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

by Paul Gitsham

  So that had been it. Susan’s delight when he told her had made Warren feel even more guilty about the way he’d treated her, but that was in the past. A record-breaking sprint around the shops that night had put a fair dent in his credit card, but the car boot full of inexpertly wrapped presents and festive fare was worth it.

  The phone call at midday as Warren had finished tidying his desk had nearly made him cancel the trip, even at this late hour. Saskia Walker, a twenty-six-year-old sales assistant, hadn’t turned up at her work’s Christmas party the night before. Ordinarily, the last thing her co-workers would do on the busiest shopping day of the year was run around chasing after an absent colleague, but the recent spate of murders had the residents of Middlesbury on edge and Saskia was a hard-working, ambitious member of staff and such behaviour was out of character.

  After several unanswered voicemails, an increasingly worried store manager had finally contacted Saskia’s best friend, who had keys to her flat. She reported that the apartment was untidy with an opened pint of milk beginning to smell on the kitchen counter and a washing machine full of damp clothes; the full litter tray, empty food bowls and two very grumpy cats suggested that she had been absent a couple of days, but hadn’t planned it. Her friend noticed that her running shoes were not by the door in their usual place, nor was her lightweight fleece hanging on the coat rack.

  Normally, such a disappearance would be logged by the police, investigations would be made to rule out foul play, and the case passed onto the missing persons unit. But these weren’t normal times. The call had been flagged immediately for the attention of Warren’s CID team and a meeting hastily convened.

  This time it had been Tony Sutton who stopped his boss from cancelling his plans.

  “Look, guv, this isn’t a murder, not yet. It’s just another missing person. You know the figures: more than two hundred thousand people go missing each year, with Saskia Walker’s age group the most likely to disappear, especially at this time of year. According to her friends, she had a bad break-up with her long-term boyfriend last winter and had been suffering from depression. She also had a bit of an ill-judged fling with a co-worker back in October and has been avoiding him ever since — that may have been why she skipped the party last night, as he was there.”

  “But why hasn’t she contacted her family? She was supposed to be spending Christmas with them. Wouldn’t she have said something if her plans had changed?”

  “Well, depression can do funny things to a person’s judgement. Besides which, her best friend reckons her parents have a poor relationship and she doesn’t care for her sister’s husband very much — maybe she couldn’t face spending it with them? She wouldn’t be the first person to decide they’d rather spend Christmas on their own, instead of making merry and pretending to be full of festive cheer with the folks.”

  Warren had nodded. “I accept that, but it looks as though she went missing a couple of days ago. No one has seen her since Wednesday and the flat looks as if it hasn’t been lived in since then. Surely if she was going away for a couple of days she’d have put out more food for the cats? And what about her missing running shoes?”

  Sutton had shrugged. “I know, boss, I have a bad feeling also, but it isn’t our concern yet. She’s officially a missing person with no evidence of foul play. It’s only because she’s a young, attractive woman of the type that Richard Cameron favours that we’ve been given a heads-up. Hell, he may not even be in the area any more.”

  Eventually, Warren had conceded the point and, after assurances that he’d be kept in the loop, had finally left the office. But the look on Sutton’s face had broadcast feelings that exactly mirrored his own. Richard Cameron had struck again and pretty soon the defiled body of another young woman would be turning up.

  * * *

  Bernice’s welcome was positively effusive. A faint smell of cooking sherry hinted at the reason for her uncharacteristic cheerfulness. Dennis made no mention of their phone call, merely grunting welcome and shaking Warren’s hand, although he did give Susan a warm, welcoming hug. His slightly forlorn expression was probably caused by the truly hideous hand-knitted sweater he was wearing, Warren decided. He couldn’t imagine it being Dennis’ idea to don the brown woollen monstrosity with its slightly wonky reindeer pattern.

  It was clear that Bernice was determined to make the festive period as cheerful as possible. Practically every surface was covered in tinsel and Christmas knick-knacks. Even Susan seemed taken aback by the decorations.

  “You’ve been busy,” she managed, diplomatically.

  The gaudiness of the house made Granddad Jack’s appearance all the more shocking. Dressed in a thick woollen jumper and a cardigan — despite the roaring fire in the living room — he was dozing in front of the TV, an unopened newspaper on his lap.

  Warren paused at the door, taking in his gaunt appearance.

  “Granddad,” he called softly, not wanting to give the old man a fright. No reply. He tried again a little louder, still nothing. Finally he leant down and took the old man’s hand. As he did so he saw that he wasn’t wearing his hearing aids. Warren couldn’t ever remember seeing him without them.

  The old man started in surprise. “It’s just me, Granddad.” Warren spoke loudly. Jack nodded his head, the puzzled look clearing from his eyes. A sad smile plucked at his mouth.

  “Come here, son,” he mumbled, and Warren leant down to hug him, noticing the faint rasp of his stubble on his cheeks. Warren’s heart fell, even as he forced a smile.

  The old man seemed to have had the life drained from him. He’d clearly lost even more weight in the short time since the funeral and his skin was cold and papery. Even more worryingly, Jack had always been a proud man and for him to have taken his hearing aids out and not shaved when he was a guest in someone’s house spoke volumes about his state of mind. At least he’d kept his teeth in.

  Squinting over Warren’s shoulder, his face brightened. “Susan, sweetheart, you’re here.”

  Moving aside, Warren felt a small measure of relief as Jack reached out to hug his grandson’s wife.

  “Hello, Granddad, how are you?”

  Jack’s smile widened even more; he’d always wanted a little girl and when Susan had taken to calling him Granddad after their wedding it had brought tears to his eyes. Looking at the two of them, Warren felt the heaviness in his chest lift slightly. He glanced over at Dennis and Bernice standing quietly in the doorway. Dennis nodded once and Warren returned the gesture. Whatever happened in the future, Jack would be looked after.

  * * *

  Christmas Eve had always involved midnight mass. This year would be no different. Bernice insisted that they attend Jack and Betty’s local church, rather than their normal service, and so they had all piled into Warren’s car for the drive. Had she known what she was letting herself in for, Bernice would probably have been less insistent, Warren was sure. For the first time since they had arrived, Warren had spotted a mischievous glint in Jack’s eyes as he thanked Bernice for her thoughtfulness.

  “Does Mr Potter still play the organ at midnight mass?” whispered Warren to his grandfather, when he had a moment.

  “I think so. The regular choir are down to play the morning services and they don’t usually play both. Especially after that incident a few years ago.” The smile took ten years off his grandfather’s face.

  The service was due to start at eleven-thirty p.m. with a short carol service, before the full mass started at midnight. The family arrived a few minutes early and Warren was touched by how many parishioners came over to wish them a happy Christmas and pass on their condolences if they hadn’t already done so. Nevertheless, the church was surprisingly empty, something that Bernice commented on a little louder than Warren would have liked. She’d soon see why.

  Finally, the quiet ringing of bells signified the start of the carol service and all became quiet. ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’ was the opening carol and Mr Potter, hidden behind the
organ, started in with his usual gusto. The first couple of bars went well, with everyone joining in the familiar tune — then the problems started. First, Mr Potter hit a slightly off note. His immediate response was to backtrack slightly and hit the correct note. This caused those less experienced with Mr Potter’s idiosyncratic style of playing to pause also, disturbing the rhythm. For those who had attended midnight mass at the small church regularly over the years, they knew that the correct response was to soldier on regardless of the discordant notes coming from the organ; experience had shown that Mr Potter would generally follow the choir and more or less catch up, rather than the other way around.

  By the time the bell rang again to signify the start of the mass, Mr Potter had helped butcher a further seven carols, including ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’, ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ and ‘Silent Night’. Without the faintest trace of irony, the priest thanked Mr Potter for helping make the evening so memorable and launched into the service.

  It was Bernice who broke the silence in the car on the way home.

  “Well, after the lovely music at Betty’s funeral, that was unexpected.”

  “The choir that sang then only do the daylight services on Christmas Day,” Jack explained. “They haven’t done midnight mass ever since one of Mrs McCaffrey’s former pupils remembered who she was and insisted on giving her a sloppy kiss before telling the entire church, repeatedly, that she was the ‘best teacher he ever had and had made him the man he was today’.”

  Warren chuckled. “I remember that! The man he was today was a drunk with three kids by different women and an electronic tag. I heard they arrested him Christmas morning because attending midnight mass — not to mention the pub — was a breach of his curfew.”

  “Seems a bit unfair to blame that on Mrs McCaffrey — she only taught him in Reception!” replied Jack.

  As the rest of the car joined in with the laughter, Warren felt the tension in his chest easing even more. When they quietened down, Jack spoke up again. His voice was sober, but not sad. “You know, every time we went, I threatened to take my hearing aids out before the service, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.” In the rear-view mirror, Warren could make out a wistful smile on the old man’s face. “Betty used to tell me off for laughing about poor Mr Potter. He only does it because nobody else will volunteer. But still, he has all year to practise — we sing the same bloody songs each year!”

  * * *

  After arriving home, Warren felt comfortable enough to finally relax. It was almost one a.m.; even if he received a phone call now, nobody would expect to see him before the next morning. With that in mind, he gratefully accepted Dennis’ offer of a large whiskey and joined his grandfather and father-in-law in a depressing discussion about the likelihood of Coventry City avoiding relegation again this season. Not even a second glass of whiskey made that conversation any more cheerful.

  By two a.m., everyone was yawning and they retired to bed. Warren’s last thought as he turned out the bedside lamp was one of incredulity that he had ever contemplated missing Christmas.

  Chapter 49

  Warren awoke slowly, the unfamiliar bed adding to his disorientation as he hung for a moment between reality and the dream world. Then reality crashed in, with the childlike feeling of excitement that he still felt on Christmas Day tempered by a pang of sadness that Nana Betty wouldn’t be here to celebrate with them. A glance at his phone showed it was seven-thirty and that he had received no text messages, emails or missed calls.

  Beside him, Susan stirred. Leaning over, he kissed her on the nose and wished her a merry Christmas.

  She sighed contentedly, before mumbling her own response.

  “Is it too early to open our stockings?” Warren was referring to the bulging, garish sports socks hanging off the end of the bed. Susan might be a married woman in her thirties, but Bernice had made it clear that she was still her little girl and she was going to enjoy having her children home for Christmas. Now even Warren got one.

  “I think it’s a bit early for that,” said Susan, a glint in her eye.

  “Well, I don’t think we can go downstairs and watch TV. It’ll wake the grown-ups. What can we do for the next hour or so?”

  Susan giggled and lifted her arms above her head. “Well, you could always unwrap one present, I suppose. Just something to play with until we have breakfast.”

  * * *

  Breakfast was an elaborate affair, at least by the standards of Warren, who usually made do with a slice of toast or a banana on the rare occasions that he bothered. Three types of toast, rashers of crispy bacon and bulging sausages jostled for space with fried and scrambled eggs and a pan of baked beans. It was the odour of freshly brewed coffee that had finally tempted Warren and Susan downstairs.

  “You know, if we eat all of this, then Christmas dinner, and all those chocolates in the lounge, we’ll never fit in the en-suite shower tomorrow for a repeat of what we just did.”

  Susan’s response was a blush and a slap. Fortunately, Bernice was playing a CD of Christmas carols and didn’t hear him. Warren wished his in-laws a merry Christmas and thanked them for the gifts in the stocking. So far he’d used some of the shower gel, a squirt of the aftershave and was wearing a pair of black socks with a huge yellow smiley face on each ankle.

  Bernice was dressed in a bright red jumper with ‘Santa’s Little Helper’ emblazoned on the front and black trousers. Flashing earrings and reindeer antlers completed the ensemble. Dennis was dressed even worse than the previous day, with a chunky hand-knitted sweater featuring Santa’s face covering his stomach. The red hat with flashing lights did little to offset his morose expression.

  Although he knew from previous Christmases that offers to help would be rebuffed, Warren felt obliged at least to ask. As usual it was Bernice who turned down Warren’s assistance, even though Christmas lunch was strictly the purview of Dennis. To be fair, in previous years, Susan’s father had managed to effortlessly juggle the many different dishes with the skill and timing of a West End chef and he certainly seemed happiest when clattering around the kitchen.

  Knowing that the day ahead was likely to be an eating marathon, Warren paced himself at breakfast, managing to limit the amount of food that Bernice insisted on piling on his plate. Nevertheless, his frugality paled next to that of Granddad Jack. When the older man finally emerged, it was clear that he had barely slept the night before. He was clean-shaven and had both of his hearing aids in; nevertheless, the lightness that had been present the night before had retreated once again. It was only Bernice’s well-meaning pressure that persuaded him to take a slice of toast with his tea. After eating, he retired to the living room and was soon dozing in front of the fire again.

  By common agreement, the family had decided to postpone present opening until the arrival of Susan’s sister and family. Over Bernice’ protestations, Warren and Susan had insisted on clearing up after breakfast. As they did so Warren voiced his concerns about Jack. He had clearly taken the death of Betty even harder than anyone had imagined and Warren was worried that the old man was in a downward spiral. Susan couldn’t think of anything to say, other than to suggest they wait until after the Christmas period and see if he perked up. If not, she would see if they could get him to talk to someone.

  Finally Susan’s sister Felicity, her husband Jeff and their three children, Jimmy aged three, Sammy just under two and six-month old Annie turned up. Their arrival reminded Warren of footage he’d seen of American forces entering Afghanistan. He watched with fascination as the red Citroën people carrier swept up the drive like a Black Hawk helicopter coming in to land, before disgorging two adults, three small children each with accompanying accessory bags easily large enough for their owner to fit in, and enough brightly coloured plastic toys to fill a branch of Toys R Us. And then came the presents, piles of garishly wrapped parcels, which Felicity added to the pile beneath the tree. Finally the invasion was complete, although Warren couldn’t see how t
hey hoped to get everything back in the car again.

  Warren always felt slightly awkward at these gatherings. Felicity and Jeff were lovely people, but they seemed completely alien to him. Felicity was as different from Susan as it was possible to be. Barely five feet tall, Felicity was a giggly blonde whirlwind. Where Susan had studied biology at university, gaining a master’s degree before starting teacher training, Felicity had travelled the world for two years, before doing a series of art courses, ending up working for some sort of hippy collective in London making and selling home-made jewellery.

  Jeff, on the other hand, was an investment banker, working for a large credit company that Warren had never heard of. Within twelve months of their chance meeting, the free-spirited Felicity was living in a two-million-pound home in the leafiest part of the commuter-belt, engaged and pregnant — although that was diplomatically ignored by Bernice, who couldn’t believe how well her wayward daughter had done for herself. By all accounts, it was a marriage made in heaven and Warren saw no evidence to the contrary.

  Finally, it was time to open the presents. Warren had been looking forward to seeing Susan’s reaction to the matching earrings and necklace that he had bought her and he was delighted with the Kindle e-reader that she had bought him, but to his surprise he found the most enjoyable part of the morning was watching the children open their presents. At just over three years old, Jimmy was old enough to understand Christmas and was suitably excited. Sammy wasn’t overly thrilled by the presents but had a fantastic time climbing inside the boxes and playing with the wrapping paper.

  “Jimmy was the exactly the same last year,” confided Jeff. “I suggested to Felicity that we could save a fortune by just buying some wrapping paper and asking the supermarket for any old boxes, but she wouldn’t have it.”