A Case Gone Cold

by Paul Gitsham

  ‘Highly recommended. Crime Writing at its very best’ – Kate Rhodes on The Last Straw, Book 1 in the DCI Warren Jones series

  When an open-and-shut burglary case lands on DCI Warren Jones’ desk, he suspects it’s come to the wrong detective – until he learns a tantalizing detail. Despite the suspect having admitted to the crime after being found with the stolen goods, DNA found at the scene does not match the man currently on bail – but is a match to an unsolved, violent rape case dating back to 1992.

  With their man in custody refusing to talk, Warren must embark on a manhunt for the mystery accomplice. And so begins a game of cat and mouse that will test Warren’s rawest instincts and resolve – and throw up a shocking twist.

  Also by Paul Gitsham

  The Last Straw

  No Smoke Without Fire

  Silent as the Grave

  Blood is Thicker Than Water

  A Case Gone Cold

  DCI Warren Jones 3.5

  Paul Gitsham

  ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

  Copyright

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

  Copyright © Paul Gitsham 2018

  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.

  E-book Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 978-0-00-830116-3

  Version: 2018-05-18

  PAUL GITSHAM started his career as a biologist, working in such exotic locales as Manchester and Toronto. After stints as the world’s most over-qualified receptionist and a spell making sure that international terrorists and other ne’er do wells hadn’t opened a Junior Savings Account at a major UK bank (a job even less exciting than being a receptionist) he retrained as a Science Teacher. He now spends his time passing on his bad habits and sloppy lab-skills to the next generation of enquiring minds.

  Paul has always wanted to be a writer and his final report on leaving primary school predicted he’d be the next Roald Dahl! For the sake of balance it should be pointed out that it also said “he’ll never get anywhere in life if his handwriting doesn’t improve”. Twenty five years later and his handwriting is worse than ever but millions of children around the world love him.*

  You can learn more about Paul’s Writing at www.paulgitsham.com or www.facebook.com/dcijones

  *This is a lie, just ask any of the pupils he has taught.

  To Hugo. You’re far too young to read the nasty stories that your Uncle Paul writes, but maybe one day he’ll need a hero whose first name starts with H.

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author Bio

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Now

  Six Months Later

  Letter to the Reader

  Excerpt

  Acknowledgements

  Endpages

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Then

  A piece of folded cloth muffled the sound of glass shattering. The intruder held his breath. The alarm began its wailing again, but that was of no concern – nobody had come to investigate during the previous twenty-four hours, how likely was it that somebody would decide to get up at 1 a.m. to see if this time it was for real? Satisfied he wouldn’t be disturbed, the man ducked his head and climbed through the jagged hole.

  Now

  The case folder hit the surface of Detective Chief Inspector Warren Jones’ desk with a flat smack.

  ‘Cold case. See what you can do with this, Warren.’

  Warren picked up the folder and raised an eyebrow at the stamp on the front.

  ‘Burglary? Surely this comes under Volume Crime, sir?’

  He looked at the date.

  ‘September this year? That’s barely two months, how is it a cold case?’

  ‘The burglary isn’t,’ Detective Superintendent John Grayson replied. ‘Look inside. It’s what it’s thrown up that’s interesting.’

  * * *

  ‘Friday the eighteenth of December 1992, the Middlesbury campus of the University of Middle England. Eighteen-year-old Debbie Claremont attends a house party in the Charles Babbage Postgraduate Halls. It’s a pretty open affair, with dozens of people in and out. Most were postgraduate students and some were undergraduates like Claremont, however nobody was keeping count and they weren’t rowdy enough to bother campus security. It’s believed that at least a few locals also turned up uninvited.’

  Warren gave his team a few moments to find the relevant pages in the photocopied pack he’d handed them. DSI Grayson had been correct; the case was interesting and Warren had wasted no time pulling together a small team to see if the new information that had suddenly come to light could close a case that had remained unsolved for more than two decades.

  ‘By her own admission, Claremont was an inexperienced drinker and had drunk far more than she could handle. She may also have smoked cannabis – again, a first for her. Suffice to say she was far from in control of her actions. Details are a bit sketchy, but she woke up alone at about 5 a.m. feeling sick in a back room, with vague memories of someone forcing her in there. That was when she noticed her knickers were down around her knees and she was feeling bruised and sore around her pubic area.’

  ‘Were there any eyewitnesses?’ asked Detective Constable Gary Hastings. Despite his deceptively youthful appearance, Hastings was one of the most experienced DCs on the team. If it looked as though the case was going somewhere, Warren intended to let Hastings take a lead role; it would look good for him during his upcoming sergeant’s selection.

  ‘None that came forward. Claremont was understandably traumatized by the whole thing, and probably still the worse for wear, and so her first instinct was to go home and shower.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘A lot less forensics on TV in the Nineties. She felt too ashamed to say anything for three days, before telling her housemate, who made her call the police.’

  ‘Did they take her seriously? We all know how rape was viewed back then,’ asked DC Karen Hardwick, a scowl furrowing her brow.

  ‘Apparently they did. She had cuts and bruises consistent with being forced to have sex and eyewitness testimony from earlier in the evening confirmed that she was far too drunk for it to be considered consensual, even by the standards of the day.

  ‘From what I can tell, the officers investigating did everything possible. However, it was the end of term and many of the party’s attendees had gone away for Christmas by the time she reported the assault. The nature of the party and delay in tracking guests meant that the investigating officers were never satisfied that they identified even half of the people who were there that night. Unfortunately, they never generated any viable suspects.’

  ‘But presumably they had forensics, otherwise we wouldn’t be talking ab
out it now?’ Detective Inspector Tony Sutton’s voice was nasal. The cloud of Olbas oil decongestant that had followed him around for the past few days, making everyone else’s eyes water, had apparently had little effect on the nasty head cold he’d come down with. He shouldn’t be in work, but the man was nothing if not stubborn. Warren just hoped he hadn’t passed it on to the rest of the team, he didn’t want to have to supplement their numbers with detectives from headquarters in Welwyn Garden City; doing so hardly helped boost Middlesbury’s credibility as an independent CID unit.

  ‘She’d showered several times but hadn’t been able to face going out to the communal laundrette. They found traces of semen on her underwear. Back then it was standard practice to preserve the evidence for future analysis and so they eventually DNA fingerprinted it and loaded it onto the database. No hits.’

  ‘Until now,’ stated Sutton, his voice cracking as he tried to stifle a cough.

  ‘Exactly. SOCO retrieved a blood spot from a burglary over the summer. They processed it in the usual way, but a couple of days afterwards a known career burglar, Aaron Wallace, was arrested for something different and copped to this one along with a couple of dozen others. He wore gloves, but a muddy footprint found at the scene matched the other crime scenes and the pair of size nine Nike trainers he was wearing when they arrested him. He’s due to appear in court in December, but nobody bothered to chase the DNA results down, since he’d already confessed. When the results finally arrived, they’d been expecting it to simply confirm that he was in the house.’

  ‘But it also flagged this cold case?’ interjected Hardwick.

  ‘Yes. And it didn’t match him.’

  ‘It didn’t match?’ Hastings blinked in surprise.

  ‘No. Which is not surprising, Wallace would have been only eight years old at the time of the sexual assault. Besides which, he’s a frequent flyer. He’s been in the DNA database since 2005, so he’d have come up as a match years ago.’

  Tony Sutton may have been feeling under the weather, however he had still managed to read ahead.

  ‘First question in my mind then is who was with him that night? Specifically, who was wearing these men’s size eleven Reeboks that appeared alongside Wallace’s size nines in the victim’s back garden?’

  * * *

  During his time in CID, Gary Hastings had dealt with some of the most serious crimes imaginable. Murders and rapes changed the lives of the victims and those around them for ever, and as such were often foremost in the public’s imagination. But sometimes that meant it was possible to forget the impact that other, less dramatic offences could have on their victims.

  ‘We thought that things were just beginning to look up, and then this happened.’

  Hastings had a series of photographs of trainers that he wanted Helen Bedford to look at. It had taken only a few moments for her to flick through them and confirm that neither she nor her husband, Ian, owned a pair of trainers similar to those that had produced the second set of prints found on their patio that night. Furthermore, neither they, nor their adult children, had size eleven feet.

  The woman looked exhausted and Hastings felt slightly guilty for disappointing her. Naturally, no mention had been made of the newly discovered link between the break-in and the historic sexual assault and so Helen Bedford’s immediate assumption when he rang the doorbell to the large, detached house was that he had tracked down the stolen property. When he’d said that wasn’t why he was there, she had been polite, but it was clear that she had more to worry about than whether two people were charged with burglary rather than one.

  ‘The shock of it all has set Ian back months in his recovery.’

  ‘Is he ill?’

  She’d said that her husband was upstairs taking an afternoon nap when he’d arrived.

  Mrs Bedford had insisted on making Hastings a cup of tea and he was happy to listen to her as he finished it. He could see that she needed a chat with someone.

  ‘It all started back in July last year. Ian started getting headaches. We put it down to stress, the law firm that he co-owns had just taken on a couple of big new clients and Ian was putting in really long hours. When they didn’t get any better after a few weeks, I tried to get him to see a doctor. When he hadn’t got around to it after a few weeks, I booked him an appointment myself. I even placed it in his diary, but he completely forgot about it and couldn’t even remember having the conversation.

  ‘I phoned his partner and he said that he was concerned too; apparently, they’d almost lost a case the previous week, when he misplaced some key papers. It’s so unlike him, I was worried that maybe he was ill. I went to see his partner privately to discuss what we were going to do and it was then that we got the phone call.’

  Her voice caught.

  ‘Sorry, it’s still a bit hard to talk about it.’ She cleared her throat a couple of times and took a long sip of her cold tea.

  ‘He just keeled over in the conference room and had a massive seizure. They rushed him to Addenbrookes and gave him an MRI scan; he had a huge brain tumour.’

  She blew her nose.

  ‘Addenbrookes were really good. He saw a specialist immediately and within a week he was having the tumour removed. But that was only the beginning. In the weeks after surgery, he had up to three seizures a day. Some were quite small, but others put him in Casualty; he knocked two teeth out and he’s bit the tip of his tongue off several times. It took months to find an anticonvulsant that worked but didn’t cause unacceptable side effects.’

  ‘And what happened to him during that time?’

  ‘He had to take a leave of absence from work. His partners have been really good about it. It took three months in total for the medication to stop the seizures, and they left him exhausted. But the end of August was the six-month anniversary of his final seizure – it’s why we went on holiday in September; a week in a B and B in Devon. The journey took it out of him, and he slept most of the way, but it was lovely.’ She smiled. ‘By the time we got back it was as if the last year had never happened. He was even due to start back at the firm a couple of days a week.’

  The smiled faded.

  ‘Until we got back and found we’d been burgled.’

  ‘He didn’t take it well?’

  She shook her head. ‘After everything else, it was just too much. The jewellery they took from me wasn’t anything valuable. I wear my wedding ring, and I’d taken the necklace he bought me for our twentieth wedding anniversary with us. Unfortunately, they stole his father’s watch and his mother’s wedding ring. Ian’s dad passed away suddenly when he was a student up in Liverpool and he couldn’t get back to Norwich in time. Then his mum died just after he first got ill and, again, he never got to say goodbye properly.’

  ‘And the jewellery was never found?’

  Now there was anger in her eyes.

  ‘No. They arrested the bastard that burgled us less than forty-eight hours after we reported the break-in, but it was too late.’ Her hand shook as she poured herself more tea,

  ‘You know, they reckon he’ll have got less than a hundred pounds for the stuff he stole.’ She shook her head. ‘Less than a hundred pounds for the only link my husband still had to his dead parents. For what? A nose full of cocaine? An armful of heroin?’

  * * *

  Hastings made his excuses shortly after Ian Bedford came downstairs. To look at him, Mr Bedford could have been the far side of sixty, yet, according to his wife, he was twenty years younger. The central heating in the house was turned too high for Hasting’s tastes, nevertheless Bedford wore a chunky cardigan over a knitted shirt and thick woollen socks inside his slippers.

  The saggy skin around his jowls spoke of sudden and dramatic weight loss, whilst the fine fuzz of hair on his skull did little to hide the vivid pink scar that crossed the right side of his temple. A recently healed cut on the bridge of his nose came from his first seizure in months, when he’d collapsed barely an hour after Scenes of Crime had c
ompleted their investigations. He’d had a half-dozen since.

  The man’s opening question left Hastings in no doubt as to the impact of the burglary on the couple.

  ‘Have you found Dad’s watch? It’s his anniversary next week.’

  * * *

  ‘According to the PNC check, Aaron Wallace is well known for burglary and handling stolen goods, but there’s nothing of a violent or sexual nature in his record. He did six months in 2011 and he’s looking at a lot longer for these offences.’ Karen Hardwick had printed out the record for Wallace from the Police National Computer and was highlighting sections of it with a fluorescent green pen.

  ‘Which is presumably why he put his hands up this time – he’s savvy enough to realize he’s definitely going down and he’ll get a reduction in sentence for admitting it,’ she continued.

  ‘What about accomplices?’ asked Sutton.

  ‘Two that we know of, both of whom were convicted alongside him for the 2011 offence but obviously they are both already in the system.’

  ‘Well, keep on digging. Gary has confirmed that the shoes don’t belong to the homeowners. Let’s also see what the attending officer has to say, before we go and speak to Mr Wallace about what happened the night of the burglary.’

  * * *

  PC Keith Stibbald was just about to head out on patrol when he answered Warren’s call.

  Warren could hear the click of a mouse in the background as Stibbald accessed the HOLMES2 database to refresh his memory.

  ‘Yes, I do remember this one. Abbey View Terrace; middle-aged couple back off holiday found the French windows around the rear smashed. The exact timing of the break-in was unclear, since they had been away for a week. In theory, the best we’ve got is sometime prior to about 9 p.m. on Sunday the eighth of September, when they returned.’

  Warren heard the creak of a seat as Stibbald settled back in it.