by Paul Gitsham
However, star of the show was baby Annie. Dressed in a mini Santa outfit, she dissolved into fits of giggles every time Granddad Jack tickled her tummy.
Finally, Dennis announced that dinner was ready. With Susan’s help, Felicity put Annie down in her Moses basket, whilst Warren and Jeff wrestled Sammy into his high chair. Jimmy would be allowed to sit in a ‘big boy’s chair’ between Granddad Jack and Uncle Warren as long as he behaved himself.
Warren checked his phone discreetly — no calls, emails or text messages, so he decided to have a glass of red wine with his lunch.
Dennis had done himself proud again. A huge turkey with all of the trimmings was surrounded by roast potatoes and parsnips. Three types of stuffing, steamed carrots, peas, broccoli and the obligatory Brussels sprouts, plus creamed potatoes and, finally, pigs in blankets. Thick gravy and cranberry jelly completed the feast.
Warren didn’t like turkey or any other meat off the bone and was perfectly content to load up with vegetables and sausages; however, Felicity was a vegetarian and Dennis had made her a big enough bean and nut roast for everyone to have some.
Lunch was a boisterous affair with laughter all round and even Jack and Dennis joining in. The Christmas crackers disgorged their usual cheap plastic toys — promptly moved out of the reach of the children — gaudy paper crowns and awful jokes. By the time the Christmas pudding was lit, Warren felt as though he might burst. He’d decided to chance a second, small glass of wine and was now glowing slightly.
Ignoring Bernice’s protests for a second time that day — normally a pretty reckless thing to do — Susan and Warren cleared away the lunch whilst everyone else retired to the lounge. When they finally joined them, the whole room was almost silent, with the Queen’s speech on mute and only Granddad Jack and Jimmy awake. As he watched his grandfather quietly reading a story to the small boy, Warren felt something stirring inside him. As if sensing his thoughts, Susan sat down next to him, slipping her hand into his and resting her head on his shoulder. At that moment, all thoughts of dead bodies and rapists were a million miles away.
* * *
All too soon the day was over. By eight p.m., it was well past the children’s bedtime and so the invasion went into reverse. Somehow everything that had come out of the people carrier went back in, along with several dozen more toys plus a number of large Tupperware boxes of uneaten vegetables and half a Christmas cake.
With the children gone, the house suddenly seemed empty. Granddad Jack excused himself and went to bed. Warren anxiously watched him as he climbed the stairs, but the old man’s pace seemed tired rather than weary and he had kissed both Bernice and Susan goodnight.
The remaining foursome enjoyed a spirited game of Scrabble, which Bernice — president of the local book club —won by a large margin.
A little later, lying in the dark, Warren snuggled up close to Susan.
“I was watching Granddad with the kids. It got me thinking…”
Susan sighed. “Me too. But we decided to give it at least a year in our new jobs before we started a family.”
In the darkness, she felt Warren nod. “I know and I agree. But let’s not leave it too long. Who knows? By this time next year you could be eating for two and by the following year it could be our little baby dressed in a Santa suit.”
Beside him, Warren could feel the bed start to shake. “What?” he demanded.
Between her giggles, Susan managed to speak. “Oh, you old romantic.”
Not sure how to respond, Warren felt slightly defensive.
“Well, we have to make plans. You’re a biology teacher — you know how complicated these things are. There are books to read, DVDs to watch, courses to do…”
Susan fully dissolved. “It’s really not that difficult. Trust me, human beings have been having babies for millions of years.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Well, if you are that worried then maybe we should practise a bit before we start properly in the summer.”
That didn’t really require an answer, Warren decided.
* * *
It was almost nine a.m., the longest lie-in Warren and Susan had had in months, when the phone went. Warren didn’t need to look at the caller ID to know what it was about.
“Sorry to phone, guv. We’ve found Saskia Walker.”
Monday 26th December
Chapter 50
It was barely noon on Boxing Day; less than twenty-four hours since he’d been tucking into Dennis’ fantastic Christmas lunch and celebrating with his loved ones. As Warren stared at the pictures of the partially clad body it felt as though those events had been a lifetime ago.
“How was she found?”
“Sheer bloody fluke, by the sound of it.” There was an undercurrent of excitement in Tony Sutton’s voice. “I reckon Cameron wasn’t expecting her to be found nearly so soon. He probably expected to have a couple more days’ lead at least.”
“What happened?” prompted Warren.
“She was found by a Polish lorry driver in a layby on the A505. Apparently, he broke down on Christmas Eve up in Scotland and by the time he got back on the road it was Christmas Day.
“By last night he was over his hours, so he pulled over to sleep. This morning, he got up to stretch his legs and decided to give the chemical toilet a miss and use a bush. Very nearly pissed on the poor girl. He reckons he was probably the only driver on the road Christmas night and figures the likelihood of anybody stumbling across her body before Tuesday or Wednesday was pretty slim.”
Sutton was right to feel excited. Although Saskia Walker had been missing for several days, giving her attacker plenty of time to cover his tracks, he clearly hadn’t expected her body to be found so quickly. Who knew what details Richard Cameron might not have dealt with yet?
“What do we have forensically?”
“Her body is still at the scene. Professor Jordan is coming in especially to do the PM.” Sutton smiled grimly. “Everyone wants this bastard, sir. First time I’ve ever called a coroner out over the holiday period and not had to put up with them grumbling about it. I swear he was putting his coat on as we spoke on the phone.”
Warren suspected he was right. Four murders and an attempted murder in the space of a month. For Warren, it had been personal since the moment he first caught sight of Sally Evans’ body. For others, it had taken time to work its way from routine murder to serial killer, but now everybody was feeling it. Quite aside from the tragedy, it was an affront to the local community that they had all sworn to protect and to their professional pride.
The eagerness of Prof Jordan notwithstanding, arranging a full post-mortem on Boxing Day was always going to be a slow affair and Warren was warned that he couldn’t expect to see any results until late evening at the earliest.
In the meantime, the team had plenty to do to keep them occupied. Although the smart money was on Richard Cameron being responsible, until they had positive proof of his involvement from the coroner or scenes of crime team they were obliged to keep at least some semblance of an open mind.
By one-thirty, Warren and Tony Sutton found themselves heading out, yet again, to interview bereaved loved ones. The drive to Cambridge took about forty minutes, a light drizzle turning into a heavy downpour. The atmosphere in the car was also leaden, all traces of Christmas cheer long since chased away.
After an abortive attempt at small talk — apparently both men had enjoyed Christmas and it had been good to get away — they lapsed back into silence. Eventually Sutton started leafing through the stack of CDs in the glove box. Warren winced. He had a horrible feeling that his credibility was going to take a beating.
“ABBA Gold? Tell me this is Susan’s. What about this? The soundtrack to Mamma Mia?” Warren said nothing, hoping Sutton would get bored and give up. No such luck — he was like a dog with a bone.
“What else…? U2 Greatest Hits, Rod Stewart Greatest Hits, Elton John Greatest Hits… I’m spotting a theme here, guv. D
o you own any actual albums or is it all compilations?”
“What can I say? I follow the masses,” said Warren weakly, hoping Sutton had seen enough.
“Ultimate Eighties album, Seventies Party Hits, Disco Hits Volumes 1 and 2. Trying to recapture your youth, sir?”
“Speak for yourself, Tony. I’m too young to remember it first time around, unlike you; I discovered that lot at Friday Freak-out at uni.”
“Count yourself lucky, guv. Most of this stuff was crap. I can’t work out why it was so popular with students in the nineties.”
“Well, have you heard what new music we had to listen to in the nineties?”
“Fair comment. Even Sister Sledge sounds good next to that car-alarm rubbish that blared out of every speaker back then. If I’d had my way, we’d have been nicking students for possession of an offensive CD.”
Warren chuckled; the banter had achieved its desired effect and lifted his mood somewhat.
“Hello, what’s this? Looks like a home-made compilation CD. ‘Guilty Pleasures’ — you don’t appear to have filled in the inlay card. I have no idea what music is on here.”
And you never will, vowed Warren. Thanks to the alphabetical track-listing on his computer, Guns ’n’ Roses ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’ followed the Beatles’ ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ and ‘Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’. Thank goodness for shuffle. He snatched the CD out of Sutton’s grasp lest it find itself being played on the station’s CD player.
“Next time, you drive, DI Sutton, and we’ll peruse your music collection, shall we?” suggested Warren, waspishly.
Sutton shrugged. “I stand behind my music collection. A song for every mood and nothing to be ashamed of. Perhaps when we’ve got a little extra time I’ll help educate your ear, sir.”
Before Warren could reply, the satnav sang out, announcing that they had arrived at their destination. Both men immediately quietened.
“Once more unto the breach?”
Sutton nodded. “Let’s get it over with, then.”
* * *
If it weren’t for the unlit Christmas tree and the cards adorning the mantelpiece, nobody would have known it was the day after Christmas. The kitchen in which they sat was cold and uncomfortable. It was clear from the smell, or rather lack of it, that nobody had cooked a Christmas roast in here for loved ones or stuffed themselves with cake. The air contained no lingering traces of over-cooked vegetables or gravy. The smell of booze pervaded the room, but it was from the alcohol of sadness, of desperation, not the rich aroma of carefully chosen wines or freshly mixed party drinks.
The contrast with Bernice and Dennis’ house couldn’t be more pronounced and Warren desperately wished he had been able to heed his mother-in-law’s pleading and stay just a bit longer. Unfortunately duty was duty and Bernice had eventually accepted that fact with ill grace. Granddad Jack had been understanding and Susan, of course, had been his rock.
Despite Bernice’s misgivings, Warren had been unable to leave his in-laws and wife without an armful of Tupperware boxes containing leftover turkey and vegetables. Assuming that he got home at a decent hour tonight he’d be frying up the vegetables in what he’d always called the second meal of Christmas — a gravy-smothered plate of bubble and squeak. Then, he’d use the meat to make the third meal of Christmas — turkey curry.
The tension between Saskia Walker’s parents was palpable and Warren thought it ironic and deeply sad that the only thing keeping them together was the death of their child. He doubted much time would pass after the funeral before they finally went their separate ways. He just hoped it wasn’t too traumatic; this poor couple had suffered far more than anyone deserved.
“You understand that until we get the post-mortem results we can only speculate on who she was killed by and that we therefore must keep an open mind and pursue all lines of enquiry.” The couple nodded wearily. This had all been explained to them by the family liaison officer before Warren and Sutton had arrived.
“With that in mind, we need to ask some questions that you may find uncomfortable. I apologise in advance if we upset you.”
The couple nodded numbly and Warren proceeded. He’d reread the reports from her friends gathered at the time she went missing, as well as other interviews conducted by the missing persons team. First he established that, as far as her parents were concerned, she had not had a regular boyfriend since splitting up with a steady, long-term partner earlier in the year. They knew nothing of any flings with her co-workers, although that was hardly surprising. They were aware that she had been treated for depression recently.
So far, their stories tallied with what her friends and co-workers had reported on Christmas Eve. Both the ex-boyfriend and her one-night stand had been thoroughly checked out by missing persons and found to be clear of any involvement. The former partner was still in France where he had returned to rekindle his romance with a childhood sweetheart he had reconnected with through Facebook; as for the workplace fling, he had been at work all of the twenty-third before getting changed at work and going straight out to the works party that Saskia never attended. He’d then crashed on a workmate’s couch and crawled into work much the worse-for-wear early the next morning. Enough people had seen him at various points over the twenty-four hours between Saskia Walker last being seen and then being reported missing that he was easily cleared of any direct involvement.
Saskia’s sister and her husband, Tristan, had returned home to change clothes and freshen up after forty-eight hours sitting vigil with Saskia’s parents. The family liaison officer had said that they had been nothing but a comfort to her parents throughout the ordeal. She suspected that they were exhausted and needed a bit of time to themselves to process their own feelings. They were probably also feeling slight guilt as both had clearly looked a little relieved when their expectations were finally confirmed and the body was found. It was insights like this that made family liaison officers more than just a convenient shoulder for the bereaved to cry on whilst he tried to get on with his job, Warren felt.
With the sister and her husband absent, Warren was able to broach the subject of tension between Saskia and her sister’s husband, Tristan.
The brief expression of distaste on Saskia’s mother’s face spoke volumes. “I suppose you could say that we are a bit beneath him. His name is Tristan, so draw your own conclusions. Private education, wealthy upbringing, Cambridge University, then a highly paid job doing something to do with the Internet — everything you’d expect. He met our Flo when she was working at a small bakery around the corner from his workplace and apparently it was love at first sight.
“It was clear from the get-go that his family weren’t impressed; that he’d found a bit of rough and he’d come to his senses soon.” Her face softened slightly. “Bless him, he tries to be polite, but he really struggles. We have nothing in common. I left school at sixteen to work in a newsagent; he’s got master’s degrees and all sorts. When he visits, it sounds like he’s talking to young children or people a bit mentally deficient. Saskia couldn’t stand it and they had a number of rows.”
Warren jotted the information down. It seemed unlikely that this Tristan character was involved and he was still banking on Richard Cameron being identified in the immediate future. Nevertheless, he felt obliged to have somebody check out his whereabouts at the time of the murder.
With little else to be gained from the grieving couple, Warren and Sutton stood to leave. As they did so Angela Walker stood also.
“My daughter never hurt anyone. She worked hard, ran in those charity half-marathons and would help anybody. At work she won awards for her customer service.” She choked back a sob.
“Whoever has done this to our daughter is a sick man. He should be put down like a dog.”
With that, she ran from the room, the fragile dam she had obviously constructed to keep her functioning finally giving way. After a moment’s hesitation, her husband turned and scurried after her.
<
br /> Sutton turned to Jones, muttering quietly, “It’s hard to argue with sentiments like that. Perhaps the likes of Richard Cameron should be put down. No punishment will ever be enough and why should he live out his days in some cushy cell, paid for by the taxes of his victims’ loved ones?”
Warren said nothing. There was nothing he could say, because, truth be told, he wasn’t sure he disagreed.
Chapter 51
By the time Warren and Sutton finished speaking to Saskia Walker’s parents it was late afternoon. With limited daylight remaining, Warren decided to drive them both to the layby where she had been found. Scenes of Crime had been processing the site since she was discovered early that morning and he was keen to take a look.
The stretch of layby where she had been dumped was set back off the dual carriageway. A thin line of concrete blocks separated any pulled-over lorry drivers from the traffic speeding past at sixty miles per hour. Warren wondered just how effective they were. Maybe he’d ask someone in Traffic one day.
The dumping site was protected from the wind, rain and any prying eyes by a large white tent, criss-crossed with police tape. The lorry driver had been thoroughly questioned and both he and his vehicle released; nevertheless the roadside was filled with vehicles and investigators, some in white paper suits.
Warren looked around and saw the familiar sight of CSM Andy Harrison, who immediately waved and started to walk over.
“Still racking up the overtime, Andy?” asked Sutton by way of greeting.
The slightly portly forensic investigator shrugged. “What can I say? I have three wives — two ex, one current — so I have to take whatever is on offer.”
Warren knew that was a lie. The man lived locally and was regularly assigned to scenes in the area; more importantly though, he took his job as personally as Professor Jordan. He probably saw the job sheet and offered to work overtime, relieving some other poor CSI who’d rather be at home with the family than traipsing around a murder scene in the rain.
