No Smoke Without Fire (A DCI Warren Jones Novel - Book 2)

by Paul Gitsham

  “They have to pay by direct debit or credit card, so we have their name, address and bank details.”

  Hastings paused for a moment, before sighing and asking the inevitable question.

  “And how many lockers do you have?”

  “Well, between you and me, they’re quite a money-spinner. They pay for themselves within twelve months, then it’s pure profit. We just installed a whole bank more when we refurbished both of the main changing rooms and put some more out the back opposite the canteen. We’ve pretty much rented the lot.”

  “I had a feeling you might say that,” he said, trying not to sound too unenthusiastic. “Give us a ball-park figure?”

  “Adding up the women’s lockers plus the unisex ones outside the canteen — about three hundred.”

  * * *

  DCI Jones had been profuse in his praise when Gary had called in to report his findings. A way of softening the blow, he supposed, as he knew just what he’d have to do next.

  “Looks as though our unknown victim was probably a member of the Middlesbury Sports and Leisure Centre,” Warren informed the murder team. “Gary Hastings says the key matches the type used in their lockers. The manager on duty says the photo looks familiar but can’t put a name to it for us. However, if we match the key to the locker, they will have her credit-card details on file.”

  “What’s he going to do when it matches?” asked Sutton.

  “I said I’d send you over with a SOCO to secure the locker and its contents, whilst we track down who owns the locker and see if we can trace her family.”

  “Sounds like a plan. How many lockers are there?”

  “About three hundred.”

  “Ouch, bad luck, Gary.” Sutton picked up his insulated coffee mug and headed towards the urn, before pausing to look at the surprised team. “What are you looking at me like that for? The sports centre’s less than a five-minute drive away. Gary has the only key. Assuming it takes him ten seconds per locker, that’s three thousand seconds — fifty minutes to test them all. He won’t want me breathing down his neck all of that time. There’s plenty of time for me to make a coffee before going over there.” He registered Karen Hardwick’s disapproving stare. “If it makes it any better, I’ll take him one as well — pass me his mug, will you?”

  “He isn’t going to test all of them, is he? He’ll stop as soon as he finds the one he’s looking for. It could be the first one he tests.”

  Sutton shrugged. “Yeah, but what’s the likelihood of that happening?”

  * * *

  The likelihood of that happening was actually quite good in this instance. Hastings had started with the oldest lockers first, reasoning that if the young woman had been coming to the gym for some time — and the autopsy suggested she was a regular gym user — then she would have got a locker some time ago and was thus less likely to have been in the newly installed block.

  On top of that, the duty manager, although extremely helpful, had dropped some fairly big hints that it would be better for business if he could be in and out of the female changing room as quickly as possible and ideally whilst it was quiet. Gary decided it would be best not to mention, unless strictly necessary, that if the locker was in the women’s changing room then Forensics might need to seal off the room and spend several hours going through her locker.

  Unfortunately, the key did fit a locker in the female changing room — number thirty-four — and Gary found it within four minutes, completely undermining Tony Sutton’s predictions. By the time Sutton arrived, followed shortly by a junior evidence officer, the women’s changing room was locked and the poor manager, who Gary now knew to be called Rachel, was dealing with several irate customers as she awaited the arrival of the centre manager to take charge.

  In the meantime, Gary had kept his head down in the office out the back as he worked his way through the files, learning what he could about the owner of the key and presumably the newly identified murder victim. As for the increasingly shrill middle-aged women who insisted that their whole day had been ruined by the inconsiderate actions of Hertfordshire Police — well, that sort of public relations was better suited to a more experienced detective inspector, Gary decided. He knew full well that it was only a five-minute drive from the station and that Sutton was probably trying to avoid the drudgery of checking three hundred lockers, one by one. Dealing with wealthy middle-aged women who didn’t work for a living and felt their morning trip to the gym was more important than official police business was just up DI Sutton’s alley, he decided with a grim smile.

  As it happened, the DI didn’t have the patience to deal with the public that morning. Sizing up the scene immediately, he put on his most ingratiating smile. “Of course, ladies, I fully understand that you are probably a bit smelly after this morning’s session and need to shower and change, but it is technically a crime scene—” he gestured to the paper-suited junior crime-scene officer who was just about to enter the locker room “—so please ignore Jimmy here as he goes about his work. He’s an experienced crime-scene officer and he deals with dead bodies all the time. There’s nothing he hasn’t seen.”

  The two women stood with their mouths open, trying to work out if they had just been insulted or not. Jimmy’s cheerful smile and friendly, “Don’t mind me, ladies, I’m a professional,” further confused the issue. In the end, they decided to return in a few hours.

  “What have we got, Gary?” Sutton was all business now as he placed the DC’s coffee on the table. Hastings nodded, apology accepted.

  “The key fitted locker number thirty-four in the women’s changing rooms. No question about it, it slotted in and turned as smooth as butter. I wore gloves, obviously. I haven’t disturbed the contents, but I could see when I opened the door that it contained at least one towel, some shampoo and shower gel and a hairbrush. A carrier bag looked as though it might be full of dirty washing. A pair of boxing gloves and training mitts were hanging from a hook inside.”

  “So she was a boxer? The autopsy suggested that it looked as though her knuckles had been bruised from bagwork and, of course, it looks as though she gave her attacker a hell of a punch in the jaw. Could the punch to her sternum have come from a sparring session rather than the attack?”

  Hastings shook his head vigorously. “She wasn’t a boxer. We’ve identified her as Carolyn Patterson, twenty-eight years old and, according to the records, in addition to a gym pass, she also did a weekly boxercise class. It’s non-contact, no sparring. They hit bags but it’s basically an aerobics class based around the cardio side of boxing training.”

  “OK, what else have we got?”

  “Because she rented the locker and had a gym pass, they have her name, address et cetera on file. They also have a next of kin; her parents live over in Saffron Walden. According to the records, she did a boxercise class on Thursday night, seven until eight. We have the name of the instructor and a full class list, so we can talk to witnesses.”

  Sutton patted the younger man on the shoulder. “Good work, Gary. Let’s leave Jimmy to his evidence collecting and get back over to CID.” His face turned sombre. “I imagine that this afternoon at least one of the team will be putting on a black tie and going door-knocking.”

  Chapter 26

  With a name, address and next of kin, plus a list of contacts who might have seen the victim shortly before her death, there was a renewed feeling of excitement in the CID briefing room. The Sally Evans case had started to feel that it was going nowhere as each lead had either fizzled out, or seemed to be hanging in limbo. With the two murders almost certainly linked, a whole new avenue of potential leads had opened up.

  One of the first things that Warren did was instruct the team to list all similarities and differences between the two cases — no matter how small — as the investigations proceeded. In the meantime a small team would visit Carolyn Patterson’s apartment, a short walk from the sports centre, and check that the other keys would fit.

  Warren de
cided to include Tony Sutton and Karen Hardwick in his team and by eleven a.m. the three officers were pulling up outside the small flat.

  “Police. Open up, please.”

  The apartment felt empty to the three officers standing on the doorstep of the ground-floor entrance. The curtains were closed and the free newspaper was sticking out of the letterbox. Both Karen and Tony verified Warren’s recollection that it was delivered on a Friday, suggesting nobody had been home since at least then.

  The flat next door had lace curtains and Warren noticed one of them twitch, a shadow behind them. Taking out a copy of the house keys, Warren fitted them into the locks, one by one. Perfect fit. Announcing his presence once more and receiving no response, he led the team inside.

  The flat was a generous affair, certainly more spacious than her own meagre bedsit, Karen noted. It was tidy and, although it was clearly decorated in that functional but cheap method beloved of landlords across the country, Carolyn Patterson had obviously put some thought into making it her home. That it was her house left little doubt. Photographs of the young woman were all over the apartment; spanning almost a lifetime and showing a dozen different hairstyles and poses, they were all unquestionably of the person lying in a refrigerated cabinet in Hatfield.

  All three officers were wearing gloves, but Warren was keen that they didn’t disturb the flat any more than was necessary before the CSIs arrived.

  “Name matches the bills, no other names listed.” Tony Sutton was leafing through a pile of mail on the kitchen table. Karen Hardwick was looking at the photographs dotted around the apartment.

  “Lots of pictures of her with different people, but, aside from obvious ones of her parents and a few of what looks like her best friend, I can’t see any evidence of a boyfriend, husband or other special person.”

  “That’s the feeling I’m getting. Karen, could you have a look in her bedroom and wardrobes and see if you can work out if she lives alone.” Warren gestured to the living room. “Tony, see if there’s anything interesting in her living room. I’m going to look at the bathroom and the kitchen.”

  It took Warren less than five minutes to work his way through the two rooms and decide that there was enough food in the cupboards for one person and only one set of hygiene products in the bathroom. On the counter next to the kitchen stove was a saucepan half filled with pasta sauce. A dirty bowl, stained with what looked to be the same sauce, sat unwashed in the sink. If Warren had to reconstruct the scene, he would suggest that Carolyn Patterson had made herself a meal of pasta sauce — he remembered the pathologist’s report — of which she had eaten half, then left the remainder on the side to cool, intending to chill it and clean up after returning from her boxercise class. Judging by the traces of mould appearing on the sauce, it had been a few days since the meal was prepared. Milk in the fridge was a day past its use-by date, although, thinking back to the times when he was a lone bachelor, he acknowledged that wasn’t necessarily indicative of absence.

  There was no washing machine in the kitchen, which might explain the bag of dirty clothes in the locker — she probably used the launderette that sat more or less equidistant from the sports centre and her flat.

  Returning to the hallway, he met Karen Hardwick. “No traces of any men’s clothing. If she has a live-in girlfriend, they are a very similar dress size and have the same taste in perfumes.”

  Tony Sutton concurred. “Living area has nothing but chick-lit novels and rom-com DVDs — definitely a female, no trace of a bloke.”

  Karen, whose taste in entertainment ran the whole spectrum from chick-lit to gory thrillers and from romantic comedies to science fiction and superhero movies, wondered what Tony Sutton would make of her own apartment.

  “The other end of the room is a bit more interesting. It seems to be her office. Judging by the piles of sketches and magazines, I would say that she is some sort of graphic designer who works from home a lot.”

  “OK, good work, folks. Let’s lock up and get Scenes of Crime in to process the place properly. In the meantime, we’ll see what the neighbours have to say before we go and break the bad news to Carolyn Patterson’s parents.”

  The shadow Warren had spotted through the lace curtains next door turned out to be Carolyn Patterson’s eighty-year-old neighbour, Arthur Beddlington. A widower for ten years, he’d moved into his flat about five years previously.

  “It wasn’t the same without Polly” he said wistfully, explaining his decision to leave their marital home, “and it was too big for me on my own. These places are the perfect size for a young couple or someone single.”

  “Does Ms Patterson live alone?” asked Warren as he steered the conversation back around to the reason for their visit, careful to refer to the deceased young women in the present tense. The last thing he wanted is for Mr Beddlington to ring the unsuspecting woman’s parents to pass on his condolences.

  “Oh, yes, she moved in about nine months ago. She’s had a few friends around now and then and I’ve often seen her parents, but I haven’t seen any boyfriends.” He paused for a moment, before continuing awkwardly, “I’m not a very modern man, but I don’t think she has a girlfriend, if she was that way inclined.”

  “Do you know how she earns a living?” asked Tony Sutton.

  “Yes, she’s a graphic designer. She works from home a lot but she goes into town about twice a week. Wednesday and Thursday, I think. She dresses up smart then, I think she works for some company a couple of days then spends the rest of the time at home.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  The old man paused for a moment. “I heard her front door slam Thursday evening. I didn’t see her, but she normally goes out about half-six, dressed in a tracksuit. I think she goes to that sports centre round the corner.”

  “And you didn’t hear her return?”

  He thought for a bit longer. “No, I didn’t, as it happens.”

  “Would you expect to? Could she have returned without you knowing?”

  “I don’t think so. I watch TV in here and I can hear her front door quite clearly. Besides, there’s a security light with a sensor — it didn’t light up.” The old man’s eyes brightened slightly as another thought occurred. “Come to think of it, I don’t think she put her bins out either. Bin men come Friday morning. I’m an early riser so I put mine out first thing then walk around the newsagent’s to get me paper. Most folks round here put their bins out Thursday night. I don’t ’cos it encourages the foxes. Her bin wasn’t out.” Warren remembered that the kitchen bin had been close to full when he’d looked that morning.

  After a few more minutes, it was clear that the old man knew little else about his neighbour. Leaving behind his card and asking the old man to keep quiet about their visit until they had a chance to talk to her parents, Warren and the team left.

  Checking his tie in the rear-view mirror one last time, Warren put the car into gear. Next stop the Pattersons’ and a job that nobody was looking forward to.

  Chapter 27

  The drive to Carolyn Patterson’s parents in Saffron Walden took about half an hour. Strictly speaking, Walden was in Essex, but it was so close to the border with Hertfordshire that Warren met no resistance at all when he suggested that Hertfordshire’s Family Liaison Officers took over after Warren and his team broke the bad news.

  The family home was a fairly modern affair on the outskirts of the town. Attractive in its own way, it nevertheless lacked the charm of the listed buildings that populated the centre of the ancient town, some of which could be dated as far back as the medieval period.

  Two cars were parked on the wide, open driveway, suggesting that both of her parents were home. Informing both parents at the same time meant they could offer each other support.

  Pulling to a halt in the street outside the house, the three officers got out immediately, walking purposefully up the drive. In Warren’s experience, it was best not to delay when delivering such news. Taking time to
find gentle words was a waste of time and could be counterproductive, if it led to misunderstanding, confusion and false hope. There was no way to soften the blow ultimately — better to get on with it and stand ready to pick up the pieces.

  Taking a deep breath, he rang the doorbell. Inside he heard the immediate yapping of a small dog, followed by a loud shushing noise. A moment later the door opened.

  The woman on the threshold was unquestionably the victim’s mother. Late middle-age, with ash-blonde hair, the woman had a slim figure that had clearly influenced her daughter’s own physique. Her face spoke loudly of the power of genetics. Aside from a few extra wrinkles, the two women looked more like sisters than mother and daughter.

  Warren was holding his warrant card aloft and had barely asked for confirmation of the woman’s identity before she clapped her hand over her mouth and screamed for her husband, Carl.

  Seconds later a similarly aged man in a thick cardigan appeared at her side. He took one look at Warren’s identification and his serious expression before he too let out a moan. It was only the fast reflexes of Tony Sutton that stopped him from simply hitting the floor where he dropped.

  * * *

  After helping a wobbly, but otherwise healthy Carl Patterson to a seat, Warren introduced the three officers and confirmed the news that the couple had already guessed.

  It seemed that the two parents had been worrying about the whereabouts of their daughter since the previous night when she had failed to make her regular Sunday evening phone call. When she hadn’t phoned by ten p.m., her mother had called both her landline and her mobile phone, leaving messages on both.

  Carl Patterson was twisting a white handkerchief in distress. “Carol was worried — well, we both were — when she didn’t phone. We saw what happened to that other young woman on the news and of course we’d heard about that body being found. She wanted to drive over or call the police, but I said, ‘No, she’s a grown woman with her own life. You can’t call the police over a missed phone call.’ Maybe she was out or had company…” His voice broke. “Now I wish I’d listened to her. Maybe she’d still be alive…”