No Smoke Without Fire (A DCI Warren Jones Novel - Book 2) (13 page)

Warren spoke carefully. “At the moment, we just want you to answer some questions. However, I remind you that you are required to co-operate with the police under the terms of your parole. I have a warrant here for your arrest if necessary.”

“What’s going on here?”

The voice came from behind the officers and belonged to a young man in his late twenties or early thirties, Warren judged.

“And who might you be, sir?”

The question was unnecessary; the man was clearly his father’s son. Although taller and slimmer, he had the same broad shoulders and strong jawbone, visible despite a thick goatee beard. His hair was a dark brown, cut short, in an unfussy but neat style. Unlike his father, he wore grey suit trousers and smart leather shoes, his jacket an expensive-looking Gore-Tex affair. A collar and red tie peeked out above the partially unzipped front.

“Michael Stockley. I own this farm.” The man’s accent was clearly the same as his father’s, but his diction spoke of a better education and years spent in university and managerial workplaces, rather than low-paid, menial jobs and prison.

So he still goes by his mother’s maiden name, noted Warren.

“We are inviting your father to attend a voluntary interview at Middlesbury police station.”

Stockley curled his lip. “And you say that he hasn’t been arrested?”

“Not unless he refuses to co-operate — in which case I’ll serve the arrest warrant and contact his parole officer.”

Acknowledging his father for the first time since arriving, Michael Stockley nodded in his direction. “You aren’t under arrest, Dad. You don’t have to answer any questions. In fact say nothing until I’ve arranged a solicitor.”

The older man nodded mutely, looking scared and bewildered. Stockley turned back to Warren.

“I didn’t catch your name, Officer — nor have I seen any identification.”

Warren locked eyes with the man for several long seconds, before fishing out his warrant card, which he held up in front of the man’s face. Stockley nodded once.

“What’s this about?”

“Just some questions relating to an ongoing enquiry.” Warren had no intention of giving away any more information than he had to. He wanted to keep the man on the back foot for as long as possible.

“I believe that my father is entitled to have somebody with him during this questioning and that a solicitor may be present,” he all but smirked.

Warren didn’t like the way that this was going; he had to do something to shift the balance of power away from this smartly dressed amateur lawyer.

“Of course, assuming that Mr Cameron has something to hide, we can wait for a solicitor to arrive.” Warren nodded back to the older man, who paled slightly.

“The exercising of his legal rights should not be inferred as any admission of wrongdoing on my father’s part. And I believe that any attempt to deter him from seeking representation — or indeed questioning him before his solicitor arrives — would be contrary to the rules laid down in the Police and Criminal Evidence Act.” This time he did smirk.

On the other side of the barn he could see Tony Sutton rolling his eyes in disgust. Warren agreed. Spare us from barrack-room lawyers, he thought.

Sensing a victory of sorts, Stockley pressed on. “I suggest you return to your cars, Officers, whilst my father and I go into the house and call for his lawyer. I’ll let you know when he arrives.”

Warren shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so, Mr Stockley. I was rather intending to do this at the police station. You can wait for your lawyer there.”

Richard Cameron shook his head violently. “No, I’ve always said I’d rather die than set foot inside another prison cell and I mean it.”

“My father is undergoing questioning voluntarily,” Michael Stockley reminded them. “You cannot force him to attend the police station and you certainly can’t put him in a prison cell whilst he awaits his lawyer.”

Warren was getting impatient. “First, nobody has said anything about your father being placed in custody, let alone a cell. Second, I would remind you that I have a signed arrest warrant, so I certainly can compel him to attend the questioning. I’ll let you decide how you want to do this.”

The two men glared at each other. Finally, it was Richard Cameron who spoke up. “All right. Let’s get this done with. But I ain’t saying nothing until my brief arrives.” With that, he slouched out of the door, heading for the parked cars. At a signal from Warren, one of the uniformed constables opened the rear door of his patrol car.

“Mind your head,” he grunted, pushing down on the older man’s unruly mane.

Stockley stepped towards the car.

“Hold on, Michael.”

Now that he had them, Warren’s instinct was to minimise contact between father and son as much as possible. He didn’t like the way the younger man was calling all of the shots. Stockley blinked. “I’m accompanying my father to the police station.”

“Not in there, you’re not. Health and Safety,” he lied, motioning towards the remaining patrol car, whose driver stood by the open rear door like a chauffeur.

“Health and Safety? Bollocks!” He made as if to protest further, but Warren merely waved the arrest warrant in the air. With a sound of disgust, the younger man turned on his heel and marched towards the waiting car.

With both men locked in separate cars, Warren addressed the remaining officers.

“DI Sutton will co-ordinate the securing of the property and then return to the station. I want a search team standing by and ready to go in case he gives us enough to raise a search warrant. We need to move fast before his lawyer starts putting up the roadblocks.”

He turned to Sutton, who was smiling. “I liked the way you handled that, boss. His lawyer will be pissed, though.”

Warren shrugged. The man was a convicted rapist out on licence. His complaints would fall on deaf ears.

“Tough. More to the point, though, if we can’t get anything off Cameron in interview, we may have to let him go. And his lawyer will almost certainly challenge the grounds for any search warrant.” As an afterthought, he fished out his own car keys. “Drive yourself back rather than wait for a lift. I want you in on any interviews. I’ll keep Mr Cameron company on the way to the station.”

Chapter 18

By the time Cameron, Stockley and Warren arrived back at Middlesbury police station, Stockley had already telephoned his father’s solicitor. Although he wasn’t under arrest, Cameron was still processed by the custody officer, who reminded him of his rights and directed him to a small room to await his lawyer. He ostentatiously left the door wide open so that he could listen in to anything the father and son might say, a mute reminder that their conversation would not be subject to the same privileges that a lawyer and client would be entitled to.

Thirty minutes later, Cameron’s solicitor arrived. A portly, balding man in his late fifties, he’d not represented Cameron at his first trial — that solicitor had retired some years ago — but he had negotiated his release and the terms of his parole.

“What’s he in for? I understand he’s attended voluntarily for questioning, but you have an arrest warrant and have left a team in place should you be able to raise a search warrant.”

Warren shrugged. “Just doing it by the book — complete chain of evidence and all that.”

The solicitor grunted. “Not a lot of information for me to go on here, but I can read between the lines and I’ve heard the news. Can I see the arrest warrant?”

“No need, it hasn’t been served.” The arrest warrant contained details that Warren would only share if necessary.

The solicitor grunted again, letting it pass, although Warren was under no illusions that it would be forgotten about. Leading him towards the small room containing Cameron and Stockley, neither of whom had said a word yet, Warren let the door close behind him. Everything said inside that room would now be privileged.

Grabbing a coffee from the vending machine, Warren went to greet Sutton, who had just returned from the farm.

“The farmhouse is secure and a SOCO team are on standby.”

“Good, but don’t hold your breath. I’ve got a feeling that we aren’t going to get much from Cameron. That bloody son of his is too smart by half and his brief is pretty experienced also, by the look of him.”

“He is,” confirmed Sutton, who’d been at Middlesbury for years. “He’s pretty reasonable for a solicitor and knows when to fight his battles, but he does a thorough job and won’t stand any bullshit.”

“Well, then, let’s see what Mr Cameron has to say for himself.”

* * *

The opening volley of the interview came, unsurprisingly, from Cameron’s lawyer. Warren had led Cameron and his lawyer into the small interview room. Unexpectedly, Michael had opted to remain outside, leaving his father in the hands of his solicitor. After ensuring that the voice recorder was set up and that Sutton had read the man his rights, Warren had sat back, arms folded, and waited patiently. Cameron’s solicitor had started by complaining loudly and forcefully about his client’s treatment thus far.

In a two-minute diatribe he accused Warren and his officers of being on a fishing trip; of bullying Cameron into attending an interview ‘voluntarily’ by implying arrest if he didn’t do so, then making up bogus Health and Safety regulations to isolate his client from his accompanying adult.

Warren could almost see the quotation marks hanging in the air around the word ‘voluntarily’. When he’d finished he sat back in his chair.

Warren looked over at Sutton, who appeared to be in the process of picking his nose. A gesture that couldn’t be heard on the tape, it nevertheless clearly stated the officer’s contempt for the alleged trampling of the suspect’s rights that had just been outlined. Warren fought back a smile. Sutton had a style all of his own.

Ignoring what the solicitor had just said, Warren leant forward in his chair.

“Mr Cameron, can you tell us where you were on the evening of Friday second December?”

Cameron glanced towards his lawyer, licked his lips and mumbled, “No comment.”

Warren shook his head. “Come on, Mr Cameron. The sooner you answer our questions, the sooner you can go home.”

The lawyer leant forward. “May I remind the detective chief inspector that my client is here voluntarily and that he is in fact free to leave at any time. Nor is he under any obligation to say anything that may incriminate him.”

Warren nodded, as if conceding the point. “Absolutely right. Until — sorry — unless we arrest Mr Cameron, he is free to leave at any time. And of course you are right — Mr Cameron has no need to say anything that might incriminate him.”

He looked back at Cameron. “Can I assume that what you might have to say is incriminating?”

The lawyer’s response was swift. “No, you may not, as you well know. Failure to answer a question may not be seen as an admission of guilt.”

“Of course, you are absolutely right. However it is quite possible that if Mr Cameron can account for his whereabouts on the night in question, he might just remove himself from any suspicion.”

“That is a decision that Mr Cameron has the right to decide for himself and he should not be coerced.”

There remained a silence for a few seconds, before Warren pulled open an envelope. He carefully laid out several A4 photographs, face down onto the table.

“Let’s try something else. Are you familiar with the travel agents Far and Away?” Again Cameron glanced at his solicitor, before shaking his head. “No comment.”

“Perhaps you are familiar with one of its sales advisors, Sally Evans.” A flash of recognition appeared in the older man’s eyes before being carefully supressed. “No comment.”

Warren turned over the first of the photographs, a smiling Sally Evans on holiday. “Perhaps this may jog your memory?”

This time the poker face remained in place. “No comment.”

“Are you sure about that? We are turning over every inch of Ms Evans’ life as we speak, investigating every person who ever set foot inside that shop. It won’t look good if we find out that you have visited Far and Away.”

“My client has declined to answer that question and I would like it stated for the record that there are very few travel agents in Middlesbury and so it is in no way incriminating should he be familiar with the business in question or its staff.”

“I accept the point. What if I were to show you a picture of how you probably saw her last.” Warren turned over a picture of Evans taken before her autopsy. Cameron glanced at it and looked away, his pallor suddenly matching that of the corpse.

“Chief Inspector!” The solicitor seemed genuinely angry to Warren. “You have just accused my client of murder. What do you base that assertion on?”

Not a lot, thought Warren, ruefully.

“Ms Evans was assaulted prior to her death in a manner consistent with the methods used by Mr Cameron in the late 1990s, for which he was subsequently imprisoned, before being released on licence last year.”

The lawyer’s eyes narrowed. He was experienced enough to know when the police had nothing substantial to go on.

“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? I think my client is right to make no comment and he should consider terminating this interview.”

“It’s enough for the time being,” said Warren quietly. “Should I choose to arrest Mr Cameron, we will have at least another twenty-four hours to question him, whilst we search his house and cars for more evidence.”

“Is that a threat, DCI Jones? Co-operate or we’ll arrest you? You’re treading a very fine line here. Rest assured I will fight any attempt to serve that arrest warrant or raise a search warrant.”

“I never said or implied any such thing,” Warren stated calmly for the benefit of the tape; he was confident that even if the lawyer did complain, there would be a very favourable interpretation of the recording. Cameron was a convicted serial rapist; he was unlikely to evoke much sympathy.

Cameron was looking increasingly uncomfortable; finally he leant over and whispered something in his lawyer’s ear. The lawyer nodded his assent.

“My client would like to request a short break to confer in private.”