Читать книгу Silent As The Grave - Paul Gitsham - Страница 19

Saturday 31st March

Chapter 8

The note had been pushed through the letter box sometime during the previous night. It was printed with an inkjet printer, on plain paper. Susan had found it when she went downstairs to put the kettle on.

‘I have information about Reggie Williamson. Meet me in the car park of the Feathers 4 p.m. Come alone.’

Warren had been sitting waiting since a quarter-to-four. Despite the lingering warmth from a sunny afternoon, he wore a heavy coat in an attempt to conceal the stab vest Tony Sutton and the rest of the team had insisted that he wear.

Arguments had raged all morning over what should be done about the mysterious note. It could just be the work of a crank of course; however, the fact that the author of the note knew where Warren lived was disquieting. At Grayson’s insistence, both marked and unmarked patrol cars were stationed in the Joneses’ street, keeping an eye out for any unusual visitors. Susan had agreed—reluctantly—to stay in and do some schoolwork, rather than meeting up with friends in town on the first day of the school Easter holidays. Unfortunately, a rush job from the document analysis department had reported that the paper and envelope were widely available commercially and that the printer used was a popular home model. Even if a suspect were identified, simply discarding the ink cartridge and printhead would make linking the note with an individual printer all but impossible. Needless to say, the writer hadn’t left fingerprints or licked the envelope. None of Warren’s neighbours had seen or heard anything.

In the end, it was decided that the note couldn’t just be ignored. The case had all but ground to a halt over the previous thirty-six hours and the empty suspect column on the whiteboard continued to taunt Warren. A leafleting campaign on the common and the surrounding areas on Thursday evening, the one-week anniversary of the murder, had produced nothing and forensics had been unable to produce any concrete leads. Even the flurry of crank calls and confessions that had followed the press conference had now dried up; the nutters and the fantasists no doubt moving on to pastures new.

Background checks on anyone who had conceivably come into contact with the retired gardener in the past couple of years had proven similarly fruitless. The handful of historic convictions for teenage shoplifting, Friday night fisticuffs and driving offences that his circle of acquaintances had amassed over the past fifty-odd years were of no interest to the team and were about as numerous as one would expect for a similar-sized group of people who had spent most of their life in a small, North Hertfordshire market town.

It was starting to look more and more like a stranger killing, or a random mugging gone wrong. But it didn’t feel like it to Warren; the killing was too efficient, the lack of forensic evidence unusual to say the least.

With all that in mind, Warren had decided to meet the author of the note and see what they had to say.

Of course, he had no intention of meeting them alone. Reggie Williamson had been stabbed to death—it was entirely possible that his killer had written the note and Warren was uncomfortably aware that he was potentially placing himself directly in danger.

At the very least, it would be helpful to identify the person who claimed to know about the attack. So, in the hours preceding the rendezvous, various officers had stationed themselves in and around the pub. By the time Warren arrived a nondescript Transit van, a team of concealed, uniformed officers wearing stab vests and batons had been parked three spaces over for two hours. Small holes drilled in the side panels allowed the video surveillance team a clear view. At both ends of the road unmarked cars sat ready to form roadblocks if needed; more officers were on standby if necessary.

The clock on the dashboard of Warren’s Ford Mondeo clicked over to two minutes to four. Across the car park, drinkers sat in small groups around wooden trestle tables, enjoying the warm weather. A waitress in her late teens cleared dishes for a young couple who appeared absorbed in one another and oblivious to the world around them. Warren just hoped that Detective Constables Karen Hardwick and Gary Hastings were paying as much attention to their concealed earpieces as they were to one another. You never could be sure with those two.

Four p.m. came and went. Warren shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His mouth was dry and he wished he was inside the pub, enjoying a pint of something frothy.

Suddenly a voice crackled in his earpiece, “Possible target approaching, on foot from main road. White IC1 male, average height, wearing a grey, hooded jacket and a baseball cap. His head’s down. We can’t make out his features.”

Warren tensed, all thoughts of a drink vanishing.

A few seconds later the man emerged. Keeping his head low, he crossed the car park without glancing in either direction, heading straight for Warren’s car. Warren opened the door and stepped out, ready to greet the man.

The visitor barely looked up; all Warren could make out was the grey of a beard beneath the shadow of the cap’s brim.

“It’s not safe to be seen. Get back in the car.”

The man’s voice was harsh, quiet. An older man, late-middle-aged, Warren surmised. He looked the visitor up and down. In response, the man pulled out the pockets of the hoody, showing them to be empty. He could still be concealing a knife elsewhere on his person, but Warren had to take the chance. Besides which, he already had a suspicion who it was and he was burning with curiosity.

Nodding, Warren slipped back behind the wheel of the car. The hooded man opened the passenger door and climbed in. Closing the door behind him, he turned in his seat.

“Hello DCI Jones, my name’s Gavin Sheehy and I need your help.”