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

by Paul Gitsham

  Top of the list, sent two minutes after his missed call, was one from Tony Sutton.

  Phone the missus guv. Urgent. Tony

  The next down was from Susan, sent just after her missed call, and was similarly urgent.

  Call me as soon as you can. Susan x

  That Susan had apparently been able to call him then send a text relieved Warren of one whole set of worries, but he could only think of a few reasons why Susan would have called him repeatedly, then tried Tony Sutton and the main station switchboard. And why was the first call from Bernice?

  Deciding that he’d wasted enough time as it was, Warren ignored the voicemails and rang Susan directly. She picked up on the second ring.

  “Warren, you need to come home immediately. It’s your grandmother.”

  And with that, the worst of Warren’s nightmares came true.

  * * *

  The journey back to Coventry had been a terse, silent affair. After speaking to Susan, Warren had immediately driven back to his house. A call to the station on the way revealed that Tony Sutton had already spoken at length to Susan and that he’d tipped off Superintendent Grayson that Warren would probably need a leave of absence. Upon arriving home, he’d found Susan waiting with packed overnight bags for both of them.

  Under normal circumstances, Warren would have resented the way that he seemed to have suddenly become a passenger in his own life. He’d have been annoyed that his subordinate, Tony Sutton, knew about his family problems before he did and had arranged to cover for him. And if there was one thing he really disliked, it was Susan packing his clothes. But today, he felt nothing, just relief that he didn’t need to think of such things when his mind was reeling from shock.

  Warren had insisted on driving and he’d pushed the car as fast as he’d dared westwards along the A14. A colleague in Traffic had once hinted at just what the trigger threshold was on the average speed cameras that lined the dual carriageway and Warren used that insider knowledge to get them to the junction with the M6 as quickly as possible without risking his licence; at least not for speeding.

  An extended period travelling at fifty-six miles per hour whilst two arrogant lorry drivers drove at precisely the same speed, blocking both lanes of the carriageway, nearly caused Warren to undertake using the hard shoulder. Only Susan’s calming presence restrained him. Nevertheless, he took a perverse pleasure in phoning in the details and suggesting that colleagues with nothing better to do might want to do a spot-check to make sure that the lorries were roadworthy and the drivers’ paperwork was in order.

  Eventually Susan and Warren arrived back in Coventry, Warren’s childhood home town. Pulling up outside the row of grey terraced houses, he turned off the engine and reached for the door handle.

  Susan stopped him. “We’re here, Warren. No need to rush now — two more minutes won’t make a difference. Get yourself together. You’re no good to anybody racing in like this.”

  For a few more seconds, Warren was silent. To those that didn’t know him, Detective Chief Inspector Jones was fully in control. His jaw was set like rock, his eyes as hard as stone. But Susan could feel the tautness of the muscles in his arms; his hands were shaking, she noticed, and she could see the faint glimmer of pain and fear in his eyes. Warren Jones the man was far from in control.

  Finally, Warren slumped back into his seat. “You’re right. Another couple of minutes won’t hurt.” His voice shook slightly.

  Susan watched him with concern as he took deep breaths, before looking out of the window at the darkening street beyond. He stared at the houses that lined the cul-de-sac, but she doubted he was seeing what she saw. To her eyes, the street seemed sad, run-down. Most of the houses still had remnants of the pebble-dashing that had seemed such a good idea back in the sixties. A couple of home-owners had decided to throw good money after bad and have it replenished. Another couple had cut their losses, stripped it off and replastered. Warren’s grandparents had followed the rest of the pack and left it to nature to decide. It reminded Susan of a dog with mange.

  Pebble-dashing aside, the houses in the street were a mixed bunch. Some, like Warren’s grandparents’, were clearly well maintained. Their house had a small garden with a postage-stamp-sized lawn, surrounded by carefully weeded flower-beds that Susan knew would be a riot of colour in the spring. The front windows were uPVC, but the sills had been painted a cheerful red to match the front door and the garden gate. This splash of scarlet was one of the only colours visible in the miserable December gloom; all the houses in the immediate vicinity had retained the black-on-white colour scheme that they’d been built with.

  The only other hint of colour visible was the rusty brown of the abandoned Ford Escort that littered the garden opposite. The owner, a shaven-headed lout with a half-dozen tattoos and even more kids, would periodically pop open the bonnet and fiddle around underneath it, thus keeping an uninterested council off his back and avoiding scrappage charges.

  Finally, Warren was ready. Giving Susan’s hand one last squeeze, he clambered into the driving rain and headed towards the gate.

  * * *

  Entering the house, Warren was greeted with an awkward hug from his second cousin Jane, juggling her eighteen-month-old daughter with one arm and her uncharacteristically shy three-year-old son in the other. Next in line, to his surprise, was his mother-in-law, Bernice.

  Warren and Bernice had never had the closest of relationships. Bernice had done little to hide the fact that she thought that Warren, whilst a perfectly nice man, was beneath her daughter. That he was a detective chief inspector and a church-going Catholic were points in his favour, but he was never going to measure up to the investment banker husband of Felicity, Susan’s younger and more fertile sister. Although, that being said, with the way the economy was going things might change, Warren thought. The last he’d checked, nobody was holding the police accountable for the credit crunch or the Eurozone crisis…

  “How is she?” Warren managed.

  “The doctor says that she’s comfortable, but she’s not really with us.” This was from Dennis, Susan’s father. A stern glance from Bernice reminded him who the official spokesperson was for the marriage and he promptly shut up.

  The dynamics of Bernice and Dennis’ marriage never ceased to fascinate Warren. Dennis was, by all accounts, a successful and highly respected businessman. Although officially retired, he still held a substantial interest in the company that he’d help set up and he was an active and vocal member of the board.

  Bernice, on the other hand, was — to use an old-fashioned term — a kept woman. She’d raised Susan and Felicity in the family’s large, expensive house in the leafiest part of Warwickshire, but, after the children had grown up, had settled into a life of church committees, charity fund-raising and socialising.

  To outsiders they seemed like that old stereotype of the powerful, bread-winning husband and the mousy housewife, whose role in life was to support her husband’s career. To those that knew them, the opposite was true. It was immediately obvious that Bernice wore the trousers and Dennis was well and truly under the thumb. Regardless, Warren still wasn’t sure why they were here and why Bernice had been the one to call him that morning.

  “Why don’t you tell us what happened, Mum?” suggested Susan.

  “Jack phoned Dennis and I this morning about nine o’clock and said that something was wrong with Betty. She seemed very sleepy and her voice was slurred. He wanted to take her down to the doctor’s, but he didn’t think she could walk. He wondered if Dennis would mind giving them a lift.”

  Warren blinked. “Why on earth did he call you and Dennis?”

  “Well, Jane had left to take the kids to nursery and we’d mentioned on Sunday when we took them to church that we weren’t doing very much this week. He didn’t want to make a fuss.”

  Warren’s head spun. He’d actually been asking why his grandfather hadn’t just called for an ambulance, but Bernice had, in her own unique way, answer
ed something completely different and opened up another avenue of questioning. When had his wife’s parents started driving his grandparents to church on a Sunday, and how did he not know about it?

  Warren decided to deal with that question later.

  “Why didn’t Granddad call an ambulance? Especially after last time. He must have known it was a stroke!” Warren’s voice had started to rise, and Susan laid a comforting hand on him.

  Bernice leant forward, taking Warren’s hand in her own; it was the most affectionate gesture she had ever made towards him since he had started dating her daughter.

  “Warren, they had an agreement. Betty and Jack told us about it a few months ago. Last year, after Betty had her mini-stroke, she hated being in hospital. It was only a few nights, but she made it clear that she never wanted to go back in again. When Jack tried to wake her this morning, he knew what had happened but couldn’t decide what to do. Dennis and I came straight over and persuaded him to call a paramedic, just to check her out. They confirmed that she has had a bigger stroke and that the rhythm of her heart is very irregular.”

  Warren could barely keep his voice steady. “So what happens now?”

  “Dr Gupta, Betty’s GP, came around an hour ago. Betty and Jack have both signed living wills outlining their wishes and he has agreed to respect them.” She leant forward again, squeezing his hand tightly. “Warren, we think Betty had another stroke while Dr Gupta was here. She is probably going to have another stroke or a heart attack soon. They have given her medicine to keep her comfortable, but she’s not expected to recover. I’m sorry, Warren.”

  Warren sat back, stunned. It had all happened so fast. In the space of just a few hours, his entire world had turned upside down. A world without Nana Betty seemed inconceivable. Of course, he’d known this day would come; both his grandparents were in their late eighties. Nana Betty’s mini-stroke the previous spring had been a warning shot, but she’d seemed to recover from it, at least physically. Warren thought back to the previous Christmas, a few months after her stroke. She’d been quieter than usual, claiming that the pills she was on made her tired. Over the following year she’d lost weight, he realised. And she’d seemed less vibrant somehow.

  And what was this about being given a lift to church? As long as they had been together, Betty and Jack had walked the three quarters of a mile to and from the small church where they had been married, come rain or shine. They’d claimed that the fresh air did them good and worked up an appetite for Sunday lunch. When had they become so tired that they had started getting a lift?

  Warren realised that the woman who meant more to him than anyone else in the world, save Susan, had been slipping away from him without him even realising. Or did I realise, and just convinced myself otherwise? he asked himself.

  “Can I see her?” he asked finally.

  “Of course, dear — she’s in the bedroom.”

  Warren rose to his feet and, taking Susan’s hand, walked to the stairs that led up to the house’s three small bedrooms. Each step brought back memories. The carpet, a faded green had been there as long as Warren could recall. He remembered clearly as a young child being told not to climb the stairs in case he fell down; a few years later he was scolded for chipping the paint on the skirting board at the bottom by making his toy cars fly off the top step; another memory was that of a rare smacked bottom after he’d tried out his brand-new sledge on the nearest thing to a slope in the vicinity. He smiled at the memory. The weatherman had promised snow that year and he didn’t know who was more disappointed when it failed to arrive, he or Granddad Jack.

  Finally, Warren arrived at the door of his grandparents’ bedroom. Out of habit, he knocked quietly.

  “Come in.” It was recognisable as Granddad Jack’s voice but weaker.

  After a deep breath, Warren entered the room.

  The room was much as he remembered it from the rare occasions that he’d entered it in the past. The radiators were on full blast; nevertheless his grandfather was dressed in a woollen jumper and a checked shirt. His hands felt cold to Warren when he hugged him. Warren could feel his bones through the layers of clothing. As Jack turned to embrace Susan, Warren realised with a start that he’d shrunk. Suddenly, there was a mismatch between the Granddad Jack of Warren’s memory — a short but robust man with powerful hands who could pluck a squealing six-year old Warren off the floor with one arm, sling him over his shoulder and carry him up to bed — and the frail, eighty-seven-year-old standing in front of him.

  As he glanced over at the bed the mismatch was even more pronounced. Warren felt a weakness in his knees. When did she become so thin? he asked himself. Steeling himself, he walked around to his grandmother’s side of the bed. A dining-room chair had been carried upstairs and Warren sat down on it. Despite the warmth, the old lady was completely covered in multiple blankets. Only her head and her hands were visible, peeking above the bedspread. Her eyes were closed and Warren could hear the rasp of her breathing. Reaching out, he took her hand. It was cool to the touch, the skin paper-thin. Beneath the soft, pale flesh, Warren could feel the fluttering of her pulse, weak and erratic. He could tell that things were very wrong.

  Leaning over, he kissed her softly on the forehead. “Hello, Nana, it’s Warren,” he whispered quietly into her ear. To his amazement, he felt the slightest of squeezes from her hand as a faint smile creased her face.

  “She knows you’re here, son,” said Granddad Jack quietly. Raising his voice slightly, he addressed his dozing wife. “Warren and Susan are here, Betty.”

  She squeezed his hand again, but made no more response.

  Without letting go of her hand, Warren pulled over the chair.

  “I’m sorry about this, son.”

  Warren looked up in surprise, “Sorry for what?”

  Granddad Jack looked uncomfortable. “For not telling you what me and your nana decided. And we told Bernie and Dennis not to say anything either. We didn’t know how to tell you, especially after your dad an’ all.”

  Warren nodded numbly. “I’m just surprised. I didn’t think you and Nana were the type to, you know…” He struggled to find the word.

  “Give up?” suggested Jack, immediately waving away Warren’s half-hearted protestations to the contrary. “Betty and I both believe that God puts you upon this earth to do what he wants you to do to the best of your ability and when that’s done you get your reward.”

  The old man shuffled his chair around so he could take hold of both Warren’s hand and his wife’s.

  “We brought up your dad to the best of our abilities and then when he…passed away…we tried to help your mum with you boys. Now our work’s done and maybe it’s time for our reward.”

  Warren couldn’t say anything; behind him he could feel the warmth of Susan’s body as she hugged him silently.

  “Your nana and I are both eighty-seven years old this year. My parents died in their sixties and your nan’s were even younger. Two of my brothers, Freddie and Tommy, died before they were twenty during the war. We’ve been blessed with such long lives.

  “Did you know that we nearly had two more babies after your dad?”

  Warren started. “No,” he managed.

  “Two little girls. Neither quite made it. Then we were told that we couldn’t have any more. Nearly tore your poor nan apart.” The moist glint in his eye betrayed his own feelings on the matter.

  “Well, pretty soon, Betty here will meet our little girls for the first time and be reunited with your dad and your mum. So many have gone before us, she ain’t going to be lonely up there.” He squeezed his wife’s hand affectionately and kissed her sleeping head. This time Warren could see no flicker of response.

  * * *

  Late afternoon stretched into evening, time marked by the ticking of the bedside clock and endless cups of tea. At seven o’clock Jane left to put her children to bed, Susan accompanying her with her laptop. She’d already phoned her school to tell them that she wouldn’t
be in for the remainder of the week, but like all teachers she was still expected to plan and set detailed cover lessons to be taught in her absence. Warren had been horrified one morning when he’d been woken before six a.m. by a nauseous Susan logging on to her laptop to write, then email cover work in to school. It was no wonder so many teachers struggled into work when others would stay at home; Susan’s friends maintained that setting cover from home was harder than dragging yourself in, especially when you were teaching chemistry and the cover teachers weren’t allowed to do practical experiments with the pupils.

  At eight o’clock, Father McGavin stopped by. Warren did a double take when he saw him. Old and stooped, he was no longer the robust, stern, Irish disciplinarian that Warren remembered from his childhood, who could stop fidgeting in the pews with little more than a glare. He must be even older than Nana and Granddad, Warren realised.

  As Warren helped him out of his coat, the elderly priest explained that he had been retired some years now, but that the new priest would still call him when any of the older parishioners were in need of support.

  “I’ve known Betty and Jack for over sixty years. I married them and baptised you and your father. I also laid him and your mum to rest. Seems right that I be here with Betty for her final journey.”

  The last-rites ceremony was simple and touching. Composed of three sacraments, first came the forgiveness of sins; although Betty was unable to make a confession, absolution was given on the assumption of her contrition. Next came the ‘anointing of the sick’ with oil of chrism, in this case olive oil blessed by the local bishop the previous Maundy Thursday. Finally came the administration of the Holy Eucharist, referred to on this last occasion as ‘Viaticum’ — literally the provision for the journey. With Betty unable to take solids, this was administered in the form of Eucharistic wine, representing the blood of Christ rather than the bread that represented the body.

  After the administration of the sacraments, Father McGavin stayed for a cup of tea, before accepting Dennis’ offer to drive him back to the small home he shared with other retired clergy.