Paul Gitsham - No Smoke Without Fire

Neither detective said anything; the question was clearly rhetorical.

“He was just leaching off her. I know for a fact that Sally paid most of the bills on the flat. She earned more than he did. And, of course, Jane was slipping her money each month. She thought I didn’t know but I’m not daft.”

“I believe that you had a big row with Sally and issued an ultimatum when she moved out?”

Again, Evans’ face crumpled, but he managed to speak. “I had to. I had to make her see sense. She’d come round eventually, I knew that. It would just take time.” He paused, reaching for the necessary words. “But she didn’t have that time, did she?”

Warren paused a few moments respectfully before continuing again. “Tell me, Bill. You said that it was Darren Blackheath’s fault that she was dead. Why do you think that?”

“She was going to break it off with him. We met up the day before…you know. She told me that she thought Darren was going to propose and suddenly it wasn’t a game any more. She didn’t say as much, but I think she was worried about what sort of husband he would be. Those holidays that she went on with Cheryl? I reckon that he thought they gave him a green light to go and sleep around on his football tours. I’ve heard the rumours: wild parties, drugs and hookers.

“When she married him that would be it — before you know it she’d be pregnant and trapped. She’d be one of those women you see down on the estate, three kids, working full time, whilst the husband pisses all their money up the wall of the local pub.

“He had it bloody good with Sally. If she left him, he would end up living with his mum and dad and fitting tyres for the rest of his life — where was he going to find a girl like Sally again?”

* * *

The two detectives decided to take a break for a few minutes to process what they had just heard. Evans was not under arrest, so they arranged for the custody sergeant to take coffee in for him and see if he needed the bathroom.

“Well, I’m confused now,” confessed Warren. “This morning, Karen Hardwick and I heard nothing but praise for Darren Blackheath. I’d pretty much crossed him off the list. Now, we have the victim’s father spelling out quite plausible reasons why he thinks he’s a murderer.”

Sutton gulped his coffee before answering. “He makes a good case, I’ll give him that. We’ll have to check the forensics out. But then what about him? He’s admitted he was angry with her and he clearly hates Blackheath. It’s not impossible to imagine a scenario where he kills his daughter and tries to pin the blame on her boyfriend. If they were from the Asian community, we’d call it an ‘honour killing’, but human nature is universal.”

“I tend to agree. What’s the betting that when they met the day before the killing he picked her up in his car? That’d put the kibosh on any trace evidence.”

“What doesn’t fit is that Cheryl claimed she was excited that Darren was going to propose and her workmates said that she was her ‘usual cheerful self’. That doesn’t fit with what her father said.”

“I figure that leaves two possibilities — either he’s completely misjudged her attitude and is seeing what he wants to see, or he’s lying about Blackheath. It could be that she revealed to him that she knew he was going to propose and that made him mad enough to kill her.”

Sutton nodded his agreement. “If so, then he is a sick bastard. From what we know of the crime it was well planned and of course he raped his own daughter. There is one other possibility though. He could be right. He might be the only one to have seen through Blackheath. We’ll need forensics and eyewitnesses that can place Blackheath’s car outside his house when he says it was.”

“So it seems that in both cases it comes down to forensics and alibis. Great. Well, we have one more thing to try him on. Let’s see his reaction when we bring up his priors.”

Sutton looked sceptical. “It’s a hell of a jump, don’t you think, from some alleged willy-waving over a decade ago to strangling and raping your daughter?”

“These perverts have to start somewhere.”

* * *

Sutton’s scepticism seemed well founded. When confronted with the conviction and all that it implied, Evans was contemptuous, with no hint that he was at all concerned.

“Ancient history and total bullshit anyway. All that happened was I got very drunk at lunchtime after we won a big contract at work. I decided to walk home to clear my head and got caught short. I was in the middle of pissing in a big bush when I heard two women yelling and I realised I was next to a bloody primary school. I should have done a runner, but I decided to stick around and try to explain. They called the police and I was arrested for indecently exposing myself. Unfortunately, it was raining so there was no piss to back up my story.

“When it got to court, they decided that since the pupils were all inside with no realistic way they could see me or I could see them, they’d drop the more serious charges. In the end they fined me for being drunk and disorderly, urinating in a public place and indecent exposure. If those two women hadn’t made such a bloody song and dance about it, it wouldn’t have even gone that far. Like I said, ancient history. Now, if you want to drag up relevant past history, ask Darren Blackheath about Kim Bradshaw. See if you still think he’s Mr Bloody Perfect after you hear what he did to her.”

Chapter 11

It was nearly eleven by the time Warren and Sutton finished at the station. Bill Evans had been picked up by his wife after handing over the keys to his BMW. The car was now on a flatbed truck, heading towards the vehicle crime specialists where it would join Darren Blackheath’s pride and joy.

As he walked across the car park the icy wind did little to lift the fatigue that settled around Warren like a blanket. It was always the same. The first few days of any murder investigation were necessarily frenetic. At this stage, the passage of hours mattered. The perpetrators had time to cover their tracks, witnesses’ memories started to fade and delicate evidence would degrade or disappear.

Climbing into his car, he caught the reflection of the station’s lights in the wing mirrors. Almost every window was brightly lit, shadowy forms moving around inside. Grayson’s office and his were the only dark windows.

A brief stab of guilt was quickly repressed. He could go back in and easily work through the night, but experience had taught him his limits. There was a whole team following the leads that had already been generated; he would just be getting in the way. Besides, he needed the rest to lead effectively; far better to get a good night’s sleep and hit the ground running early the next morning. If anything urgent turned up, he trusted his team’s judgement to decide if he should be called or if it could be added to his morning task list.

Waving goodbye to Sutton, Warren drove the short distance home. Letting himself in, he found Susan sound asleep on the sofa, two piles of red exercise books next to her, another book open on her lap. One pile was much taller than the other — Warren sincerely hoped that was the completed set. The TV played quietly in the background: some dreadful-looking ‘reality’ show that he knew his wife would have immediately turned over if she had been awake.

The slight draft from the open door caused Susan to stir. “What time is it?” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

“Late,” replied Warren, bending over to kiss her forehead. She smiled, before glancing down at the pile of books.

“Oh, no. I promised 9D2 I’d mark their books before the lesson tomorrow.” She groaned. “I shouldn’t have sat on the sofa to mark. I knew I’d fall asleep.” She picked up her red pen again. “I’ll be another hour at least.”