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

by Paul Gitsham

  Everyone wore ballistic protection gear; not only was Richard Cameron a suspected serial killer, but an exhaustive computer check had turned up an expired shotgun certificate in the name of his son. It was entirely possible that Michael Stockley had disposed of his shotgun some years ago, hence him not applying for a renewal of his licence — but nobody was taking any chances. Richard Cameron plus shotgun was a potentially lethal situation. His oft-repeated vow that he would never set foot in a prison again made him a danger to himself, if nobody else.

  The officer in charge of the firearms unit was Sergeant Bill Crossing, and he was also an expert in forced entry. Despite being Senior Investigating Officer and the person ultimately in charge, Warren deferred to the older man’s experience.

  “This will be the third time that Richard Cameron has been questioned by the police in connection with these ongoing murders. In the previous two cases, he has been compliant and non-violent. The aim here is for DCI Jones and DI Sutton to attempt to repeat this and for the arrest to be peaceful.

  “Complications include: one, he is aware of the mistake that he made and is expecting to be arrested and charged. Worst-case scenario, he puts up a fight, possibly using an unlicensed shotgun. The armed response unit will follow their standard rules of engagement for these situations. Alternately, he may refuse us entry or try to escape through the rear of the property — in which case we have both forced entry teams plus officers ready to apprehend him. With force if necessary.

  “He has given indications that he may try to take his own life. All teams will be standing by and ready to stop that as per training.

  “A big unknown variable is the presence of his son, Michael Stockley. We don’t know what his response might be. He has demonstrated some verbal aggression during a previous encounter, but for the most part he has been reluctantly compliant. A possible, though unlikely scenario could be that Cameron uses his son as a human shield. In that case, we will switch to standard anti-hostage procedures and the hostage response team on standby in Welwyn will be called in.”

  After a few operational questions, it was time for everyone to get into position. When everyone signalled they were ready, Sergeant Crossing nodded to Warren and Tony Sutton.

  “Good luck, sirs.”

  * * *

  The unmarked police car crunched slowly over the gravel; with its headlamps on, but no flashing lights, the hope was that they wouldn’t spook Richard Cameron into doing something rash.

  Pulling to a halt and dousing the car’s lights, the two officers looked at each other, before taking a deep breath and climbing out of the car. The night air was bitterly cold, but Warren was glad. It gave the two men an excuse to wear big, heavy winter coats, easily concealing the bulky bulletproof vests that they wore underneath. It was just a shame they couldn’t cover everywhere else as well, thought Warren. Bulletproof vests weren’t much use if you were shot in the head.

  Walking steadily towards the front door, Warren kept his gaze forwards, studiously avoiding looking at the black-clad forced-entry team hidden either side of the door. He took comfort in knowing that similarly well concealed were several trained police snipers, their night-vision optics lighting up the scene as bright as daylight.

  The sturdy wooden door had a trio of small windows arranged in an arch at head-height, through which light spilled from the hallway behind. Unfortunately, the glass was heavily frosted, making it impossible to see any detail. Through the door came the muffled sounds of a TV set.

  After pausing for a few seconds, to make certain that everyone was ready, Warren depressed the doorbell. Deep inside the house a chime echoed. A few seconds later, an increase in the TV’s volume and a brightening of the light escaping through the door’s windows signalled that the living-room door had been opened. A scratching and scraping noise indicated the removal of the door chain and the two officers tensed themselves. Finally, the door creaked open.

  Michael Stockley was red-eyed and dishevelled, his shirt collar unbuttoned, his tie loosened. A few days’ worth of stubble darkened his cheeks.

  Recognising the two officers, he simply shook his head. “I’ve been expecting you. I haven’t seen Dad since Saturday.”

  Chapter 44

  Michael Stockley had been sitting in the interview suite with his lawyer for the past hour. Outside the room, Warren and Tony Sutton were discussing what to do about the missing rapist’s son. Michael Stockley had clearly been resigned to his fate and had simply stepped to one side and let the armed response team search the house and grounds for his father. No trace was found, and the wanted man’s photograph as well as the licence number and details of the missing Land Rover were being circulated to national and international police forces. A press briefing was being prepared for first thing in the morning. When confronted, Stockley admitted that his father had taken his son’s shotgun and ammunition and so Cameron was described as armed and dangerous.

  “Let’s see what he has to say for himself first, before we start threatening him with perverting the course of justice. His full co-operation in finding his old man is probably more valuable than us getting him some jail time.”

  Tony Sutton reluctantly agreed. “You’re probably right, guv. But if that bastard in there hadn’t lied about his father’s whereabouts the first time we picked him up, then he could have prevented at least two murders and we wouldn’t be organising a bloody manhunt and hoping to God he doesn’t strike again. When this is all over, he needs to stand in the dock for something.”

  “I agree, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Maybe we’ll use it as leverage.”

  Pushing open the door, Warren led the way into the interview suite, Tony Sutton following. After checking that the PACE recorder was working and that Stockley was aware that he was not as yet under arrest, the two officers started.

  Immediately, Stockley’s solicitor interrupted the two officers. “My client informs me that he wishes to be fully compliant with the police investigation and to render whatever assistance he can.” The solicitor glanced at Stockley, clearly not entirely happy with what he was about to say next. “He would also like it to be noted that he was not entirely forthcoming in the two previous interviews that he gave. That was from a sincere, but misguided attempt to protect his father from the charges of which he is accused; charges which my client still believes his father is innocent of.”

  Warren and Sutton exchanged surprised glances, before Warren answered with a non-committal, “I see.”

  The unexpected frankness of Stockley gave Warren pause for thought, but after a couple of seconds’ thought he decided to run with it and see where it got them.

  “Then perhaps that should be where we start from. In what way were your previous statements inaccurate?”

  “On the previous two occasions, you and the team in Liverpool asked me where my father was when Sally Evans and Carolyn Patterson were believed to have been abducted. I stated that my father had gone to bed early on both nights and that I could hear him asleep upstairs.”

  Stockley licked his lips and looked at his solicitor. The lawyer’s face was a mask.

  “I lied both times.”

  “So, where was your father?”

  “I don’t know. He was out on both nights and I didn’t hear him come back. I went to bed about ten p.m. — I have to get up early in the morning.”

  “Why did you lie to us?” Tony Sutton asked.

  Stockley sighed. “Because I knew how it looked. The police are always going to go for the most obvious target — and that’s my old man. The first thing you want is an alibi. Dad didn’t have one.” He looked at the two officers pleadingly. “But so what? If I asked you to randomly account for your whereabouts at any time, could you?” He answered his own question. “Of course not. People spend hours every day on their own, with nobody to vouch for their whereabouts. My old man more than most, probably.”

  “And you didn’t think it at all significant that your dad was out late at n
ight on both those evenings?”

  Stockley shook his head. “No. It wasn’t out of character.” He sighed.

  “Ever since Dad got out of prison, he’s really valued his freedom. But he’s also a bit of a loner. He likes to take long walks or go out shooting rabbits. With the nights pulling in, he likes to drive to some country pub in the middle of nowhere, where nobody recognises him, and just enjoy a pint in the corner and read the newspaper for a few hours. He doesn’t like crowds. He’s been doing this a couple or three nights a week for months.

  “When you pulled him in, I panicked. I knew he didn’t have an alibi so I lied.”

  “What makes you so sure he’s innocent?” asked Sutton.

  “He’s a changed man; prison changed him.” He ignored Sutton’s sceptical look. “He hated being in there. He nearly didn’t survive it. I know he still has nightmares about being locked up. He removed the lock on his bedroom door and he sleeps with it open, because it reminds him too much of his cell. He was definitely abused in there; certainly by other prisoners and maybe even the guards. He won’t really talk about it.

  “The thing is, I can’t see him ever doing anything to land himself back in there. He’s still on licence and he’s paranoid about getting into trouble. He drives everywhere five miles below the speed limit and when he goes out of an evening he has one pint then stays for an extra couple of hours drinking Coke just to make sure there is no alcohol in his system, in case he’s pulled over.”

  Sutton did nothing to hide his disbelief. “Perhaps that just means he’ll be more careful about getting caught. You know what they say about a leopard and his spots…”

  “No way. Dad would rather die than go to prison again. He wouldn’t risk it.” Stockley’s tone was firm.

  “So what’s made you change your mind this time and co-operate?” asked Warren.

  “I haven’t seen Dad since Saturday. I watched the news and saw about that new girl being found. I’ve called his phone but it’s turned off. I’m really worried about him.”

  “Why? What are you worried about?”

  “I think he’s scared that he will be blamed again. You’ve already brought him in for questioning twice. Both times he was really upset for the next two or three days. I don’t think he could stand another interrogation.”

  “And you don’t think it could be that he’s guilty; that he’s done a runner because he’s about to get caught?” Sutton scowled at the man in front of him.

  “No. He’s heard about the murder on the news and he’s disappeared. He’s just hoping you’ll find the real killer and it’ll all blow over.”

  “And why would you think that? You’ve said that he’s taken your shotgun and that he’d rather die than go to prison. Couldn’t he have gone into the woods somewhere and finished himself off?”

  Stockley shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Dad was getting his life back together. He’d not just give in. Sure, if he thought he was going to get stitched up he’d kill himself rather than go back to prison, but I don’t think he’s suicidal. It hasn’t reached that yet.”

  “You sound very confident of that, Michael.” Warren stared at him long and hard in the eyes. “Why is that? What aren’t you telling us?”

  Stockley sighed. “Before he went, he emptied out our joint bank account.”

  “How much are we talking here?” Sutton asked.

  “Twenty-three thousand pounds. It was the business account that we used for the farm. That money represented the farm’s operating costs for next year: all of our seeds, fertiliser, diesel costs — you name it.”

  Warren and Sutton exchanged glances. Twenty-three thousand pounds was a lot of money. He could lie low on that sort of money for a long time, assuming that he was careful.

  “So you reckon that your old man is completely innocent? That he’s just keeping out of sight until we find the real killer and that he’s taken that money to help hide himself.”

  Stockley nodded vigorously.

  “And what if your father were to be found guilty? What if he did commit those crimes? Where does that leave you then, Michael? You’ve been helping a convicted rapist pick up where he left off.”

  Stockley stared at the table top for a long time. Finally, he raised his gaze and looked Warren in the eye. His voice shook.

  “Then I will never forgive myself. And my father can rot in hell.”

  There was a long pause, before Warren spoke softly. “I’m sorry, Michael, but you’ve backed the wrong horse here. First of all, you say your father disappeared Saturday — we didn’t announce Gemma Allen’s death until Tuesday.”

  Stockley’s mouth dropped open in horror. “No, there must be some mistake. Maybe I’ve got the dates wrong…”

  Warren continued, “And we just received confirmation that DNA samples retrieved from the scene match your father.”

  Stockley’s face crumpled and he covered it with his hands. Behind them, he could be heard mumbling, “No, no, no,” again and again.

  “Michael, listen to me.” Warren’s voice was gentle now. “You can help us make things right. Help us find your dad before he kills anyone else. Help us put him away, to bring a little peace to those poor families.” It was shameless exploitation, he knew, but he didn’t care. “Next week is Christmas. Think about those poor mothers and fathers sitting around their Christmas trees without their daughters. Hell, they probably won’t celebrate Christmas this year. And it’ll never be the same for them again. Think about that. At least give them the comfort of knowing that Richard Cameron is no longer out there. Do it for them. And save your father from himself.”

  Warren could just about make out the nodding of the man’s head.

  * * *

  Outside the interview suite, Sutton was thoughtful.

  “You know, if Stockley can’t vouch for the whereabouts of his old man, his own alibi is suspect also?”

  Warren nodded. “My thoughts exactly. Make sure that nice Jag of his is also impounded and searched. Traffic haven’t spotted it on CCTV yet, but let’s be certain.”

  “That goatee of his hides his chin quite effectively, don’t you think? Almost as well as his old man’s beard.”

  Warren grunted. “I hear you, Tony, but it’s been almost two weeks since Carolyn Patterson. I doubt there’d be much of a bruise left from her punch even if the pathologist’s speculation is correct and she caught him with a right hook.”

  “Agreed. Still, I’m going to ring Merseyside and see if they noticed anything when they interviewed him.”

  Chapter 45

  The farmhouse fairly swarmed with scenes of crime officers. They’d entered as soon as the armed officers had ensured that Richard Cameron wasn’t waiting for them with his son’s shotgun.

  A preliminary search of the house revealed nothing of immediate relevance beyond a number of items of clothing in each man’s wardrobe that looked as though they might match the fibres found on all three victims, although their forensic worth would be of questionable use, given the ubiquity of the cloth.

  In the back office sat a PC. This was bagged and sent immediately to Welwyn for analysis by the computer crime division. It was possible that there were details on the computer about Cameron’s recent attacks and maybe even any future attacks. Warren authorised the extra cost for it to be put through as a priority.

  Down in the garage, one of the team had found a set of perfect muddy footprints by the back door. It looked as though a pair of dirty work boots had sat there until recently. There was no sign of any matching boots in the rest of the house and Warren made a note to ask Stockley if they belonged to his father. The investigator took high-resolution photographs to allow comparison with the partial prints that had been found at the murder scenes.

  For the rest of the night, the team searched the house for clues to Cameron’s whereabouts as well as evidence linking him to the current attacks. Of particular interest was what Tony Sutton had dubbed his ‘rape kit’. Based on what the pathologist
had found from the autopsies, they expected him to have access to pairs of latex gloves, condoms and adhesive tape to help him avoid leaving trace evidence during the rape. He also used some sort of solvent, probably chloroform, to sedate his victims.

  By the early hours of the morning the team reported that no sign of this kit had been found. An inventory had been taken of each of the chemicals in the kitchen, bathroom, garage and barn, but an expert chemist had ruled out any of them as being suitable for use as a sedative.

  Richard Cameron, it seemed, had disappeared into the wind. Even more alarmingly, he’d gone prepared to kill again.

  Thursday 22nd December and Friday 23rd December

  Chapter 46

  With the DNA profile confirming Richard Cameron as the rapist, the pressure was now on to find him before he struck again or disappeared for ever. His likeness was released to the media with the obligatory warnings not to approach him and a description of his Land Rover was circulated.

  Michael Stockley was understandably upset by the realisation that his father had returned to his old ways and that his own lies clearly raised suspicions. Nevertheless, with preliminary forensics on his Jaguar car showing no traces from any of the victims and Merseyside police unable to confirm or deny any obvious visible bruising from when they’d interviewed him, the team had no reason to detain him.

  Despite his name change, it was all but inevitable that he would be linked to his father by the press. The Reverend Thomas Harding generously stepped in and offered him a discreet place to stay, saving Hertfordshire Police the expense of protective custody. The son of the man the papers were calling the ‘Middlesbury Monster’ was unlikely to be safe from vigilantes, although, considering that his lies had helped prolong his father’s killing spree, few in the CID unit were losing sleep worrying about his safety.

  Stockley had furnished the police with a list of relatives and old friends that his father might contact, although he admitted that the two of them had been pariahs since Cameron’s release. So it was a surprise to nobody that the afternoon Gary Hastings spent contacting these people bore little fruit beyond a fervent promise from Cameron’s second cousin that should he come into contact with his wayward relative he’d ‘personally deliver the bastard to the police trussed up like a Christmas turkey’. The general consensus of Richard Cameron’s former friends and family was that ‘hanging was too good for him’ and that they were ashamed to be related to him.