my name, so when we arranged the loan, we transferred it directly into my account so that it could be paid out immediately, rather than having to wait for Tabby to transfer it from her account.”
“So why didn’t you just arrange the loan in your name?”
He snorted. “I’m unemployed. Even payday loan companies have some standards.”
Warren doubted that the man’s story would stand up to serious scrutiny. He was sure that there would be a voice recording somewhere with Menendez’s voice making all of the arrangements. It was interesting how a male caller had managed to set up the deal on behalf of a female client. However, that wasn’t what he and Hardwick were here for.
“Tell me, Mateo. Where were you Thursday evening?”
The man thought for a moment. “I took the kids out to Maccy D’s then they played in the park until it got dark, then we went home. Candy—that’s my girlfriend, Candice—was out doing her Zumba class, so I put the kids to bed and watched TV.”
“Which park was that?”
“The kiddie play park up on the common.”
“And can either of the children vouch for your whereabouts?”
Menendez stared at him. “Tyson is three and a half. He can just about string a sentence together. Jayden is two. She still sleeps in nappies. What do you think they’re going to tell you?”
Despite the man’s protestations, Warren felt a slight thrill. Menendez had been on Middlesbury Common on the night that Reggie Williamson had been killed and so far had no alibi.
* * *
Questioning of Reggie Williamson’s drinking partners had revealed nothing of interest. He and Smiths had been regulars at the Merchants’ Arms for as long as anyone could remember, popping by most nights for a pint after a brisk walk. Few people like to speak ill of the dead, but it truly seemed nobody had a bad word to say about Reggie. Sociable, but not too loud; generous enough to get his round in and pop a quid in the charity box, but not flashy; willing to chat about current events and engage in a bit of bar-room philosophy, but with fairly mainstream views and not too opinionated. A useful darts player who’d won more than his fair share of pub quizzes, he was usually gracious enough to share his winnings—a round of drinks—with the runners-up.
A few of the regulars had known him as he’d nursed his wife, when his trips to the pub had dwindled to once week. When she finally passed away, everyone had given a few pounds to Alzheimer’s Research in her memory, at his request. Since then there had been nobody special that anybody knew of.
His conversation and demeanour in the past few weeks had been apparently unchanged. The only source of concern he’d mentioned was Smiths’ advancing years—she’d been slowing down lately and had a couple of accidents.
“All in all, a pretty normal bloke who it seemed got on with his life and didn’t rub people up the wrong way,” summarised Tony Sutton.
“Thanks, Tony. Pete, what have you got for us?” Detective Sergeant Kent was the unit’s resident expert on the use of the various databases that the force had access to. A squat man in his mid fifties with thinning hair that was more than compensated for by a full beard, he was edging close to retirement and had been helping train Detective Constable Gary Hastings in recent months. He was the officer in charge of coordinating information that came into the major incident desk that he’d help set up the previous night.
“Not a lot. He was basically unknown to us. Our only contact was a naughty drivers’ course after being flashed by a speed camera on Hills Road in Cambridge—but then haven’t we all had that?” There were a few smiles, some sheepish, around the room. The stretch of road alongside Homerton College and the sixth form was notorious for its rigorously enforced thirty miles per hour limit—a necessary precaution given the number of darkly dressed, drink-addled student cyclists without lights wobbling up the road at all hours.
“I contacted the council who confirmed that he worked for them for many years until taking early retirement to care for his wife, when he drew a reduced pension. A fair few in the Estates department remembered him and they’ve given us a list of people he worked with regularly.
“On a similar note, forensics are still searching his house. Nothing of interest yet, but they have found the box file that he used to keep track of his part-time gardening jobs. Documents analysis are going through it and compiling a list of customer contacts.”
“Good, pass them on to Tony when you have them to set up interviews. Anything else?”
“The remainder of the mobile phone data from the cell dump is being collated as we speak, but there’s not a lot we can do with it until we get a more precise time of death. Those cell towers serve hundreds of houses each. We’re looking at over a million individual network access requests for the twenty-four hours between Thursday afternoon and Friday alone. Bloody smartphones, pinging Twitter every ten seconds to check if Beyoncé’s changed her hair.”
Warren thanked him quickly, knowing that if he didn’t cut him off now they could be in for a lengthy grumble about the frivolous use of modern technology and its impact on modern policing.
So far nothing. Were they looking at a random stabbing after all? Warren hoped not. With no extrinsic motive or apparent link to the victim, such a killer would be hard to find. The explanation gnawed at him, however. The careful hiding of the body and the fact that no witnesses had come forward suggested that if the killer was mentally disturbed, they were still in possession of at least some of their faculties. It seemed a fair degree of planning and forethought had gone into the attack.
They needed a motive.
“Then it looks as if our best bet so far is Mateo Menendez—an unemployed love rat and small-time fraudster who did the dirty on Reggie Williamson’s niece, Tabitha, and saddled her with large debts before going back to the mother of his two kids. A real charmer.” He smiled slightly. “He made quite an impression on DC Hardwick.”
“Not a good one. I need a shower.”
“Any reason to suspect him, other than possible conflict with her uncle?” asked DS Hutchinson after the chuckles had died down.
“By his own admission, he was with the kids up the common Thursday afternoon. Unfortunately, he claims to have gone home when it got dark, which is a good hour before Reggie Williamson’s mobile phone lost contact with the network. He says he was in McDonald’s before he went to the park, feeding his two toddlers something appropriately healthy and nutritious. We’re waiting for the restaurant’s CCTV footage to see if he was there when he said he was.”
“Where is he now?” asked DS Margaret Richardson, a mother of two, her expression clearly conveying what she thought of Menendez’s dietary choices for his young offspring.
“Downstairs. I’m going to bail him for further questioning. He’s co-operating so we haven’t arrested him yet and he still hasn’t asked for a lawyer, despite being advised of his rights. Either he’s as arrogant as Tabitha Williamson says, he’s incredibly naïve or he’s innocent. Maybe all three. As soon as we get a time of death, we’ll start picking away at his alibi.”
* * *
A cause and time of death became available late that evening. Professor Ryan Jordan was one of a number of Home Office Certified Pathologists used by Beds and Herts
