Do you work, Ms Goven?
She shrugged. Yeah, Im a hairdresser. I do a few shifts each week down the Clip Joint, on the High Street.
And have you ever used any of those payday loan companies?
If she thought the question strange, she didnt let it bother her. Sure, once or twice. She smiled. Actually, I let Mateo sort that out for me. Im not very good with numbers.
Warren and Sutton swapped glances. It was stepping over the line, but a barely perceptible nod from Sutton erased any nagging doubts that Warren had.
Dont. I cant say any more, but dont let him anywhere near your finances.
She looked shocked.
Sutton spoke up. And whilst youre at it, Id ask for a bit more information about his job. Perhaps he could show you his ID card. Does he drive?
She shook her head.
Then ask him which call centre he works at and have a little look on the web to see how far away it is.
The womans bottom lip trembled slightly and Warren felt a rush of sympathy for her. It was now clear what Menendez had seen in hera young woman, living on her own with her cats. She had a job and was clearly quite naïve.
The two detectives rose to leave, but before they did, Sutton took one last look around the grubby living room.
If you dont mind me asking, what did you do with the kids whilst you and Mr Menendez were, umm, busy?
Nicky Goven frowned in confusion. What kids?
* * *
Three hours later, Mateo Menendez was a free man. But his troubles were far from over. The older lady in the apartment next door to Nicky Goven had been very clear that Menendez and Goven were in that evening at the time when Reggie Williamson was being stabbed to death on the opposite side of the common. Shed been somewhat disgruntled when it transpired that Sutton and Warren werent from the council to deal with her complaints about the noise, not to mention the smell, from the flat next door.
However, social services were now in the process of questioning his eldest child about how often Daddy left them on their own whilst Mummy was out. Interestingly, Menendezs partner did two other classes each week, again leaving the children in the care of their father.
The blokes a complete Fanny-Rat, opined Sutton. I wonder how many other women hes milking for money. I just wish there was something we could do about it.
Warren agreed. The whole affair had left a nasty taste in his mouth.
More importantly, Warren had just crossed his name off the wheeled whiteboard in the main office. The suspect column was now blank.
Saturday 31st March
Chapter 8
The note had been pushed through the letter box sometime during the previous night. It was printed with an inkjet printer, on plain paper. Susan had found it when she went downstairs to put the kettle on.
I have information about Reggie Williamson. Meet me in the car park of the Feathers 4 p.m. Come alone.
Warren had been sitting waiting since a quarter-to-four. Despite the lingering warmth from a sunny afternoon, he wore a heavy coat in an attempt to conceal the stab vest Tony Sutton and the rest of the team had insisted that he wear.
Arguments had raged all morning over what should be done about the mysterious note. It could just be the work of a crank of course; however, the fact that the author of the note knew where Warren lived was disquieting. At Graysons insistence, both marked and unmarked patrol cars were stationed in the Joneses street, keeping an eye out for any unusual visitors. Susan had agreedreluctantlyto stay in and do some schoolwork, rather than meeting up with friends in town on the first day of the school Easter holidays. Unfortunately, a rush job from the document analysis department had reported that the paper and envelope were widely available commercially and that the printer used was a popular home model. Even if a suspect were identified, simply discarding the ink cartridge and printhead would make linking the note with an individual printer all but impossible. Needless to say, the writer hadnt left fingerprints or licked the envelope. None of Warrens neighbours had seen or heard anything.
In the end, it was decided that the note couldnt just be ignored. The case had all but ground to a halt over the previous thirty-six hours and the empty suspect column on the whiteboard continued to taunt Warren. A leafleting campaign on the common and the surrounding areas on Thursday evening, the one-week anniversary of the murder, had produced nothing and forensics had been unable to produce any concrete leads. Even the flurry of crank calls and confessions that had followed the press conference had now dried up; the nutters and the fantasists no doubt moving on to pastures new.
Background checks on anyone who had conceivably come into contact with the retired gardener in the past couple of years had proven similarly fruitless. The handful of historic convictions for teenage shoplifting, Friday night fisticuffs and driving offences that his circle of acquaintances had amassed over the past fifty-odd years were of no interest to the team and were about as numerous as one would expect for a similar-sized group of people who had spent most of their life in a small, North Hertfordshire market town.
It was starting to look more and more like a stranger killing, or a random mugging gone wrong. But it didnt feel like it to Warren; the killing was too efficient, the lack of forensic evidence unusual to say the least.
With all that in mind, Warren had decided to meet the author of the note and see what they had to say.
Of course, he had no intention of meeting them alone. Reggie Williamson had been stabbed to deathit was entirely possible that his killer had written the note and Warren was uncomfortably aware that he was potentially placing himself directly in danger.
At the very least, it would be helpful to identify the person who claimed to know about the attack. So, in the hours preceding the rendezvous, various officers had stationed themselves in and around the pub. By the time Warren arrived a nondescript Transit van, a team of concealed, uniformed officers wearing stab vests and batons had been parked three spaces over for two hours. Small holes drilled in the side panels allowed the video surveillance team a clear view. At both ends of the road unmarked cars sat ready to form roadblocks if needed; more officers were on standby if necessary.
The clock on the dashboard of Warrens Ford Mondeo clicked over to two minutes to four. Across the car park, drinkers sat in small groups around wooden trestle tables, enjoying the warm weather. A waitress in her late teens cleared dishes for a young couple who appeared absorbed in one another and oblivious to the world around them. Warren just hoped that Detective Constables Karen Hardwick and Gary Hastings were paying as much attention to their concealed earpieces as they were to one another. You never could be sure with those two.
Four p.m. came and went. Warren shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His mouth was dry and he wished he was inside the pub, enjoying a pint of something frothy.
Suddenly a voice crackled in his earpiece, Possible target approaching, on foot from main road. White IC1 male, average height, wearing a grey, hooded jacket and a baseball cap. His heads down. We cant make out his features.
Warren tensed, all thoughts of a drink vanishing.
A few seconds later the man emerged. Keeping his head low, he crossed the car park without glancing in either direction, heading straight for Warrens car. Warren opened the door and stepped out, ready to greet the man.
The visitor barely looked up; all Warren could make out was the grey of a beard beneath the shadow of the caps brim.
Its not safe to be seen. Get back in the car.
The mans voice was harsh, quiet. An older man, late-middle-aged, Warren surmised. He looked the visitor up and down. In response, the man pulled out the pockets of the hoody, showing them to be empty. He could still be concealing a knife elsewhere on his person, but Warren had to take the chance. Besides which, he already had a suspicion who it was and he was burning with curiosity.
Nodding, Warren slipped back behind the wheel of the car. The hooded man opened the passenger door and climbed in. Closing the door behind him, he turned in his seat.
Hello DCI Jones, my names Gavin Sheehy and I need your help.
Chapter 9
Warren stared at the man, taking in his dishevelled appearance; his scruffy grey beard and unkempt hair were both in desperate need of a good trim and the mans face was lined, with dark smudges beneath his eyes. Eyes that were slightly bloodshot, Warren noted. Up close the mans cologne was almost overwhelming and he smelled as if hed just eaten two whole packets of extra-strong mints.
I thought you said that you had information about Reggie Williamson? Warren ignored the mans proffered hand. He was surprised at the intense feelings of anger he felt towards the man. Police corruption was something that Warren had felt strongly about ever since hed joined the force; the betrayal of the public trust was a slap in the face to the thousands of dedicated officers who risked their lives day in, day out in an often-thankless job. Since moving to Middlesbury, the feelings had intensified as he saw firsthand the devastating effects that such betrayal had on those officers closest to the traitor.
Sheehy dropped his hand. It shook slightly, Warren observed. Clearing his throat the older man unzipped his coat slightly, revealing the edge of a manila folder. I have. But first we need to take a drive.
The car park was full of Warrens colleagues, all of whom were tensed and ready to rush in at the nearest hint of any trouble. To leave with Sheehy would be a breach of protocol and absolute madness, although Warren felt it unlikely that he was in any physical danger.
Not a chance. If you have information on the murder then you can share it here.
Sheehy shook his head. No. What I have is for your ears only.
If thats your attitude, how about I run you down the station and charge you with obstruction and help myself to the information?
Sheehy snorted derisively. Investigation going well, is it? Lots of suspects all lined up?
The man was right. They had drawn a complete blank; whatever information Sheehy possessed about the old mans murder, Warren needed to know it.
Warren looked at him long and hard.
How do I know you didnt kill Reggie Williamson? That youre not some deranged killer whos going to stab me as soon as we move on?
If you thought that, you wouldnt be sitting here with me, even with a van full of rugby players three spaces along and Gary staring all gooey-eyed at that new detective constable over in the beer garden.
Warrens mind raced through the possibilities, but hed already made his mind up. He slipped the car into gear.
Where are we going?
Ill point; you drive. Sheehy wasnt silly enough to announce their destination to whoever may be listening. He raised his voice.
And if thats you on the other end of DCI Joness open radio link, Grayson, tell the officers parked at either end of the road to stay where they are. And its a clear day with good visibility. Ill see the chopper a mile off and you can kiss goodbye any information that Im going to give him.
Sheehy put a hand out. Remove the earpiece. Save yourself an earbashing.
Do as he says, instructed Warren to the surveillance team, a small part of him enjoying the sudden silencing of DSI Graysons squawking as he pulled his hidden earpiece out and Sheehy tossed it out the window. Hed get it in the neck when he returned to the station, but hed deal with that then. Hopefully the information Sheehy claimed to have would be worth it.
* * *
Sheehys directions had been by hand gesture only; he was too experienced to think that Warrens earpiece was the only open communication channel from the vehicle. After passing the unmarked cars at the top end of the streetthe officers glared openly, but made no immediate move to follow themthey were soon heading towards the north end of town. It didnt take Warren long to work out where they were headed.
Its a lovely evening, Warren. You wont need your coat.
Warren sighed, tossing the heavy jacket with its hidden microphone onto the rear seat. He pointedly didnt remove the blue stab vest, but as they left the Mondeo in the small car park on the edge of Middlesbury Common he was uncomfortably aware that he was leaving behind his last means of communication with the surveillance team. He was going to have a lot of explaining to do when he got back.
Is that where Reggie Williamson was killed?
It was a rhetorical questionblue-and-white police tape still fluttered in the breeze.
Aside from a few young boys kicking a football at a makeshift goal made from rolled-up jumpers at the other end of the open field, the two men were now alone in the middle of the common. Nobody could possibly overhear them and Sheehy would have plenty of warning if anyone tried to approach.
Well Im here. What have you got?
Warrens tone was testy. So far Sheehy had been in charge and Warren was determined to regain the initiative.
I can point you towards the killer, but first I need a promise from you. I need your word.
Warren stared at him for several seconds, searching the mans face.
What sort of promise?
I need your help.
Warren thought for a long moment. It didnt take a detective to work out what the man was after. But what did he think Warren could do?
Whats in it for me? How do I know that you even have the information you claim?
A show of good faith. I can identify the person who ordered Reggie Williamsons death and another killing you arent even aware of. Then, after you help me I have other information. Information that you dont even know that you want yet.
What sort of information?
Sheehy shook his head. First you have to help me clear my name.
It was exactly what Warren had been expecting but he was confused. I dont see what I can do to help. I have no influence on the outcome of the investigation. Its in the hands of Professional Standards; in fact Id even question whether it is appropriate for us to be having this conversation.
Youre the only one I can turn to, Warren. This whole thing is not about whether or not I took a bribe. It goes much, much deeper than that. Its not even about clearing my name. Its about righting an injustice and making sure that evil men are put away for a long time.