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It all seems straightforward. There’s been a tragic accident: the old man fell asleep in his chair, woke up in the dark, fell and hit his head on the mantelpiece. But the Crime Scene Manager isn’t happy. There are just too many details that aren’t quite right and Charles Michaelson’s accident becomes a suspicious death. And, as DCI Warren Jones investigates, he and his team discover that all is not as it appears to be in the dead man’s caring family when his son-in-law disappears. Then they uncover some dark secrets in Michaelson’s past and a motive for murder. The Last Straw No Smoke Without Fire Silent as the Grave
Blood Is Thicker Than Water
A DCI Warren Jones Short Story
Paul Gitsham HQ An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015 Copyright © Paul Gitsham 2015 Paul Gitsham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. E-book Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9781474034159 Version date: 2018-06-27 PAUL GITSHAM started his career as a biologist, working in such exotic locales as Manchester and Toronto. After stints as the world’s most over-qualified receptionist and a spell making sure that international terrorists and other ne’er do wells hadn’t opened a Junior Savings Account at a major UK bank (a job even less exciting than being a receptionist) he retrained as a science teacher. He now spends his time passing on his bad habits and sloppy lab skills to the next generation of enquiring minds. Paul has always wanted to be a writer and his final report on leaving primary school predicted he’d be the next Roald Dahl! For the sake of balance it should be pointed out that it also said, “He’ll never get anywhere in life if his handwriting doesn’t improve.” Twenty-five years later and his handwriting is worse than ever but millions of children around the world love him.* Paul writes the DCI Warren Jones series of novels. He is currently spending hours in coffee shops and pubs whilst he plots the next novels in the series. Honest. You can find out more about Paul at his website, www.paulgitsham.com or follow him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/dcijones or Twitter @dcijoneswriter *This is a lie—just ask any of the students he has taught. As always, writing is a joint effort. Huge thanks to Dad and Cheryl, my beta-readers for their advice and assistance. Paul For Cheryl.
Contents
The old man wakes with a start. It’s pitch black and for a moment he’s disoriented. He’s sitting upright; he must have fallen asleep in the chair in front of the TV again. So why isn’t the light on? Has the electricity gone off? A blinking green glow across the room is slowly coming into focus—the clock on the video player. 01:27. So, no power cut but it did explain why the TV was off. It had switched to power-saving mode. Had he turned the light off before snoozing? He didn’t think so.
Bloody eco light bulbs. They were supposed to last for ten years; he’d only fitted it six months ago. He didn’t give a fig about global warming, but his daughter had shown him how much money he would save on his electricity bill and that had convinced him to pay the premium. Had he recouped his investment yet? He didn’t think so.
His legs were stiff. He couldn’t sleep here all night, he decided. Besides he needed the bathroom. The room was still dark; neither the green of the video clock nor the faint glow from the streetlamps through the curtains provided enough illumination for him to make out anything but the darkest of shadows. He thought about waiting for a few more moments to see if his eyes would adjust any more, but now thoughts of the toilet had taken hold and wouldn’t be denied much longer.
Reaching forward he groped for the wheeled trolley. He still resented the contraption. It had a tray and all sorts of useful pockets, allowing him to shuffle around his house unaided, but despite what the brochure and his carers might call it, the damn thing was a Zimmer frame. His fingertips
