ahead. That was the theory at least.
DSI Grayson still hadn’t appeared by the time that Warren needed to leave Middlesbury to travel down to Welwyn Garden City for the press conference and Grayson’s mobile was going straight to voicemail. This suited Warren fine, as he could drive himself down to the County’s Headquarters. The cost of petrol was well worth it to avoid the terror of the high-speed jaunt down the A1 that Grayson favoured. The superintendent had the unsettling habit of finding the most reckless drivers in the pool, authorising use of blues and twos, then settling back and calmly playing with his Blackberry, whilst Warren—not a happy passenger at the best of times—would find himself stamping on an imaginary brake pedal all the way.
Tabitha Williamson and Karen Hardwick were waiting for him when he arrived. The young DC had insisted on driving around to pick Tabitha up, despite technically being off duty.
Grayson was apparently somewhere in the building in a meeting. Warren knew nothing about it, which suggested it was unlikely to be connected to the day-to-day workings of Middlesbury CID. Laying the groundwork for that next promotion, Warren thought sourly, before mentally pinching himself for his uncharitable thoughts—the meeting could be about anything from budget setting to a statistical analysis of their latest performance figures. If that was the case, Grayson was welcome to it.
Tabitha Williamson was nervous and pale, but nonetheless adamant that she wanted to make an appeal for information. The Force’s press officer therefore took her away to familiarise her with the set-up of the briefing room and explain to her what to expect. Karen Hardwick went with her.
“She’s turning into a fine young officer, that Karen Hardwick.” Grayson had pulled his uncanny trick of managing to appear, ghost-like and without Warren noticing. He was glad that the unit’s commander had noticed her.
“She is. She’s got good instincts. Having said that, she’s doing the role of a family liaison officer, which isn’t her job. I know Reggie Williamson wasn’t Tabitha Williamson’s father and he didn’t bring her up, but she’s pretty vulnerable. Any chance that we can get an FLO authorised to support her?”
Grayson pursed his lips; the money didn’t come out of Middlesbury CID’s budget, but it had to come from somewhere and Grayson was the one who’d have to ask for it.
“I’ll look into it.” No sort of answer really, but at least it wasn’t a flat no.
By the time the press arrived, Tabitha Williamson had been prepared as much as possible and they took their seats. Warren had a feeling that information from the public could be what would turn the case and so they needed to make the story as newsworthy as possible. The inclusion of a photograph of Smiths and images of the grieving Tabitha Williamson would hopefully gain the story a few more column inches in the newspapers and a few more seconds on the local news.
They needed all the help they could get; Warren couldn’t help comparing the half-filled room of bored journalists in front of him, waiting to hear about the death of a retired gardener in his sixties, to the packed and jostling crowd that had demanded information about the pretty, young, blonde women who had started disappearing before Christmas.
The press conference was over in time for the early evening news bulletins and first editions of the next day’s papers and, finally, Warren was free to return to CID. It was hardly worth it. A cursory read of his team’s summaries of the interviews conducted with Reggie Williamson’s former acquaintances revealed nothing of any interest. The office was depressingly quiet. He stifled a yawn and glanced at his watch; the local news was due to start in twenty minutes or so. Time to go home, he decided, fighting down a brief twinge of guilt. His team had his number if anything important turned up and there was no point sitting there twiddling his thumbs. Perhaps he’d be able to sleep a bit better this evening? Turning off his computer and grabbing his jacket, Warren felt a familiar sensation of frustration. Day three of the investigation was almost over and almost nothing was happening. Not a good sign. Let’s hope for something from the public appeal, he prayed as he turned his office light off.
* * *
Despite his best intentions, Warren had been unable to resist accessing his email, reading the various reports as they entered his inbox and before he knew it, it was late again. He rubbed his eyes. They were at the slightly stinging stage. From experience he knew that the next stage was grittiness, then bloodshot then blurred vision. He had a suspicion that this would be one of those times. On the way home, he’d stopped off at the garage and bought some paracetamol. Headaches were almost guaranteed over the next few weeks and he wanted to be prepared. What a job. At least he could look forward to a quiet time at home—or at least that’s what he’d expected.
“Mum and Dad are coming down for a few days, at the end of the Easter holidays to celebrate their wedding anniversary,” Susan had announced as they prepared for bed. “They’re going to spend a few days with us before spending some time with Felicity.”
Warren had managed not to groan out loud, but his expression had given him away. Susan had pouted—she found her domineering mother to be as hard work as Warren did, but that didn’t mean he was allowed to criticise her.
“Sorry sweetheart, it’s just bad timing. I’d hate for this thing to get in the way of the celebrations.”
Susan had been somewhat mollified, but she had done the sums the same as Warren; the school Easter holidays started at the end of the week, with the long weekend a week later.
“Is this going to be a big one, do you think?” she’d asked after the press conference had been aired on Look East, earlier that evening.
Warren had only been able to nod. His gut was telling him that it was going to be a protracted investigation. The lack of progress so far had deflated him somewhat. Their plans for the Easter vacation would 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 28 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
