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

by Paul Gitsham

  To Warren’s astonishment, Granddad Jack then disappeared into the bathroom for a few minutes, before emerging dressed in grey, stripy pyjamas and clambering into bed alongside his wife. Warren got up to go, but Jack bid him to stay.

  “In sixty-two years of marriage, your nana and I only spent five nights apart. One each for the birth of our children and two nights last year after her stroke…” his voice caught as he stroked Betty’s hair “…and I’m certainly not abandoning her now.”

  Automatically, Warren’s eyes flicked to the wedding photo on the bed-stand, a black-and-white portrait of the two of them: Jack in his Army uniform, Betty resplendent in a traditional white dress. Warren recognised the front of the church that had played such a part in his family history. They looked so young, he thought sadly.

  Looking back, Warren realised that he and Susan had spent more nights apart in their first year than Betty and Jack had in their entire marriage. A long weekend apiece for their closest friends’ stag and hen do easily added up to five nights, and then there were the nights that Warren had spent in the spare bedroom to avoid waking Susan after completing a night shift. Settling back down, Warren took hold of Betty’s hand again.

  Over the next few hours, the old house emptied, Warren insisting that Susan return to Stratford-upon-Avon with her parents to get some sleep. As the hours ticked by the house became quieter, the room only disturbed by the quiet rasp of Betty’s breathing. Warren was starting to nod off himself, when he was started awake by the sound of Jack’s voice.

  “I wish your father could see you today. He’d be so proud of you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jack sat up slightly, talking quietly so as not to disturb his wife, although they both knew that was no longer possible.

  “Your old man was a bloody good man. I don’t care what they say about him. He was a copper through and through — it’s all he ever wanted.” In the dim of the bedside table lamp, Warren saw that Jack’s eyes were misty. “I remember that for his fifth birthday I got him a policeman’s helmet and a toy truncheon.” The old man chuckled at the memory. “I think he must have arrested every person in the street at least twice that week. When he got his first bicycle that Christmas, I painted blue stripes down the side and stencilled ‘Police’ on it. Then the neighbours had to put up with him racing up and down the pavement making an awful wailing noise like a police siren.” Jack smiled. “I’ll have to dig the photo out for you.”

  His tone turned sombre. “I know they say that what your father did was wrong, but we never heard his side of the story.”

  “No, we didn’t.” Warren’s voice was cold. “He didn’t stick around long enough to tell us.”

  “Warren, I know that you feel betrayed by what your dad did, but I’ve always believed there was more to it than we ever knew.”

  “Well, it’s all in the past now and maybe that’s where it should stay.” Warren could see that Jack wanted to say more, but he didn’t think that now was the time or the place. The old man nodded finally and changed the topic.

  “She was so proud of you. We both were.” He motioned towards Betty’s still form. “When you were promoted to Detective Inspector, she’d watch Midlands Today religiously in case you or any of your colleagues were mentioned. She has an envelope full of newspaper stories about you and your team. When you moved to Middlesbury and were promoted to DCI she was heartbroken until Mr Cartwright three doors down showed us how to reprogramme the SKY box so that we could pick up other BBC TV regions. We heard all about that nasty business at the university over the summer.” He laughed quietly. “I haven’t watched Midlands Today since August. I’ve no idea what the weather will be like in Birmingham tomorrow, but I know they’ve forecast more rain for Cambridge with a short sunny spell for North Essex.”

  Despite himself, Warren found himself smiling. He squeezed his grandmother’s hand. “What are you like, Nana?” he whispered into her ear.

  “We both knew that you’d go into the police. Even as you did your exams downstairs and then went to university, we knew that you’d end up serving. It’s in your blood.”

  Warren thought back. He could picture himself at the dining table downstairs with his books out. After his father’s death, the atmosphere at home had been tense and fractious. A young Warren had taken to turning up unexpectedly at his grandparents’ house after school. Wordlessly, his grandmother would open the door and he’d come in and sit down at the big wooden table in the dining room and do his homework. Nothing was ever said; it was just accepted. Granddad Jack wouldn’t even blink an eye as he returned home from work, he’d just ruffle Warren’s hair and ask if he needed any help. After eating his tea, he’d do a bit more homework or watch a bit of TV, before walking the mile back home.

  At the time, Warren never really understood how his mother knew that he was safe around his grandparents’ but he realised now that they had phoned his mother the moment he arrived and let her know when he left.

  This ad hoc arrangement continued throughout Warren’s GCSEs and A levels, and when he went to university he’d spend at least some of the holidays at his grandparents’. Now with his mother also gone, he realised that for much of his life Nana Betty and Granddad Jack had been his de facto parents.

  The two men quietly settled back into their own thoughts. Outside, a dog barked. An hour later a babble of voices advertised the closing of the local pub. As the clock ticked past midnight, the road outside quietened, with only the occasional shushing of a car on the wet road. Soon, the only noise was the relentless tick of the clock and Betty’s increasingly laboured breathing.

  At a quarter past one, even that stopped.

  Thursday 15th December

  Chapter 38

  Much to Warren’s surprise, he’d actually dozed off in the early hours of the morning, sleeping until gone eight when the winter sun finally poked its way through a gap in the curtains. His back was stiff from sleeping in the chair and he struggled to the bathroom without making any noise.

  When he returned, Granddad Jack was awake, looking at the peaceful, still form of his wife.

  “I suppose we need to make some phone calls,” he said sadly, his voice cracking with emotion.

  Warren nodded and squeezed the old man’s shoulder. “I’ll do it.”

  The next few hours passed in an unreal daze for Warren. After phoning Susan at Bernice and Dennis’ house, he called the family GP, who arrived at almost the same time. After formally pronouncing Nana Betty deceased, he left everyone to say their final goodbyes before the undertaker came to take her away.

  For once, Warren didn’t mind Bernice’s fussing as she insisted on making him and Granddad Jack breakfast. Whilst they ate, Dennis and Susan started phoning around. Warren was in a daze, the cumulative lack of sleep from the past few days numbing his grief. He still couldn’t believe what had happened.

  By midday and after several cups of coffee, he felt composed enough to phone work. Detective Superintendent Grayson was very sympathetic; Susan had explained the special relationship that Warren had with his grandparents and he had generously recorded it as the equivalent of the death of a parent, allowing Warren the maximum amount of time off available.

  After thanking his boss for his understanding, Warren redialled the station and was put through to Tony Sutton. His colleague and friend was similarly sympathetic, reassuring Warren that everything was under control and grudgingly promising to keep him informed of any developments on the outstanding cases.

  After thanking him, Warren stood up and carried the phone out into the backyard for a little extra privacy.

  “I need a favour. Discreet and off the books.”

  “Sure thing, guv, whatever you need.”

  “I need you to track somebody down for me. James MacNamara, born Coventry June twenty-sixth 1969. He might be using the surname Jones. He may be living in Surrey, but that isn’t confirmed. He left Coventry in about 1989, if that’s any use.”

  G
randdad Jack had shown Warren Christmas cards from the last few years that Nana Betty had kept. She’d also kept the envelopes that they’d come in and Warren had been able to identify the smudged postmarks.

  “What would you like me to do? Do you want me to arrange for someone to visit him?”

  “No, I’d rather do that myself.”

  If Sutton had guessed why Warren wanted to track this man down, he had the discretion not to say anything.

  Ending the call, Warren returned to the living room to greet Father McGavin and the current parish priest, Father Sutton, a broad-shouldered, middle-aged man with an equally broad Brummie accent. After a few minutes praying for the soul of Nana Betty, they pencilled in a date for the funeral, deciding on the forthcoming Monday, with her reception into church the night before.

  With the arrangements in place, Warren set about the sad task of phoning relatives and family friends to inform them of the news. Bernice, Dennis and Susan had all volunteered to help, but Warren felt it was his responsibility. In the end, he allowed the others to organise the social club for after the funeral and to put the death notice in the local papers. Bernice sat with Granddad Jack and between them they chose the order of service for the funeral mass.

  All of these jobs could have been safely put off for twenty-four hours, but Warren was filled with the need to do something, to keep busy. He’d been running on adrenaline and caffeine with too little sleep for the past fortnight and he was scared that if he took his foot off the accelerator pedal he’d grind to a halt and give in to the desire to crawl into bed and never come out. The fact that his workmates had been so understanding perversely made matters worse, increasing the temptation to hide away until after the funeral and hope it all magically went away.

  By early evening Warren had called everybody that needed calling and done everything that could be done. The atmosphere in the house had become oppressive and, by mutual agreement, it was decided that it was time to retire to the pub and celebrate the life of Nana Betty with a few drinks.

  As everyone put their coats on Warren’s mobile rang. Checking the caller ID, he saw that it was Tony Sutton. Motioning for the others to carry on, he walked through to the kitchen for some privacy.

  “I’m sorry, guv. We haven’t been able to track down an address for James MacNamara. We pulled his National Insurance number up and traced it to a rented house in Surrey. Unfortunately, he left about nine months ago and didn’t leave a forwarding address. According to HMRC he hasn’t paid tax or NI since that time and the DVLA have no records of any motor vehicles or car insurance in his name either. I managed to pull a few strings with a mate at the border agency who confirmed that he has a valid passport, good for the next five years, but he couldn’t tell me if he’d left the country without a warrant.”

  “OK, thanks for trying, Tony.”

  Warren hung up, his emotions in turmoil. He felt slightly guilty at the relief he felt. He hadn’t seen James since their mother’s funeral and even then the two men had little to say to each other. Monday’s funeral promised to be a difficult enough affair without the added strain of his estranged brother. It seemed that his older sibling had kept in touch with his grandparents — or at least sent a Christmas card each year — but he hadn’t left a forwarding address. He clearly didn’t want to be contacted. Warren wondered how long it would take for news of Nana Betty’s death to reach him. At least Warren’s conscience was clear — he had tried his best to get hold of him.

  Putting his coat on, he left the house to join the rest of his family. Dennis was driving and Warren intended to get good and drunk.

  Saturday 17th December

  Chapter 39

  The man in the mask crouched silently behind the stinking wheelie bins. Dressed entirely in black, with the hood of his coat cinched tight and the lower half of his face covered by a dark woollen scarf, he was entirely invisible to any passers-by. The wheelie bins, although still malodorous, were long since emptied after the restaurant that they belonged to had closed down two months before. It was the third time he’d staked out the mini-supermarket at closing time in the past fortnight and he knew the routines of its small group of workers by heart. A brisk walk past a few hours earlier had allowed him a glimpse into the shop, where he could see his target restocking the shelves. He’d been dressed entirely differently, of course; nevertheless he had resisted the urge to enter the shop, to see the object of his desire close up — he knew that the police would immediately impound any video surveillance footage from the shop as soon as the young woman went missing and he didn’t want to appear on any recordings, even if he was disguised.

  Nevertheless, the glimpse of her slim, attractive form, the pale, smooth flesh of her arms below her green work T-shirt and the curve of her neck had been enough to make him rush home to the privacy of the bathroom, to satisfy his urges. The urges that, once unleashed a few weeks before, were becoming stronger every day. It was as if by finally giving in, after weeks, months, even years of planning and discipline, he was now on a pre-programmed course. Call it destiny, fate, genetic pre-programming, whatever, his path was now set and he would follow it to the end.

  Once upon a time, of course, he’d thought that his desires were wrong, evil. Even as he lay, night after night, sweating and panting in the sticky aftermath of his fantasies, he’d recognised that what he wanted, what he dreamt about, wasn’t in accordance with society’s norms. Keeping it bottled up inside, he’d eventually hit a low point and indulged himself. Even as he’d revelled in the fact that he’d successfully got away with it, he’d been sickened by his actions. Society’s brainwashing affected even one such as he, he realised.

  Finally, he’d sought help. His deliberate vagueness and lack of detail had convinced those in whom he confided that his fantasies were just that. Never did he let on that he had acted upon them; put thought into deed.

  The counsellors had been sympathetic and understanding and naively sought to soothe his troubled soul.

  “Fantasies are normal,” they’d reassured him. “Everyone has them. Society is full of rules and regulations and our imaginations rebel against them. As long as you never act upon them, they are harmless. Learn to accept yourself.

  “It’s not your fault,” they soothed him. “It’s inevitable that you feel confused or guilty, but you shouldn’t.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  It took a long time for him to finally accept the truth of what they were saying. Years in which his desires were repressed, his demons locked firmly away.

  It wasn’t his fault. Of that he was now certain. He’d been made this way. His return to the church had helped and his faith was becoming stronger every day but he was conflicted. Surely his desires contradicted the teachings of the gospel? Eventually he had come to a realisation that he was just like anybody else. God has a plan for us all, he decided, and His reasoning might not be clear. But in the end, as long as he maintained his faith and asked for forgiveness for his actions, then Jesus would grant him eternal reward. He would follow his desires, he decided, and let God choose his fate.

  One day he would be caught — if life had taught him nothing else it was that eventually something would go wrong. Some small detail would be overlooked; some random stroke of bad luck would curse him and the law would catch up with him. But until then, he would live out his desires and await his fate.

  Of one thing he was certain though: that fate would not include prison. The memories of those concrete walls, the metal doors with keys held by another, the routines decided by others, they haunted his dreams. No, that wouldn’t happen. He wouldn’t let it happen. He fingered the small glass bottle that he’d taken to carrying with him. According to the instructions from the Internet, just a teaspoon would be enough. The bottle contained a mouthful. One gulp and it would be over in seconds.

  This fatalism, this acceptance of destiny didn’t mean he was in any way careless, of course. He had planned for years, waiting for the opportunity and the
right circumstances. Each attack was meticulously worked out; the victim was researched, dry runs were performed and the getaway prepared with precision. He felt sure that any observer who had seen him on his reconnaissance missions, as he liked to think of them, would fail to recognise him — dressed, as he was, differently each time.

  His current target was called Gemma, or at least that was what her name badge said. He didn’t know her surname and he didn’t really care. Maybe in her early twenties, she worked mostly evening shifts. What she did during the day, he had no idea. Perhaps she was a student earning money over the Christmas break? Perhaps she was under-employed, struggling to make ends meet as she fired off endless applications for a better job. He wasn’t really interested.

  What he did know was that she lived alone in a small bedsit about a mile or so from the shop where she worked. There were no direct bus routes. If she had a boyfriend or her parents lived nearby they didn’t pick her up after work. By last thing at night, she was the only member of staff working so nobody offered to drive her home. The elderly Sikh man who owned the shop lived above it and pulled the shutters down after her, before retiring upstairs for the night.

  Gemma was a fan of dance music — he had heard it blaring out of her headphones at deafening volume as he’d stalked her on her route home twice the previous fortnight. Even at the safe distance he’d maintained, he could make out every drum beat. He was confident that she’d had no idea that he was following her. You’d think that with all the publicity about his previous victims young women would be less likely to walk home in the dark, and that they’d switch off their music and pay more attention. But Gemma was young. She was invincible. She was careless.

  The man in the mask had hit upon a winning formula; nevertheless he constantly refined his technique. The first victim had been reported missing too early, he realised. Although it had little impact that time — she was merely listed as missing until her body turned up days later — the police and the general public were now on full alert. Any young woman going missing would be promptly reported and an exhaustive search mounted.