Читать книгу The DCI Warren Jones Series Books 1–3 - Paul Gitsham - Страница 26

Warren sat back in his leather chair. A tide of exhaustion swept over him now that the adrenaline of the day’s events had finally subsided. He’d filled in the essential paperwork in record time and the rest of the bureaucratic make-work could safely be left another twenty-four hours, he judged. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was now past six o’clock. With a sinking feeling, Warren knew that there was no way he could get to Cambridge for six-thirty for the start of the meal. Resigned to his fate, he called Susan’s mobile.

“Oh, it’s you. Susan’s driving.”

Warren closed his eyes briefly in pain. Bernice again.

“Hello, Bernice, I’m probably going to be late for the meal. Go ahead and order without me. I’m really sorry, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

A stony silence.

“I’ll let her know.” The line went dead.

Warren glanced at his watch, doing some quick arithmetic. If he took the A10, he would be going against the flow of the traffic. Most people would be leaving Cambridge now after a Saturday afternoon of shopping. The road was wide and long and he could probably get away with putting his foot down. Factoring in the time necessary to nip into a garage for a bunch of flowers, Warren reckoned he could probably get there in time for the main course.

Grabbing his jacket, he headed out of his small office towards the stairs.

“Ah, Warren.”

Again!

“I was just getting ready for tomorrow morning’s press conference. DS Kent tells me that Severino has confessed everything.”

Warren blinked in surprise.

“Er, no, sir. He was ‘no commenting’, right up until the end when he was violently sick over his lawyer. I decided to terminate the interview. I thought I’d have another crack tomorrow morning.”

“Then why did DS Kent say that…? Oh, I see, ‘spilled his guts’. I must say, Warren, that joking about such a thing is a little unprofessional and has led to all sorts of confusion. I’ll have to rewrite my speech now. By the sounds of things, we’re essentially going to be repeating the statement I just released to the press half an hour ago.”

Warren was too tired to correct his superior and pin the blame on Sutton for the misunderstanding. Besides which, he could hear the loud ticking of the clock in the super’s office. “Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again.”

Running down to the car park, Warren jumped into his car, praying that no one else wanted to chat with him. The car’s dashboard clock showed 18:25. As he pulled out onto the main road he flicked the radio on: Radio 4. He doubted that the superintendent’s statement would have made it onto the national news, at least not for the half-hourly bulletins. Steering with one hand, Warren clumsily played with the auto-tune, looking for a local radio station. A sudden deafening blast of Wham! made him question yet again why he had to turn the volume up to twenty to hear Radio 4 clearly, yet all the way down to ten or less to avoid rupturing his eardrums when listening to Heart.

Finally, he found the local BBC station and suffered a few moments of a dreadful cover of an Elton John classic before the news headlines. Unsurprisingly, the murder was the top story. Warren was pleased to hear that the super had resisted the urge to spice up the statement too much, simply stating the facts, expressing the force’s condolences and urging anyone with any information to come forward. The announcer then revealed that two men, believed to be former colleagues, had been assisting the police with their inquiries. This was followed by a brief statement from the university, which spoke of the shock of the loss of such a highly respected colleague and that he would be greatly missed, thus contradicting pretty much everything that Warren had been led to believe that morning.

Glancing at the clock again, Warren saw that it was still only twenty-to seven. With any luck, he should make it in time to enjoy a quick plate of something before the show started. Relaxing a little, he retuned the radio to Heart; a guilty pleasure, their playlist reminded him of happy drunken nights in the students’ union so many years before. Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he couldn’t help humming along to the theme music to Fame. As he did so the tension seemed to drain out of him. His stomach rumbled and he started to fantasise about what he might have to eat. The restaurant was an Italian, he recalled, so something quick like a bowl of pasta, he decided. Meatballs would certainly fill the aching void. With lots of grated Parmesan. He glanced at the speedometer: sixty-five miles per hour. A bit over the limit, but not enough to get picked up. He decided to chance his arm a bit, since the road was so quiet, and edged up to seventy.

Pretty soon, however, it was time to ease back as the road started to wind through the quaint-sounding villages of this part of south Cambridgeshire. Soon enough he entered the village of Foxton and slowed to thirty; then watched in disbelief as the warning lights of the railway crossing started their amber flashing. He was too far away. Even if he dropped the car to second gear and floored it, he would probably be caught on CCTV as he skirted under the lowering barriers. He could imagine the headlines now: ‘Police Chief Inspector Caught Dodging Trains at Level Crossing’. Christ, that was all he needed.

As he eased to a halt the barriers finally clanked into place. Now other headlines filled his mind, ‘Police Chief Inspector Found Frozen to Death by Mother-in-law’s Disapproving Stare’ being the most prominent. Warren shook his head. Mother-in-law jokes? He must be tired. Drumming his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, Warren prayed for an express train. A minute passed.

Nothing.

With a sigh, he turned the engine off, deciding that he might as well save some fuel.

Two minutes passed. The barrier was automatic, triggered by a passing train a couple of miles up the track. Unfortunately, the barriers didn’t differentiate between a fast-moving express train and a slow-moving freight train, the latter taking much longer to pass through than the express, of course. Finally the train arrived. Two locomotives hauling trucks laden with coal. It couldn’t have been travelling at more than twenty miles per hour. No wonder, thought Warren as almost two minutes later the fortieth and final truck passed by. Warren restarted his engine.

Two minutes later he turned it off again. The alternating red lights remained stubbornly on, the barriers locked down. Finally a passenger train clanked past the barriers and into the station. Despite the train stopping past the crossing, leaving it clear, the barriers remained firmly in place. By now Warren was fantasising about ramming the barriers. In his mind’s eye he replayed scenes from 1980s’ TV shows, many of which featured reckless drivers either jumping over or smashing through level crossings without even scratching their paint.

Finally, the passenger train started off again, crawling out of the station. Warren resisted the urge to start the engine again, a brief flash of superstition suddenly convincing him that to do so would simply result in the barriers remaining down for another train. Finally, with almost no warning, the barriers started to lift. Warren restarted his engine and shot over the crossing.

He glanced at the clock. To his dismay, it was now gone seven and he had yet to buy any flowers and he still had to negotiate the Cambridge traffic. Entering the outskirts of the city, he sailed past the Trumpington Park and Ride. Even if he had the time to park up and wait for the bus, Warren had learnt the hard way that the park and ride was not designed for much more than afternoon shopping. He and Susan had decided to use it one Saturday but had then made the mistake of staying out on a whim for a quick bite to eat and an early-evening film at the leisure park. After waiting for thirty minutes in the rain opposite the sixth-form college, it soon became clear that the park and ride stopped running ridiculously early. A quick look on the internet had revealed a rather unpalatable choice between catching a regular bus to within a half mile or so of the park and ride then walking the rest of the way in the rain, or forking out fifteen quid for a cab to the car park. They chose the latter. The cab driver agreed with them that it was a farce and a disgrace, but seemed cheerful enough when they handed over their money.

Warren kept his eyes peeled, looking for a garage. Finally, he spotted one and pulled into the forecourt. A plastic bucket by the front door held a single bunch of flowers. Warren didn’t know enough about flowers to even attempt to name the species, but he did know enough to see why these were the last bunch. Oh, well, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Entering the garage to pay for the flowers, Warren finally accepted that he had missed any chance of a meal at the restaurant. The small shop had a tiny refrigerator filled with cans and bottles of drink. He selected a bottle of Diet Coke for the caffeine, although he was tempted to go the whole hog and risk palpitations from one of the so-called ‘energy drinks’. The top shelf also held a couple of sandwiches and rolls. Picking through them, he saw that the selection included everything from mixed salad to ham and tomato and even coronation chicken, but no cheese. Not even something he could pick the crap off. The shelf below had a couple of Ginsters pasties — Spicy Chicken and Peppered Steak. Not even a Cornish or a cheese and onion slice. Warren’s stomach rumbled loudly. In desperation he turned to the snacks aisle. Finally, he settled on a couple of bags of crisps and a chocolate bar. As an afterthought, he also grabbed some strong mints to hide the smell of the crisps on his breath. Susan nagged him about his diet a lot. Since he’d met her, his palate had widened considerably; however Susan would eat pretty much anything and just couldn’t understand, try as she might, Warren’s faddy tastes.

Back in the car, Warren texted Susan, telling her that he was in Cambridge and would meet her at the Corn Exchange, before setting off again. Warren disliked driving in Cambridge. The roads were narrow and the one-way system had no apparent logic. Added to that the seemingly endless roadworks and Warren could see why the park and ride, despite its limited running times, was so popular. Warren decided to follow the signs for the Grand Arcade car park, since that was the closest to the theatre. As ever, Warren kept his eyes firmly glued to the road, watching out for foreign students looking the wrong way when crossing and suicidally arrogant cyclists meandering from lane to lane without signalling.

Somehow, Warren made it into the car park without any mishaps. He was exhausted. He tried to calculate how many hours he’d spent awake out of the past forty-eight, but his brain was too tired to process the calculation. He had a few minutes to spare and so devoured the crisps and chocolate bar. Temporarily sated, his stomach stopped rumbling for what seemed like the first time in hours. Unscrewing the bottle of Diet Coke, he chugged half of it before finally grabbing the flowers, locking the car and heading for the theatre.

Warren arrived at the Corn Exchange at a quarter to eight. Pulling out his phone, he saw that he had just missed a text from Susan.

‘Inside. Your ticket’s at the box office.’

No name or kisses. Damn, Susan must be pissed off, he realised. He’d hoped to at least make his apologies outside before going into the theatre, but never mind. Queuing impatiently, he finally retrieved his ticket.

Glancing at the stub to remind himself what they were seeing, he realised that the show’s name meant nothing to him. He couldn’t tell if it was a comedy, a play or even a musical. Declining the offer of an exorbitantly priced programme from the young girl at the door to the auditorium, Warren made his way into the dimmed theatre. Whatever the play was, it was clearly popular. Almost every seat was filled. Naturally, his seat was in the middle of the row. Apologising profusely, he squeezed his way between the narrow seating, almost standing on Dennis’ foot, before finally reaching his seat. He was sandwiched between Susan and Bernice. At his arrival, he saw Susan relax. “Sorry,” he mouthed before turning to Bernice. “Happy birthday, Bernice, sorry I missed the meal.” He offered the flowers to her and pecked her proffered cheek.

His mother-in-law had decided to go with what Warren privately termed her ‘Onassis’ look. A sharply tailored suit and bouffant hairdo, which accentuated her enviable figure. In all fairness to the woman, she was still elegantly attractive and could pass for ten years younger than her actual age. If Susan maintained her looks half as well as her mother had, Warren would count himself a lucky man. A faint whiff of Chanel No 5 completed the ensemble.

The subdued lighting glinted off a pair of large earrings. With sudden inspiration, Warren decided on a gamble. “Are those new earrings, Bernice? They go well with your new haircut.”

Miracle of miracles, Bernice actually smiled. “Yes, dear, Dennis bought me them. I’m glad you could make it.”

“I’m sorry I’m so late. I’ll fill you in on everything when we get home. You’ll get to hear it before I give my press conference,” It was a shameless exaggeration, but it worked. Bernice looked impressed.

Suddenly, the lights dimmed and music erupted from the orchestra pit. Warren quickly sat down, next to Susan. She held his arm and whispered into his ear, “Smooth operator, DCI Jones.” Warren simply smiled and kissed her on the lips.

Susan frowned slightly. “Cheese and Onion or Prawn Cocktail?”

On his way out of the theatre, Warren looked frantically for somebody selling a souvenir programme. Within two minutes of the curtain going up, the day’s stresses and strains had finally beaten him and he’d fallen sound asleep. He assumed that he hadn’t snored, otherwise Susan would have woken him up. He had no idea if Bernice had noticed. Nevertheless, he was determined not to get caught out by a grilling on the content of the show when he got home.

No sellers were to be seen. Typical, he thought, they were practically forcing them on you on the way in. Warren made a mental note of the name of the play, deciding to do a quick Google search before driving home tonight. A basic familiarity with the plot and the parroting of a few reviews should let him bluff his way out of any awkwardness. Susan and Bernice were excitedly discussing what they had just seen, so, to play it safe, Warren tried to engage his father-in-law in conversation.

It was like trying to interrogate a Trappist monk, he soon decided. It was a ten-minute stroll to the car park, during which time Warren ascertained that, yes, the garden was growing well; no, the recent dry spell hadn’t done the lawn any favours but the hosepipe was compensating, and no, Dennis didn’t think the England cricket team’s recent performance was a promise of the beginning of a new golden age for the English game.

Finally, they reached the car park. Bernice and Susan got into her car on the ground floor. “Why don’t you go with Warren, dear? Susan and I have things to talk about.”

Just great, thought Warren, no chance for a crafty Internet search to swot up on the play. Still, the look on Susan’s face suggested that she wasn’t looking forward to the drive home with her mother either. Warren had a feeling that the subject of grandchildren, or rather lack of, was probably on the agenda.

Susan’s decisions to marry a police officer and become a Biology teacher — in a comprehensive school of all things — were perhaps less of a disappointment than her apparent unwillingness to produce a grandchild. Moments before the phone had rung the previous night, Bernice had been rummaging in her oversized handbag for the newest collection of photographs from her latest visit to Susan’s remarkably fecund younger sister, Felicity. This had almost certainly been the prologue to an uncomfortable discussion in which Bernice would have reminded Susan that she wasn’t getting any younger. Warren experienced a brief stab of guilt at the relief he felt that he had been spared that conversation.

As for Felicity, married barely three years, baby number three had arrived only a few weeks ago. There was no suggestion that Felicity had married beneath her station; her husband Jeff was an investment banker in London earning at least ten times Warren and Susan’s salaries combined. So impressed was Bernice by this that the fact that the couple’s first child was born considerably less than nine months after their wedding was never discussed.

No, he’d rather take his chances with Dennis, he decided.

After waving the women off, Dennis and Warren climbed another flight of stairs to Warren’s car. Getting in, Warren decided he might as well do some fishing, to see if he could gain some idea as to what they’d just seen. “So what did you think of the play, Dennis?”

The older man grunted. “Not a bloody clue, lad. I slept right through it.”