The DCI Warren Jones Series Books 1–3. Paul Gitsham

bathroom, passing the guest room on his way. Through the closed door he could hear strident snoring. He wouldn’t like to put money on who was the culprit, Bernice or Dennis.

      Warren showered quickly and brushed his teeth. The elderly pipes in the house groaned, reminding Warren that he still hadn’t called a plumber, but the rhythmic noise from the guest room didn’t miss a beat. By now, Warren was feeling marginally more human. As he shaved he stared at the familiar face in the mirror. Aside from a little redness around the eyes and a couple of faint dark smudges beneath them, he didn’t look too bad. He still had the good looks that Susan claimed had attracted her years before; a firm jaw and eyes that could switch in an instant between friendly and hard, a trick he’d learnt during his earliest days on the force. His dark brown hair, just this side of black and still neat from his trip to the barber’s prior to starting this job, had yet to sport its first grey hair, although he was under no illusion that it would be long before his new position changed that.

      Creeping back into the master bedroom, Warren slipped on the previous night’s suit and tie, remembering this time to retrieve his warrant card from his other jacket. Pausing to look at his slumbering wife, he risked a peck on the lips, tasting the wine on her breath. Still asleep, she nevertheless smiled.

      Outside, the sun was already up although it had yet to chase away the night’s chill. Warren had grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl before leaving the house, and now crammed the remains of it into his mouth as he unlocked his car. The birds were singing loudly, but the rest of the street was quiet. Most of Warren and Susan’s neighbours worked regular office hours, so few would be up and about at seven a.m. on a Saturday. Similarly, the roads were quiet and Warren pulled into the small staff car park at the rear of Middlesbury Police Station barely ten minutes later. A few cars dotted the tarmac, most noticeably a brand-new Mercedes. Warren felt his stomach contract: his boss, Detective Superintendent John Grayson, was already in.

      Middlesbury Station was something of an anomaly in Hertfordshire. Most of the county’s detectives now worked out of the joint Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire Major Crime Unit based in Welwyn Garden City. However, a combination of the distance from Welwyn and the rapid growth of Middlesbury meant that the town’s police station sported several custody cells and despite the budget cutbacks had retained its small but fully operational CID unit. Many of the other towns in the local area had to make do with a reception desk manned nine-to-five with an emergency telephone connected to Welwyn for out-of-hours emergencies.

      Swiping his access card and keying in his pin number gave Jones access to the building and he headed directly for the largest of the incident rooms. He had scheduled this morning’s meeting for eight a.m., timing it to catch the day shift as they came on duty. He glanced at his watch: seven-fifteen. Plenty of time to go over his briefing notes and set up the chairs. As he approached the room he spotted that the door to the superintendent’s office was ajar. It would be rude not to pop his head in, he decided, plus it wouldn’t hurt for the boss to notice how early he was in.

      He rapped confidently on the door, his knock answered immediately with a curt, “Come in.” Stepping in, Jones stopped in surprise. Sprawled in a large, comfy-looking visitor’s chair, sipping a cup of freshly brewed coffee, was Detective Inspector Tony Sutton.

      “Ah, good morning, Warren. Tony was just filling me in on last night’s discovery.”

      So that’s how it is going to be, thought Jones, pushing down a sudden flash of annoyance. His first big case since moving here and already Sutton was trying to muscle in on his territory, ingratiating himself with the boss.

      Sutton smirked. “Just the juicy bits, guv. Thought I’d leave the details to you.”

      “So kind, Tony,” commented Jones. If the super noticed the tension crackling between the two men, he gave no sign of it.

      “This is a big case, Warren. A murder is a nasty business at the best of times, but this one could be especially problematic.” The superintendent leant back in his chair, rubbing his eyes wearily. “The vice chancellor of the university phoned me at six this morning, ‘to express his concern’ and emphasise the need for a ‘speedy resolution’. If I ever find out which bugger gave him my home phone number, they’ll spend the next twelve months telling primary-school kids not to talk to strangers.

      “Either way, we do need to solve this quickly and decisively. A murderer running about the campus could be disastrous for the university’s reputation, especially with next month’s Controversies in Science conference. The guest list for that event looks like a who’s who of shit-stirrers. Richard Dawkins and the President of the British Union for the Abolition of Vivisection are some of the less controversial speakers. If they think we can’t guarantee their safety, the organisers may well cancel the conference or, worse, up sticks to bloody Cambridge.”

      Sutton grunted. “Rumour has it, King’s College wanted to host it, but Channel 4, who are footing the bill, reckoned it would seem too elitist. You can bet they’ll be the first in line to offer their facilities again if we lose the conference.”

      Jones tried to hide his puzzlement. They seemed to be taking this whole thing rather personally. During his time in the West Midlands, Jones had worked dozens of serious cases linked to the region’s several universities. The reputation of the university in question hadn’t been a huge worry. As far as the police were concerned, a crime was a crime and it would be solved with no more or no less vigour than an offence occurring anywhere else on their patch. Seeing Jones’ lack of comprehension, Grayson leant back in his chair, assuming a professorial air.

      “Look around you, Warren. Middlesbury is a small market town, with bugger-all local industry. The decision to turn the technical college into a university forty-odd years ago gave this place a lease of life. It’s the biggest employer in the area and the students bring millions into the local economy. Part of the attraction for students is the location. We’re seen as a safe, quiet place to live and study. We have none of the hustle and bustle of Cambridge or the crime of some of the Essex towns. It’s a huge draw for overseas students, who bring in massive amounts of foreign money — even if some of our more conservatively minded residents aren’t too fond of them.”

      Nodding his understanding, Jones tried not to feel patronised by the unnecessary lecture and oblique reference to his status as a newcomer, opting to reply with a simple, “I see.”

      “So, DCI Jones, I want you to give this case top priority. I’ll back you completely resource-wise. Pull everyone off what they are doing and get them to focus fully on solving this murder. We have some spare money in the Major Incident Budget, so feel free to offer overtime and buy in all the forensics you need. I’ll sweet-talk Uniform into giving us some bodies for routine stuff. Let’s nail this bastard.”

      Jones nodded, not trusting himself to say anything. He could see how it was going to be. This case was a big deal and a lot was resting on his shoulders. It was his first case as a DCI and it looked as though it was going to be sink or swim. He had the deeply uncomfortable feeling that the outcome of this case would set the tone for the rest of his time in Middlesbury. Suddenly, the banana he had eaten for breakfast seemed to be weighing heavily in his stomach. His palms felt damp and his collar too tight. As if a major incident such as this weren’t enough for him to deal with, now he had to negotiate local politics as well. For the first time since his move, Warren allowed the ever-present whisper of doubt that lurked in the back of his mind speak louder.

      He’d known that becoming the DCI of such a small unit in a semi-rural town would probably be less glamorous and exciting than his previous job with West Midlands Police and that the shameful downfall of DCI Gavin Sheehy had left a lot of collateral damage that he might well have to deal with, but the simple fact was that there were already plenty of DCIs in the WMP and he’d risked getting stuck in a rut as a detective inspector. If he ever wanted to make it as a detective superintendent or even a chief superintendent, he needed the command experience. Consequently, when the vacancy in the Middlesbury CID unit had become available, Jones had been encouraged to apply.

      Making his excuses and repressing the treacherous voice at the back of his mind again, Jones left the office and went into the main briefing room. A large