No Smoke Without Fire. Paul Gitsham

sir. I was checking out Bill Evans’ alibi like you said and it seems that he wasn’t in Leeds the night of the murder. Better still, he hasn’t been up there for months. And a check of the PNC shows that he has previous convictions.”

      * * *

      Fifteen minutes after Hastings’ shock discovery, Warren called a short briefing in his office.

      The team decided to bring in Evans for formal questioning. Why had Evans lied about his whereabouts on the night of his daughter’s disappearance? Was her upcoming marriage to a man he clearly disliked enough for him to lose his temper with murderous consequences? And, even worse than that, after killing his daughter, had Bill Evans defiled her body? Perhaps most alarmingly, according to the pathology report, the rape had been carried out with such care to avoid leaving evidence behind that it had to have been pre-planned to some degree. And what about his previous conviction?

      According to the report, Evans had been arrested drunk outside a primary school twelve years previously, after exposing himself to a couple of mothers waiting to pick up their children. He had been hit with a raft of charges, but had eventually been convicted of being drunk and disorderly and public indecency and fined accordingly.

      Conscious that every second they wasted was another second that the killer had to cover his tracks, the team headed straight for the Evanses’ house. As before, the house was full of family and friends giving comfort to the grieving couple, both of whom were still dressed smartly from the press conference.

      Warren was acutely aware that in circumstances like this he would be judged as much for his tact and sensitivity as his deductive abilities. For that reason, Warren had decided not to flash an arrest warrant; rather he would ask Evans to accompany them voluntarily to the police station to answer some additional questions.

      Nevertheless, despite Warren’s best efforts, they left the house with their ears burning. As far as the relatives were concerned, Bill Evans was supposed to have been in Leeds the night that Sally Evans went missing — so why were the police taking him away for further questioning? Maybe what he’d said about Darren Blackheath was true, they thought. Already, as Warren glanced back through the front windows, he could see at least two people on their mobile phones.

      Passing Evans’ BMW estate, Warren made a note to have Forensics impound the car. As he opened the back door of the police car for Evans to enter Warren instinctively placed his hand on Evans’ head as the man climbed in, immediately regretting the action. The gesture was purely Health and Safety and CYA (Cover Your Arse) — it stopped passengers bumping their heads on the door frame and then trying to make something of it in court. Unfortunately to Joe Public, brought up on a diet of police shows, it screamed ‘you are under arrest’ as loudly as a pair of handcuffs. Warren’s ears burned even more hotly.

      * * *

      In the interview room, Warren finished advising Bill Evans that he was not under arrest and that he was there to answer questions on a purely voluntary basis. The man nodded wearily. He had aged in the past hours, Warren saw, looking even more haggard than he had during the press conference. Was it grief? Guilt? A mixture of the two? Warren’s gut was sending him conflicting signals. Bill Evans had something to hide; he was certain of that. But what? The scenario and timing just didn’t seem right to Warren. Everything pointed to a planned, premeditated kidnapping and attack but the only scenario under which Warren could see Bill Evans killing his beloved daughter was anything but that.

      Beside him sat Tony Sutton. It was the first time that the detective inspector had met Evans and he stared at him with barely concealed fascination, the way one might look at a strange and dangerous creature in the zoo. Of course, it was all part of the act. Sutton’s role in this was to keep Evans on edge, making it more likely that he would slip up and reveal something that he didn’t want to.

      With all of the legal requirements fulfilled, Warren decided to open with a quick, hard question designed to rattle the man’s cage.

      “Tell me, Mr Evans, why did you lie to us about your whereabouts on the night of your daughter’s disappearance?”

      Evans blinked in surprise. “I didn’t.”

      “Come on, Bill, we’re not idiots. You claimed to have been up in Leeds overseeing one of your new branches. We phoned head office and they said that you hadn’t been in Leeds for months and that you had been working exclusively in the Cambridge office since the summer.”

      Evans continued to look bewildered. “I never said any such thing. I hardly said two words to you before I left.”

      Suddenly a cold feeling of dread went through Jones, followed by a flush of embarrassment. The man was right. He had said no such thing. It was Jane Evans who had claimed that her husband had been working away in Leeds; he had not even discussed his whereabouts that night. Shit! What a stupid mistake! And worse, he’d potentially squandered any opportunity of a ‘perverting the course of justice’ charge that would have at least given them a pretext to release him on police bail whilst they continued their enquiries.

      Well, no use crying over spilt milk, Warren quickly decided.

      “Well, your wife seems to think you have been working there — what are you doing there each month?”

      As if sensing that Warren was on the back foot, Evans sneered, “I don’t see what that has to do with anything, Detective Chief Inspector. My private life is just that.”

      “Be that as it may, Mr Evans. Perhaps we should confine ourselves to the night Sally went missing. Your wife appears to be under the impression that you were in Leeds. Your company claims otherwise. This gives you the perfect window of opportunity to take your daughter away from work, kill her and dump her body, before appearing at three a.m. to help with the hunt for her. We know all about the arguments that you had with Sally about her job and her boyfriend. What was it that caused you to snap Mr Evans?”

      There was silence in the room, before the father in front of them started to cry — great wracking sobs that shook his shoulders and sent tears coursing down his face. Finally, he regained his composure enough to speak.

      “You’re right, but not about killing Sally. I could never hurt my darling daughter.” He paused for a moment, then continued.

      “I haven’t been to Leeds for months. It’s just an excuse. I’ve been seeing someone I met on the Internet. I think she’s married as well. I use the excuse of staying overnight in Leeds to spend time with her. She does the same.” He started to cry again. “I’m such a fucking coward. On the night that Sally went missing, Jane phoned me. I was supposed to be in Leeds. My little girl was missing and yet I stayed in bed with my lover in a bloody Cambridge hotel for two and a half hours before driving home to my family, just so I wouldn’t arouse suspicion. My place was with my wife…” He stopped, unable to continue.

      Warren waited for the man to compose himself.

      “You realise that we are going to have to check out your story, don’t you? We’ll need to contact this woman and get her to back you up. We’ll also need details of the hotel.”

      The man nodded miserably. “I can get you the details of the hotel. I use my credit card — it just comes up as a Travelodge, doesn’t say where it is. The problem is, I don’t know the name of the woman.”

      Warren blinked in surprise. “How does that work?”

      Evans stared at the table-top, his voice now rough with embarrassment. “We met on the Internet. It’s a special, discreet site for people wanting affairs. No names, no details, just anonymous sex. If you want something more regular they supply an untraceable private email account and mobile phone SIM cards. We arrange to meet online.”

      “Well, you must call her something.” Sutton struggled to hide the incredulity in his voice.

      The man’s voice was barely audible. “Boadicea.”

      “As in the ancient queen of the Britons? What are you called?”

      “Arthur,” he mumbled.

      “But