable. Any chance that we can get an FLO authorised to support her?”

  Grayson pursed his lips; the money didn’t come out of Middlesbury CID’s budget, but it had to come from somewhere and Grayson was the one who’d have to ask for it.

  “I’ll look into it.” No sort of answer really, but at least it wasn’t a flat no.

  By the time the press arrived, Tabitha Williamson had been prepared as much as possible and they took their seats. Warren had a feeling that information from the public could be what would turn the case and so they needed to make the story as newsworthy as possible. The inclusion of a photograph of Smiths and images of the grieving Tabitha Williamson would hopefully gain the story a few more column inches in the newspapers and a few more seconds on the local news.

  They needed all the help they could get; Warren couldn’t help comparing the half-filled room of bored journalists in front of him, waiting to hear about the death of a retired gardener in his sixties, to the packed and jostling crowd that had demanded information about the pretty, young, blonde women who had started disappearing before Christmas.

  The press conference was over in time for the early evening news bulletins and first editions of the next day’s papers and, finally, Warren was free to return to CID. It was hardly worth it. A cursory read of his team’s summaries of the interviews conducted with Reggie Williamson’s former acquaintances revealed nothing of any interest. The office was depressingly quiet. He stifled a yawn and glanced at his watch; the local news was due to start in twenty minutes or so. Time to go home, he decided, fighting down a brief twinge of guilt. His team had his number if anything important turned up and there was no point sitting there twiddling his thumbs. Perhaps he’d be able to sleep a bit better this evening? Turning off his computer and grabbing his jacket, Warren felt a familiar sensation of frustration. Day three of the investigation was almost over and almost nothing was happening. Not a good sign. Let’s hope for something from the public appeal, he prayed as he turned his office light off.

  * * *

  Despite his best intentions, Warren had been unable to resist accessing his email, reading the various reports as they entered his inbox and before he knew it, it was late again. He rubbed his eyes. They were at the slightly stinging stage. From experience he knew that the next stage was grittiness, then bloodshot then blurred vision. He had a suspicion that this would be one of those times. On the way home, he’d stopped off at the garage and bought some paracetamol. Headaches were almost guaranteed over the next few weeks and he wanted to be prepared. What a job. At least he could look forward to a quiet time at home—or at least that’s what he’d expected.

  “Mum and Dad are coming down for a few days, at the end of the Easter holidays to celebrate their wedding anniversary,” Susan had announced as they prepared for bed. “They’re going to spend a few days with us before spending some time with Felicity.”

  Warren had managed not to groan out loud, but his expression had given him away. Susan had pouted—she found her domineering mother to be as hard work as Warren did, but that didn’t mean he was allowed to criticise her.

  “Sorry sweetheart, it’s just bad timing. I’d hate for this thing to get in the wa
y of the celebrations.”

  Susan had been somewhat mollified, but she had done the sums the same as Warren; the school Easter holidays started at the end of the week, with the long weekend a week later.

  “Is this going to be a big one, do you think?” she’d asked after the press conference had been aired on Look East, earlier that evening.

  Warren had only been able to nod. His gut was telling him that it was going to be a protracted investigation. The lack of progress so far had deflated him somewhat. Their plans for the Easter vacation would be on hold; at least they hadn’t booked to go away anywhere.

  Susan had picked up on his mood. “You looked handsome tonight—I can’t understand why they don’t give you more screen time,” she teased lightly.

  “I can never compete with a Border collie, you know that.”

  Just as he’d predicted, Smiths had received almost as much screen time as Reggie Williamson—more if you counted the fact that she was also in the photograph of Reggie. Still, if it jogged a few more memories or made a few more people look in their bins or gardens for discarded items of bloodied clothing, Reggie Williamson’s mobile phone or the murder weapon then it had done its job. As usual, Warren had found himself relegated to the background, behind John Grayson, who was resplendent in a freshly starched dress uniform. That suited him fine, he mused as he lay back on the pillow, willing sleep to take him.

  Wednesday 28 March

  Chapter 6

  The third dawn briefing since the discovery of Reggie Williamson’s body was a low-key affair. If, as they believed, he had been killed Thursday evening it was coming up on six days since his murder. Aside from the increasingly unlikely Mateo Menendez, there were still no suspects. CCTV from McDonald’s had shown Menendez with his two young children tucking into their fast food at about four p.m, verifying that part of his story. The confirmation said nothing about his whereabouts at the critical time surrounding the murder, but catching him out in a lie at this stage would have made Warren immediately suspicious.

  The search area had been widened; they still hadn’t found his mobile phone or the murder weapon. Teams of uniformed officers were still knocking on doors, but nobody seemed to remember anything. As always the press conference had generated a flurry of calls, which were being sifted through, but aside from a confession, nothing of immediate note had been offered.

  As for the admission of guilt, the call taker had wryly noted that it had been logged alongside the caller’s previous claims. If the more—“eccentric”—members of the community ever thought to use a different phone, then the call taker’s job would be more difficult, since they’d be forced to actually investigate the call rather than simply cross-referencing the caller ID against the “Loony List”.

  As Warren left the briefing room, Tony Sutton came alongside him.

  “Can I have a private word?”

  The older man looked tired; in his left hand he carried a white envelope.

  Warren motioned him into his office and sat down behind his desk. Sutton took the visitor’s chair directly opposite. The man’s hands were trembling slightly.

  “Sounds serious,” Warren offered after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence.

  “This arrived in the post this morning.”

  Sutton pushed the envelope across the table. Now face up, the scales of justice logo of the Crown Prosecution Service was clearly visible. Warren slipped out the single sheet of A4 typed paper and read the contents quickly. It was a summons ordering Sutton to appear as a witness for the prosecution in the trial of Detective Chief Inspector Gavin Sheehy on charges of corruption and misconduct in a public office.

  “Damn. We always knew it was a possibility. What do you think they want with you?”

  Sutton took a deep breath. “They’re going to hang him out to dry, make an example of him. Rumour has it they want me to testify that in the months leading up to his arrest he was secretive and non-communicative. That he received phone calls at odd times and kept on disappearing.”

  Warren sat back and eyed the detective inspector with concern. He knew how much his predecessor—Sutton’s mentor—had meant to him. Warren had never met the man; rather he had been parachuted in, newly promoted, the previous summer after DCI Sheehy had been arrested and removed from his post.

  The arrest had come as a massive shock to the small, close-knit CID unit operating out of Middlesbury police station. Sheehy’s friend and subordinate Tony Sutton had been arrested also, before being released without charge after a brief investigation. Sutton had felt betrayed and hurt after the man he admired so greatly—who had in fact persuaded him to apply to join CID years before—had been accused of corruption.

  The repercussions from Sheehy’s arrest cut deep, Warren soon found out after his arrival, threatening the very existence of the unit he had headed.

  Middlesbury CID was something of an anomaly. Some years previously, the police forces of Hertfordshire and the adjacent county, Bedfordshire, had decided to pool their resources and formed a new, single Major Crime Unit, operating out of Welwyn Garden City. Faced with the closure of what he believed to be a unique and essential service in the very north of the county, DCI Gavin Sheehy had successfully fought against the closure of the small, but effective CID unit housed at Middlesbury police station. The result had been a highly focused, local team able to respond rapidly to major crimes in Middlesbury and the many little villages that surrounded the area.

  With its extensive local knowledge and close ties to the community, the squad proved highly effective in reducing and solving crime. Nevertheless, it was expensive and Sheehy’s uncompromising style had won him many enemies—enemies who were now circling, using Sheehy’s recent disgrace as evidence that the team should be disbanded and absorbed into the main major crime unit. The result was that the unit was effectively ‘on probation’, having to prove its worth. Detective Superintendent John Grayson was assigned to oversee the unit. If his job was to be impartial about the role of the unit, then he was a good choice—nobody could divine if he was in favour or against the continued existence of the team. Many suspected that the survival of the unit was linked directly to Grayson’s perception of its usefulness to his own career goals.

  None of this had been explained to Warren of course, who had been promoted to DCI the previous summer, moving from the West Midlands Police to fill the role vacated by Sheehy. It had been presented as a golden opportunity to gain command experience for the ambitious young officer; he had been ill-prepared for the maelstrom of local politics that awaited him upon his arrival.

  Tony Sutton, smarting from the betrayal by Sheehy and the humiliation of his own, brief arrest, had been suspicious of Warren, assuming that he was there to covertly make recommendations about the future of the unit. The two men had butted heads over Warren’s management of his first major crime, resulting in an explosive encounter between them. Since then, the two officers had grown to respect and like one another and, to his surprise, Warren had found himself warming to his new command and was starting to regard it as more than just a stepping stone to bigger things.

  “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 hi
story 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.”