Silent As The Grave. Paul Gitsham

for charging a suspect didn’t start until he was formally arrested and read his rights.

      Menendez barely glanced at the photograph. “Sure, Reggie Williamson. I dated his niece for a while.” The answer was smooth, unhurried. Warren’s hope that he might catch the man out in an easy lie had yet to bear fruit.

      “And would you say that you and Mr Williamson had a good relationship? How did he react when you and his niece broke up?”

      Menendez shrugged. “Reggie’s a nice enough bloke. He wasn’t very happy when Tabby and I split up, but that’s to be expected, I suppose.”

      Assuming that Tabitha Williamson was to be believed, that was a significant understatement of how Reggie Williamson had felt about Menendez. However, it wasn’t an overt lie. The jury was still out on the man’s honesty.

      “Can you tell us why you and Ms Williamson split up?”

      For the first time, Menendez’s cocky façade cracked. “Is this about Tabby? Is she OK? Has something happened to her?”

      Warren ignored Menendez’s question and repeated his own.

      “We weren’t getting along for a while. I got back with the mother of my kids—we decided to make a go of it again.”

      Again, something of a deviation from Tabitha Williamson’s version of events, but he wasn’t really lying, just downplaying some of the more unpleasant details to show himself in a better light—hardly an indication of guilt.

      Warren decided to change tack.

      “Tell me, what state were your finances in when you left Ms Williamson?”

      “I don’t see that’s any of your business, Detective.”

      “No, you’re right. I apologise.” Warren smiled briefly. “What I meant was, are you employed at the moment or were you back when you dated Ms Williamson?”

      “I’m unemployed at the moment; I’ve been out of full-time work for about two and a half years. I’m signed up to an employment agency, but there’s bugger all around here. I work when I can.”

      Still no obvious lies.

      “Did Ms Williamson know about this when you started dating?”

      Menendez licked his lips. “Sure, I guess so. We never really spoke about it.”

      “Seems strange that you dated all of that time and it never came up in conversation.”

      Menendez squirmed slightly. “Well we had a very passionate relationship.” He turned his gaze on Hardwick and smiled, showing a suspiciously white set of teeth. “You know how it is, everything’s exciting and you’re in love. You don’t talk about the little details.”

      “Like paying the bills or taking out payday loans in somebody else’s name?”

      Menendez returned his attention to Warren. “Is that what this is all about? We had an agreement and now she’s trying to claim that I set it all up in her name without her consent.” His voice dropped. “I feel really bad about hurting her.” He turned his attention back to Hardwick. “I loved her and didn’t want to upset her, but I also love my kids and when I got a chance to become a part of their lives again, well I had to take it. I’m sure you can understand.”

      “No, not really.” Hardwick’s tone was unyielding.

      Menendez turned his attention back to Warren, giving up on Hardwick for the time being. “Look, we were short of cash at the end of the month. The bills were all in my name, so when we arranged the loan, we transferred it directly into my account so that it could be paid out immediately, rather than having to wait for Tabby to transfer it from her account.”

      “So why didn’t you just arrange the loan in your name?”

      He snorted. “I’m unemployed. Even payday loan companies have some standards.”

      Warren doubted that the man’s story would stand up to serious scrutiny. He was sure that there would be a voice recording somewhere with Menendez’s voice making all of the arrangements. It was interesting how a male caller had managed to set up the deal on behalf of a female client. However, that wasn’t what he and Hardwick were here for.

      “Tell me, Mateo. Where were you Thursday evening?”

      The man thought for a moment. “I took the kids out to Maccy D’s then they played in the park until it got dark, then we went home. Candy—that’s my girlfriend, Candice—was out doing her Zumba class, so I put the kids to bed and watched TV.”

      “Which park was that?”

      “The kiddie play park up on the common.”

      “And can either of the children vouch for your whereabouts?”

      Menendez stared at him. “Tyson is three and a half. He can just about string a sentence together. Jayden is two. She still sleeps in nappies. What do you think they’re going to tell you?”

      Despite the man’s protestations, Warren felt a slight thrill. Menendez had been on Middlesbury Common on the night that Reggie Williamson had been killed and so far had no alibi.

      * * *

      Questioning of Reggie Williamson’s drinking partners had revealed nothing of interest. He and Smiths had been regulars at the Merchants’ Arms for as long as anyone could remember, popping by most nights for a pint after a brisk walk. Few people like to speak ill of the dead, but it truly seemed nobody had a bad word to say about Reggie. Sociable, but not too loud; generous enough to get his round in and pop a quid in the charity box, but not flashy; willing to chat about current events and engage in a bit of bar-room philosophy, but with fairly mainstream views and not too opinionated. A useful darts player who’d won more than his fair share of pub quizzes, he was usually gracious enough to share his winnings—a round of drinks—with the runners-up.

      A few of the regulars had known him as he’d nursed his wife, when his trips to the pub had dwindled to once week. When she finally passed away, everyone had given a few pounds to Alzheimer’s Research in her memory, at his request. Since then there had been nobody special that anybody knew of.

      His conversation and demeanour in the past few weeks had been apparently unchanged. The only source of concern he’d mentioned was Smiths’ advancing years—she’d been slowing down lately and had a couple of accidents.

      “All in all, a pretty normal bloke who it seemed got on with his life and didn’t rub people up the wrong way,” summarised Tony Sutton.

      “Thanks, Tony. Pete, what have you got for us?” Detective Sergeant Kent was the unit’s resident expert on the use of the various databases that the force had access to. A squat man in his mid fifties with thinning hair that was more than compensated for by a full beard, he was edging close to retirement and had been helping train Detective Constable Gary Hastings in recent months. He was the officer in charge of coordinating information that came into the major incident desk that he’d help set up the previous night.

      “Not a lot. He was basically unknown to us. Our only contact was a naughty drivers’ course after being flashed by a speed camera on Hills Road in Cambridge—but then haven’t we all had that?” There were a few smiles, some sheepish, around the room. The stretch of road alongside Homerton College and the sixth form was notorious for its rigorously enforced thirty miles per hour limit—a necessary precaution given the number of darkly dressed, drink-addled student cyclists without lights wobbling up the road at all hours.

      “I contacted the council who confirmed that he worked for them for many years until taking early retirement to care for his wife, when he drew a reduced pension. A fair few in the Estates department remembered him and they’ve given us a list of people he worked with regularly.

      “On a similar note, forensics are still searching his house. Nothing of interest yet, but they have found the box file that he used to keep track of his part-time gardening jobs. Documents analysis are