be on hold; at least they hadn’t booked to go away anywhere.
Susan had picked up on his mood. “You looked handsome tonight—I can’t understand why they don’t give you more screen time,” she teased lightly.
“I can never compete with a Border collie, you know that.”
Just as he’d predicted, Smiths had received almost as much screen time as Reggie Williamson—more if you counted the fact that she was also in the photograph of Reggie. Still, if it jogged a few more memories or made a few more people look in their bins or gardens for discarded items of bloodied clothing, Reggie Williamson’s mobile phone or the murder weapon then it had done its job. As usual, Warren had found himself relegated to the background, behind John Grayson, who was resplendent in a freshly starched dress uniform. That suited him fine, he mused as he lay back on the pillow, willing sleep to take him.
Wednesday 28th March
The third dawn briefing since the discovery of Reggie Williamson’s body was a low-key affair. If, as they believed, he had been killed Thursday evening it was coming up on six days since his murder. Aside from the increasingly unlikely Mateo Menendez, there were still no suspects. CCTV from McDonald’s had shown Menendez with his two young children tucking into their fast food at about four p.m, verifying that part of his story. The confirmation said nothing about his whereabouts at the critical time surrounding the murder, but catching him out in a lie at this stage would have made Warren immediately suspicious.
The search area had been widened; they still hadn’t found his mobile phone or the murder weapon. Teams of uniformed officers were still knocking on doors, but nobody seemed to remember anything. As always the press conference had generated a flurry of calls, which were being sifted through, but aside from a confession, nothing of immediate note had been offered.
As for the admission of guilt, the call taker had wryly noted that it had been logged alongside the caller’s previous claims. If the more—“eccentric”—members of the community ever thought to use a different phone, then the call taker’s job would be more difficult, since they’d be forced to actually investigate the call rather than simply cross-referencing the caller ID against the “Loony List”.
As Warren left the briefing room, Tony Sutton came alongside him.
“Can I have a private word?”
The older man looked tired; in his left hand he carried a white envelope.
Warren motioned him into his office and sat down behind his desk. Sutton took the visitor’s chair directly opposite. The man’s hands were trembling slightly.
“Sounds serious,” Warren offered after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence.
“This arrived in the post this morning.”
Sutton pushed the envelope across the table. Now face up, the scales of justice logo of the Crown Prosecution Service was clearly visible. Warren slipped out the single sheet of A4 typed paper and read the contents quickly. It was a summons ordering Sutton to appear as a witness for the prosecution in the trial of Detective Chief Inspector Gavin Sheehy on charges of corruption and misconduct in a public office.
“Damn. We always knew it was a possibility. What do you think they want with you?”
Sutton took a deep breath. “They’re going to hang him out to dry, make an example of him. Rumour has it they want me to testify that in the months leading up to his arrest he was secretive and non-communicative. That he received phone calls at odd times and kept on disappearing.”
Warren sat back and eyed the detective inspector with concern. He knew how much his predecessor—Sutton’s mentor—had meant to him. Warren had never met the man; rather he had been parachuted in, newly promoted, the previous summer after DCI Sheehy had been arrested and removed from his post.
The arrest had come as a massive shock to the small, close-knit CID unit operating out of Middlesbury police station. Sheehy’s friend and subordinate Tony Sutton had been arrested also, before being released without charge after a brief investigation. Sutton had felt betrayed and hurt after the man he admired so greatly—who had in fact persuaded him to apply to join CID years before—had been accused of corruption.
The repercussions from Sheehy’s arrest cut deep, Warren soon found out after his arrival, threatening the very existence of the unit he had headed.
Middlesbury CID was something of an anomaly. Some years previously, the police forces of Hertfordshire and the adjacent county, Bedfordshire, had decided to pool their resources and formed a new, single Major Crime Unit, operating out of Welwyn Garden City. Faced with the closure of what he believed to be a unique and essential service in the very north of the county, DCI Gavin Sheehy had successfully fought against the closure of the small, but effective CID unit housed at Middlesbury police station. The result had been a highly focused, local team able to respond rapidly to major crimes in Middlesbury and the many little villages that surrounded the area.
With its extensive local knowledge and close ties to the community, the squad proved highly effective in reducing and solving crime. Nevertheless, it was expensive and Sheehy’s uncompromising style had won him many enemies—enemies who were now circling, using Sheehy’s recent disgrace as evidence that the team should be disbanded and absorbed into the main major crime unit. The result was that the unit was effectively ‘on probation’, having to prove its worth. Detective Superintendent John Grayson was assigned to oversee the unit. If his job was to be impartial about the role of the unit, then he was a good choice—nobody could divine if he was in favour or against the continued existence of the team. Many suspected that the survival of the unit was linked directly to Grayson’s perception of its usefulness to his own career goals.
None of this had been explained to Warren of course, who had been promoted to DCI the previous summer, moving from the West Midlands Police to fill the role vacated by Sheehy. It had been presented as a golden opportunity to gain command experience for the ambitious young officer; he had been ill-prepared for the maelstrom of local politics that awaited him upon his arrival.
Tony Sutton, smarting from the betrayal by Sheehy and the humiliation of his own, brief arrest, had been suspicious of Warren, assuming that he was there to covertly make recommendations about the future of the unit. The two men had butted heads over Warren’s management of his first major crime, resulting in an explosive encounter between them. Since then, the two officers had grown to respect and like one another and, to his surprise, Warren had found himself warming to his new command and was starting to regard it as more than just a stepping stone to bigger things.
“So the court case starts next month? How do you feel about it?”
Sutton sighed. “I’m torn. The bastard deserves to go down—but I still can’t quite believe it.”
“What do you think they’ll ask you about? The investigation cleared you of any involvement.”
“Yeah, but it’s still going to look bad for me. I was his friend and his immediate subordinate—people are going to question why I didn’t suspect anything. You know how mud sticks—people will think either I was in on it or I’m a fool.”
Sutton shook his head. “Maybe I was. I didn’t spot the signs—or rather I chose to ignore them. The sudden phone calls, the unexplained absences…” He snorted derisively. “I thought he was having a bloody affair.” He shrugged. “I didn’t approve, but then who am I to lecture?”
Warren nodded in sympathy. Sutton was right. He had a chequered history when it came to extra-marital affairs. His first marriage had imploded after Sutton had indulged in a drunken one-night stand. Years later he was still rebuilding the pieces of that relationship and Warren knew that he felt ashamed and guilty, even as he and his former wife forged new relationships and co-operated to bring up their teenage son.
“Well, Tony, you know that you have my support.”