Warren and Grayson survived the headlong dash along the motorway and were soon in the room Herts and Beds used for major press conferences. An announcement earlier in the day about the finding of the body ensured that the room was pretty much full.
The aim of the conference was to formally identify the victim as Sally Evans and to appeal for help from the public, although as usual the press had managed to identify and name Evans some hours before. Mercifully her family and key friends had been notified before the press spilled the beans, but Warren always worried that one day some over-eager journalist was going to cause a lot of distress by breaking such news on air.
Key to the conference would be the presence of Sally Evans’ parents and her best friend, Cheryl. Between them, they would deliver a carefully written direct plea to the murderer or those that might know him to search their consciences and contact the police. Darren Blackheath was too upset to attend the conference — or maybe he was avoiding Sally’s father. There was definitely more to that story, Warren mused. Hovering in the background were the force’s press officer and a trio of family liaison officers, there to support the victim’s family and friends during the coming months.
Sally Evans’ parents had insisted on delivering a direct appeal to the public for information but after Bill Evans and then his wife choked up it fell to Cheryl Davenport to finish reading out the moving tribute to the murdered woman. Although it saddened him, Warren knew that the added drama had probably bought them a few extra seconds on the news and a couple of extra lines in the newspaper, which could only be a good thing. The press briefing packs included an uncropped version of the main picture that they were using, with Sally and Cheryl both laughing at the camera. No doubt at least one picture editor would use this to emphasise the human tragedy.
As he’d predicted, Warren had been introduced then promptly forgotten about. This early on in the investigation, he had little to offer the press and so a well-groomed John Grayson had answered the few perfunctory questions.
Finally, barely two hours after leaving Middlesbury, the two officers were back at the station. Grayson didn’t even enter the lobby, practically stepping from the back seat of the police car into the driver’s seat of his Mercedes, muttering something about his golf club’s awards ceremony. He left with a squeak of tyres and not so much as a backward glance. Warren sighed and glanced at his watch. Ten past seven. Turning, he headed back inside.
Warren had barely taken his coat off, when an excited Gary Hastings appeared at his door. He waved him in.
“Got something interesting for you, 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