* * *
His conversation with Tony Sutton had left Warren feeling downbeat. As much to clear his head and stretch his legs as to fulfil his caffeine and sugar needs, Warren decided to treat himself to a decent coffee and Danish pastry from the canteen, rather than simply adding another fifty-pence piece to the honesty jar next to the communal coffee urn. At last count, there had been twelve pounds fifty in the jar—all of it Warren’s.
There was a copy of the Middlesbury edition of the Cambridge News lying on a table. Reggie Williamson’s picture—the one with Smiths naturally—took up over half of the front page, along with a suitably lurid headline. The story was continued on page three, where another picture—this one a long-lens shot of white-suited CSIs working the scene up on the common—dominated.
The story was essentially a report of the press conference, along with a few tributes from various drinkers in the Merchants’ Arms.
The shrill ringing of Warren’s mobile phone made him jump.
“It’s Tony, Boss. Where are you?” The DI’s voice was excited, with no hint of the depression he had been exhibiting barely minutes ago.
“Downstairs in the canteen.” Warren felt a thrill go through him; he hadn’t been away from his desk for five minutes. Sutton wouldn’t have called him on his mobile unless it was extremely urgent.
“It looks like we were too hasty releasing Mateo Menendez yesterday.”
* * *
Mateo Menendez was extremely unhappy about being picked up for a second time. This time he refused to come voluntarily and Warren was given no choice but to serve the arrest warrant that Grayson had signed. He immediately requested a lawyer.
By the time a police solicitor had been arranged, a search of the flat that Menendez shared with his partner and their two young children was well underway and the life and background of the Spanish national was under the spotlight, with records requested from Spanish sources as well as UK authorities. His girlfriend was currently being questioned and specialist officers were assessing whether the older of the two children, three-and-a-half-year-old Tyson, would be any use as a witness.
The paper-suited man in front of Warren and Sutton was a lot less confident now. His clothes had been collected for evidence and his mobile phone, which had been so helpful up to this point, had now been formally confiscated and was undergoing rigorous forensic examination at the computer crime division in Welwyn Garden City. Twenty-four hours previously, the young man had been unpleasantly arrogant, even trying to flirt with Karen Hardwick. Now he just looked scared.
“Before we start, I would like to know why my client has been called in again. In his last interview—which he gave without counsel present, I might add—it was established that Mr Menendez was at home at the time of the attack on the unfortunate Mr Williamson.”
Warren ignored the implied rebuke concerning the previous interview. The recording on the PACE tape recorder would clearly show that Warren had advised Menendez of his rights; furthermore, he had not been under arrest at the time.
“Mr Menendez, I would be grateful if you could describe again your movements on the night of Thursday the twenty-second.”
Menendez licked his lips nervously. “No comment.”
“Are you sure about that, Mateo? We have you on tape already. I just want to clarify a few details.”
He glanced over at his solicitor, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
“It’s like I said, I took the kids to McDonald’s then to the park up on the common. Then when it got dark, I took the kids back to Candy’s and put them to bed.”
“And are there any witnesses who can corroborate this?” It was the first thing that Tony Sutton had said after identifying himself for the tape.
Menendez hissed in frustration. “We’ve already been through this. The kids are too young, but Candy saw me when she came in about half nine.”
Warren watched the man closely. On the face of it, his reaction was appropriate, but it seemed forced. As if he knew what reaction was expected of him and didn’t want to disappoint.
He decided to give the man a bit more rope to hang himself with. “Just to be clear; the sun goes down about quarter past six this time of the year. Are you saying that you left Middlesbury Common and returned to your partner’s flat, number 27b Eastcotes Terrace, at that time? It’s not very far; did you go home directly?”
The man’s eye twitched slightly. “Yes, straight home.”
“So you would have been in from about what, six-thirtyish until your partner returned from Zumba a bit after nine-thirty?” Sutton again.
“About that.”
“Did you stay in for the rest of the night?”
“Yes, we watched a bit of telly and then went to bed.”
“And again, can your partner corroborate this.”
“Absolutely.” The man’s voice was confident again.
Warren nodded and scribbled on the notepad in front of him.
“OK, you’ve been very helpful, Mr Menendez.”
The man blinked in surprise.
“Am I free to go?”
His solicitor, an experienced-looking middle-aged woman narrowed her eyes slightly, but said nothing.
“Just one more thing,” Sutton spoke up. “Do you carry your mobile phone with you at all times?”
Before his solicitor could interject, the man nodded his head.
“Yeah, ’course. Who doesn’t?”
“And you had it with you on Thursday evening?”
“May I ask where this is going, DCI Jones?” Menendez’s solicitor was looking decidedly anxious now and was directing her question to the senior officer in the room. She had clearly worked out what was happening, even if her client hadn’t.
“Just clarifying something,” responded Sutton. Warren said nothing.
“Like I said, yeah I carry it everywhere. I definitely had it Thursday.”
Now it was Warren’s turn to speak up. “Given everything that you’ve told us, could you explain why cell-tower triangulation places your smartphone at Middlesbury Common from ten past five until almost twenty past nine and why your partner thinks that you lied about bathing the children that evening?”
Thursday 29th March
Warren and Sutton’s elation lasted barely twelve hours. Nine a.m. the following morning found them perched between piles of unironed clothes on the edge of a suspiciously grubby sofa. Every surface in the flat, the two detectives included, was covered by hairs from the numerous cats wandering around the dwelling. The smell of cat’s pee and old food was poorly masked by cheap air freshener and cigarette smoke.
Exactly what Mateo Menendez saw in Nicky Goven, was something of a mystery to Warren and Sutton. Perhaps it was her phlegmy cough, the hard-to-discern tattoo that covered pretty much her entire right calf or maybe he just liked the smell of incontinent domestic pets. At least four of the animals had wandered through in the few minutes that the two police officers had been there.
Her apartment on the edge of the common shared the same cell tower and this, Menendez claimed, was the reason why his smartphone was registered as at or near the common—rather than at home as he’d first claimed—for the hours either side of Reggie Williamson’s murder.
“When did you last see Mr Menendez?”
Nicky