No Smoke Without Fire. Paul Gitsham

Chapter 4

      “Sally Evans, twenty-six. Reported missing four nights ago by her boyfriend when she failed to meet him at their usual pick-up point in the side street behind Far and Away travel agents, where she worked.”

      It was eight-thirty a.m. and Warren was holding a team briefing in the conference room at Middlesbury’s small CID unit. Behind him a projector showed a close-up photograph of the body taken at the scene by Andy Harrison and beside it a much happier image, taken that summer on holiday. The victim had shoulder-length light brown hair; the smiling young woman in the holiday snap had longer, sun-kissed blonde hair, but it was clearly the same person.

      “We have a positive ID from the victim’s boyfriend, with whom she lived, and her mother and best friend. Family Liaison broke the news last night.”

      “The body is still in situ up at Beaconsfield Woods, where it was found by a group of dog-walkers at approximately six-thirty p.m. yesterday evening. The body will be moved to the morgue at midday and a PM is scheduled for early afternoon. Preliminary indications are that she may have been sexually assaulted; cause of death is unknown at this time, but her scarf was wrapped around her throat and may have served as a ligature. Her body was almost certainly carried to the woods, but we don’t know if she was dead or alive, or when and where any assault took place.”

      The atmosphere was sombre. Everybody in the room knew that the three days between Sally Evans’ disappearance and the discovery of her body could prove to be a major hindrance to the investigation. Valuable trace evidence from the site could have been lost, contaminated or destroyed; similarly the killer or killers had had over eighty hours to cover their tracks. The team couldn’t afford to lose any more time.

      Reading from the list he had prepared before the meeting, Warren started to assign jobs to the officers present. “DS Kent, can you set up an incident desk and get HOLMES up and running, please? I want you to start entering everything as it comes in, especially the particulars from the autopsy. I want to see if the MO matches any known cases. See if we can find links to any previous attacks. DC Hastings, I want you to assist.” The older sergeant was the unit’s expert on HOLMES2, the Home Office’s crime management database. Used across the country, the system employed a degree of computer intelligence to link cases together and manage all of the documents relating to a crime. Although all officers used the system to some extent, it was experts like Kent who could really make the system work for them.

      Working with him would be Detective Constable Gary Hastings. Newly returned from several months’ sick leave after being stabbed in the summer, the young officer was on light duties whilst he continued to recuperate. He was keen to learn and quick-thinking, and Warren had assigned him to the older sergeant’s care, having decided that putting the young man back into the heart of a major investigation was probably the best way to help him exorcise any demons remaining from the summer’s horrors. Besides which, it hadn’t escaped Warren’s notice that DS Kent was approaching retirement age. He had no idea what the older man’s plans were — and the new age-discrimination laws made him wary about asking — nevertheless, training up other officers seemed prudent to Warren.

      Of course, as with any system, HOLMES2 was only as good as the information put into it and the next stage was to gather that information.

      “DI Sutton, I want you and DS Khan to co-ordinate the interviewing of all of Ms Evans’ known associates. Start with her workmates, then her friends. Let’s see if we can find any witnesses. Use the missing person file as a jumping-off point, but remember it isn’t a crime for a twenty-something not to come home of an evening, so there probably won’t be much in there.”

      Sutton and Khan nodded, already casting their eyes around the room at the various other officers they would second to their teams.

      “DS Richardson, speak to Traffic and any CCTV operators in the area. Let’s see if we can find any useful images from around the time that she went missing. I doubt that there will be much in the way of CCTV footage up near Beaconsfield Woods, but you never know, we might get lucky and pick up something on the speed cameras on the main road.

      “In the meantime, I’m going to speak to her family again and see what her boyfriend has to say for himself.”

      * * *

      Warren chose Detective Constable Karen Hardwick to accompany him to interview Sally Evans’ family. The young woman was relatively new to CID, but had shown a lot of promise. Warren firmly believed that a small unit such as Middlesbury should be careful to ensure that more junior colleagues received the full range of learning experiences, and so he regularly took detective constables and sergeants out with him to interview witnesses or suspects.

      It was almost a cliché that whenever a murder occurred, the first place the police headed for was the victim’s home. However, as Warren’s first mentor, Bob Windermere, would often remind him, clichés and stereotypes only become such because there was more than a grain of truth to them. The vast majority of murders were committed by someone known to the victim and so when a young woman was killed the first people the police investigated were her husband, partner or any exes that might still be on the scene. Consequently, the first person that they questioned was Darren Blackheath, Sally Evans’ boyfriend.

      The two had been together for almost three years and had been renting a small third-floor flat for the past eleven months, the young man explained as the two police officers sat on the small sofa opposite him.

      Darren Blackheath was a twenty-four-year-old tyre fitter with no previous convictions. A Middlesbury resident all of his life, he’d lived with his parents until moving in with Sally Evans. Similarly, Sally was also in her first serious relationship, although she had shared flats with housemates and lived in student accommodation when studying for a degree in tourism management.

      The couple had met in a bar one night, exchanged phone numbers and started dating ‘officially’, as he put it, a month later. A bit of delicate probing revealed that the relationship had been going well, according to Blackheath. So well in fact that he had been planning on proposing to her on Christmas morning. With reddened eyes, he had shown the two police officers the diamond ring with which he had hoped to seal the deal.

      The night that Sally had disappeared had been unremarkable. He’d left work at his usual time, sending her a text message to let her know that he was on his way. Crossing town had taken no longer than normal and he’d pulled up outside the rear entrance to her workplace at a few minutes past six. As usual the street was deserted, but unusually his girlfriend was not waiting for him.

      “She usually comes out on the dot of six and has a fag whilst she’s waiting for me to pick her up. I don’t mind her smoking in the flat, but I draw the line at me car.” His eyes grew moist again. “She promised she were going to quit in the new year. It’s one of the reasons I decided to propose. She always said she’d quit before she got married, ’cos she wanted a white wedding and she said there were nothing worse than a bride with a fag in ’er mouth. Nearly as bad as tattoos.” He looked embarrassed for a moment. “No offence if you have tattoos. But I figured it would give her an extra incentive, you know?”

      “So what happened then, Darren?”

      “Well, I checked me mobile, but there was no message. Normally she’s out the door on the dot, so she doesn’t bother replying. But if she’s going to be late she always texts me so I don’t worry.

      “I waited for about five minutes before I rang her mobile but it rang out and went to voicemail. So I locked the car and tried the back door to her place, but it’s a fire door and it was locked from the inside. So I walked around the front and saw that the shop was closed. The front door was locked and no one was in.”

      “Was that unusual? It was only just after six.”

      “No, not really. The shop actually closes at five-thirty. They spend the last half an hour cashing up and finishing the paperwork. They all leave together at six o’clock. Most of them leave by the front door. Sal is the only one to leave by the back. The manager checks the door locks