at the time, almost all women and children or older folk. They managed to get upstairs, where the fire service rescued them. A total of eight were treated for smoke inhalation, with two remaining in hospital. An eighty-nine-year-old woman already in poor health is in intensive care alongside a three-year-old boy.
‘Fortunately, lunchtime prayers had finished a couple of hours before and it wasn’t a Friday. Karen and I will be visiting the imam in charge later, but he’s already said that ironically they were in there because of the trouble brewing in town. The centre has invested heavily in security in recent years.’
‘Speaking of security, do we have any CCTV?’
Sutton smiled humourlessly. ‘It’s funny you should ask that. The CCTV at the front of the building wasn’t working.’
Warren sat up slightly straighter. ‘Really? Can I guess what happened?’
‘Be my guest.’
‘It was broken by a brick on Thursday evening.’
‘Half right, Wednesday evening.’
* * *
Tommy Meegan’s body had been found almost eighteen hours ago, but this was Warren’s first opportunity to visit the crime scene. Even in a small, specialist CID unit like Middlesbury, with its unique role as a first responder to local crimes, most of the legwork was performed by those with the rank of Inspector or below. Warren’s immediate superior, DSI Grayson, seemed to only leave his office to play golf or schmooze with the senior ranks at the force’s headquarters in Welwyn Garden City.
At Warren’s last appraisal, it had been suggested that he needed to practise delegating more. His wife, Susan, had certainly been pleased; Warren’s first few cases at Middlesbury had placed him – and his loved ones – directly in the firing line and she had questioned on more than one occasion why he needed to be so hands-on.
The problem was that Warren missed the excitement that came with solving a case. When he’d moved to Middlesbury three years previously, it had been to further his career. There were precious few DCI opportunities on the horizon in the West Midlands Police and the sudden vacancy at Middlesbury had seemed too good to be true. He’d applied and then accepted the post immediately.
The unit’s unusual position would provide Warren with a perfect mix of both smaller, community-style policing and management, with the safety net of a senior officer directly above him. A couple of years in that sort of environment and he would be ready to move on.
It hadn’t quite worked that way. Even assuming he hadn’t permanently blotted his copybook after the Delmarno case two years ago, he’d realised that he liked Middlesbury. His predecessor, Gavin Sheehy, had once described leading the unit as the best job he’d ever had. Warren had disagreed with Sheehy over much – but he was being won over on that score.
It had been made clear that solving the death of Tommy Meegan was to be Warren’s number one priority and he had interpreted that to mean ‘leave the office and get your hands dirty’.
But not literally. The body might have been removed, but the alleyway was still an active crime scene and Warren wasn’t getting a close look without appropriate precautions. The CSIs were still looking for trace evidence and so gloves and booties weren’t enough, particularly when TV camera crews with zoom lenses were in attendance. The last thing they needed was for some defence solicitor to claim evidence gathering procedures weren’t properly followed and use TV footage to demand that key exhibits be declared inadmissible.
The plastic-coated paper suits were far from ideal attire on a hot July day. The face mask trapped the heat from his breath and within moments he was licking sweat off his top lip. Suddenly his air-conditioned office seemed a lot more attractive…
Stepping out from the police van that he’d changed in, Warren glanced towards the gathered news crews. Thankfully, nobody seemed to have registered his presence. Warren was hardly a celebrity but a few of the local hacks would recognise him and he had no particular desire to have his face splashed all over the Middlesbury Reporter’s online edition, with the attendant excuse to rehash old stories from years ago. Perhaps the face mask had its uses after all.
‘DCI Jones, what brings you out here on such a fine day?’
As always, the jollity of Crime Scene Manager Andy Harrison conflicted with the sombre nature of his job. But given what he saw on a daily basis, Warren figured it was probably a survival mechanism. Naturally, the burly Yorkshireman didn’t offer to shake his hand.
‘I’m here to make sure you aren’t cutting any corners, Andy.’
To Warren’s surprise, the man’s eyes – the only part of him visible above his mask – narrowed slightly.
‘It’s not us who’s cutting corners, sir.’
Warren paused before realising what the man was referring to.
‘DetectIt Forensic Services?’
‘I caught one of them using a box of out-of-date saline swabs to take blood samples from the patch next to the body.’
‘How can a saline swab be out-of-date?’
‘That’s exactly what he said. And of course he’s right, but any defence counsel worth his salt would move to have that evidence ruled inadmissible.’
Warren shuddered. ‘What happened?’
‘Fortunately, the victim bled like a stuck pig so there was plenty of blood to go around and the lad hadn’t started taking samples from some of the tiny specks we found further up the alleyway. I got him to fetch a fresh box and retake the swab.’
‘Shit.’ Warren lowered his voice. ‘Is this going to be a problem, Andy?’
The veteran CSI sighed. ‘At the scene I can keep an eye on the newbies and we’re whipping them into shape, but God only knows what happens when the samples go off to the lab. The Forensic Science Service might not have been perfect, but at least we knew who was doing the testing. Some of these new private companies didn’t even exist eighteen months ago. Their only qualification seems to be that they’re cheap.’
Warren felt a tightening in his gut. The thought that such a high-stakes case could be scuppered by a cut-rate CSI with a box of out-of-date swabs wasn’t worth contemplating.
‘Thanks for the heads up, Andy. In the meantime, talk me through what you’ve got.’
‘The victim was probably standing close to those bins when he was stabbed. There’s some spatter consistent with arterial spurt and from the blade when it was pulled out.’ He picked up a tablet computer with a removable plastic coating and started scrolling through images on its screen.
‘See this picture of that bin over there? The angle of the droplets suggests they were probably flicked off the tip of the blade when it was withdrawn. The droplets then continue in that direction—’ he pointed down the alleyway in the opposite direction to the shop front, where a series of numbered markers had been placed on the tarmac ‘—with a pattern consistent with dripping—’ he turned a half-circle on the spot, gesturing back towards the main road ‘—and our victim appears to have crawled in that direction, presumably away from his attacker. He didn’t get far; that big patch of blood behind that bin is where we found the body.’
The blood smears were no more than three metres in length and thick. Warren pictured the victim dragging himself away from the person who’d just stabbed him. Another few metres and he’d have been visible to passers-by in the high street. Could he have survived if somebody had found him and called for help? Without realising, he’d asked the question out loud.
‘That’s the sort of question that can only be answered by a pathologist, sir. But if I had to speculate… it’s doubtful. I think it’s a miracle he got as far as he did.’
Warren felt a brief flash of sympathy. Tommy Meegan had been a deeply unpleasant individual, but in those last few moments he was nothing more than