Silent As The Grave. Paul Gitsham

      By six a.m, Warren had finally given up on sleep and slipped out early, taking care not to wake Susan.

      Professor Jordan had calculated a preliminary time of death roughly sixty to seventy hours before the body was found, which, allowing for the weekend’s clock change, made it between about eight p.m. on the Thursday evening and four on the Friday morning. The range fitted with Williamson’s mobile phone leaving the network at eight-thirty on the Thursday.

      It had got dark at approximately six-fifteen that evening, which if Menendez was to be believed was the time at which he had left the park and returned home. Candice, his partner, had returned from her Zumba class just after nine-thirty and confirmed that Menendez had been sprawled across the sofa watching TV.

      Warren had passed on the details of Menendez’s mobile phone to the team working their way through the cell dump and was waiting to see if it would confirm his movements. Fortunately, the man was an avid social networker and his phone regularly connected itself to the network to look for new content. The team had already confirmed that the common and the flat Menendez shared with his partner were far enough apart for the phone to use different cell towers at the different locations.

      The search of the common by the forensic team had not found any more clues within a two-hundred-metre radius of the body’s dumping spot, and DSI Grayson had authorised the cost of emptying all of the bins within a kilometre radius. It was almost a certainty that the killer would have had to dispose of heavily bloodied clothes and possibly even the murder weapon. Unless he’d covered himself up, he was unlikely to have walked too far before doing so; even in the dark, the chances of being seen would have been too great for any sane person to have risked it, Warren decided. Warren just hoped that the killer was at least partly sane. Otherwise all bets were off.

      He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. It was getting long; it probably needed a cut. Too late for that now. The press conference was scheduled for the late morning. Grayson, as usual, had mysteriously disappeared the previous afternoon and Warren was willing to bet good money that he’d be immaculately groomed for the cameras later.

      There had been little to report overnight and he didn’t expect anything until after the morning briefing, so Warren poured himself another coffee and settled down to do some paperwork. He chafed at the forced inaction, but took solace in the fact that if he could shrink his inbox to a more manageable size now he would be able to focus more clearly on the days and weeks ahead. That was the theory at least.

      DSI Grayson still hadn’t appeared by the time that Warren needed to leave Middlesbury to travel down to Welwyn Garden City for the press conference and Grayson’s mobile was going straight to voicemail. This suited Warren fine, as he could drive himself down to the County’s Headquarters. The cost of petrol was well worth it to avoid the terror of the high-speed jaunt down the A1 that Grayson favoured. The superintendent had the unsettling habit of finding the most reckless drivers in the pool, authorising use of blues and twos, then settling back and calmly playing with his Blackberry, whilst Warren—not a happy passenger at the best of times—would find himself stamping on an imaginary brake pedal all the way.

      Tabitha Williamson and Karen Hardwick were waiting for him when he arrived. The young DC had insisted on driving around to pick Tabitha up, despite technically being off duty.

      Grayson was apparently somewhere in the building in a meeting. Warren knew nothing about it, which suggested it was unlikely to be connected to the day-to-day workings of Middlesbury CID. Laying the groundwork for that next promotion, Warren thought sourly, before mentally pinching himself for his uncharitable thoughts—the meeting could be about anything from budget setting to a statistical analysis of their latest performance figures. If that was the case, Grayson was welcome to it.

      Tabitha Williamson was nervous and pale, but nonetheless adamant that she wanted to make an appeal for information. The Force’s press officer therefore took her away to familiarise her with the set-up of the briefing room and explain to her what to expect. Karen Hardwick went with her.

      “She’s turning into a fine young officer, that Karen Hardwick.” Grayson had pulled his uncanny trick of managing to appear, ghost-like and without Warren noticing. He was glad that the unit’s commander had noticed her.

      “She is. She’s got good instincts. Having said that, she’s doing the role of a family liaison officer, which isn’t her job. I know Reggie Williamson wasn’t Tabitha Williamson’s father and he didn’t bring her up, but she’s pretty vulnerable. Any chance that we can get an FLO authorised to support her?”

      Grayson pursed his lips; the money didn’t come out of Middlesbury CID’s budget, but it had to come from somewhere and Grayson was the one who’d have to ask for it.

      “I’ll look into it.” No sort of answer really, but at least it wasn’t a flat no.

      By the time the press arrived, Tabitha Williamson had been prepared as much as possible and they took their seats. Warren had a feeling that information from the public could be what would turn the case and so they needed to make the story as newsworthy as possible. The inclusion of a photograph of Smiths and images of the grieving Tabitha Williamson would hopefully gain the story a few more column inches in the newspapers and a few more seconds on the local news.

      They needed all the help they could get; Warren couldn’t help comparing the half-filled room of bored journalists in front of him, waiting to hear about the death of a retired gardener in his sixties, to the packed and jostling crowd that had demanded information about the pretty, young, blonde women who had started disappearing before Christmas.

      The press conference was over in time for the early evening news bulletins and first editions of the next day’s papers and, finally, Warren was free to return to CID. It was hardly worth it. A cursory read of his team’s summaries of the interviews conducted with Reggie Williamson’s former acquaintances revealed nothing of any interest. The office was depressingly quiet. He stifled a yawn and glanced at his watch; the local news was due to start in twenty minutes or so. Time to go home, he decided, fighting down a brief twinge of guilt. His team had his number if anything important turned up and there was no point sitting there twiddling his thumbs. Perhaps he’d be able to sleep a bit better this evening? Turning off his computer and grabbing his jacket, Warren felt a familiar sensation of frustration. Day three of the investigation was almost over and almost nothing was happening. Not a good sign. Let’s hope for something from the public appeal, he prayed as he turned his office light off.

      * * *

      Despite his best intentions, Warren had been unable to resist accessing his email, reading the various reports as they entered his inbox and before he knew it, it was late again. He rubbed his eyes. They were at the slightly stinging stage. From experience he knew that the next stage was grittiness, then bloodshot eyes, then blurred vision. He had a suspicion that this would be one of those times. On the way home, he’d stopped off at the garage and bought some paracetamol. Headaches were almost guaranteed over the next few weeks and he wanted to be prepared. What a job. At least he could look forward to a quiet time at home—or at least that’s what he’d expected.

      “Mum and Dad are coming down for a few days, at the end of the Easter holidays to celebrate their wedding anniversary,” Susan had announced as they prepared for bed. “They’re going to spend a few days with us before spending some time with Felicity.”

      Warren had managed not to groan out loud, but his expression had given him away. Susan had pouted—she found her domineering mother to be as hard work as Warren did, but that didn’t mean he was allowed to criticise her.

      “Sorry sweetheart, it’s just bad timing. I’d hate for this thing to get in the way of the celebrations.”

      Susan had been somewhat mollified, but she had done the sums the same as Warren; the school Easter holidays started at the end of the week, with the long weekend a week later.

      “Is this going to be a big one, do you think?” she’d asked after the press conference had been aired on Look East, earlier that evening.

      Warren had only been able to nod. His gut was