Paul Gitsham - Silent As The Grave

Exactly what Mateo Menendez saw in Nicky Goven, was something of a mystery to Warren and Sutton. Perhaps it was her phlegmy cough, the hard-to-discern tattoo that covered pretty much her entire right calf or maybe he just liked the smell of incontinent domestic pets. At least four of the animals had wandered through in the few minutes that the two police officers had been there.

Her apartment on the edge of the common shared the same cell tower and this, Menendez claimed, was the reason why his smartphone was registered as at or near the common—rather than at home as he’d first claimed—for the hours either side of Reggie Williamson’s murder.

“When did you last see Mr Menendez?”

Nicky Goven squinted at Warren from behind a peroxide-blonde fringe.

“Thursday evening. He always comes around then. He has Thursday evenings off work.”

Warren glanced at Sutton.

“Where does Mr Menendez work?”

“He works in a call centre for the emergency services.” There was a palpable pride in her voice. “He helps give advice for people whilst they wait for an ambulance.”

Warren said nothing; there were no operational control centres within fifty miles of Middlesbury. It looked as though Menendez’s habit of lying to women was not limited to Tabitha Williamson.

“What time was Mr Menendez around here?”

The young woman paused for a moment. “He turned up a bit after five, I guess, and stayed for a few hours.”

“Could you be a bit more precise? When exactly did he leave you?”

For the first time since they arrived, Nicky Goven looked worried.

“Why? What’s he done? Is he in trouble? Is this anything to do with that bloke who was killed on the common last week? I already spoke to a policewoman who knocked on the door Monday night.”

“It’s just part of a routine inquiry,” soothed Warren.

She shrugged. “A bit after nine I guess.” She thought for a moment. “Yeah that’s right. There was a film starting and he said he’d like to stay and watch it but he had to leave because he was working the early shift.”

The times certainly added up. However, Warren wouldn’t be entirely satisfied until he got another independent confirmation. It was always possible that the fragrant Ms Goven was helping Menendez.

“Was there anyone around who may have seen Mr Menendez arrive or leave your flat?”

She thought for a moment, before scowling. “That old bitch—’scuse my French—who lives in the flat next along is always complaining that we make too much noise, ’cause the walls are so thin.” She grinned wickedly. “I hadn’t seen him all week. We gave her plenty to moan about.”

Assuming the neighbour was in, and confirmed Nicky Goven’s story—and by extension Mateo Menendez’s new, more seedy alibi—then Menendez was no longer a suspect.

However, before he left Warren had a bit more business. Strictly speaking, it was nothing to do with him, but Warren felt sorry for the young woman—yet another victim of Middlesbury’s self-styled Cassanova.

“Do you work, Ms Goven?”

She shrugged. “Yeah, I’m a hairdresser. I do a few shifts each week down the ‘Clip Joint’, on the High Street.”

“And have you ever used any of those payday loan companies?”

If she thought the question strange, she didn’t let it bother her. “Sure, once or twice.” She smiled. “Actually, I let Mateo sort that out for me. I’m not very good with numbers.”

Warren and Sutton swapped glances. It was stepping over the line, but a barely perceptible nod from Sutton erased any nagging doubts that Warren had.

“Don’t. I can’t say any more, but don’t let him anywhere near your finances.”

She looked shocked.

Sutton spoke up. “And whilst you’re at it, I’d ask for a bit more information about his job. Perhaps he could show you his ID card. Does he drive?”

She shook her head.

“Then ask him which call centre he works at and have a little look on the web to see how far away it is.”

The woman’s bottom lip trembled slightly and Warren felt a rush of sympathy for her. It was now clear what Menendez had seen in her—a young woman, living on her own with her cats. She had a job and was clearly quite naïve.

The two detectives rose to leave, but before they did, Sutton took one last look around the grubby living room.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what did you do with the kids whilst you and Mr Menendez were, umm, busy?”

Nicky Goven frowned in confusion. “What kids?”

* * *

Three hours later, Mateo Menendez was a free man. But his troubles were far from over. The older lady in the apartment next door to Nicky Goven had been very clear that Menendez and Goven were in that evening at the time when Reggie Williamson was being stabbed to death on the opposite side of the common. She’d been somewhat disgruntled when it transpired that Sutton and Warren weren’t from the council to deal with her complaints about the noise, not to mention the smell, from the flat next door.

However, social services were now in the process of questioning his eldest child about how often Daddy left them on their own whilst Mummy was out. Interestingly, Menendez’s partner did two other classes each week, again leaving the children in the care of their father.

“The bloke’s a complete Fanny-Rat,” opined Sutton. “I wonder how many other women he’s milking for money. I just wish there was something we could do about it.”

Warren agreed. The whole affair had left a nasty taste in his mouth.

More importantly, Warren had just crossed his name off the wheeled whiteboard in the main office. The suspect column was now blank.

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.