Silent As The Grave
Silent As The Grave
Paul Gitsham
It’s DCI Warren Jones’ coldest case yet…The body of Reginald Williamson had been well concealed under a bush in Middlesbury Common and the murder efficiently carried out – a single stab wound to the chest. Reggie’s dog had been killed just as efficiently. With no clues or obvious motive, the case is going nowhere. Then he gets a break.Warren’s instincts tell him that the informant is dodgy – a former police officer under investigation. But when Warren hears the incredible story he has to tell, he's glad to have given him a chance to speak. Suddenly, a wide criminal conspiracy, involving high-level police corruption, a gangster and a trained killer, is blown wide open…and Warren finds that this time, it’s not just his career under threat, but his family – and his life.Fans of Peter Robinson and Peter James will love Silent as the Grave, the third novel in Paul Gitsham's DCI Warren Jones series.More DCI Warren Jones books by Paul Gitsham:The Last StrawNo Smoke Without FireBlood is Thicker Than Water(A DCI Warren Jones short story)Praise for Paul Gitsham:"A wonderfully classy crime novel. Fluent writing style, great pace to the action. What's not to like? I'll be reading number 2 as quickly as I can download it. Crime Writing at its very best" - Kate Rhodes, author of Crossbones Yard and the Alice Quentin series
It’s DCI Warren Jones’ coldest case yet…
The body of Reginald Williamson had been well concealed under a bush in Middlesbury Common and the murder had been efficiently carried out – a single stab wound to the chest. Reggie’s dog had been killed just as efficiently. With no clues and no obvious motive, the case is going nowhere.
…and then he gets a break.
DCI Warren Jones’ instincts tell him that the informant is dodgy – a former police officer under investigation. But when the story he tells involves the death of Warren’s father, he can’t help but listen. Suddenly, a wide criminal conspiracy, involving high-level police corruption, a gangster and a trained killer, is blown wide open…and Warren finds that this time, it’s not just his career under threat, but his family – and his life.
Also by Paul Gitsham: (#ulink_23fa0674-4310-55a9-a80f-dc39cd0c797b)
The Last Straw
No Smoke Without Fire
Blood Is Thicker Than Water (A DCI Warren Jones Short Story)
Silent as the Grave
A DCI Warren Jones Novel
Paul Gitsham
Copyright (#ulink_e00e3790-4d89-59e7-afad-c2d869a56614)
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015
Copyright © Paul Gitsham 2015
Paul Gitsham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9781474033602
Version date: 2018-06-27
PAUL GITSHAM
started his career as a biologist, working in such exotic locales as Manchester and Toronto. After stints as the world’s most over-qualified receptionist and a spell making sure that international terrorists and other ne’er do wells hadn’t opened a Junior Savings Account at a major UK bank (a job even less exciting than being a receptionist) he retrained as a science teacher. He now spends his time passing on his bad habits and sloppy lab skills to the next generation of enquiring minds.
Paul has always wanted to be a writer and his final report on leaving primary school predicted he’d be the next Roald Dahl! For the sake of balance it should be pointed out that it also said, “He’ll never get anywhere in life if his handwriting doesn’t improve.” Twenty-five years later and his handwriting is worse than ever but millions of children around the world love him.*
Paul writes the DCI Warren Jones series of novels. Silent as the Grave is the third, with more to come. He was brought up in Coventry and now lives in East Anglia. Remind you of anybody?
You can find out more about Paul at his website, www.paulgitsham.com (http://www.paulgitsham.com) or follow him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/dcijones (http://www.facebook.com/dcijones) or Twitter @dcijoneswriter
*This is a lie—just ask any of the students he has taught.
Acknowledgments (#ulink_1f8283fc-ce5a-5e67-9a58-fa0e333c9604)
Like all of my novels, Silent as the Grave couldn’t have been written without the help and assistance of a great number of people.
The first thanks must go to my amazing beta readers, Dad and Cheryl, who put up with my foul-mouthed rants at my computer’s steadfast refusal to print out a draft copy for them to read over, then dropped everything to go over the document in record time so I could meet my deadline.
Next is the long line of friends who have listened to extracts of the work during its gestation, giving much appreciated feedback and encouragement. I will never be able to list everyone who helped me, so if I don’t name you, please be assured that I valued each and every suggestion and contribution.
A few who can’t be missed out include my friends at the Hertford Writers’ Circle, who have given me essential feedback on all of my books, supplying thoughtful suggestions where necessary and giving me the strength to persevere when it all seemed a bit overwhelming.
Some chapters of this novel were written as an exercise for a creative writing class and the critical feedback supplied by Danielle Jawando and my friends at Hertford Regional College helped me raise my game enormously. Good luck guys and keep on writing!
As always, I relied on technical advice from many people: Elaine Dockrill helped enormously with medical advice, Caroline and Dan kept me straight on the legal stuff and our close family friend Danny McAree generously shared his experience from decades in the police. As always, Crime Scene Investigator Lee Robson of Essex police was a source of both information and future inspiration.
My colleagues and friends at school have been wonderful, supplying both encouragement and feedback as well as acting as a useful source of interesting surnames and even more interesting character quirks…
Behind the scenes, I will forever be grateful to my publisher, HQ Digital, for taking a chance on me and for their support, from editing and feeding back on my manuscripts to the beautifully designed covers. Cheers, guys!
Finally, I must say a heartfelt thanks to the many kind readers who have taken the time to tell me what they thought of the first two books, either in person or via reviews. Releasing your ‘baby’ into the wild is a nerve-wracking experience and a positive review really makes an author’s day.
DCI Warren Jones will return. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy his latest adventure.
Paul
Dedication (#ulink_0cf124fd-2f83-5106-8b60-c0afad35e794)
To my number one cheerleaders, Mum, Dad and Cheryl. If you find one of my business cards or flyers in an unexpected place, it was probably them…
Contents
Cover (#u678baf89-d3c6-5e3e-bbb2-1c663fde1f57)
Blurb (#u53146134-b0f4-5b41-ab77-e8df74b4afc7)
Book List (#uc3f83c6b-e271-551d-b54e-7e4dd9e374a9)
Title Page (#u5cce85f0-bddd-5873-9903-31ac55ea0764)
Copyright (#ua300ff41-33ef-5462-89d0-19eb6907f566)
Author Bio (#uc25c11f8-cafe-5b22-9a25-2a98ca57d5fb)
Acknowledgement (#u6d92d505-2e75-55da-9ba1-d8c564b5a558)
Dedication (#u0e13d338-3988-5ac9-8ea7-80a0b1118a02)
Prologue (#u1a97468e-ab02-51cd-9b85-71f76d50d7d4)
Chapter 1 (#ud3eb6dc5-c6b9-53b3-ab27-91081965a55e)
Chapter 2 (#ufbbab0ad-5bf1-5483-adc5-bf64a5590b26)
Chapter 3 (#ue2cfb069-c09f-5046-9921-9975b58884c7)
Chapter 4 (#u5309e941-f18f-57b1-af28-48607e19d4c0)
Chapter 5 (#u3cf7494b-5e71-5a5d-a311-dca8be0e2a6f)
Chapter 6 (#u6d5d8e01-0f1f-5b83-bde9-3acb532cebbf)
Chapter 7 (#u56b36162-d1f6-53cd-a840-22e6a84c7ba5)
Chapter 8 (#u4c2f6e4a-4e68-5474-a9a4-fb9201d9f52e)
Chapter 9 (#u36c3c80e-b09f-53db-ab7c-ff728ccc1bb2)
Chapter 10 (#u5ac42c1b-3801-5e8c-8b8f-31b1763f92dc)
Chapter 11 (#u0dac7818-9660-5487-87b3-24b90858225e)
Chapter 12 (#udd697958-775d-5690-ba7e-c4d63d01436b)
Chapter 13 (#uadd73478-61df-539b-b8e6-943373806ef8)
Chapter 14 (#u5cfb941f-0570-5e7b-b1e4-d6c9c247a57e)
Chapter 15 (#u9978a758-9315-5d41-a2db-70c787aa6236)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 49 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 50 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 51 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 52 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 53 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 54 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ulink_4bdd8f82-1f55-578c-b8d8-fda2ac8e30e7)
The teenage boy walked carefully, balancing an overfilled mug in each hand. The kettle had boiled only moments before and his mother had called down the garden, asking if his father wanted coffee. There had been no reply, but in twenty years of marriage Aileen MacNamara had never known her husband refuse a hot drink. So, curious to know what his father had been doing all evening, the fourteen-year-old had poured himself one as well and set off down the path.
The garage door was a sturdy, wooden affair, the handle missing for as long as the boy could remember, the hasp for the padlock its replacement. Looping a free finger around the metal bracket, he unhooked it then pulled as hard as he could. The door, warped from years of hot summers and cold winters, resisted before screeching open with a sudden jerk, spilling scalding liquid all over his hands. The teenager swore quietly.
Niall MacNamara had patrolled the streets of Coventry for over twenty-five years and had seen—and heard—it all. Nevertheless he had zero tolerance for foul language in his home and his son wasn’t in the mood for a lecture.
The garage was dark, filled with tools and gardening implements. A spate of recent vandalism had prompted Niall to enlist the help of his two sons to clear enough space for him to park the family car in there overnight, but it was a tight fit.
The boy started to cough at the same moment he saw the hosepipe snaking from the rear of the car and in through the partially open driver’s side window. With an incoherent shout, he dropped both mugs, forcing himself around the car’s bonnet to the driver’s side. After yanking the hosepipe from the window, he pulled the door handle. Locked. Through the clouds of exhaust filling the car, he could see his father, head slumped forward in the driver’s seat. Choking, the boy cast his teary eyes around wildly before spotting a claw hammer hanging from a hook. With so little room to swing it took three desperate attempts before he shattered the window, all the while screaming for his mother. After pulling the door lock button, he opened the door. An empty whisky bottle rolled off his father’s lap and clattered onto the concrete floor. Reaching in, he took the keys from the ignition. But he knew it was too little, too late.
Tuesday 10 May 1988. After tonight, nothing would ever be the same again.
Twenty-Two Years Later
The scrum of press outside the prison gates was more like that awaiting the appearance of a pop star than a convicted murderer. An explosion of flashbulbs greeted the arrival of a black Jaguar. Some of the dozen or so uniformed police officers, who were stopping the pushing reporters from getting too close to the prison gates, broke off to form a similar line around the rear doors of the luxury car.
Parked one hundred metres away, DCI Gavin Sheehy looked on with incredulity at the spectacle. All of the major national broadcasters were present, along with several noted international ones. Reporters earnestly spoke into cameras or radio microphones. Recognising one of the BBC’s most famous radio presenters, Sheehy reached for the car radio, selecting Radio 4. Sure enough, the anchor of World at One was reporting on the release of the prisoner, before handing over live to the presenter.
“The scene outside Wormwood Scrubs prison is unlike anything we’ve ever witnessed before. Vinny Delmarno, the notorious crime lord sentenced in 1988 to life in prison for ordering the killing of a rival drug baron and accused—although acquitted—of dozens of counts of racketeering, money laundering, drug dealing and prostitution, is due to be released any moment on parole.
“Most prisoners slip out of this back door with little more than a carrier bag, the clothes they wore when they came in, the address of a local bail hostel and forty-six pounds to help them start life again. Vinny Delmarno will have no need of any of these. It is alleged that while he one of the most successful crime lords of the seventies and eighties, he also owned—and some claim still owns—a string of apparently legitimate businesses across the Midlands and the East of England. All of these businesses and his palatial Hertfordshire home were signed over to his ex-wife in an entirely uncontested divorce settlement weeks before his successful conviction. Rumour has it that he and his wife have reconciled over the past twenty-two years and that he will be returning to the couple’s former home as soon as he is released.”
The anchorwoman broke in, “This has caused some controversy, hasn’t it, Mark?”
“Indeed it has. Politicians from all sides of the House are questioning if there is any way the state can seize these assets, even though they were legally awarded to his ex-wife. The shadow Home Secretary has claimed that the divorce was clearly a sham and that therefore his assets should be used to repay the millions of pounds of back tax that it is alleged he avoided through money-laundering schemes. It should be noted of course that despite his conviction, he claims to be innocent of all these charges and that he was the victim of a conspiracy.
“When he is released, any moment now, it is expected that he will give a statement repeating those claims.”
Suddenly the press started snapping pictures again and even from his distant vantage point, Sheehy could hear the increase in volume from the waiting press. A moment later it became clear why, as a small side door started to open.
Sheehy’s breath caught in his throat. It had been a long time since he had last set eyes on the man. He wasn’t prepared for the shock. Delmarno was a small, dapper man in his mid fifties. His silver hair had been expertly coiffured and his thin pencil moustache trimmed neatly. The fitted suit that he wore was certainly not the one he’d worn in court; its cut was clearly contemporary. But then he had been a very different man back then.
“In many ways it is a big surprise to see Vinny Delmarno here today. When sentenced back in 1988, he was believed to be within a year of dying from kidney failure. In fact that was put forward in mitigation by his defence team when the judge sentenced him. Six months into his sentence, however, he received a controversial life-saving kidney transplant. Questions were again raised in the House of Commons and the House of Lords as to whether a convicted murderer should be given such treatment free on the NHS. The then Health Secretary acknowledged such concerns but stood alongside the Home Secretary and the Prime Minister in claiming that denying prisoners such a life-saving operation would be a slippery slope.”
The anchorwoman cut back in again, “I believe that Mr Delmarno’s lawyer is about to read a prepared statement.”
A taller man, in an equally expensive suit, was now standing shoulder to shoulder with his client. He paused whilst the various camera crews jostled for the best position and microphones were thrust under his nose. Clearing his throat he began, “I am going to read a short statement on behalf of my client. He will not be answering any questions.
“This day has been a long time coming, but finally my freedom, wrongly taken from me, has been returned. For over twenty-two years I have languished in prison for crimes that I did not commit, the victim of a conspiracy concocted at the highest levels. In that time I have maintained my innocence. During my incarceration I have been comforted by the support of my family and friends, who have stood by me and championed my innocence, and I cannot thank them enough. In a moment I will be driven away to be reunited with loved ones and I look forward to embracing my son and rebuilding my life. I feel only sadness that I could not do the same to my dear parents, both of whom passed away during my imprisonment.
“On the advice of my lawyers, I will not be saying any more other than that I will be turning all of my energy towards overturning my conviction and seeking redress for this appalling miscarriage of justice.” The lawyer paused briefly, before continuing, “Those responsible for this cannot hide for ever. We know who you are and we will have justice. That is all.”
Behind the wheel of his car, Gavin Sheehy’s hands shook. Suddenly and without warning his stomach lurched and he yanked the door open just in time. He was still hanging awkwardly out of the car, dry heaving, as the Jaguar roared past. The rear windows were blackened, but he still felt the man’s eyes burning hatred through the smoked glass.
Present Day
Sunday 25 March
Chapter 1 (#ulink_bc0bb863-7c7e-507d-9fe5-c4cfc537f61b)
The body had been concealed well enough for it to remain unnoticed for at least a couple of days, Detective Chief Inspector Warren Jones decided, as he bent his six-foot frame under the branches of the flowering bush. Nevertheless, after a string of warm spring days the smell had finally attracted the attention of a middle-aged couple out for a post-Sunday lunch dog-walk.
The two witnesses were now busy giving their statements to Detective Inspector Tony Sutton on the other side of the line of blue-and-white crime-scene tape. Both walkers were wearing disposable plastic booties, their shoes impounded by the forensic team to check for any trace evidence they might have picked up and to distinguish their footprints from any that may have been left by the killer or killers.
“It looks as though he was initially stabbed over there on the footpath, then dragged through the grass and hidden here at the edge of the forest.”
Crime Scene Manager Andy Harrison used a white-gloved hand to point out the red, bloody smear to the paper-suited detective. A similarly clad CSI squatting carefully amongst the long grass was filling a series of clear plastic evidence bags with bloodstained vegetation.
“And what about the dog? I’m assuming it’s the victim’s?” Warren gestured at the black-and-white furry form lying next to the old man.
“It’s early days and we haven’t moved either body yet, but I can’t see any obvious stab wounds. We’ll get a vet to perform an autopsy to work out how it was killed. The dog’s still wearing its lead, but the victim isn’t holding it. We had a look in the pockets of his windcheater but didn’t find any doggy treats or other evidence that he was walking a dog, so I’m not yet prepared to declare him the owner. If it’s been microchipped that could help us link them. Not to mention help you identify the victim if needs be.”
“And you didn’t see a wallet or phone or other ID?”
“Not unless he keeps them in his back pocket, which he’s lying on. We haven’t even found a set of house keys.”
Warren stared at the body thoughtfully. “No wallet or phone suggests robbery, but why would they take his keys?”
The Yorkshireman shrugged, his protective clothing making a rustling noise. “Not really my place to say, Guv, but if he left the missus at home when he went out to walk the dog he may not have had them on him.”
Warren conceded the point with a small nod of his head. “It’s possible. But something doesn’t seem quite right. He’s an old man, shabbily dressed, not obviously wealthy and he had a dog—not your usual target for some opportunist mugger. And why conceal the body afterwards? If it was a case of ‘stab first, ask nicely for his wallet after’ then we’re dealing with somebody pretty brutal here—especially if they did the dog as well. Would they have taken the trouble to conceal both bodies?
“And if it was a mugging gone wrong, I’d have expected them to flee the scene immediately, not risk exposure by taking the time to hide the victims.”
“Like I said, not really my place to say.”
Warren sighed. “You’re right. I should stop speculating and wait for your findings.”
Harrison picked up on the hint. “We’ll probably finish processing the scene tonight and get the bodies removed before morning. I imagine the post-mortem will be tomorrow afternoon. I’ll get you a preliminary report before close of play tomorrow.”
Warren glanced at his watch—just after six p.m. He sighed and pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket. It was going to be a long night—he’d better phone his wife, Susan, and tell her he wasn’t going to be back in time to go to the pub quiz. It looked as if he’d be sleeping in the spare room again tonight.
Monday 26 March
Chapter 2 (#ulink_489d2ed7-674e-53b0-a621-186b3694c299)
The eight a.m. briefing was full, the room crammed with most of Middlesbury CID’s detectives. Standing next to the projector, Warren stifled a yawn and took a swig of his coffee before calling for quiet. Leaning against the wall, looking similarly worn out, was Tony Sutton. However, standing at the back, fiddling with his Blackberry, Detective Superintendent John Grayson was as shiny and well groomed as always. If past form was anything to go by, he’d probably nip out to the barber and get a quick trim and tidy before the upcoming press conference.
The station’s senior detective had appointed Warren lead investigator as usual—where possible Grayson tried to avoid doing any actual detective work, Warren had soon learned—but he would of course be available to talk to the press at any time, skilfully taking any credit for the team’s successes whilst cannily distancing himself from any failures.
This was largely fine by Warren, who hated being in front of the camera, but at times—usually when he’d had less than three hours’ sleep—it did irritate him that his team’s efforts seemed to be mostly laying the groundwork for his superior’s next promotion and the securement of an increased final salary pension.
Warren clicked the handheld presenter and two photographs appeared on the screen behind him. On the left was a greyish, blue-skinned headshot of the old man from the park, his snow-white shock of hair lying limp and greasy, a couple of days’ stubble covering his chin. The skin had a slightly puffy appearance from the early stages of decomposition, the effect being to smooth out the lines and creases that would otherwise bear witness to this individual human’s story.
On the right was a more vibrant picture of the deceased, taken the previous Christmas. In this image the man’s face was a mass of deep wrinkles and smile lines, his skin tanned the dark bronze that comes from a life spent working outdoors. The picture had been cropped, but it was possible to make out decorations in the background. The big grin and slightly unfocused eyes painted a portrait of a happy man, enjoying the festive season with loved ones.
“Reginald Williamson, aged sixty-eight. Found dead, body concealed under a bush next to his dog, just off a path at sixteen-twenty hours yesterday afternoon by two members of the public walking their dog on the western edge of Middlesbury Common.” Another click revealed an aerial photograph from Google Earth, annotated with the position of the body.
The common was situated on the edge of Middlesbury, abutting a small wooded area that served as a divider between the small market town and the adjacent farmland. Although the land was popular with dog-walkers, joggers and local kids, the area where Williamson had been dumped was in a secluded corner. It was inevitable that the body would be found sooner, rather than later; however, its concealment had probably gained the killer—or killers—at least a couple of days’ head start.
“Preliminary cause of death is a stab wound to the chest. Cause of death for the dog is unknown. Initial analysis points to the victim being attacked on the pavement here—” Warren used the laser pointer to circumscribe an area of pavement on the photograph “—then dragged through tall grass into the edge of the woods and dumped out of sight under this bush.”
Warren cycled through a series of photos of the crime scene, highlighting the bloody trail and the body’s final resting place. “The victim’s pockets were empty, suggesting robbery as a possible motive. A leather wallet with his fingerprints and cards but no cash, was found in a litter bin about eighty metres from the dumping spot. However, forensics have been unable to identify any other prints.”
Warren paused. “It’s early days, but something doesn’t feel quite right. Our victim lived alone since his wife died three years ago yet we found no house or car keys on him. His niece, who reported him missing, went around to the house Sunday morning and found it locked. His car was still there, so the robbers didn’t steal it. She went in to the house and said that nothing was obviously missing.
“His mobile phone is also unaccounted for. His provider shows that the handset went dark at about twenty-thirty hours Thursday evening, although we don’t have any other data from them yet. Either it’s been destroyed or the battery was removed. His niece says it wasn’t worth stealing though. It was an old Nokia brick that he’d owned for ever.”
Detective Sergeant Hutchinson raised a hand at the back. “Does that tie in with the time of death?”
“We don’t know yet. The PM is scheduled for this afternoon. They’ll try and get an accurate time for us; at the moment we’re operating on a time frame of about forty-eight hours. What we do know is that nobody had seen him since about eleven p.m. Wednesday night when he left his local—the Merchants’ Arms. Apparently he was in the habit of taking his dog for a long walk most evenings, often up the common, then stopping in for a nightcap.
“Regulars didn’t think anything of it when he didn’t come in for his evening pint on the Thursday, but when he didn’t show on Friday or Saturday either, a couple called his mobile but were diverted straight to voicemail. One of them bumped into his niece Sunday morning and mentioned it, so she took the spare key she keeps for emergencies and went around to see if he was all right. There were pints of milk on the doorstep and Friday’s newspapers stuck in the letter box. That’s when she started to worry and reported him missing.”
Warren looked around the room. “I want you to all keep an open mind. Don’t just assume it was a random mugging gone wrong—start canvassing his friends, family, neighbours. Let’s see if he had any unusual visitors or mentioned anything that was worrying him. Dig into his background and look at his lifestyle.
“Meanwhile, let’s see if we can scare up any witnesses. It’s been a pleasant few days. There were bound to have been a few folks in and around the park in the hours before and after the murder. Did they see anyone or anything suspicious?”
As the meeting broke up Warren crossed over to Tony Sutton, who made a sour face, before commenting.
“It sounds as though your gut’s asking the same thing mine is. ‘Why would someone kill a retired gardener in a public place, then conceal the body and try to make it look like a mugging gone wrong?’”
Chapter 3 (#ulink_9efa202b-75eb-5041-8a90-c28e6b15d13a)
The first twenty-four hours of any murder investigation are crucial. Assuming the clock had started the moment the couple found the body, over sixteen hours had elapsed. Add to that the time that the body lay concealed, and several days had probably passed. It was now almost nine o’clock on a Monday morning and the world was awake and at work; Warren was hopeful that this would mean things would start moving faster. The killer—or killers—had a large head start on the team and they needed to start chipping away at that advantage.
A few preliminary interviews had been conducted the previous night as they’d tried to establish the victim’s identity, but now a team from headquarters in Welwyn Garden City had joined them and the interviewing could start in earnest. The landlord of the Merchants’ Arms had been shocked to hear of the death of one of his regulars and had furnished Tony Sutton with a comprehensive list of the locals who drank with Reggie, as he was known.
Whilst Sutton and DS Hutchinson organised interviews with the man’s two dozen or so drinking partners, Warren and Detective Constable Karen Hardwick visited Reggie Williamson’s grieving niece.
Tabitha Williamson was a young-looking thirty-something who lived alone in a small flat only a few hundred metres from Hardwick’s own apartment. A teaching assistant at the local primary school, the door of her fridge-freezer was covered in crudely hand-painted artwork, most with some variation on ‘Get Well Soon, Miss Williamson’. Tabitha Williamson’s pronounced limp and the crutches leaning against the kitchen table hinted at the cause of their concern. The diversity of spellings for “Williamson” brought a slight smile to Warren’s lips as he and Hardwick waited patiently for Tabitha Williamson to finish fussing over the kettle and coffee pot.
Truth be told, the last thing Warren needed was more coffee and if her bloodshot eyes and shaking hands were anything to go by, Tabitha Williamson had consumed more than she should have as well. The old stereotype of the British, “Whatever the crisis, boil the kettle”, was based on solid, empirical evidence in Warren’s experience.
“Why don’t you tell me about your relationship with Mr Williamson?” started Warren gently, when the three were finally seated around the cramped table.
“Please, call him Reggie. He hated formality of any sort; he was just a gardener he always said.”
“Of course. Tell us about Reggie.”
“He was my dad’s big brother. The two of them were best friends, although you’d never have known they were related.” She smiled sadly. “I didn’t get my red hair from my mother’s side.
“Anyway, Dad taught French at a secondary school in Cambridge, Mum used to be a special needs teacher at the same school, but Uncle Reggie always preferred to work outside and he used to be a landscape gardener until he retired a few years ago to look after Aunty Una, when she got too ill to care for herself.
“He refused to let her go into a home and he ended up as her full-time carer until she passed away about three years ago.”
“Were you and Mr…sorry, Reggie, close?”
She nodded, her eyes filling with tears again. “Uncle Reggie and Aunty Una never had kids of their own and I was an only child.” She laughed quietly. “I was so spoilt! Two sets of parents doing my every bidding!
“Anyway, Mum and Dad died when I was at college. A car accident in France…” Her voice broke off and she took a fortifying gulp of coffee. “I’m sorry.” She placed the mug down with a thump, her hands shaking.
Warren and Hardwick waited patiently until she regained control.
“I guess I’m lucky really. Nobody could ever replace Mum and Dad but Uncle Reggie and Aunty Una did their best. Anyway Uncle Reggie had a job with the council as their senior gardener and landscaper, but about six or seven years ago Aunty Una started getting forgetful. They tried to shrug it off at first—people always do, don’t they?—but pretty soon she was losing her keys, getting on the wrong bus and leaving the gas on.
“One afternoon we got a call from the police, who said that she had been found distressed outside their old house, wanting to know why she could see strangers through the living room windows and why her keys wouldn’t work in the front door. They hadn’t lived there for nearly thirty years.
“Anyway, pretty soon she wasn’t really safe to leave on her own—she had always been a fit woman who loved to go for long walks and you never knew where she’d end up—so he gave up full-time work for the council and took his pension early. He used to do a bit of handyman work and the odd gardening job when he could find someone to sit with her for a few hours, but in the end even that was too much.
“I finally persuaded him to consider moving her into a care home and we were in the process of choosing one when she died suddenly in her sleep.”
She drained her coffee and sighed deeply. “It was a mercy I suppose. We were all very upset of course, but I think in the end we were mostly relieved.”
“That was three years ago. What did do Reggie afterwards?” asked Karen Hardwick.
“He went back to gardening. Aside from Aunty Una it was his true love. I was a bit worried at first about how he’d cope, but he told me one day that he’d been grieving the loss of his wife for years before she died and she wouldn’t want to see him moping around. Anyway, he didn’t go back to work full-time—he said he was too old for that—but he has a few regulars in the local area and he does a couple of days most weeks.
“He missed her terribly of course, but he was generally pretty happy.” She turned to Warren and her tone became pleading. “Why would anyone kill him? He was a lovely man. Nobody had a bad word for him.”
“We don’t know yet. That’s what we hope to find out.” He paused delicately. “Do you have a list of his clients? What about friends and family who didn’t drink with him down the Merchants’ Arms?”
“I don’t know all of his clients, but he was pretty scrupulous about his accounts. I imagine he has a list somewhere. As to his friends, I’m not really sure. He’s lived here pretty much all of his life and most of his friends are regulars at the pub. I suppose he may have kept in touch with people he worked with at the council, but when he was self-employed he worked alone.”
“What about family?”
“Nobody close. My dad was his only immediate family and like I said he didn’t have any kids of his own. We have a few other aunts and uncles that we see at Christmas and New Year, but we don’t really keep in touch.” The tears were back. “He was all I had.”
The young woman put her head in her hands, mumbling apologies as her shoulders shook.
Warren glanced at Karen Hardwick, who got up and placed an arm around the distraught woman’s shoulders.
“Do you have anyone we can call? A friend perhaps, a partner maybe?”
She shook her head and laughed bitterly. “No boyfriend if that’s what you’re asking. That boat sailed long ago and Uncle Reggie would never forgive me if I called him up. I don’t even have a cat.” She suddenly looked up. “What about Smiths? Has anyone fed her?”
“Smiths?”
“Uncle Reggie’s Border collie. He always calls his dogs after his favourite pint at the time they were born. Unfortunately she was a bitch and he couldn’t really call her John, could he?”
Warren shifted uncomfortably. Clearly nobody had told her the full story of how her uncle had been found. “I’m very sorry, but Reggie was found with the body of a dog. It looks as though he was walking it when he was attacked.”
It’s funny how it’s sometimes the smaller things that are the trigger. Tabitha Williamson let out a low moan, before slumping forward. This time there were no apologies for her perceived weakness as the tears finally flowed freely, sobs shaking her slight frame.
It was several minutes before the young woman was able to regain control long enough to select the number of a girlfriend from her phone’s contacts and pass it over to Karen Hardwick to arrange for her to come over.
Whilst they waited, Warren boiled the kettle again. He didn’t want to leave the young woman alone until he was certain that somebody else could take over. However, on the face of it, hand-holding wasn’t really the best use of a senior detective’s time. Fortunately, he still had more questions he wanted to ask.
“Tell me about this boyfriend,” he said once the coffee had started to perform its magic.
She snorted. “Not one of my better decisions. I should have ended it long before I did—God knows Uncle Reggie didn’t mince his words.” She stared into space. “What can I say? I was in love—or at least I thought I was. I know now, looking back on it, I was just afraid of being alone.” She smiled tightly. “It’s a funny birthday thirty—makes you think about life and the future.”
The speech was smooth, well-thought-out; no doubt the relationship had been dissected thoroughly in the past few months, probably in this very kitchen with the help of friends and wine.
“So Reggie didn’t like him? Why?”
“No big mystery. He was a bit of an arsehole.” She shrugged. “We met in a club in town about two years ago. It was lust at first sight as they say.” She sighed. “Dark hair, Spanish, looked great in a tight T-shirt. He even had the right sort of name: ‘Mateo Menendez’—what can I say?” She looked over at Karen Hardwick who smiled sympathetically.
“Anyway, it was your classic whirlwind romance. Expensive meals, presents, weekends away; I thought I’d really found the one. I guess I should have listened to Uncle Reggie.”
“He didn’t approve?”
She shook her head. “No. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see me happy—quite the opposite—but he didn’t trust him. Said he was too flashy. I just assumed that he was being over-protective.”
“What went wrong?”
“Uncle Reggie was right. He was too flashy. All style and no substance—or as Reggie put it in the end, ‘all flash and no cash’.”
“He took advantage?” Warren could see where this was leading.
She nodded. “After about six months, he said that the lease was up on his flat and so he moved in here. The funny thing was, although he was no longer paying rent on his own place he never really contributed here. When I brought it up, he offered to pay the bills, you know, gas, electricity, council tax and all of that. It was probably about equivalent to half the rent, so I agreed.
“Everything seemed fine for about six months until one day the broadband stopped working. Mateo said he’d deal with it, but a few weeks later it went off again. It was the school holidays and I was at home during the day whilst Mateo was out. I picked up the post. There was a red demand from TalkTalk and another from the electricity company.
“I asked Mateo about it again and he said it was a bank error.” She shook her head. “I actually took him at his word; can you believe that?”
“He wasn’t paying the bills?”
“Oh it was worse than that. When he did pay off a bill, he was using one of those payday loans companies—you know those loan sharks that lend you money, no questions asked, then charge you thousands of per cent interest? Want to guess whose name was on the account? And of course I hadn’t been making the minimum payments because I didn’t know about it. When the bailiffs turned up I had to use pretty much my entire life savings to stop them repossessing the flat and everything in it.”
Her grief had turned to a palpable anger. “It’s not just the money; it’s the stain on my record. My credit file is an absolute mess; nine months on and I’m still writing letters every week trying to sort it all out.”
“Where is this Mateo now?”
“The bastard is back with the mother of his two kids—two kids I knew nothing about. It turns out that when I thought he was out at work, he was around there playing happy families, trying to get back with her.” Her voice quietened. “I don’t know if I should be angry with her or sorry for her. I’m sure he’s fleecing her just like he did me.”
“And Reggie knew about this?”
“Yes, he helped me move all of Mateo’s belongings out. In fact it was his idea to give all of the stuff to the bailiffs when they turned up.” She smiled grimly. “A small victory I suppose, but you take them where you can.”
It was another ten minutes before Tabitha Williamson’s best friend arrived and Warren and Hardwick were able to make their excuses and leave.
“Well at least we have one name for the whiteboard,” Karen Hardwick said as they left the flat and headed back to the car.
Warren was thoughtful. “Maybe. The question is: if this Mateo Menendez was the killer, what made him snap nine months after he split up with Reggie Williamson’s niece?”
Chapter 4 (#ulink_616c7ae8-648d-50e7-a804-c5a780cc24d7)
Mateo Menendez was much the way that Tabitha Williamson had described him—dark, tightly built and rather too flash for Warren’s taste. Despite his supposed Spanish upbringing, he spoke with a local accent. What she hadn’t mentioned was how small his head was. It was all that Warren could do not to stare openly at him. Karen Hardwick fussed with the tape recorder, studiously not looking his way.
Warren knew that the science of phrenology—the diagnosing of a person’s intelligence by the shape of their skull—had long since been discredited. Similarly, within reason a person’s hat size had no bearing on their intelligence. Still, Warren found himself wondering how a full-size human brain could fit inside such a small skull. Up close the man’s mass of tight, black, curly hair did little to hide it.
“Do you know this man?” Warren slid a recent photograph of Reggie Williamson across the desk. Tabitha Williamson had described an arrogant man, self-assured and full of self-confidence. True to form, he’d declined a solicitor for the interview, claiming he had nothing to hide. Therefore, Warren had decided against arresting the man. He would do so if he was unsatisfied with the man’s answers, but until now Menendez was merely helping with inquiries. Just as importantly, the twenty-four hour time limit for charging a suspect didn’t start until he was formally arrested and read his rights.
Menendez barely glanced at the photograph. “Sure, Reggie Williamson. I dated his niece for a while.” The answer was smooth, unhurried. Warren’s hope that he might catch the man out in an easy lie had yet to bear fruit.
“And would you say that you and Mr Williamson had a good relationship? How did he react when you and his niece broke up?”
Menendez shrugged. “Reggie’s a nice enough bloke. He wasn’t very happy when Tabby and I split up, but that’s to be expected, I suppose.”
Assuming that Tabitha Williamson was to be believed, that was a significant understatement of how Reggie Williamson had felt about Menendez. However, it wasn’t an overt lie. The jury was still out on the man’s honesty.
“Can you tell us why you and Ms Williamson split up?”
For the first time, Menendez’s cocky façade cracked. “Is this about Tabby? Is she OK? Has something happened to her?”
Warren ignored Menendez’s question and repeated his own.
“We weren’t getting along for a while. I got back with the mother of my kids—we decided to make a go of it again.”
Again, something of a deviation from Tabitha Williamson’s version of events, but he wasn’t really lying, just downplaying some of the more unpleasant details to show himself in a better light—hardly an indication of guilt.
Warren decided to change tack.
“Tell me, what state were your finances in when you left Ms Williamson?”
“I don’t see that’s any of your business, Detective.”
“No, you’re right. I apologise.” Warren smiled briefly. “What I meant was, are you employed at the moment or were you back when you dated Ms Williamson?”
“I’m unemployed at the moment; I’ve been out of full-time work for about two and a half years. I’m signed up to an employment agency, but there’s bugger all around here. I work when I can.”
Still no obvious lies.
“Did Ms Williamson know about this when you started dating?”
Menendez licked his lips. “Sure, I guess so. We never really spoke about it.”
“Seems strange that you dated all of that time and it never came up in conversation.”
Menendez squirmed slightly. “Well we had a very passionate relationship.” He turned his gaze on Hardwick and smiled, showing a suspiciously white set of teeth. “You know how it is, everything’s exciting and you’re in love. You don’t talk about the little details.”
“Like paying the bills or taking out payday loans in somebody else’s name?”
Menendez returned his attention to Warren. “Is that what this is all about? We had an agreement and now she’s trying to claim that I set it all up in her name without her consent.” His voice dropped. “I feel really bad about hurting her.” He turned his attention back to Hardwick. “I loved her and didn’t want to upset her, but I also love my kids and when I got a chance to become a part of their lives again, well I had to take it. I’m sure you can understand.”
“No, not really.” Hardwick’s tone was unyielding.
Menendez turned his attention back to Warren, giving up on Hardwick for the time being. “Look, we were short of cash at the end of the month. The bills were all in my name, so when we arranged the loan, we transferred it directly into my account so that it could be paid out immediately, rather than having to wait for Tabby to transfer it from her account.”
“So why didn’t you just arrange the loan in your name?”
He snorted. “I’m unemployed. Even payday loan companies have some standards.”
Warren doubted that the man’s story would stand up to serious scrutiny. He was sure that there would be a voice recording somewhere with Menendez’s voice making all of the arrangements. It was interesting how a male caller had managed to set up the deal on behalf of a female client. However, that wasn’t what he and Hardwick were here for.
“Tell me, Mateo. Where were you Thursday evening?”
The man thought for a moment. “I took the kids out to Maccy D’s then they played in the park until it got dark, then we went home. Candy—that’s my girlfriend, Candice—was out doing her Zumba class, so I put the kids to bed and watched TV.”
“Which park was that?”
“The kiddie play park up on the common.”
“And can either of the children vouch for your whereabouts?”
Menendez stared at him. “Tyson is three and a half. He can just about string a sentence together. Jayden is two. She still sleeps in nappies. What do you think they’re going to tell you?”
Despite the man’s protestations, Warren felt a slight thrill. Menendez had been on Middlesbury Common on the night that Reggie Williamson had been killed and so far had no alibi.
* * *
Questioning of Reggie Williamson’s drinking partners had revealed nothing of interest. He and Smiths had been regulars at the Merchants’ Arms for as long as anyone could remember, popping by most nights for a pint after a brisk walk. Few people like to speak ill of the dead, but it truly seemed nobody had a bad word to say about Reggie. Sociable, but not too loud; generous enough to get his round in and pop a quid in the charity box, but not flashy; willing to chat about current events and engage in a bit of bar-room philosophy, but with fairly mainstream views and not too opinionated. A useful darts player who’d won more than his fair share of pub quizzes, he was usually gracious enough to share his winnings—a round of drinks—with the runners-up.
A few of the regulars had known him as he’d nursed his wife, when his trips to the pub had dwindled to once week. When she finally passed away, everyone had given a few pounds to Alzheimer’s Research in her memory, at his request. Since then there had been nobody special that anybody knew of.
His conversation and demeanour in the past few weeks had been apparently unchanged. The only source of concern he’d mentioned was Smiths’ advancing years—she’d been slowing down lately and had a couple of accidents.
“All in all, a pretty normal bloke who it seemed got on with his life and didn’t rub people up the wrong way,” summarised Tony Sutton.
“Thanks, Tony. Pete, what have you got for us?” Detective Sergeant Kent was the unit’s resident expert on the use of the various databases that the force had access to. A squat man in his mid fifties with thinning hair that was more than compensated for by a full beard, he was edging close to retirement and had been helping train Detective Constable Gary Hastings in recent months. He was the officer in charge of coordinating information that came into the major incident desk that he’d help set up the previous night.
“Not a lot. He was basically unknown to us. Our only contact was a naughty drivers’ course after being flashed by a speed camera on Hills Road in Cambridge—but then haven’t we all had that?” There were a few smiles, some sheepish, around the room. The stretch of road alongside Homerton College and the sixth form was notorious for its rigorously enforced thirty miles per hour limit—a necessary precaution given the number of darkly dressed, drink-addled student cyclists without lights wobbling up the road at all hours.
“I contacted the council who confirmed that he worked for them for many years until taking early retirement to care for his wife, when he drew a reduced pension. A fair few in the Estates department remembered him and they’ve given us a list of people he worked with regularly.
“On a similar note, forensics are still searching his house. Nothing of interest yet, but they have found the box file that he used to keep track of his part-time gardening jobs. Documents analysis are going through it and compiling a list of customer contacts.”
“Good, pass them on to Tony when you have them to set up interviews. Anything else?”
“The remainder of the mobile phone data from the cell dump is being collated as we speak, but there’s not a lot we can do with it until we get a more precise time of death. Those cell towers serve hundreds of houses each. We’re looking at over a million individual network access requests for the twenty-four hours between Thursday afternoon and Friday alone. Bloody smartphones, pinging Twitter every ten seconds to check if Beyoncé’s changed her hair.”
Warren thanked him quickly, knowing that if he didn’t cut him off now they could be in for a lengthy grumble about the frivolous use of modern technology and its impact on modern policing.
So far nothing. Were they looking at a random stabbing after all? Warren hoped not. With no extrinsic motive or apparent link to the victim, such a killer would be hard to find. The explanation gnawed at him, however. The careful hiding of the body and the fact that no witnesses had come forward suggested that if the killer was mentally disturbed, they were still in possession of at least some of their faculties. It seemed a fair degree of planning and forethought had gone into the attack.
They needed a motive.
“Then it looks as if our best bet so far is Mateo Menendez—an unemployed love rat and small-time fraudster who did the dirty on Reggie Williamson’s niece, Tabitha, and saddled her with large debts before going back to the mother of his two kids. A real charmer.” He smiled slightly. “He made quite an impression on DC Hardwick.”
“Not a good one. I need a shower.”
“Any reason to suspect him, other than possible conflict with her uncle?” asked DS Hutchinson after the chuckles had died down.
“By his own admission, he was with the kids up the common Thursday afternoon. Unfortunately, he claims to have gone home when it got dark, which is a good hour before Reggie Williamson’s mobile phone lost contact with the network. He says he was in McDonald’s before he went to the park, feeding his two toddlers something appropriately healthy and nutritious. We’re waiting for the restaurant’s CCTV footage to see if he was there when he said he was.”
“Where is he now?” asked DS Margaret Richardson, a mother of two, her expression clearly conveying what she thought of Menendez’s dietary choices for his young offspring.
“Downstairs. I’m going to bail him for further questioning. He’s co-operating so we haven’t arrested him yet and he still hasn’t asked for a lawyer, despite being advised of his rights. Either he’s as arrogant as Tabitha Williamson says, he’s incredibly naïve or he’s innocent. Maybe all three. As soon as we get a time of death, we’ll start picking away at his alibi.”
* * *
A cause and time of death became available late that evening. Professor Ryan Jordan was one of a number of Home Office Certified Pathologists used by Beds and Herts Major Crime Unit and Warren was pleased to see that he’d picked up the case. Not only was the middle-aged American highly competent and easy to work with, he didn’t insist on holding meetings in the morgue.
It wasn’t that Warren was particularly squeamish—he wouldn’t have been staring at the A4 colour photographs spread across his desk otherwise, he told himself—however, he’d rarely seen the need to see the victim’s dissected remains up close and personal. He’d much rather have high-resolution photographs, pre-interpreted by experts far more qualified than he.
“The cause of death was fairly straightforward—single stab wound to the heart. Dead before he hit the ground. There would have been lots of blood, so the attacker’s clothes would have been soaked, although the heart will have stopped pumping pretty much instantly so once he dropped there shouldn’t have been a huge puddle.”
Warren remembered the blood smears on the grass and the relatively small patch on the tarmac pathway. “Given the lack of blood spatter on the path away from the pool where we think he fell, would that be consistent with his attacker standing in front of him?”
“I’d say so. If he’d been attacked from behind—” Jordan mimed a stabbing action towards his own body “—he’d have sprayed at least some blood forward, leaving marks on the sidewalk. It looks as though his killer caught the brunt of it.”
Warren made a note on his pad. A search was already underway to comb bins and possible hiding places for discarded garments. There might also be spots of blood leading away from the scene of the attack. There hadn’t been any rain and so they might still be visible. He made a note to request a fingertip search to find any such trace.
Assuming they found a suspect, perhaps they had been seen trying to clean clothes or dispose of rubbish unexpectedly.
“What about defensive marks?”
“None that we can find.”
“So his killer took him by surprise. Do we have any information about the murder weapon?”
“From the size of the laceration, we’re talking about something sharp with a five- to six-inch blade. Not too wide, but pointed. No serrations. We’ve not found any traces of rust in the wound and, unfortunately, the nature of the attack means that it missed any bones or ribs, so there aren’t any metal fragments that would allow us to identify the knife more precisely.” Jordan shrugged. “I suspect that we’re looking at a run-of-the-mill stainless steel kitchen knife, unused, or at least well cleaned before the attack. Assuming there was any premeditation, it may have been bought anywhere from a supermarket chain to a hardware store. Find me the weapon and I might be able tell you more, but until then I’m speculating.”
Warren sighed. They’d found the victim’s wallet, but nothing else. “So it could still be a bog-standard, mugging gone wrong?”
Jordan shook his head. “I’m not so sure.” He picked up the folder that he’d brought the photographs in. “Leaving aside all the inconsistencies, the precision of the killing worries me—a single stab wound to the heart. It’s very clean. Straight into the diaphragm, missing the sternum and ribs, but angled upward directly into the heart. Ordinarily, I’d be happy to dismiss that as good luck. But there’s also the dog.”
“How was it killed? I didn’t see any blood.”
Jordan pulled out another sheet of paper. “According to the vet, its neck was broken. A shattered jaw suggests a single kick, snapping its head back with such force the cervical vertebrae were fractured.”
Warren felt a chill go down his back. “What are you suggesting, Professor?”
“A perfectly targeted, instantly fatal single stab wound to the heart with no opportunity for the victim to defend himself and a precisely killed dog, both concealed quickly with little trace evidence left behind—I think we’re dealing with a trained killer.”
Tuesday 27 March
Chapter 5 (#ulink_b5db8c07-f243-5e3e-a663-9dd4b713ce0c)
Warren was back at his desk well before seven a.m. Tuesday morning. The proverbial ticking of the clock had weighed heavily on his mind the previous night, resulting in broken and restless sleep. By late afternoon Menendez had been getting impatient and making noises about getting a lawyer so Warren had authorised his release, knowing that if Menendez was innocent, the suspect column would soon be empty. Before he left, Warren broke the news of Reggie Williamson’s murder to him. The man’s look of incredulity, then horror as he realised that he had been a suspect, strengthened Warren’s suspicion that he was not who he was looking for. Regardless, he had been unable to resist one last dig at the man who had caused Tabitha Williamson so much misery and was probably fleecing the hapless Candice even now.
“I have my eye on you, Menendez. If your name comes across my desk in future, I’ll remember. And I’ll be happy to pass on the details of anyone else you’ve been ripping off.”
It was an empty threat. Low-level identity theft and fraud never came anywhere near Warren’s desk—but Menendez didn’t know that. He’d looked suitably shaken as he left.
It was a small victory, but at the moment, Warren was taking them where he could.
By six a.m, Warren had finally given up on sleep and slipped out early, taking care not to wake Susan.
Professor Jordan had calculated a preliminary time of death roughly sixty to seventy hours before the body was found, which, allowing for the weekend’s clock change, made it between about eight p.m. on the Thursday evening and four on the Friday morning. The range fitted with Williamson’s mobile phone leaving the network at eight-thirty on the Thursday.
It had got dark at approximately six-fifteen that evening, which if Menendez was to be believed was the time at which he had left the park and returned home. Candice, his partner, had returned from her Zumba class just after nine-thirty and confirmed that Menendez had been sprawled across the sofa watching TV.
Warren had passed on the details of Menendez’s mobile phone to the team working their way through the cell dump and was waiting to see if it would confirm his movements. Fortunately, the man was an avid social networker and his phone regularly connected itself to the network to look for new content. The team had already confirmed that the common and the flat Menendez shared with his partner were far enough apart for the phone to use different cell towers at the different locations.
The search of the common by the forensic team had not found any more clues within a two-hundred-metre radius of the body’s dumping spot, and DSI Grayson had authorised the cost of emptying all of the bins within a kilometre radius. It was almost a certainty that the killer would have had to dispose of heavily bloodied clothes and possibly even the murder weapon. Unless he’d covered himself up, he was unlikely to have walked too far before doing so; even in the dark, the chances of being seen would have been too great for any sane person to have risked it, Warren decided. Warren just hoped that the killer was at least partly sane. Otherwise all bets were off.
He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. It was getting long; it probably needed a cut. Too late for that now. The press conference was scheduled for the late morning. Grayson, as usual, had mysteriously disappeared the previous afternoon and Warren was willing to bet good money that he’d be immaculately groomed for the cameras later.
There had been little to report overnight and he didn’t expect anything until after the morning briefing, so Warren poured himself another coffee and settled down to do some paperwork. He chafed at the forced inaction, but took solace in the fact that if he could shrink his inbox to a more manageable size now he would be able to focus more clearly on the days and weeks ahead. That was the theory at least.
DSI Grayson still hadn’t appeared by the time that Warren needed to leave Middlesbury to travel down to Welwyn Garden City for the press conference and Grayson’s mobile was going straight to voicemail. This suited Warren fine, as he could drive himself down to the County’s Headquarters. The cost of petrol was well worth it to avoid the terror of the high-speed jaunt down the A1 that Grayson favoured. The superintendent had the unsettling habit of finding the most reckless drivers in the pool, authorising use of blues and twos, then settling back and calmly playing with his Blackberry, whilst Warren—not a happy passenger at the best of times—would find himself stamping on an imaginary brake pedal all the way.
Tabitha Williamson and Karen Hardwick were waiting for him when he arrived. The young DC had insisted on driving around to pick Tabitha up, despite technically being off duty.
Grayson was apparently somewhere in the building in a meeting. Warren knew nothing about it, which suggested it was unlikely to be connected to the day-to-day workings of Middlesbury CID. Laying the groundwork for that next promotion, Warren thought sourly, before mentally pinching himself for his uncharitable thoughts—the meeting could be about anything from budget setting to a statistical analysis of their latest performance figures. If that was the case, Grayson was welcome to it.
Tabitha Williamson was nervous and pale, but nonetheless adamant that she wanted to make an appeal for information. The Force’s press officer therefore took her away to familiarise her with the set-up of the briefing room and explain to her what to expect. Karen Hardwick went with her.
“She’s turning into a fine young officer, that Karen Hardwick.” Grayson had pulled his uncanny trick of managing to appear, ghost-like and without Warren noticing. He was glad that the unit’s commander had noticed her.
“She is. She’s got good instincts. Having said that, she’s doing the role of a family liaison officer, which isn’t her job. I know Reggie Williamson wasn’t Tabitha Williamson’s father and he didn’t bring her up, but she’s pretty vulnerable. Any chance that we can get an FLO authorised to support her?”
Grayson pursed his lips; the money didn’t come out of Middlesbury CID’s budget, but it had to come from somewhere and Grayson was the one who’d have to ask for it.
“I’ll look into it.” No sort of answer really, but at least it wasn’t a flat no.
By the time the press arrived, Tabitha Williamson had been prepared as much as possible and they took their seats. Warren had a feeling that information from the public could be what would turn the case and so they needed to make the story as newsworthy as possible. The inclusion of a photograph of Smiths and images of the grieving Tabitha Williamson would hopefully gain the story a few more column inches in the newspapers and a few more seconds on the local news.
They needed all the help they could get; Warren couldn’t help comparing the half-filled room of bored journalists in front of him, waiting to hear about the death of a retired gardener in his sixties, to the packed and jostling crowd that had demanded information about the pretty, young, blonde women who had started disappearing before Christmas.
The press conference was over in time for the early evening news bulletins and first editions of the next day’s papers and, finally, Warren was free to return to CID. It was hardly worth it. A cursory read of his team’s summaries of the interviews conducted with Reggie Williamson’s former acquaintances revealed nothing of any interest. The office was depressingly quiet. He stifled a yawn and glanced at his watch; the local news was due to start in twenty minutes or so. Time to go home, he decided, fighting down a brief twinge of guilt. His team had his number if anything important turned up and there was no point sitting there twiddling his thumbs. Perhaps he’d be able to sleep a bit better this evening? Turning off his computer and grabbing his jacket, Warren felt a familiar sensation of frustration. Day three of the investigation was almost over and almost nothing was happening. Not a good sign. Let’s hope for something from the public appeal, he prayed as he turned his office light off.
* * *
Despite his best intentions, Warren had been unable to resist accessing his email, reading the various reports as they entered his inbox and before he knew it, it was late again. He rubbed his eyes. They were at the slightly stinging stage. From experience he knew that the next stage was grittiness, then bloodshot then blurred vision. He had a suspicion that this would be one of those times. On the way home, he’d stopped off at the garage and bought some paracetamol. Headaches were almost guaranteed over the next few weeks and he wanted to be prepared. What a job. At least he could look forward to a quiet time at home—or at least that’s what he’d expected.
“Mum and Dad are coming down for a few days, at the end of the Easter holidays to celebrate their wedding anniversary,” Susan had announced as they prepared for bed. “They’re going to spend a few days with us before spending some time with Felicity.”
Warren had managed not to groan out loud, but his expression had given him away. Susan had pouted—she found her domineering mother to be as hard work as Warren did, but that didn’t mean he was allowed to criticise her.
“Sorry sweetheart, it’s just bad timing. I’d hate for this thing to get in the way of the celebrations.”
Susan had been somewhat mollified, but she had done the sums the same as Warren; the school Easter holidays started at the end of the week, with the long weekend a week later.
“Is this going to be a big one, do you think?” she’d asked after the press conference had been aired on Look East, earlier that evening.
Warren had only been able to nod. His gut was telling him that it was going to be a protracted investigation. The lack of progress so far had deflated him somewhat. Their plans for the Easter vacation would be on hold; at least they hadn’t booked to go away anywhere.
Susan had picked up on his mood. “You looked handsome tonight—I can’t understand why they don’t give you more screen time,” she teased lightly.
“I can never compete with a Border collie, you know that.”
Just as he’d predicted, Smiths had received almost as much screen time as Reggie Williamson—more if you counted the fact that she was also in the photograph of Reggie. Still, if it jogged a few more memories or made a few more people look in their bins or gardens for discarded items of bloodied clothing, Reggie Williamson’s mobile phone or the murder weapon then it had done its job. As usual, Warren had found himself relegated to the background, behind John Grayson, who was resplendent in a freshly starched dress uniform. That suited him fine, he mused as he lay back on the pillow, willing sleep to take him.
Wednesday 28 March
Chapter 6 (#ulink_0cb95167-e466-5936-92c2-ef31ab71b5df)
The third dawn briefing since the discovery of Reggie Williamson’s body was a low-key affair. If, as they believed, he had been killed Thursday evening it was coming up on six days since his murder. Aside from the increasingly unlikely Mateo Menendez, there were still no suspects. CCTV from McDonald’s had shown Menendez with his two young children tucking into their fast food at about four p.m, verifying that part of his story. The confirmation said nothing about his whereabouts at the critical time surrounding the murder, but catching him out in a lie at this stage would have made Warren immediately suspicious.
The search area had been widened; they still hadn’t found his mobile phone or the murder weapon. Teams of uniformed officers were still knocking on doors, but nobody seemed to remember anything. As always the press conference had generated a flurry of calls, which were being sifted through, but aside from a confession, nothing of immediate note had been offered.
As for the admission of guilt, the call taker had wryly noted that it had been logged alongside the caller’s previous claims. If the more—“eccentric”—members of the community ever thought to use a different phone, then the call taker’s job would be more difficult, since they’d be forced to actually investigate the call rather than simply cross-referencing the caller ID against the “Loony List”.
As Warren left the briefing room, Tony Sutton came alongside him.
“Can I have a private word?”
The older man looked tired; in his left hand he carried a white envelope.
Warren motioned him into his office and sat down behind his desk. Sutton took the visitor’s chair directly opposite. The man’s hands were trembling slightly.
“Sounds serious,” Warren offered after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence.
“This arrived in the post this morning.”
Sutton pushed the envelope across the table. Now face up, the scales of justice logo of the Crown Prosecution Service was clearly visible. Warren slipped out the single sheet of A4 typed paper and read the contents quickly. It was a summons ordering Sutton to appear as a witness for the prosecution in the trial of Detective Chief Inspector Gavin Sheehy on charges of corruption and misconduct in a public office.
“Damn. We always knew it was a possibility. What do you think they want with you?”
Sutton took a deep breath. “They’re going to hang him out to dry, make an example of him. Rumour has it they want me to testify that in the months leading up to his arrest he was secretive and non-communicative. That he received phone calls at odd times and kept on disappearing.”
Warren sat back and eyed the detective inspector with concern. He knew how much his predecessor—Sutton’s mentor—had meant to him. Warren had never met the man; rather he had been parachuted in, newly promoted, the previous summer after DCI Sheehy had been arrested and removed from his post.
The arrest had come as a massive shock to the small, close-knit CID unit operating out of Middlesbury police station. Sheehy’s friend and subordinate Tony Sutton had been arrested also, before being released without charge after a brief investigation. Sutton had felt betrayed and hurt after the man he admired so greatly—who had in fact persuaded him to apply to join CID years before—had been accused of corruption.
The repercussions from Sheehy’s arrest cut deep, Warren soon found out after his arrival, threatening the very existence of the unit he had headed.
Middlesbury CID was something of an anomaly. Some years previously, the police forces of Hertfordshire and the adjacent county, Bedfordshire, had decided to pool their resources and formed a new, single Major Crime Unit, operating out of Welwyn Garden City. Faced with the closure of what he believed to be a unique and essential service in the very north of the county, DCI Gavin Sheehy had successfully fought against the closure of the small, but effective CID unit housed at Middlesbury police station. The result had been a highly focused, local team able to respond rapidly to major crimes in Middlesbury and the many little villages that surrounded the area.
With its extensive local knowledge and close ties to the community, the squad proved highly effective in reducing and solving crime. Nevertheless, it was expensive and Sheehy’s uncompromising style had won him many enemies—enemies who were now circling, using Sheehy’s recent disgrace as evidence that the team should be disbanded and absorbed into the main major crime unit. The result was that the unit was effectively ‘on probation’, having to prove its worth. Detective Superintendent John Grayson was assigned to oversee the unit. If his job was to be impartial about the role of the unit, then he was a good choice—nobody could divine if he was in favour or against the continued existence of the team. Many suspected that the survival of the unit was linked directly to Grayson’s perception of its usefulness to his own career goals.
None of this had been explained to Warren of course, who had been promoted to DCI the previous summer, moving from the West Midlands Police to fill the role vacated by Sheehy. It had been presented as a golden opportunity to gain command experience for the ambitious young officer; he had been ill-prepared for the maelstrom of local politics that awaited him upon his arrival.
Tony Sutton, smarting from the betrayal by Sheehy and the humiliation of his own, brief arrest, had been suspicious of Warren, assuming that he was there to covertly make recommendations about the future of the unit. The two men had butted heads over Warren’s management of his first major crime, resulting in an explosive encounter between them. Since then, the two officers had grown to respect and like one another and, to his surprise, Warren had found himself warming to his new command and was starting to regard it as more than just a stepping stone to bigger things.
“So the court case starts next month? How do you feel about it?”
Sutton sighed. “I’m torn. The bastard deserves to go down—but I still can’t quite believe it.”
“What do you think they’ll ask you about? The investigation cleared you of any involvement.”
“Yeah, but it’s still going to look bad for me. I was his friend and his immediate subordinate—people are going to question why I didn’t suspect anything. You know how mud sticks—people will think either I was in on it or I’m a fool.”
Sutton shook his head. “Maybe I was. I didn’t spot the signs—or rather I chose to ignore them. The sudden phone calls, the unexplained absences…” He snorted derisively. “I thought he was having a bloody affair.” He shrugged. “I didn’t approve, but then who am I to lecture?”
Warren nodded in sympathy. Sutton was right. He had a chequered history when it came to extra-marital affairs. His first marriage had imploded after Sutton had indulged in a drunken one-night stand. Years later he was still rebuilding the pieces of that relationship and Warren knew that he felt ashamed and guilty, even as he and his former wife forged new relationships and co-operated to bring up their teenage son.
“Well, Tony, you know that you have my support.”
Sutton nodded. “Thanks, Boss. I guess I’ll just have to tell the truth, answer their questions and let the cards fall where they may.”
* * *
His conversation with Tony Sutton had left Warren feeling downbeat. As much to clear his head and stretch his legs as to fulfil his caffeine and sugar needs, Warren decided to treat himself to a decent coffee and Danish pastry from the canteen, rather than simply adding another fifty-pence piece to the honesty jar next to the communal coffee urn. At last count, there had been twelve pounds fifty in the jar—all of it Warren’s.
There was a copy of the Middlesbury edition of the Cambridge News lying on a table. Reggie Williamson’s picture—the one with Smiths naturally—took up over half of the front page, along with a suitably lurid headline. The story was continued on page three, where another picture—this one a long-lens shot of white-suited CSIs working the scene up on the common—dominated.
The story was essentially a report of the press conference, along with a few tributes from various drinkers in the Merchants’ Arms.
The shrill ringing of Warren’s mobile phone made him jump.
“It’s Tony, Boss. Where are you?” The DI’s voice was excited, with no hint of the depression he had been exhibiting barely minutes ago.
“Downstairs in the canteen.” Warren felt a thrill go through him; he hadn’t been away from his desk for five minutes. Sutton wouldn’t have called him on his mobile unless it was extremely urgent.
“It looks like we were too hasty releasing Mateo Menendez yesterday.”
* * *
Mateo Menendez was extremely unhappy about being picked up for a second time. This time he refused to come voluntarily and Warren was given no choice but to serve the arrest warrant that Grayson had signed. He immediately requested a lawyer.
By the time a police solicitor had been arranged, a search of the flat that Menendez shared with his partner and their two young children was well underway and the life and background of the Spanish national was under the spotlight, with records requested from Spanish sources as well as UK authorities. His girlfriend was currently being questioned and specialist officers were assessing whether the older of the two children, three-and-a-half-year-old Tyson, would be any use as a witness.
The paper-suited man in front of Warren and Sutton was a lot less confident now. His clothes had been collected for evidence and his mobile phone, which had been so helpful up to this point, had now been formally confiscated and was undergoing rigorous forensic examination at the computer crime division in Welwyn Garden City. Twenty-four hours previously, the young man had been unpleasantly arrogant, even trying to flirt with Karen Hardwick. Now he just looked scared.
“Before we start, I would like to know why my client has been called in again. In his last interview—which he gave without counsel present, I might add—it was established that Mr Menendez was at home at the time of the attack on the unfortunate Mr Williamson.”
Warren ignored the implied rebuke concerning the previous interview. The recording on the PACE tape recorder would clearly show that Warren had advised Menendez of his rights; furthermore, he had not been under arrest at the time.
“Mr Menendez, I would be grateful if you could describe again your movements on the night of Thursday the twenty-second.”
Menendez licked his lips nervously. “No comment.”
“Are you sure about that, Mateo? We have you on tape already. I just want to clarify a few details.”
He glanced over at his solicitor, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
“It’s like I said, I took the kids to McDonald’s then to the park up on the common. Then when it got dark, I took the kids back to Candy’s and put them to bed.”
“And are there any witnesses who can corroborate this?” It was the first thing that Tony Sutton had said after identifying himself for the tape.
Menendez hissed in frustration. “We’ve already been through this. The kids are too young, but Candy saw me when she came in about half nine.”
Warren watched the man closely. On the face of it, his reaction was appropriate, but it seemed forced. As if he knew what reaction was expected of him and didn’t want to disappoint.
He decided to give the man a bit more rope to hang himself with. “Just to be clear; the sun goes down about quarter past six this time of the year. Are you saying that you left Middlesbury Common and returned to your partner’s flat, number 27b Eastcotes Terrace, at that time? It’s not very far; did you go home directly?”
The man’s eye twitched slightly. “Yes, straight home.”
“So you would have been in from about what, six-thirtyish until your partner returned from Zumba a bit after nine-thirty?” Sutton again.
“About that.”
“Did you stay in for the rest of the night?”
“Yes, we watched a bit of telly and then went to bed.”
“And again, can your partner corroborate this.”
“Absolutely.” The man’s voice was confident again.
Warren nodded and scribbled on the notepad in front of him.
“OK, you’ve been very helpful, Mr Menendez.”
The man blinked in surprise.
“Am I free to go?”
His solicitor, an experienced-looking middle-aged woman narrowed her eyes slightly, but said nothing.
“Just one more thing,” Sutton spoke up. “Do you carry your mobile phone with you at all times?”
Before his solicitor could interject, the man nodded his head.
“Yeah, ’course. Who doesn’t?”
“And you had it with you on Thursday evening?”
“May I ask where this is going, DCI Jones?” Menendez’s solicitor was looking decidedly anxious now and was directing her question to the senior officer in the room. She had clearly worked out what was happening, even if her client hadn’t.
“Just clarifying something,” responded Sutton. Warren said nothing.
“Like I said, yeah I carry it everywhere. I definitely had it Thursday.”
Now it was Warren’s turn to speak up. “Given everything that you’ve told us, could you explain why cell-tower triangulation places your smartphone at Middlesbury Common from ten past five until almost twenty past nine and that your partner thinks that you lied about bathing the children that evening?”
Thursday 29 March
Chapter 7 (#ulink_fd13d2c2-73b8-50e9-b679-966cc200b2b6)
Warren and Sutton’s elation lasted barely twelve hours. Nine a.m. the following morning found them perched between piles of unironed clothes on the edge of a suspiciously grubby sofa. Every surface in the flat, the two detectives included, was covered by hairs from the numerous cats wandering around the dwelling. The smell of cat’s pee and old food was poorly masked by cheap air freshener and cigarette smoke.
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 31 March
Chapter 8 (#ulink_7bc57d1e-8371-5764-ad43-8c1fed94897a)
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.”
Chapter 9 (#ulink_287d8419-fa1d-5102-bab7-db459019bacd)
Warren stared at the man, taking in his dishevelled appearance; his scruffy grey beard and unkempt hair were both in desperate need of a good trim and the man’s face was lined, with dark smudges beneath his eyes. Eyes that were slightly bloodshot, Warren noted. Up close the man’s cologne was almost overwhelming and he smelled as if he’d just eaten two whole packets of extra-strong mints.
“I thought you said that you had information about Reggie Williamson?” Warren ignored the man’s proffered hand. He was surprised at the intense feelings of anger he felt towards the man. Police corruption was something that Warren had felt strongly about ever since he’d joined the force; the betrayal of the public trust was a slap in the face to the thousands of dedicated officers who risked their lives day in, day out in an often-thankless job. Since moving to Middlesbury, the feelings had intensified as he saw firsthand the devastating effects that such betrayal had on those officers closest to the traitor.
Sheehy dropped his hand. It shook slightly, Warren observed. Clearing his throat the older man unzipped his coat slightly, revealing the edge of a manila folder. “I have. But first we need to take a drive.”
The car park was full of Warren’s colleagues, all of whom were tensed and ready to rush in at the nearest hint of any trouble. To leave with Sheehy would be a breach of protocol and absolute madness, although Warren felt it unlikely that he was in any physical danger.
“Not a chance. If you have information on the murder then you can share it here.”
Sheehy shook his head. “No. What I have is for your ears only.”
“If that’s your attitude, how about I run you down the station and charge you with obstruction and help myself to the information?”
Sheehy snorted derisively. “Investigation going well, is it? Lots of suspects all lined up?”
The man was right. They had drawn a complete blank; whatever information Sheehy possessed about the old man’s murder, Warren needed to know it.
Warren looked at him long and hard.
“How do I know you didn’t kill Reggie Williamson? That you’re not some deranged killer who’s going to stab me as soon as we move on?”
“If you thought that, you wouldn’t be sitting here with me, even with a van full of rugby players three spaces along and Gary staring all gooey-eyed at that new detective constable over in the beer garden.”
Warren’s mind raced through the possibilities, but he’d already made his mind up. He slipped the car into gear.
“Where are we going?”
“I’ll point; you drive.” Sheehy wasn’t silly enough to announce their destination to whoever may be listening. He raised his voice.
“And if that’s you on the other end of DCI Jones’s open radio link, Grayson, tell the officers parked at either end of the road to stay where they are. And it’s a clear day with good visibility. I’ll see the chopper a mile off and you can kiss goodbye any information that I’m going to give him.”
Sheehy put a hand out. “Remove the earpiece. Save yourself an earbashing.”
“Do as he says,” instructed Warren to the surveillance team, a small part of him enjoying the sudden silencing of DSI Grayson’s squawking as he pulled his hidden earpiece out and Sheehy tossed it out the window. He’d get it in the neck when he returned to the station, but he’d deal with that then. Hopefully the information Sheehy claimed to have would be worth it.
* * *
Sheehy’s directions had been by hand gesture only; he was too experienced to think that Warren’s earpiece was the only open communication channel from the vehicle. After passing the unmarked cars at the top end of the street—the officers glared openly, but made no immediate move to follow them—they were soon heading towards the north end of town. It didn’t take Warren long to work out where they were headed.
“It’s a lovely evening, Warren. You won’t need your coat.”
Warren sighed, tossing the heavy jacket with its hidden microphone onto the rear seat. He pointedly didn’t remove the blue stab vest, but as they left the Mondeo in the small car park on the edge of Middlesbury Common he was uncomfortably aware that he was leaving behind his last means of communication with the surveillance team. He was going to have a lot of explaining to do when he got back.
“Is that where Reggie Williamson was killed?”
It was a rhetorical question—blue-and-white police tape still fluttered in the breeze.
Aside from a few young boys kicking a football at a makeshift goal made from rolled-up jumpers at the other end of the open field, the two men were now alone in the middle of the common. Nobody could possibly overhear them and Sheehy would have plenty of warning if anyone tried to approach.
“Well I’m here. What have you got?”
Warren’s tone was testy. So far Sheehy had been in charge and Warren was determined to regain the initiative.
“I can point you towards the killer, but first I need a promise from you. I need your word.”
Warren stared at him for several seconds, searching the man’s face.
“What sort of promise?”
“I need your help.”
Warren thought for a long moment. It didn’t take a detective to work out what the man was after. But what did he think Warren could do?
“What’s in it for me? How do I know that you even have the information you claim?”
“A show of good faith. I can identify the person who ordered Reggie Williamson’s death and another killing you aren’t even aware of. Then, after you help me I have other information. Information that you don’t even know that you want yet.”
“What sort of information?”
Sheehy shook his head. “First you have to help me clear my name.”
It was exactly what Warren had been expecting but he was confused. “I don’t see what I can do to help. I have no influence on the outcome of the investigation. It’s in the hands of Professional Standards; in fact I’d even question whether it is appropriate for us to be having this conversation.”
“You’re the only one I can turn to, Warren. This whole thing is not about whether or not I took a bribe. It goes much, much deeper than that. It’s not even about clearing my name. It’s about righting an injustice and making sure that evil men are put away for a long time.”
Warren ignored the man’s familiar use of his first name and his attempt at stirring rhetoric; he wasn’t naïve enough to be persuaded by that old trick.
“Again, I don’t see what I can do to help you—Standards are investigating the case and I have no access to their files or even their officers—by definition they have to be free from outside influence. I doubt they’d even grant me an audience. I didn’t arrive until months after your arrest—this is the first time I’ve met you. Why the hell would they listen to me?”
He was starting to lose patience with the man. He was clearly a drinker and obviously clutching at straws. This afternoon’s operation had cost the force a considerable amount of manpower and resources; if Sheehy had nothing to contribute to the Williamson case, then Warren was strongly contemplating arresting him for wasting police time. He said as much.
“Warren, I can help with the Williamson case and others, but it has to benefit both of us. I need you to help me fight these charges.”
Warren shook his head in exasperation. “Haven’t you listened to anything I’ve said? I can’t intervene on your behalf. I have no influence here. You must know this. I don’t understand why you want me to become involved.”
Sheehy looked at him for several long, hard seconds. When he spoke again, his voice was low, almost gentle. “Warren, you are already involved. You’ve been a part of this since the moment you walked into that garage and found your dad dead in his car.”
* * *
It was as if Warren had been punched in the stomach. All of the air left his lungs and he felt a wave of nausea pass over him. Immediately, the memories flooded back. He could taste the coppery tang of fear, feel the painful pounding of his heart, smell the choking exhaust fumes as they filled his nose and mouth. It was a smell that to this day Warren hated. As a teenager out clubbing in Coventry he’d always make sure he was upwind of the taxi rank, the smell of their idling engines making him feel sick. He’d loathed the old Pool Meadow bus station, with its lines of chugging buses filling the air with smoky pollution.
Somehow, he found a voice, forcing it past the tightness of his throat. “You have ten seconds to explain yourself before I arrest you for wasting police time.”
Sheehy ignored him. “What do you know about your father and his death?”
The voice that answered sounded like Warren’s but it seemed to come from a long way away. “He killed himself after stealing money from a drugs bust.” The voice dripped with bitterness and resentment.
“What if I told you that he didn’t kill himself? That he never stole that money.”
If Warren hadn’t felt so weak and disoriented he’d have punched the man in the face as hard as he could. Could the man stoop any lower, invoking the name of Warren’s father in a crude attempt to manipulate Warren into helping him? It was nearly a quarter of a century ago and Warren had suppressed his feelings for much of that time, but they never went away. And they hadn’t softened. The hurt, the betrayal then finally the anger and, yes, even hatred towards his father. The man he’d admired and looked up to, even wanted to be when he was older—that man had torn Warren’s world apart. To know that his father had chosen to leave them had hurt so hard—that he had been unable to save him had hurt even more.
And then came the revelations. Thousands of pounds seized in a drugs bust, half of it going missing between the crime scene and the evidence room at the police station. His father’s gym bag, housing sweaty towels, stained T-shirts—and wads of fifty-pound notes wrapped in elastic bands.
Quite why his father had decided not to collect the bag from his locker—he would probably have gotten away with it—instead choosing to kill himself, was never satisfactorily answered. Perhaps he had stolen the money on a whim, then felt guilt at what he had done? Unable to face the shame, he’d taken his life that early summer evening.
That was what his mother had clung onto, even as she saw her husband’s memory destroyed, as friends from the force stopped calling or avoided talking to her when they bumped into her in the street. The name Niall MacNamara was toxic and Warren wanted nothing to do with it.
“Leave now, before I make you.” It was all Warren could do to force the words past his clenched teeth. He no longer cared about Reggie Williamson, he just wanted this man out of his life; he could feel the sweat on his brow. It was as if Sheehy had slammed a wrecking ball into Warren’s carefully constructed defences, bringing down the walls. Warren needed time to rebuild them, to reconstruct the ancient structure.
Sheehy ignored him. “Warren, your father was a good man; he was an honest man. He wasn’t a thief…and he didn’t kill himself. I know this. I’ve known it for twenty years. And everything that’s happened recently—it all stems back to what happened that night.”
Warren closed his eyes, concentrating on breathing. He wanted nothing more than to race back to his car, to leave in a cloud of burning rubber and run and hide. But he couldn’t. The memories from that horrific evening had left their mark, but now another scar was itching. One he’d ignored but which was now shouting for attention. Why? Why had it happened? He had to know. He was trapped. If he left now, refusing to let Sheehy talk, he could never have peace. A long-dormant seed had started to germinate and he had to know the truth.
“I knew your father back in the late eighties. We met about two years before…you know. I was a young DC, with only a couple of years’ experience.”
Sheehy stared at his feet. “I was working in North Herts, but I was seconded to West Midlands as part of a small team working as liaisons on the investigation into a huge, cross-county crime ring. Your father was a senior detective sergeant on that team and we worked closely together.” Sheehy raised his head, looking Warren directly in the eye. “He was a good man. And I liked him a lot.”
Warren didn’t trust himself to speak.
“It was a massive enterprise. Basically, it was modelled on the Italian Mafia: drugs, prostitution, stolen goods—you name it; these guys did it. And they were ruthless, anyone who crossed them ended up dead.
“But they were also clever. All of the action was taking place in the West Midlands—Birmingham, Coventry, Nuneaton. But the guy who headed it lived in North Herts and was ostensibly a legitimate businessman. He owned a string of restaurants, fast-food places, leisure centres, B&Bs, minicab firms—you name it. He partnered local tradesmen. All cash businesses. All built from scratch or bought legitimately, with no links to the Midlands and no evidence of any wrongdoing. They even had a charitable foundation, helping unemployed kids learn skills and trades. Local politicians loved him and he was on the front page of the local newspaper at least once a week.
“But, we knew the bastard was a crook. The Hertfordshire businesses were just a front and a way of laundering money. Back in those days you could move money around a hell of a lot more easily than now and a secret Swiss bank account really was a secret. He was worth millions. And he was a murderer. We knew of cases going back to the nineteen seventies—drug dealers mostly but the odd prostitute as well.
“The problem was we couldn’t prove it. He covered his tracks too well. And he rarely got his own hands dirty. We busted a few dealers here and there, but there was never any direct link to him. Witnesses had a tendency to suddenly develop amnesia or even to disappear. We were going nowhere fast. We needed a break.”
Sheehy paused. “You have to realise, Warren, that we knew this guy was filthy. In fact we had tons of evidence that placed him right in the centre of his little ring. Most of the grunt work was carried out by his right-hand man, but it was him that we wanted. What we didn’t have though was the one remaining piece that would open up everything else. He was too high profile for us just to go on a fishing expedition—we’d never get a warrant to search his house or business premises. And that was what we needed. With a warrant we would be able to raid him and that would be enough to open a bridge between the evidence we had and him. But without that information, we didn’t have enough to get a warrant. Catch-22.”
Warren didn’t like the sound of this. Where was it leading? He also had a suspicion about who Sheehy was talking about—and the implications were massive.
“What did you do?” His voice was slow, steady.
Sheehy licked his lips nervously. “Although he kept his hands clean most of the time, it wasn’t always that way. Back in the early eighties, he was dabbling in the club scene—supplying drugs to clubbers. The problem was that if you really wanted to make money, you needed the clubs—or at least the door staff—on your side. And most of the clubs that were willing to take part were already under the control of a guy named Frankie Cruise.
“He approached him about a partnership, but Cruise was an arrogant bastard and wouldn’t play ball. In the end, he shot Cruise dead. The mess was all cleaned up of course, but everyone knew what had happened. In fact he encouraged the rumours to enhance his own reputation. But obviously, that wasn’t good enough for court and no judge was going to grant us a warrant based on that. Especially not for someone so high profile and well connected; he knew where all the skeletons were buried.
“However, ballistics recovered a nearly intact bullet from Cruise after his body floated back to the surface in Coventry Canal. It was no good to us without a gun though.
“Then in mid 1987, we got word that he had been boasting at a party he was hosting at that Hertfordshire mansion of his, about how he had killed a man. He must have really wanted to impress his guests because he eventually went up to his bedroom and fetched the handgun that he claimed to have used to kill Cruise. He was brandishing it like some sort of trophy.”
Sheehy paused. “Your father and I knew that was the weapon he had used, and that it was the final piece of evidence that could blow the whole case open. But we still couldn’t get a warrant. We were told it was just hearsay. The PACE regulations were still fairly new and nobody wanted to be seen to be harassing such a prominent local figure.
“So we made contact with his handyman, who was unhappy with the way he was being treated. We persuaded him to steal the gun, which was kept in his bedroom.”
Sheehy, looked away, unable to meet Warren’s eye.
“You have to realise, we knew that he was guilty. We had so much evidence. That all came out at his trial. It just needed a catalyst to start everything working.”
“So you planted the gun and framed him for murder.” Warren’s voice was bitter. He felt sick.
But Sheehy was shaking his head vehemently. “No! We didn’t frame him for anything he hadn’t done. We just left the gun at the scene of a drugs raid. It was collected along with a load of other weapons. Routine ballistic testing linked the gun to the Cruise murder. There were fingerprints all over the gun. Luckily for us, he’s had a few run-ins with the police over the years. Usually all the charges were dropped when the witnesses mysteriously changed their minds, but his fingerprints were still on file.
“All it did was give us the excuse to raise a warrant. As soon as that happened, we were able to build that link between him and the case we’d built. The case was sitting there, ready to go. It just needed that link.”
“Vinny Delmarno.”
It wasn’t a question. The man had been released whilst he was still with West Midlands Police and there had been anger about the things that had been said in the press. Allegations of corruption and fabricated crime scenes—allegations that Sheehy now claimed were true.
Sheehy nodded but said nothing as if speaking the man’s name out loud was a curse.
“So why are you telling me all of this now?” Warren’s voice was bitter, the anger now simmering just below the surface, “It can’t just be an attack of conscience. You’ve had over twenty years to come clean. Delmarno’s been out how long now?”
Warren was confused; it made no sense. By all reports, Sheehy was in deep trouble already. What benefit was there to adding this long-forgotten miscarriage to his litany of sins? It was clear from his tone that he felt that what he and Niall MacNamara had done all those years ago was still right. Noble-cause corruption they called it.
Sheehy looked at his hands and Warren noticed they were trembling. “Reggie Williamson was the gardener who supplied us with the gun.”
“That’s what this is all about?” Warren couldn’t hide the scepticism in his voice. For sure it was a hell of a coincidence, but surely that was all it was?
He said as much.
“When Vinny Delmarno was released, he swore blind that he would find out who put him away and would get his revenge.”
Warren still wasn’t convinced.
“There’s more.”
Sheehy opened the coat, revealing the concealed file folder, and removed a newspaper article, handing it over. A cutting from a local Hertfordshire paper from February, page one but not the lead. Stapled to the back was a narrow column from page four, continuing the story; a black-and-white headshot, formal-looking and probably taken from an official website, took up barely two inches.
Retired coroner and wife killed in drink-driving smash: Verdict
A former coroner, killed in the early hours of 31 December 2011, was driving too fast and was under the influence of alcohol, an inquest ruled today. The crash, which killed Dr Anton Liebig, 67, and his wife Rosemary, 66, instantly, happened after a sharp bend on the A5062, on the way back from an awards dinner at The Allingham Golf Club in Hertfordshire, where Dr Liebig—captain of the senior men’s team—had presented several trophies.
A police spokesperson said that skid marks at the scene of the accident revealed that Dr Liebig had rounded the blind bend at a speed in excess of fifty miles per hour, before apparently losing control and leaving the road, where he hit a tree. A post-mortem revealed a blood alcohol level of 85 milligrams per 100 ml. The legal limit is 80mg.
The coroner, Dr Lila Schiff, called upon North Hertfordshire District Council to look into the safety of that stretch of road, which has been the scene of numerous serious accidents in recent years, resulting in three fatalities.
Dr Liebig worked as a coroner throughout Warwickshire, before retiring. Rosemary Liebig was a keen painter. They are survived by a son and two grandchildren.
Warren finished reading the report and looked up at Sheehy. “So?”
The story meant nothing to him. He worked in Middlesbury CID. The incident would have been dealt with by traffic down in Welwyn. Besides which, Warren had had enough on his plate over the new year to worry about the ins and outs of some drink-driver.
Sheehy took a deep breath. “Anton Liebig was the coroner who oversaw your father’s inquest, Warren.”
Sheehy’s voice was fading out, replaced by the sound of blood rushing through Warren’s ears. His father’s inquest.
He still remembered that day. The courtroom had been nothing like he’d expected it to be from the TV. A small, wood-panelled room with a row of tables for the “interested parties” to sit—interested parties such as Warren, his mother and his grandparents. A chair sat empty for his brother who hadn’t come home the previous night. Behind them several lines of blue plastic chairs constituting the “public gallery” were mostly filled with journalists, representatives from the Police Federation and a few family friends. Nobody from the station that Niall MacNamara had worked at for more than half his career were present. None of his police “friends”. He’d been dropped; nobody wanted to be associated with him now, the thief who’d stolen drugs money then taken the coward’s way out.
The formal hearing had been a short, almost anti-climactic affair, delivered by the coroner sitting at his slightly raised dais, a much younger version of the man in the newspaper photograph. The family already knew the verdict, having been told quietly beforehand.
Suicide. Carbon monoxide poisoning from his own car engine, administered by a hosepipe attached to the exhaust, an empty bottle of whisky by his side. Found by his teenage son. No suspicious circumstances.
No mention was made of why he did it; that was beyond the purview of the court. But everyone in that room knew the rumours, were aware of the investigation underway. And you can’t libel the dead.
Sheehy’s voice pulled Warren back to the present. “Your father didn’t commit suicide; he was killed. Revenge for what he did? I don’t know. But I knew the moment I got the call about your dad’s death it wasn’t a suicide. I’ve known for over twenty years.”
He continued to avoid Warren’s eyes, having the sense not to try and apologise. He couldn’t; the words didn’t exist that could in any way lessen his guilt, to begin to atone for the literally decades of hurt that he’d help cause.
“Why?” That one word was all Warren could manage. A half-dozen questions were all rolled into that one word.
“Fear. I was scared, Warren. Shit-scared. They’d killed your father and covered it up. Somehow they hadn’t fingered me as his accomplice—too junior I guess. My name didn’t appear on any paperwork. So I kept quiet.”
He still wouldn’t meet Warren’s eyes.
“He was supposed to die in prison, kidney failure. He’d been on dialysis for years. They even put it forward in mitigation, tried to get him a shorter sentence. Perhaps it worked. With the case we had he could have gotten life with thirty years. He got twenty-two. I forgot about him. Got on with my life.
“And then he got a new kidney. God love the NH fucking S. His name came up on the transplant list as the best match and before you know it some poor donor’s kidney is inside that bastard’s body.
“The kidney took, he served the rest of his sentence and now he’s free.”
Sheehy’s voice was a mixture of bitterness and fear. “And now he’s clearing the decks. Settling scores and cleaning up his mess. Reggie Williamson for his betrayal and Anton Liebig because he was a loose end who could link him back to his first act of revenge—the death of your father.
“And that just leaves me. I’m the only one left.”
Warren found his voice. “I still don’t understand. What has this got to do with the current investigation into your misconduct?”
“It’s a set-up; it’s all fake. Delmarno wants his payback, but killing me would be too easy. He’s had two decades to dream about what he wants to do to me and he wants to do it slowly. He wants to ruin me, send me to prison and make me suffer like he did. And then, when I’m finished and due for parole, that’s when he’ll probably make his final move. I’ll be dead before I walk out that prison.”
Chapter 10 (#ulink_96346da2-70c2-5b76-b38c-71536093ae83)
Warren received a less than rapturous welcome when he returned to the station.
“My office, now.”
The roasting from Grayson was pretty much what he’d been expecting; the man had been unable to decide which of Warren’s misdemeanours should be addressed first and in the end had simply settled on a chronological listing: getting in a car with a potential killer, removing his earpiece so he could no longer receive instructions, leaving a contained area with a suspect, circumventing surveillance and ignoring procedures for the collection of a witness statement.
However, Grayson had reserved most of his vitriol for Warren’s apparent agreement to help his predecessor fight the charges against his name. Sheehy had said nothing about it where they could be overheard, but Grayson wasn’t a fool. It was obvious that was what Sheehy was after.
“It’s not your job to help some bent copper fight Professional Standards. The Federation and his lawyers can do that. You’ve got enough on your plate solving this murder; besides, we can do without the negative publicity. We’re going to have enough shit flying at us when this comes to court next month without the press getting wind of your escapades.”
Warren stood and took the flak, mostly allowing the shouting to wash over him. It was to be expected and he was too emotionally tired to care about a bollocking that would ultimately lead nowhere. Regardless, he was struck by two remarks all-but buried within the verbiage; the first a cynical observation that Grayson had never concerned himself before with the amount of work piled on Warren’s “plate”—he usually loaded it as gleefully as a glutton at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Secondly, it was the first time that Warren could recall the man referring to Middlesbury as “we” or “us”.
After the obligatory threat that he was contemplating suspending Warren, Grayson finally asked what Sheehy had to offer.
“That’s it?” he responded when Warren had finished. “This Reggie Williamson offered a gun to Sheehy back in the 1980s, which Sheehy then planted at the scene of a crime to frame him and now this Vinny Delmarno character wants his revenge? Sheehy really is a dirty bastard. It sounds like it’s all coming back to bite him on the arse.”
“Well, it’s not as if Delmarno is an innocent in all of this,” Warren found himself defending Sheehy—a position he was not exactly comfortable with.
Grayson was dismissive. “Who gives a shit about Delmarno? He got what he deserved. Besides, it’s clear that Sheehy has form when it comes to corruption.” He sighed. “Regardless, it’s something. See where it takes you. Is there anything else?”
“No, sir.” The lie came more smoothly than Warren was comfortable with.
“Well let’s hope this leads us somewhere. This afternoon’s little jaunt cost us an arm and a leg.”
The dismissal was clear and Warren wasted no time turning for the door.
“Oh and Warren, take that bloody stab vest off or everybody will see through this carefully cultivated, cuddly facade.”
* * *
Warren’s first stop on leaving Grayson’s office was DS Peter Kent’s desk. The veteran detective looked up.
“You survived, I see. Those vests are worth every penny.”
Warren smiled tightly. “Apparently coming out of the Super’s office wearing one ruins his cuddly image.”
Kent snorted in amusement. “His bark’s worse than his bite. Although he can certainly bark loud enough.”
Warren winced. Kent was at the far end of the room from Grayson’s office. “You heard that then?”
He smiled. “Why do you think half the office has gone for a coffee break?” Kent’s smile faded. “How was he?”
No need to ask who “he” was.
Warren shrugged, replying cagily, “I never met him before today, so I can’t say if he was any different to when he worked here.”
Kent said nothing, waiting.
“But unless he was unkempt and a daytime drinker when you knew him, he’s probably not doing as well as you hope.”
Warren’s sympathy for his predecessor was close to non-existent; however, he had been a much-loved boss and people like Pete Kent had known him for years. Warren would have to be careful not to be too dismissive of their feelings.
“What can I do for you anyhow, Chief?”
Although all officers in CID could use HOLMES 2, the service-wide computer database that was used to store records and reports on major incidents, Warren had a feeling he’d need specialist help.
“I need details on a cold case from the eighties. Will they be available electronically?”
DS Kent looked at him warily. “They might be. The original HOLMES went live in 1986 for major incidents, but it’s a bit patchy. It hasn’t got half the functionality of HOLMES 2 and some forces still did a lot of their record keeping manually, scanning them in after the fact. The cross-referencing can be pretty poor. What do you need?”
“I need the records for a joint Hertfordshire – West Midlands Police operation concluded in 1988. I don’t have an operation name, but it resulted in the conviction of a Vinny Delmarno. If you could get me his records as well, that would be great.” Warren glanced at the clock above Kent’s head; the man’s shift finished in half an hour. “Actually, get Gary on it when he returns from his break.”
“I’ll do it, Chief. I’m not in a rush. Gary’s finishing himself in a few hours then he and Karen are off on that dirty get-away they think nobody knows about. I’ll only end up reinventing the wheel if he starts the job and then hands it over.”
Warren thanked the man and turned to head back to his office, before another idea struck him. “Could you also get onto Revenue and Customs and check the tax and National Insurance returns for Reggie Williamson during the same time period? I’d like to know what he was doing and who he was working for back then.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” the older man promised, “but it may take a while. HMRC deal with most requests during office hours.”
“Well do what you can. I’ll be in my office. Print it out when you’re done.”
One last thought occurred to him, he glanced over at Grayson’s office before leaning in to Kent. “Do me a favour and keep this between us for the time being.”
Kent glanced over at Grayson’s office and smirked slightly, as Warren had known he would. “Of course.”
* * *
Tony Sutton was a lot politer than Detective Superintendent Grayson. Nevertheless he made it quite clear how reckless he thought his DCI had been; and was similarly disapproving of Warren’s tacit agreement to help clear Sheehy’s name as a reward for more information.
Warren had wrestled with the revelations that Sheehy had made all the way back to CID. He’d been standing in front of Grayson, absorbing the man’s anger before he’d eventually decided that he wasn’t ready to share everything Sheehy had revealed to him or broach the subject of his father’s death with the man.
The wound that Sheehy had so brutally reopened on Middlesbury Common was gaping wide and Warren was confused and bewildered; however, his instincts were telling him that he couldn’t trust the man until he knew more.
To somebody of Warren’s age, those events in the mid eighties seemed a lifetime ago, but he was uncomfortably aware that officers such as Gavin Sheehy and John Grayson had started their careers back then and were still in the force today, working in positions of influence and responsibility.
Sheehy’s account had almost made it sound as if he and MacNamara had planned the whole stitch-up single-handedly, but even back in the eighties the police didn’t work that way. The two officers would have been part of a much larger team and it was almost inconceivable that they worked alone or were even the masterminds of the subterfuge. Until Warren read the report on the case, he wasn’t sharing the contents of the manila folder, sandwiched between his stab vest and shirt, with anybody.
Chapter 11 (#ulink_e62ebfd8-e6b9-5179-a389-71ed32522477)
“Is that all we’ve got?”
The pile of printouts was surprisingly small for such a major incident.
“For the moment. West Mids were charged with entering the paperwork into HOLMES, but they prioritised the key documents.” Kent looked apologetic. “I’m still tracking down everything as it’s been filed a bit sloppily. I guess once they’d secured his conviction they expected him to die in prison and so they didn’t bust a gut scanning everything in. These are the records for Vinny Delmarno. I’ll get the rest to you when I’ve collected it all together.”
“Well I’m sure that if it’s in there you’ll find it, Pete. Thanks.”
The documents had been divided into two piles and joined together with oversize paperclips. The first was the record for Vincent (Vinny) Delmarno. Warren recognised the formatting from the Police National Computer. The second was other associated paperwork, such as reports from the National Probation Service.
Like all prisoners released from a life sentence, Delmarno had to serve out the rest of his sentence “on licence”. According to the NPS, he lived with his wife on the easternmost fringes of Middlesbury, reporting to his probation officer fortnightly. The latest account was dated the beginning of the month and reported that he was meeting the terms of his parole satisfactorily.
A biography of Delmarno had attached photographs showing him after his arrest and more recently on release. Warren stared at them. Was this the man who had killed his father? He felt a cold shiver run down his spine. Over two decades in prison had changed the man almost beyond recognition.
According to his date of birth, Delmarno had been just shy of thirty-five years old when he’d been convicted, a little younger than Warren was now, but his hair was already snow white. His face was swollen and darkened, a symptom of his end-stage-renal failure.
By contrast, the photograph taken upon release showed a fit-looking man in his late fifties. Although lined and hardened, the face had lost its swelling and the skin tone had returned to the natural, olive complexion that spoke of his Italian heritage. His hair, though white, was as full as the day he went in.
The one feature that had not changed was his eyes. Warren had seen thousands of mugshots over the years, but rarely had he seen such hatred staring out of a photograph at him.
The biographical details were terse and factual, but Warren found himself filling in the missing details with his own knowledge both from his upbringing in Coventry and the time he served with the police.
Delmarno had been born in July 1953, the son of an Italian father and an Irish Catholic mother who’d met in Coventry shortly after the war. Both parents died whilst he was in prison. Schooled at one of the city’s three Roman Catholic secondary schools—not the one he’d been to, Warren was strangely relieved to see, even though they would have attended twenty years apart—he’d been expelled at age fifteen for fighting. After a few minor skirmishes with the law as a youth, he apparently avoided arrest until 1988.
The list of crimes of which he was suspected filled three pages. Drug dealing, living off immoral earnings, assault and attempted murder. In almost all cases, charges either weren’t filed or were dropped.
As Sheehy had explained, it was the shooting of Frankie Cruise in 1984 that was his undoing and the search warrant obtained after the handgun was “found” at the scene of a drugs bust in Coventry had led to his trial on a dozen further charges, including two counts of conspiracy to murder, money laundering and possession with intent to supply. As in the past, he was cleared of many of the charges when witnesses failed to attend or his lawyers successfully had them thrown out on a technicality. Nevertheless he received life with a minimum sentence of twenty-two years and eight months for the murder of Frankie Cruise.
He was released on 6 September 2010.
The final page contained a list of Delmarno’s known associates. Most were either behind bars themselves or dead, either of natural causes or murdered. It also listed his wife, Jocelyn, and his son, born five years before his father’s incarceration.
If Warren had expected some remarkable insight into the events of the past week or even twenty-four years previously, he was to be disappointed.
“Anything you want me to do before I go home, Boss?”
The question was as much a peace offering as anything else and so Warren felt even more guilty as he dismissed Tony Sutton for the evening. The older man had looked at him for a few, long seconds before nodding and saying good evening. Sutton was no fool; he knew that Warren was hiding something from him. The two men had barely spoken over the last few hours; for want of a better word, Sutton seemed to have been sulking.
That suited Warren fine. He hadn’t yet decided how much to share with Tony Sutton. The man had been investigated immediately after Sheehy’s arrest and cleared of any wrongdoing, but Warren couldn’t dismiss the possibility that he was helping his former DCI and friend to play him, manipulating him to help clear the man’s name. Warren hoped that wasn’t the case. He’d come to value Sutton’s counsel—and friendship, he realised. Until he could be sure, though, he was on his own.
Chapter 12 (#ulink_97528180-780b-5091-ac6f-8b57506c670a)
It was late by the time that Warren arrived back home. Susan’s expression suggested that he was in for another earbashing—it was definitely today’s theme.
“You did what?”
“I already knew who he was. I was certain that I wasn’t in any danger. Besides, I had my stab vest on.”
“Covers your neck does it?” Even when angry, his wife could be logical to a fault. “So what did this Gavin Sheehy want? Did he actually have any evidence to help you work out who murdered that poor man?”
“I’m not sure. The folder he gave me was just the write-up of a fatal collision over the New Year. Nothing jumped out at me.”
The two of them had moved into the lounge and the red wine Susan had poured herself seemed to cool her temper somewhat. Nevertheless, Warren was reminded that Susan’s temperament probably owed more to her fiery mother than her decidedly docile father.
Warren had been thinking about what to tell his wife ever since he’d left the office. The fact was, he needed a sounding board; his decision not to tell Tony Sutton the full details of his conversation with Sheehy had left Warren feeling isolated and he valued his wife’s insights. And he needed her support. He closed his eyes.
They had been dating for more than two years before Warren had told Susan the full story of his father’s suicide. They’d been on holiday in Prague, lying in bed after a romantic meal down by the Charles Bridge. Warren had never shared his true feelings about his father’s death and how it had affected him.
He’d been scared that people would see him differently—and he was ashamed. He knew he shouldn’t be—that his father’s sins were not his own, but he couldn’t help it.
Susan had listened without saying anything, her tight embrace easing his halting speech until it was flowing like a tap—years of hurt and resentment finally getting its release. When he was eventually finished, she’d whispered into his ear, “Thank you.”
The next day, standing on top of Petřín Hill, Warren had asked her to marry him.
The touch of Susan’s hand brought Warren back to the present.
“For most of my life, I’ve thought my father abandoned me and my mum and brother, that he was corrupt and a thief. Today I found out that I may have been wrong all of these years.”
Warren felt Susan stiffen. She said nothing. And it was as if he’d been transported back in time to that evening in Prague as he again unburdened himself to the woman he loved so much.
“What are you going to do?” asked Susan when he finally finished.
“I don’t know. Gavin Sheehy has admitted that he and my father helped secure an unsafe conviction all of those years ago, he’s not an honest man. But what if he is telling the truth?”
“You can’t ignore it.”
She was right—he had to check the truth of what Sheehy was saying for himself. But how? Events had been successfully concealed for nearly a quarter of a century.
“Sheehy claimed to have more information. You have to get it from him. Whatever it takes.”
“But how can I know if I can trust him?”
“Does it matter?”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at what Sheehy’s asking you to do. He’s basically asking you to investigate the allegations made against him. Furthermore, he’s given you potential clues that could help you solve one confirmed murder and another possible killing. Treat it like any other case. Take what he’s given you and add it into the mix. As for the allegations against him—surely it can’t hurt to do a bit of digging around, to see if he really is being framed?”
“Grayson has banned me from looking into Sheehy’s case.”
“So when has that stopped you before?” She placed her hand on his chest and kissed him lightly on the forehead. “Follow your gut, Warren. You need to see this through. If there is any truth at all to what Sheehy is saying, then you need to know.”
She kissed him again. “We need to know. You can’t let it lie; you know that.”
Warren nodded, wearily. He was exhausted. Not just from the long hours he’d worked, but also the constant adrenaline.
“You’re right,” he admitted. “I’ll get Mags Richardson to look over the report into Dr Liebig’s accident. She worked Traffic before joining CID. She’ll spot any inconsistencies. If it looks as though there are suspicious circumstances, I’ll go back to Sheehy and see what else he has.”
“What about Tony Sutton?”
“Not yet. He was investigated alongside Sheehy when he was first arrested. I need to satisfy myself that he is completely clean before I bring him in on this.”
Susan squeezed his hand again. “Well do it quickly. You can’t work this alone. You need help.”
Susan was right as usual. The logical science teacher had cut through the confusion and suggested a course of action. Marrying her was still the best decision he had ever made.
Chapter 13 (#ulink_331650ad-2f4f-5747-a520-3bc29ab250c1)
He’s walking down the garden path again, the coffee cups balanced in his hands. He tries to stop, the feeling of dread mounting in him, but it’s useless. His legs, ignoring his desperate commands, carry him relentlessly towards the garage door. Towards what he knows lies on the other side.
No, not again, he cries out silently. He knows it’s a dream of course; the same dream that visited him every night for years. Almost a quarter of a century on, the dream comes less often now. But when it does, it’s lost none of its power.
The rusty hasp needs a tug, and the spilled coffee scalds him. As always, he tries to turn back, but try as he might, he’s committed, the same story playing out again and again. His ears are filled with the chugging of the car’s engine. His nose is clogged with exhaust fumes.
And then he’s at the car door, swinging the hammer with all of his strength. Please let it be different this time, he pleads, just this once.
But it’s not. The whisky bottle clatters to the floor as he reaches in to turn off the engine. But he’s too late again. The last thing he sees before he jerks awake, sobbing, is his father’s white, bloodless face…
“Warren, it’s OK. Warren, I’m here.” Susan’s voice is soothing, the warmth of her arms around his chest. Gradually his heart rate slows, calmed by her gentle caresses.
“The dream?”
Nothing more is required. They’ve been together for eight years and she recognises its symptoms—the crying and the tears, the way he cradles his hand as if scalded by hot coffee. The dream comes to him just a few times a year now, usually around the anniversary or his father’s birthday. It doesn’t take a genius to work out why it’s chosen to come back tonight.
Warren nods. Reaches out for the glass of water on the bedside table and takes a long swig.
“I’m OK now. It only ever comes once.” Despite the fluid his voice is croaky.
The bedside clock reads three-thirty.
“Go back to sleep.” He kisses her on the forehead.
It’s true, the dream does only come once in a night and afterwards, Warren sleeps a deep and dreamless sleep and will awake in the morning fully refreshed. It’s as if it’s been purged from his system and won’t need to return again for at least a few more nights.
But tonight is different. In a few minutes, Susan’s breathing changes as she drifts back to sleep. But sleep won’t come to Warren. Try as he might he can’t stop thinking about that night, reliving it again. Why? Why won’t his subconscious let it go?
He starts to obsess about small details. The way the hasp squeaks as he forces it open. The clatter of the whisky bottle as it hits the floor. His father’s pale, bloodless lips.
The hasp. It squeaks as he forces it open.
As he forces it open.
Suddenly Warren sits bolt upright in bed, realising that what Sheehy has told must at least be partly true. If his father was inside the garage, who had closed the rusty hasp on the outside of the door?
Sunday 1 April
Chapter 14 (#ulink_57fa8917-1184-5a2b-be18-fe4175cab41b)
Warren finished leafing through the report describing the road traffic collision that had killed the late coroner Dr Anton Liebig and his wife, Rosemary, three months before. Putting it down on his desk he turned to the inquest findings, skimming the legalese before skipping to the narrative verdict. Something wasn’t right; he was sure of it. The deaths and their timing were too coincidental, but to his untrained eye everything seemed normal. Despite his reluctance to involve too many people at this stage, he needed help.
Leaning out of his office door, he summoned DS Margaret Richardson from her desk in the far corner. Richardson was a heavy-set woman in her mid forties. A mother of two, she had worked traffic for a number of years before switching to CID.
Warren pushed the printouts across the desk to her. “I need your expertise. I want you to read these reports and tell me what you see.”
Placing her ever-present bottle of mineral water down next to Warren’s laptop, she fished out a pair of small reading glasses, picked up the pile of papers and started reading.
It took her barely five minutes to finish both of the documents—five minutes that Warren spent trying to appear unconcerned and busy.
“Well it seems fairly straightforward at first glance. I can see why the inquest drew their conclusions.” She raised a hand, ticking off each point. “Dr Liebig was driving late at night, on a narrow country road in poor weather with a blood alcohol level above the legal limit. The car was in good repair, but he was driving too fast for the conditions around a deceptively sharp bend with a reputation as an accident black spot. Best estimates put the car’s speed at over fifty miles per hour prior to it leaving the road shortly after the bend.”
“And the conclusion from the inquest?”
“Pretty much what I’d expect. The car plunged down a steep embankment and impacted a tree, which impaled Dr Liebig through the windshield, killing him instantly. His wife died from massive internal bleeding at the scene as the emergency services attempted to cut her out. Death by dangerous driving, namely excess speed and impairment by alcohol.”
Warren nodded. “Is there anything in the report that doesn’t fit that explanation?”
Richardson’s tone was cagey. “Well, sir, you have to realise that RTCs are complex, especially when there are no witnesses or survivors. There are always unanswered questions; the best we can do is come up with a sequence of events that fits the evidence and decide if an offence has been committed. In the case of a fatal accident, it’s up to the coroner presiding over the inquest to determine if there was anyone at fault, or if steps should be taken to reduce the likelihood of a similar accident. In this case she recommended safety barriers to prevent cars leaving the road, and improved signage.”
Warren leant back in his chair. “OK, I understand that, Mags, but I have reason to suspect that this accident might not be as clear-cut as the report suggests. Are there any inconsistencies here or unanswered questions?”
“Let me have another look.” Picking up the papers again, she took a pen out of a coffee cup masquerading as a pencil pot and raised an eyebrow. Warren signalled his agreement. The originals were safely locked away.
This time, she took longer. Warren forced himself to turn back to his bulging inbox, resisting the urge to try and interpret the officer’s upside-down handwriting. However, he was rereading a missive about next year’s budget predictions for the third time, and still not comprehending it, when Richardson finally put down the papers and cleared her throat.
“Anything?”
“Well, if you want to turn over every stone, there are a few discrepancies, I suppose.” She sounded a little uncomfortable, clearly concerned that she might be overstating her observations.
“I’m all ears,” responded Warren, trying not to sound too eager as he picked up his own pen and turned over a new page in the spiral-bound scribble pad next to the phone.
“First off, his blood alcohol level was 85 milligrams per 100 millilitres. That’s only just above the legal limit. That doesn’t mean he was safe to drive, but he wasn’t pissed. Eyewitness reports state that he drank two small glasses of red wine with a three-course meal, about three hours prior to leaving the golf club. After the wine, witnesses say he switched to soft drinks. An analysis of his stomach contents is consistent with a large meal, traces of red wine and a substantial amount of what appears to be Coca Cola. The pathologist thought there might have been traces of spirits in there, but the blood alcohol results were back so he didn’t pursue it further.”
“What about his blood-glucose levels? The report noted that he was diabetic, but I don’t know enough to tell if they were too low. Could he have become hypoglycaemic and lost control of the car?”
Richardson shook her head. “Unlikely. His blood glucose was 14.2 millimoles per litre. If anything that’s too high. It may have contributed to fatigue or confusion, especially if he was tired late at night and under the influence of alcohol.”
Warren studied her intently. “Your expression tells me you aren’t convinced.”
Richardson sighed. “It may be nothing, but I’m not happy about the skid marks on the road.” She flicked the folder open to reveal flood-lit photographs of the road surface. Two thick, black tyre marks were clearly visible after the apex of the left-hand bend, heading straight on, before veering sharply to the right and off the road. The rear of the Liebig’s Jaguar was just visible at the edge of the image. Its wheels were hanging well clear of the road, hinting at the sharp downward angle that it had come to rest at. Blue smears across its shiny paintwork advertised the presence of emergency vehicles, their flashing lights just off camera.
“It looks to me as though he had made it safely around the bend; although he was travelling very fast he was in a performance car with good tyres. For some reason though, he slammed on the brakes and swerved violently as he exited the bend, losing control.”
“An obstruction? A deer in the road perhaps?” Warren had had his own rather uncomfortable encounter with just such a creature the previous winter.
Richardson shook her head slightly. “I don’t think so. There aren’t many deer in that area and he was an experienced driver. I doubt he’d have over-reacted for something like a rabbit.”
“Anything else?”
“Well there is a report of two cars travelling at high speed, very close to one another about a mile prior to the accident; however, the witness herself admits it was very dark and it was hard to judge distances and speed.”
Warren leant back in his chair and tapped his pen against his lip thoughtfully. The evidence pointed towards a tired driver under the influence of alcohol, possibly a little confused from high blood sugar, taking a bend too fast then losing control. But the inconsistencies gnawed at him like a dog with its favourite stick. Were they just the inevitable loose ends from a perfunctory investigation into an apparently clear-cut case, or where they more significant?
Chapter 15 (#ulink_da12e6be-421e-507e-8540-09b7c976679b)
They were meeting in a car park again. As before, Sheehy insisted that they drive to a secluded area where they couldn’t be overheard. It wasn’t necessary. Warren had told nobody about this visit.
“So, you’re convinced I’m telling the truth?”
Convinced was too strong a word, Warren decided. However, everything that Sheehy had told him so far had been borne out. Warren admitted as much.
“You said that you had more information for me.”
Sheehy shook his head. “You know the agreement. I’ve given you a show of good faith; now you need to do the same. You need to help me.”
Warren sighed. He still didn’t see what he could do to help the man.
Sheehy had brought another file folder with him. He removed another newspaper clipping and handed it over wordlessly. The clipping was dated the eighth of April the previous year—roughly four weeks before Sheehy’s suspension.
Police sting closes Herts-based drug distribution network
Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire Major Crime Unit, working with colleagues across East Anglia, announced today the results of a series of dawn raids conducted at the weekend. Twelve arrests were made as a result of the months-long investigation, Operation Fahrenheit, into drug production and distribution, mostly centred in North Hertfordshire. The majority of the arrests were for dealing, however, three individuals were charged with production of Class B drugs, including cannabis and ecstasy. Several kilos of crack-cocaine were also retrieved from one of the properties in Middlesbury, along with firearms and an undisclosed quantity of money. A spokesperson for Herts and Beds Major Crime Unit said that the raids had netted a number of known and unknown dealers, as well as the man that they believe is behind the operation.
“Drugs are a scourge in our communities. Illegal drug use is a major contributor to violent assaults, robbery, theft and antisocial behaviour. Hertfordshire prides itself on its comparatively low crime rate and this sends a strong message that the production, distribution and use of illegal drugs in our county will not be tolerated.”
He said that the operation was ongoing and that more details would be revealed in due course.
Warren handed back the piece of paper. “So what has this got to do with you?”
“The man at the centre of the operation was one Billy Obsanjo, a Middlesbury-based gangster wannabe. We’d been watching his operation for about a year, working with the drug squad down in Welwyn. He had big ambitions, but at the time he was still mostly active in this area, hence our involvement. His ‘crew’ as he called it all went to school together and they operated cannabis factories out of terraced houses up on the Westfield estate. We’d closed a few of them down over the past few months and made a couple of arrests, but they were all low-level dealers and it was clear to us that even though the operation was pretty small-scale at the moment, it was well organised. Our biggest worry was that it would gain a real foothold and it’d expand, bringing in undesirables from outside the county. Our aim was to shut it down whilst it was still small.”
“So what went wrong?”
“We’d had an eye on Obsanjo for some time, but we couldn’t ever link him with the operation. Most of the dealers that we arrested were too far down the totem pole to give us a name and those that were more connected wouldn’t say anything. Obsanjo might be small-time but he had convictions for assault and there were unconfirmed rumours that he wasn’t above threatening families and loved ones to ensure people kept quiet.”
“So you had nothing? Why not just fit him up? It’s not like you haven’t done it before.”
Sheehy opened his mouth, before closing it again. After a brief pause, he continued, “He was a slippery bugger. Every time we thought we had him, he’d get away before we could arrest him at the scene. We’d be left with a few pot plants, a couple of wraps of heroin and if we were lucky, some dumb idiot who was too stoned to run away when we bashed the door down.
“Anyhow, it was his own arrogance that got him in the end. He hit his girlfriend one time too many and she reported him for assault. She knew that if he found out she’d been to the police he’d probably kill her, so she gave us details of where and when we could find him with some of his product. This time, when we made the raid we hit seven properties simultaneously. We caught him with his pants down—literally, he was in the back room getting favours off some junkie.”
“OK, so where do you come into all of this?”
Warren had his suspicions, but he wanted Sheehy to spell them out for him.
“I was DCI here in Middlesbury, as you know, and I helped coordinate the investigation and organise the raids in this area. The thing with Obsanjo though was that although he was running this operation, he was a dumb shit. We couldn’t figure out how he kept one step ahead of us. Seriously, he was mean and violent and ambitious, but he wasn’t at all bright. He simply shouldn’t have been able to avoid us like he did.
“Anyhow, we’d finally got him and we charged him with intent to supply, unlawful production, the whole works. Good enough to get him twenty years if the judge and jury saw it our way. We just put his avoidance down to luck—his good luck, our bad luck.
“Anyway, a few weeks after the operation was concluded, we’d all moved on and suddenly Professional Standards arrive at my house. Six a.m. on a Sunday morning, mob-handed, brandishing warrants. I’d come off a night shift and so Judith answered. It frightened the hell out of her. By seven a.m. I was in custody suite one, waiting for my lawyer. I still didn’t know what it was all about.”
Sheehy had stopped pacing and was now grinding his teeth.
“They said that Obsanjo had claimed he was able to avoid arrest for so long because he was getting regular tip-offs about when raids were about to occur. He was bribing a member of Middlesbury police to tell him what our plans were.”
Warren contemplated the man before him.
“And he named you?”
“Not in so many words, but he gave a description that could have been me. He claimed his source would disguise himself or conceal his identity whenever they met. He’d phone him on a Pay-As-You-Go mobile phone.”
“Well they must have had more to go on than that. Trying to get a more lenient sentence by co-operation is hardly a new ploy and claiming to have been helped by some bent copper is old hat.”
“He had copies of internal memos about the operation that he claimed had been passed to him by his source. In return, he handed over bundles of cash. Used notes mostly, wrapped in elastic bands and stuffed in envelopes.” Sheehy paused. “Somebody was dirty, make no mistake about that. But it wasn’t me.”
He continued his story. “Anyway, they interviewed me all day. By mid afternoon, I wasn’t really that concerned any more. Allegations are made all the time. You know that. I figured that Professional Standards were under pressure to put on the whole cart-and-pony show because of the politics—you know that they have been looking for an excuse to close us down ever since we survived the merger. But the fact was I hadn’t done anything wrong and I was confident that there was nothing to worry about. I’ve grown a pretty thick skin over the past few years and I figured it would all be over in a couple of weeks: ‘nothing to see here, move along’.”
He went quiet. “But I was wrong. About four o’clock in the afternoon the investigator in charge, some DCI Lowry, came back in, brandishing a fistful of photographs like a trophy. They’d found a shoebox hidden in the loft, with about eight grand in used notes all rolled up neatly in elastic bands, just like Obsanjo claimed.
“Forensics found traces of drugs on the notes above the usual background levels and Obsanjo’s thumbprint on one of the envelopes. They also found a Pay-As-You-Go SIM card in my desk at work that matched the number Obsanjo claimed had been used to call him.”
The man went silent, waiting.
Warren thought hard. What the man was saying was incredible; the evidence as he’d laid it out was compelling and he could see why Professional Standards had arrested and charged him. The man in front of him was desperate, of that there was no denying and there was no reason to accept what he was saying as the truth. Except that the evidence he had given Warren so far had been largely true. And what did he have to gain by lying? The chances that Warren would find evidence to exonerate him were slim—even more so if he wasn’t actually innocent.
“So why do you think Delmarno is behind this?”
Sheehy sighed. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. Vinny Delmarno made it clear that he wanted revenge, that he wanted those responsible for sending him to prison to suffer. This happened barely six months after he was released. Then in December, Anton Liebig is killed in a supposed car accident and finally Reggie Williamson is stabbed to death on Middlesbury Common. It’s too much of a coincidence.”
It wasn’t enough. Warren knew, but he couldn’t dismiss it. “So who was feeding the information to Obsanjo? You said that you thought it was authentic, that somebody had been passing material on.”
Sheehy shrugged. “I don’t know. You know how big these sorts of operations are. Middlesbury was taking point because of our local knowledge and connections but there was a huge team behind this down at Welwyn. It could have been any one of them. Vinny Delmarno’s got deep pockets; he could definitely afford to pay somebody.”
Warren chewed his lip, thinking hard. The idea that there were other corrupt officers beyond Sheehy—maybe even officers he knew and worked with—left a sour taste in his mouth. “What about Tony?”
Sheehy grimaced. “What they did to him was spite, pure and simple. There was no reason to suspect him, other than his friendship with me. They humiliated him, dragging him into this. Poor bloke didn’t even know what it was about.”
“You know that he’s been summonsed?”
Sheehy nodded and sighed. “I’m innocent, but I’m a detective—I can put myself in their shoes. I can see why they arrested me and why they are confident of a conviction. But there’s no need to drag Tony into this. What’s he going to say? That I sometimes used my mobile phone or that I wasn’t always available?
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Paul Gitsham
It’s DCI Warren Jones’ coldest case yet…The body of Reginald Williamson had been well concealed under a bush in Middlesbury Common and the murder efficiently carried out – a single stab wound to the chest. Reggie’s dog had been killed just as efficiently. With no clues or obvious motive, the case is going nowhere. Then he gets a break.Warren’s instincts tell him that the informant is dodgy – a former police officer under investigation. But when Warren hears the incredible story he has to tell, he's glad to have given him a chance to speak. Suddenly, a wide criminal conspiracy, involving high-level police corruption, a gangster and a trained killer, is blown wide open…and Warren finds that this time, it’s not just his career under threat, but his family – and his life.Fans of Peter Robinson and Peter James will love Silent as the Grave, the third novel in Paul Gitsham's DCI Warren Jones series.More DCI Warren Jones books by Paul Gitsham:The Last StrawNo Smoke Without FireBlood is Thicker Than Water(A DCI Warren Jones short story)Praise for Paul Gitsham:"A wonderfully classy crime novel. Fluent writing style, great pace to the action. What's not to like? I'll be reading number 2 as quickly as I can download it. Crime Writing at its very best" - Kate Rhodes, author of Crossbones Yard and the Alice Quentin series
It’s DCI Warren Jones’ coldest case yet…
The body of Reginald Williamson had been well concealed under a bush in Middlesbury Common and the murder had been efficiently carried out – a single stab wound to the chest. Reggie’s dog had been killed just as efficiently. With no clues and no obvious motive, the case is going nowhere.
…and then he gets a break.
DCI Warren Jones’ instincts tell him that the informant is dodgy – a former police officer under investigation. But when the story he tells involves the death of Warren’s father, he can’t help but listen. Suddenly, a wide criminal conspiracy, involving high-level police corruption, a gangster and a trained killer, is blown wide open…and Warren finds that this time, it’s not just his career under threat, but his family – and his life.
Also by Paul Gitsham: (#ulink_23fa0674-4310-55a9-a80f-dc39cd0c797b)
The Last Straw
No Smoke Without Fire
Blood Is Thicker Than Water (A DCI Warren Jones Short Story)
Silent as the Grave
A DCI Warren Jones Novel
Paul Gitsham
Copyright (#ulink_e00e3790-4d89-59e7-afad-c2d869a56614)
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015
Copyright © Paul Gitsham 2015
Paul Gitsham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9781474033602
Version date: 2018-06-27
PAUL GITSHAM
started his career as a biologist, working in such exotic locales as Manchester and Toronto. After stints as the world’s most over-qualified receptionist and a spell making sure that international terrorists and other ne’er do wells hadn’t opened a Junior Savings Account at a major UK bank (a job even less exciting than being a receptionist) he retrained as a science teacher. He now spends his time passing on his bad habits and sloppy lab skills to the next generation of enquiring minds.
Paul has always wanted to be a writer and his final report on leaving primary school predicted he’d be the next Roald Dahl! For the sake of balance it should be pointed out that it also said, “He’ll never get anywhere in life if his handwriting doesn’t improve.” Twenty-five years later and his handwriting is worse than ever but millions of children around the world love him.*
Paul writes the DCI Warren Jones series of novels. Silent as the Grave is the third, with more to come. He was brought up in Coventry and now lives in East Anglia. Remind you of anybody?
You can find out more about Paul at his website, www.paulgitsham.com (http://www.paulgitsham.com) or follow him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/dcijones (http://www.facebook.com/dcijones) or Twitter @dcijoneswriter
*This is a lie—just ask any of the students he has taught.
Acknowledgments (#ulink_1f8283fc-ce5a-5e67-9a58-fa0e333c9604)
Like all of my novels, Silent as the Grave couldn’t have been written without the help and assistance of a great number of people.
The first thanks must go to my amazing beta readers, Dad and Cheryl, who put up with my foul-mouthed rants at my computer’s steadfast refusal to print out a draft copy for them to read over, then dropped everything to go over the document in record time so I could meet my deadline.
Next is the long line of friends who have listened to extracts of the work during its gestation, giving much appreciated feedback and encouragement. I will never be able to list everyone who helped me, so if I don’t name you, please be assured that I valued each and every suggestion and contribution.
A few who can’t be missed out include my friends at the Hertford Writers’ Circle, who have given me essential feedback on all of my books, supplying thoughtful suggestions where necessary and giving me the strength to persevere when it all seemed a bit overwhelming.
Some chapters of this novel were written as an exercise for a creative writing class and the critical feedback supplied by Danielle Jawando and my friends at Hertford Regional College helped me raise my game enormously. Good luck guys and keep on writing!
As always, I relied on technical advice from many people: Elaine Dockrill helped enormously with medical advice, Caroline and Dan kept me straight on the legal stuff and our close family friend Danny McAree generously shared his experience from decades in the police. As always, Crime Scene Investigator Lee Robson of Essex police was a source of both information and future inspiration.
My colleagues and friends at school have been wonderful, supplying both encouragement and feedback as well as acting as a useful source of interesting surnames and even more interesting character quirks…
Behind the scenes, I will forever be grateful to my publisher, HQ Digital, for taking a chance on me and for their support, from editing and feeding back on my manuscripts to the beautifully designed covers. Cheers, guys!
Finally, I must say a heartfelt thanks to the many kind readers who have taken the time to tell me what they thought of the first two books, either in person or via reviews. Releasing your ‘baby’ into the wild is a nerve-wracking experience and a positive review really makes an author’s day.
DCI Warren Jones will return. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy his latest adventure.
Paul
Dedication (#ulink_0cf124fd-2f83-5106-8b60-c0afad35e794)
To my number one cheerleaders, Mum, Dad and Cheryl. If you find one of my business cards or flyers in an unexpected place, it was probably them…
Contents
Cover (#u678baf89-d3c6-5e3e-bbb2-1c663fde1f57)
Blurb (#u53146134-b0f4-5b41-ab77-e8df74b4afc7)
Book List (#uc3f83c6b-e271-551d-b54e-7e4dd9e374a9)
Title Page (#u5cce85f0-bddd-5873-9903-31ac55ea0764)
Copyright (#ua300ff41-33ef-5462-89d0-19eb6907f566)
Author Bio (#uc25c11f8-cafe-5b22-9a25-2a98ca57d5fb)
Acknowledgement (#u6d92d505-2e75-55da-9ba1-d8c564b5a558)
Dedication (#u0e13d338-3988-5ac9-8ea7-80a0b1118a02)
Prologue (#u1a97468e-ab02-51cd-9b85-71f76d50d7d4)
Chapter 1 (#ud3eb6dc5-c6b9-53b3-ab27-91081965a55e)
Chapter 2 (#ufbbab0ad-5bf1-5483-adc5-bf64a5590b26)
Chapter 3 (#ue2cfb069-c09f-5046-9921-9975b58884c7)
Chapter 4 (#u5309e941-f18f-57b1-af28-48607e19d4c0)
Chapter 5 (#u3cf7494b-5e71-5a5d-a311-dca8be0e2a6f)
Chapter 6 (#u6d5d8e01-0f1f-5b83-bde9-3acb532cebbf)
Chapter 7 (#u56b36162-d1f6-53cd-a840-22e6a84c7ba5)
Chapter 8 (#u4c2f6e4a-4e68-5474-a9a4-fb9201d9f52e)
Chapter 9 (#u36c3c80e-b09f-53db-ab7c-ff728ccc1bb2)
Chapter 10 (#u5ac42c1b-3801-5e8c-8b8f-31b1763f92dc)
Chapter 11 (#u0dac7818-9660-5487-87b3-24b90858225e)
Chapter 12 (#udd697958-775d-5690-ba7e-c4d63d01436b)
Chapter 13 (#uadd73478-61df-539b-b8e6-943373806ef8)
Chapter 14 (#u5cfb941f-0570-5e7b-b1e4-d6c9c247a57e)
Chapter 15 (#u9978a758-9315-5d41-a2db-70c787aa6236)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 49 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 50 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 51 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 52 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 53 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 54 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ulink_4bdd8f82-1f55-578c-b8d8-fda2ac8e30e7)
The teenage boy walked carefully, balancing an overfilled mug in each hand. The kettle had boiled only moments before and his mother had called down the garden, asking if his father wanted coffee. There had been no reply, but in twenty years of marriage Aileen MacNamara had never known her husband refuse a hot drink. So, curious to know what his father had been doing all evening, the fourteen-year-old had poured himself one as well and set off down the path.
The garage door was a sturdy, wooden affair, the handle missing for as long as the boy could remember, the hasp for the padlock its replacement. Looping a free finger around the metal bracket, he unhooked it then pulled as hard as he could. The door, warped from years of hot summers and cold winters, resisted before screeching open with a sudden jerk, spilling scalding liquid all over his hands. The teenager swore quietly.
Niall MacNamara had patrolled the streets of Coventry for over twenty-five years and had seen—and heard—it all. Nevertheless he had zero tolerance for foul language in his home and his son wasn’t in the mood for a lecture.
The garage was dark, filled with tools and gardening implements. A spate of recent vandalism had prompted Niall to enlist the help of his two sons to clear enough space for him to park the family car in there overnight, but it was a tight fit.
The boy started to cough at the same moment he saw the hosepipe snaking from the rear of the car and in through the partially open driver’s side window. With an incoherent shout, he dropped both mugs, forcing himself around the car’s bonnet to the driver’s side. After yanking the hosepipe from the window, he pulled the door handle. Locked. Through the clouds of exhaust filling the car, he could see his father, head slumped forward in the driver’s seat. Choking, the boy cast his teary eyes around wildly before spotting a claw hammer hanging from a hook. With so little room to swing it took three desperate attempts before he shattered the window, all the while screaming for his mother. After pulling the door lock button, he opened the door. An empty whisky bottle rolled off his father’s lap and clattered onto the concrete floor. Reaching in, he took the keys from the ignition. But he knew it was too little, too late.
Tuesday 10 May 1988. After tonight, nothing would ever be the same again.
Twenty-Two Years Later
The scrum of press outside the prison gates was more like that awaiting the appearance of a pop star than a convicted murderer. An explosion of flashbulbs greeted the arrival of a black Jaguar. Some of the dozen or so uniformed police officers, who were stopping the pushing reporters from getting too close to the prison gates, broke off to form a similar line around the rear doors of the luxury car.
Parked one hundred metres away, DCI Gavin Sheehy looked on with incredulity at the spectacle. All of the major national broadcasters were present, along with several noted international ones. Reporters earnestly spoke into cameras or radio microphones. Recognising one of the BBC’s most famous radio presenters, Sheehy reached for the car radio, selecting Radio 4. Sure enough, the anchor of World at One was reporting on the release of the prisoner, before handing over live to the presenter.
“The scene outside Wormwood Scrubs prison is unlike anything we’ve ever witnessed before. Vinny Delmarno, the notorious crime lord sentenced in 1988 to life in prison for ordering the killing of a rival drug baron and accused—although acquitted—of dozens of counts of racketeering, money laundering, drug dealing and prostitution, is due to be released any moment on parole.
“Most prisoners slip out of this back door with little more than a carrier bag, the clothes they wore when they came in, the address of a local bail hostel and forty-six pounds to help them start life again. Vinny Delmarno will have no need of any of these. It is alleged that while he one of the most successful crime lords of the seventies and eighties, he also owned—and some claim still owns—a string of apparently legitimate businesses across the Midlands and the East of England. All of these businesses and his palatial Hertfordshire home were signed over to his ex-wife in an entirely uncontested divorce settlement weeks before his successful conviction. Rumour has it that he and his wife have reconciled over the past twenty-two years and that he will be returning to the couple’s former home as soon as he is released.”
The anchorwoman broke in, “This has caused some controversy, hasn’t it, Mark?”
“Indeed it has. Politicians from all sides of the House are questioning if there is any way the state can seize these assets, even though they were legally awarded to his ex-wife. The shadow Home Secretary has claimed that the divorce was clearly a sham and that therefore his assets should be used to repay the millions of pounds of back tax that it is alleged he avoided through money-laundering schemes. It should be noted of course that despite his conviction, he claims to be innocent of all these charges and that he was the victim of a conspiracy.
“When he is released, any moment now, it is expected that he will give a statement repeating those claims.”
Suddenly the press started snapping pictures again and even from his distant vantage point, Sheehy could hear the increase in volume from the waiting press. A moment later it became clear why, as a small side door started to open.
Sheehy’s breath caught in his throat. It had been a long time since he had last set eyes on the man. He wasn’t prepared for the shock. Delmarno was a small, dapper man in his mid fifties. His silver hair had been expertly coiffured and his thin pencil moustache trimmed neatly. The fitted suit that he wore was certainly not the one he’d worn in court; its cut was clearly contemporary. But then he had been a very different man back then.
“In many ways it is a big surprise to see Vinny Delmarno here today. When sentenced back in 1988, he was believed to be within a year of dying from kidney failure. In fact that was put forward in mitigation by his defence team when the judge sentenced him. Six months into his sentence, however, he received a controversial life-saving kidney transplant. Questions were again raised in the House of Commons and the House of Lords as to whether a convicted murderer should be given such treatment free on the NHS. The then Health Secretary acknowledged such concerns but stood alongside the Home Secretary and the Prime Minister in claiming that denying prisoners such a life-saving operation would be a slippery slope.”
The anchorwoman cut back in again, “I believe that Mr Delmarno’s lawyer is about to read a prepared statement.”
A taller man, in an equally expensive suit, was now standing shoulder to shoulder with his client. He paused whilst the various camera crews jostled for the best position and microphones were thrust under his nose. Clearing his throat he began, “I am going to read a short statement on behalf of my client. He will not be answering any questions.
“This day has been a long time coming, but finally my freedom, wrongly taken from me, has been returned. For over twenty-two years I have languished in prison for crimes that I did not commit, the victim of a conspiracy concocted at the highest levels. In that time I have maintained my innocence. During my incarceration I have been comforted by the support of my family and friends, who have stood by me and championed my innocence, and I cannot thank them enough. In a moment I will be driven away to be reunited with loved ones and I look forward to embracing my son and rebuilding my life. I feel only sadness that I could not do the same to my dear parents, both of whom passed away during my imprisonment.
“On the advice of my lawyers, I will not be saying any more other than that I will be turning all of my energy towards overturning my conviction and seeking redress for this appalling miscarriage of justice.” The lawyer paused briefly, before continuing, “Those responsible for this cannot hide for ever. We know who you are and we will have justice. That is all.”
Behind the wheel of his car, Gavin Sheehy’s hands shook. Suddenly and without warning his stomach lurched and he yanked the door open just in time. He was still hanging awkwardly out of the car, dry heaving, as the Jaguar roared past. The rear windows were blackened, but he still felt the man’s eyes burning hatred through the smoked glass.
Present Day
Sunday 25 March
Chapter 1 (#ulink_bc0bb863-7c7e-507d-9fe5-c4cfc537f61b)
The body had been concealed well enough for it to remain unnoticed for at least a couple of days, Detective Chief Inspector Warren Jones decided, as he bent his six-foot frame under the branches of the flowering bush. Nevertheless, after a string of warm spring days the smell had finally attracted the attention of a middle-aged couple out for a post-Sunday lunch dog-walk.
The two witnesses were now busy giving their statements to Detective Inspector Tony Sutton on the other side of the line of blue-and-white crime-scene tape. Both walkers were wearing disposable plastic booties, their shoes impounded by the forensic team to check for any trace evidence they might have picked up and to distinguish their footprints from any that may have been left by the killer or killers.
“It looks as though he was initially stabbed over there on the footpath, then dragged through the grass and hidden here at the edge of the forest.”
Crime Scene Manager Andy Harrison used a white-gloved hand to point out the red, bloody smear to the paper-suited detective. A similarly clad CSI squatting carefully amongst the long grass was filling a series of clear plastic evidence bags with bloodstained vegetation.
“And what about the dog? I’m assuming it’s the victim’s?” Warren gestured at the black-and-white furry form lying next to the old man.
“It’s early days and we haven’t moved either body yet, but I can’t see any obvious stab wounds. We’ll get a vet to perform an autopsy to work out how it was killed. The dog’s still wearing its lead, but the victim isn’t holding it. We had a look in the pockets of his windcheater but didn’t find any doggy treats or other evidence that he was walking a dog, so I’m not yet prepared to declare him the owner. If it’s been microchipped that could help us link them. Not to mention help you identify the victim if needs be.”
“And you didn’t see a wallet or phone or other ID?”
“Not unless he keeps them in his back pocket, which he’s lying on. We haven’t even found a set of house keys.”
Warren stared at the body thoughtfully. “No wallet or phone suggests robbery, but why would they take his keys?”
The Yorkshireman shrugged, his protective clothing making a rustling noise. “Not really my place to say, Guv, but if he left the missus at home when he went out to walk the dog he may not have had them on him.”
Warren conceded the point with a small nod of his head. “It’s possible. But something doesn’t seem quite right. He’s an old man, shabbily dressed, not obviously wealthy and he had a dog—not your usual target for some opportunist mugger. And why conceal the body afterwards? If it was a case of ‘stab first, ask nicely for his wallet after’ then we’re dealing with somebody pretty brutal here—especially if they did the dog as well. Would they have taken the trouble to conceal both bodies?
“And if it was a mugging gone wrong, I’d have expected them to flee the scene immediately, not risk exposure by taking the time to hide the victims.”
“Like I said, not really my place to say.”
Warren sighed. “You’re right. I should stop speculating and wait for your findings.”
Harrison picked up on the hint. “We’ll probably finish processing the scene tonight and get the bodies removed before morning. I imagine the post-mortem will be tomorrow afternoon. I’ll get you a preliminary report before close of play tomorrow.”
Warren glanced at his watch—just after six p.m. He sighed and pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket. It was going to be a long night—he’d better phone his wife, Susan, and tell her he wasn’t going to be back in time to go to the pub quiz. It looked as if he’d be sleeping in the spare room again tonight.
Monday 26 March
Chapter 2 (#ulink_489d2ed7-674e-53b0-a621-186b3694c299)
The eight a.m. briefing was full, the room crammed with most of Middlesbury CID’s detectives. Standing next to the projector, Warren stifled a yawn and took a swig of his coffee before calling for quiet. Leaning against the wall, looking similarly worn out, was Tony Sutton. However, standing at the back, fiddling with his Blackberry, Detective Superintendent John Grayson was as shiny and well groomed as always. If past form was anything to go by, he’d probably nip out to the barber and get a quick trim and tidy before the upcoming press conference.
The station’s senior detective had appointed Warren lead investigator as usual—where possible Grayson tried to avoid doing any actual detective work, Warren had soon learned—but he would of course be available to talk to the press at any time, skilfully taking any credit for the team’s successes whilst cannily distancing himself from any failures.
This was largely fine by Warren, who hated being in front of the camera, but at times—usually when he’d had less than three hours’ sleep—it did irritate him that his team’s efforts seemed to be mostly laying the groundwork for his superior’s next promotion and the securement of an increased final salary pension.
Warren clicked the handheld presenter and two photographs appeared on the screen behind him. On the left was a greyish, blue-skinned headshot of the old man from the park, his snow-white shock of hair lying limp and greasy, a couple of days’ stubble covering his chin. The skin had a slightly puffy appearance from the early stages of decomposition, the effect being to smooth out the lines and creases that would otherwise bear witness to this individual human’s story.
On the right was a more vibrant picture of the deceased, taken the previous Christmas. In this image the man’s face was a mass of deep wrinkles and smile lines, his skin tanned the dark bronze that comes from a life spent working outdoors. The picture had been cropped, but it was possible to make out decorations in the background. The big grin and slightly unfocused eyes painted a portrait of a happy man, enjoying the festive season with loved ones.
“Reginald Williamson, aged sixty-eight. Found dead, body concealed under a bush next to his dog, just off a path at sixteen-twenty hours yesterday afternoon by two members of the public walking their dog on the western edge of Middlesbury Common.” Another click revealed an aerial photograph from Google Earth, annotated with the position of the body.
The common was situated on the edge of Middlesbury, abutting a small wooded area that served as a divider between the small market town and the adjacent farmland. Although the land was popular with dog-walkers, joggers and local kids, the area where Williamson had been dumped was in a secluded corner. It was inevitable that the body would be found sooner, rather than later; however, its concealment had probably gained the killer—or killers—at least a couple of days’ head start.
“Preliminary cause of death is a stab wound to the chest. Cause of death for the dog is unknown. Initial analysis points to the victim being attacked on the pavement here—” Warren used the laser pointer to circumscribe an area of pavement on the photograph “—then dragged through tall grass into the edge of the woods and dumped out of sight under this bush.”
Warren cycled through a series of photos of the crime scene, highlighting the bloody trail and the body’s final resting place. “The victim’s pockets were empty, suggesting robbery as a possible motive. A leather wallet with his fingerprints and cards but no cash, was found in a litter bin about eighty metres from the dumping spot. However, forensics have been unable to identify any other prints.”
Warren paused. “It’s early days, but something doesn’t feel quite right. Our victim lived alone since his wife died three years ago yet we found no house or car keys on him. His niece, who reported him missing, went around to the house Sunday morning and found it locked. His car was still there, so the robbers didn’t steal it. She went in to the house and said that nothing was obviously missing.
“His mobile phone is also unaccounted for. His provider shows that the handset went dark at about twenty-thirty hours Thursday evening, although we don’t have any other data from them yet. Either it’s been destroyed or the battery was removed. His niece says it wasn’t worth stealing though. It was an old Nokia brick that he’d owned for ever.”
Detective Sergeant Hutchinson raised a hand at the back. “Does that tie in with the time of death?”
“We don’t know yet. The PM is scheduled for this afternoon. They’ll try and get an accurate time for us; at the moment we’re operating on a time frame of about forty-eight hours. What we do know is that nobody had seen him since about eleven p.m. Wednesday night when he left his local—the Merchants’ Arms. Apparently he was in the habit of taking his dog for a long walk most evenings, often up the common, then stopping in for a nightcap.
“Regulars didn’t think anything of it when he didn’t come in for his evening pint on the Thursday, but when he didn’t show on Friday or Saturday either, a couple called his mobile but were diverted straight to voicemail. One of them bumped into his niece Sunday morning and mentioned it, so she took the spare key she keeps for emergencies and went around to see if he was all right. There were pints of milk on the doorstep and Friday’s newspapers stuck in the letter box. That’s when she started to worry and reported him missing.”
Warren looked around the room. “I want you to all keep an open mind. Don’t just assume it was a random mugging gone wrong—start canvassing his friends, family, neighbours. Let’s see if he had any unusual visitors or mentioned anything that was worrying him. Dig into his background and look at his lifestyle.
“Meanwhile, let’s see if we can scare up any witnesses. It’s been a pleasant few days. There were bound to have been a few folks in and around the park in the hours before and after the murder. Did they see anyone or anything suspicious?”
As the meeting broke up Warren crossed over to Tony Sutton, who made a sour face, before commenting.
“It sounds as though your gut’s asking the same thing mine is. ‘Why would someone kill a retired gardener in a public place, then conceal the body and try to make it look like a mugging gone wrong?’”
Chapter 3 (#ulink_9efa202b-75eb-5041-8a90-c28e6b15d13a)
The first twenty-four hours of any murder investigation are crucial. Assuming the clock had started the moment the couple found the body, over sixteen hours had elapsed. Add to that the time that the body lay concealed, and several days had probably passed. It was now almost nine o’clock on a Monday morning and the world was awake and at work; Warren was hopeful that this would mean things would start moving faster. The killer—or killers—had a large head start on the team and they needed to start chipping away at that advantage.
A few preliminary interviews had been conducted the previous night as they’d tried to establish the victim’s identity, but now a team from headquarters in Welwyn Garden City had joined them and the interviewing could start in earnest. The landlord of the Merchants’ Arms had been shocked to hear of the death of one of his regulars and had furnished Tony Sutton with a comprehensive list of the locals who drank with Reggie, as he was known.
Whilst Sutton and DS Hutchinson organised interviews with the man’s two dozen or so drinking partners, Warren and Detective Constable Karen Hardwick visited Reggie Williamson’s grieving niece.
Tabitha Williamson was a young-looking thirty-something who lived alone in a small flat only a few hundred metres from Hardwick’s own apartment. A teaching assistant at the local primary school, the door of her fridge-freezer was covered in crudely hand-painted artwork, most with some variation on ‘Get Well Soon, Miss Williamson’. Tabitha Williamson’s pronounced limp and the crutches leaning against the kitchen table hinted at the cause of their concern. The diversity of spellings for “Williamson” brought a slight smile to Warren’s lips as he and Hardwick waited patiently for Tabitha Williamson to finish fussing over the kettle and coffee pot.
Truth be told, the last thing Warren needed was more coffee and if her bloodshot eyes and shaking hands were anything to go by, Tabitha Williamson had consumed more than she should have as well. The old stereotype of the British, “Whatever the crisis, boil the kettle”, was based on solid, empirical evidence in Warren’s experience.
“Why don’t you tell me about your relationship with Mr Williamson?” started Warren gently, when the three were finally seated around the cramped table.
“Please, call him Reggie. He hated formality of any sort; he was just a gardener he always said.”
“Of course. Tell us about Reggie.”
“He was my dad’s big brother. The two of them were best friends, although you’d never have known they were related.” She smiled sadly. “I didn’t get my red hair from my mother’s side.
“Anyway, Dad taught French at a secondary school in Cambridge, Mum used to be a special needs teacher at the same school, but Uncle Reggie always preferred to work outside and he used to be a landscape gardener until he retired a few years ago to look after Aunty Una, when she got too ill to care for herself.
“He refused to let her go into a home and he ended up as her full-time carer until she passed away about three years ago.”
“Were you and Mr…sorry, Reggie, close?”
She nodded, her eyes filling with tears again. “Uncle Reggie and Aunty Una never had kids of their own and I was an only child.” She laughed quietly. “I was so spoilt! Two sets of parents doing my every bidding!
“Anyway, Mum and Dad died when I was at college. A car accident in France…” Her voice broke off and she took a fortifying gulp of coffee. “I’m sorry.” She placed the mug down with a thump, her hands shaking.
Warren and Hardwick waited patiently until she regained control.
“I guess I’m lucky really. Nobody could ever replace Mum and Dad but Uncle Reggie and Aunty Una did their best. Anyway Uncle Reggie had a job with the council as their senior gardener and landscaper, but about six or seven years ago Aunty Una started getting forgetful. They tried to shrug it off at first—people always do, don’t they?—but pretty soon she was losing her keys, getting on the wrong bus and leaving the gas on.
“One afternoon we got a call from the police, who said that she had been found distressed outside their old house, wanting to know why she could see strangers through the living room windows and why her keys wouldn’t work in the front door. They hadn’t lived there for nearly thirty years.
“Anyway, pretty soon she wasn’t really safe to leave on her own—she had always been a fit woman who loved to go for long walks and you never knew where she’d end up—so he gave up full-time work for the council and took his pension early. He used to do a bit of handyman work and the odd gardening job when he could find someone to sit with her for a few hours, but in the end even that was too much.
“I finally persuaded him to consider moving her into a care home and we were in the process of choosing one when she died suddenly in her sleep.”
She drained her coffee and sighed deeply. “It was a mercy I suppose. We were all very upset of course, but I think in the end we were mostly relieved.”
“That was three years ago. What did do Reggie afterwards?” asked Karen Hardwick.
“He went back to gardening. Aside from Aunty Una it was his true love. I was a bit worried at first about how he’d cope, but he told me one day that he’d been grieving the loss of his wife for years before she died and she wouldn’t want to see him moping around. Anyway, he didn’t go back to work full-time—he said he was too old for that—but he has a few regulars in the local area and he does a couple of days most weeks.
“He missed her terribly of course, but he was generally pretty happy.” She turned to Warren and her tone became pleading. “Why would anyone kill him? He was a lovely man. Nobody had a bad word for him.”
“We don’t know yet. That’s what we hope to find out.” He paused delicately. “Do you have a list of his clients? What about friends and family who didn’t drink with him down the Merchants’ Arms?”
“I don’t know all of his clients, but he was pretty scrupulous about his accounts. I imagine he has a list somewhere. As to his friends, I’m not really sure. He’s lived here pretty much all of his life and most of his friends are regulars at the pub. I suppose he may have kept in touch with people he worked with at the council, but when he was self-employed he worked alone.”
“What about family?”
“Nobody close. My dad was his only immediate family and like I said he didn’t have any kids of his own. We have a few other aunts and uncles that we see at Christmas and New Year, but we don’t really keep in touch.” The tears were back. “He was all I had.”
The young woman put her head in her hands, mumbling apologies as her shoulders shook.
Warren glanced at Karen Hardwick, who got up and placed an arm around the distraught woman’s shoulders.
“Do you have anyone we can call? A friend perhaps, a partner maybe?”
She shook her head and laughed bitterly. “No boyfriend if that’s what you’re asking. That boat sailed long ago and Uncle Reggie would never forgive me if I called him up. I don’t even have a cat.” She suddenly looked up. “What about Smiths? Has anyone fed her?”
“Smiths?”
“Uncle Reggie’s Border collie. He always calls his dogs after his favourite pint at the time they were born. Unfortunately she was a bitch and he couldn’t really call her John, could he?”
Warren shifted uncomfortably. Clearly nobody had told her the full story of how her uncle had been found. “I’m very sorry, but Reggie was found with the body of a dog. It looks as though he was walking it when he was attacked.”
It’s funny how it’s sometimes the smaller things that are the trigger. Tabitha Williamson let out a low moan, before slumping forward. This time there were no apologies for her perceived weakness as the tears finally flowed freely, sobs shaking her slight frame.
It was several minutes before the young woman was able to regain control long enough to select the number of a girlfriend from her phone’s contacts and pass it over to Karen Hardwick to arrange for her to come over.
Whilst they waited, Warren boiled the kettle again. He didn’t want to leave the young woman alone until he was certain that somebody else could take over. However, on the face of it, hand-holding wasn’t really the best use of a senior detective’s time. Fortunately, he still had more questions he wanted to ask.
“Tell me about this boyfriend,” he said once the coffee had started to perform its magic.
She snorted. “Not one of my better decisions. I should have ended it long before I did—God knows Uncle Reggie didn’t mince his words.” She stared into space. “What can I say? I was in love—or at least I thought I was. I know now, looking back on it, I was just afraid of being alone.” She smiled tightly. “It’s a funny birthday thirty—makes you think about life and the future.”
The speech was smooth, well-thought-out; no doubt the relationship had been dissected thoroughly in the past few months, probably in this very kitchen with the help of friends and wine.
“So Reggie didn’t like him? Why?”
“No big mystery. He was a bit of an arsehole.” She shrugged. “We met in a club in town about two years ago. It was lust at first sight as they say.” She sighed. “Dark hair, Spanish, looked great in a tight T-shirt. He even had the right sort of name: ‘Mateo Menendez’—what can I say?” She looked over at Karen Hardwick who smiled sympathetically.
“Anyway, it was your classic whirlwind romance. Expensive meals, presents, weekends away; I thought I’d really found the one. I guess I should have listened to Uncle Reggie.”
“He didn’t approve?”
She shook her head. “No. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see me happy—quite the opposite—but he didn’t trust him. Said he was too flashy. I just assumed that he was being over-protective.”
“What went wrong?”
“Uncle Reggie was right. He was too flashy. All style and no substance—or as Reggie put it in the end, ‘all flash and no cash’.”
“He took advantage?” Warren could see where this was leading.
She nodded. “After about six months, he said that the lease was up on his flat and so he moved in here. The funny thing was, although he was no longer paying rent on his own place he never really contributed here. When I brought it up, he offered to pay the bills, you know, gas, electricity, council tax and all of that. It was probably about equivalent to half the rent, so I agreed.
“Everything seemed fine for about six months until one day the broadband stopped working. Mateo said he’d deal with it, but a few weeks later it went off again. It was the school holidays and I was at home during the day whilst Mateo was out. I picked up the post. There was a red demand from TalkTalk and another from the electricity company.
“I asked Mateo about it again and he said it was a bank error.” She shook her head. “I actually took him at his word; can you believe that?”
“He wasn’t paying the bills?”
“Oh it was worse than that. When he did pay off a bill, he was using one of those payday loans companies—you know those loan sharks that lend you money, no questions asked, then charge you thousands of per cent interest? Want to guess whose name was on the account? And of course I hadn’t been making the minimum payments because I didn’t know about it. When the bailiffs turned up I had to use pretty much my entire life savings to stop them repossessing the flat and everything in it.”
Her grief had turned to a palpable anger. “It’s not just the money; it’s the stain on my record. My credit file is an absolute mess; nine months on and I’m still writing letters every week trying to sort it all out.”
“Where is this Mateo now?”
“The bastard is back with the mother of his two kids—two kids I knew nothing about. It turns out that when I thought he was out at work, he was around there playing happy families, trying to get back with her.” Her voice quietened. “I don’t know if I should be angry with her or sorry for her. I’m sure he’s fleecing her just like he did me.”
“And Reggie knew about this?”
“Yes, he helped me move all of Mateo’s belongings out. In fact it was his idea to give all of the stuff to the bailiffs when they turned up.” She smiled grimly. “A small victory I suppose, but you take them where you can.”
It was another ten minutes before Tabitha Williamson’s best friend arrived and Warren and Hardwick were able to make their excuses and leave.
“Well at least we have one name for the whiteboard,” Karen Hardwick said as they left the flat and headed back to the car.
Warren was thoughtful. “Maybe. The question is: if this Mateo Menendez was the killer, what made him snap nine months after he split up with Reggie Williamson’s niece?”
Chapter 4 (#ulink_616c7ae8-648d-50e7-a804-c5a780cc24d7)
Mateo Menendez was much the way that Tabitha Williamson had described him—dark, tightly built and rather too flash for Warren’s taste. Despite his supposed Spanish upbringing, he spoke with a local accent. What she hadn’t mentioned was how small his head was. It was all that Warren could do not to stare openly at him. Karen Hardwick fussed with the tape recorder, studiously not looking his way.
Warren knew that the science of phrenology—the diagnosing of a person’s intelligence by the shape of their skull—had long since been discredited. Similarly, within reason a person’s hat size had no bearing on their intelligence. Still, Warren found himself wondering how a full-size human brain could fit inside such a small skull. Up close the man’s mass of tight, black, curly hair did little to hide it.
“Do you know this man?” Warren slid a recent photograph of Reggie Williamson across the desk. Tabitha Williamson had described an arrogant man, self-assured and full of self-confidence. True to form, he’d declined a solicitor for the interview, claiming he had nothing to hide. Therefore, Warren had decided against arresting the man. He would do so if he was unsatisfied with the man’s answers, but until now Menendez was merely helping with inquiries. Just as importantly, the twenty-four hour time limit for charging a suspect didn’t start until he was formally arrested and read his rights.
Menendez barely glanced at the photograph. “Sure, Reggie Williamson. I dated his niece for a while.” The answer was smooth, unhurried. Warren’s hope that he might catch the man out in an easy lie had yet to bear fruit.
“And would you say that you and Mr Williamson had a good relationship? How did he react when you and his niece broke up?”
Menendez shrugged. “Reggie’s a nice enough bloke. He wasn’t very happy when Tabby and I split up, but that’s to be expected, I suppose.”
Assuming that Tabitha Williamson was to be believed, that was a significant understatement of how Reggie Williamson had felt about Menendez. However, it wasn’t an overt lie. The jury was still out on the man’s honesty.
“Can you tell us why you and Ms Williamson split up?”
For the first time, Menendez’s cocky façade cracked. “Is this about Tabby? Is she OK? Has something happened to her?”
Warren ignored Menendez’s question and repeated his own.
“We weren’t getting along for a while. I got back with the mother of my kids—we decided to make a go of it again.”
Again, something of a deviation from Tabitha Williamson’s version of events, but he wasn’t really lying, just downplaying some of the more unpleasant details to show himself in a better light—hardly an indication of guilt.
Warren decided to change tack.
“Tell me, what state were your finances in when you left Ms Williamson?”
“I don’t see that’s any of your business, Detective.”
“No, you’re right. I apologise.” Warren smiled briefly. “What I meant was, are you employed at the moment or were you back when you dated Ms Williamson?”
“I’m unemployed at the moment; I’ve been out of full-time work for about two and a half years. I’m signed up to an employment agency, but there’s bugger all around here. I work when I can.”
Still no obvious lies.
“Did Ms Williamson know about this when you started dating?”
Menendez licked his lips. “Sure, I guess so. We never really spoke about it.”
“Seems strange that you dated all of that time and it never came up in conversation.”
Menendez squirmed slightly. “Well we had a very passionate relationship.” He turned his gaze on Hardwick and smiled, showing a suspiciously white set of teeth. “You know how it is, everything’s exciting and you’re in love. You don’t talk about the little details.”
“Like paying the bills or taking out payday loans in somebody else’s name?”
Menendez returned his attention to Warren. “Is that what this is all about? We had an agreement and now she’s trying to claim that I set it all up in her name without her consent.” His voice dropped. “I feel really bad about hurting her.” He turned his attention back to Hardwick. “I loved her and didn’t want to upset her, but I also love my kids and when I got a chance to become a part of their lives again, well I had to take it. I’m sure you can understand.”
“No, not really.” Hardwick’s tone was unyielding.
Menendez turned his attention back to Warren, giving up on Hardwick for the time being. “Look, we were short of cash at the end of the month. The bills were all in my name, so when we arranged the loan, we transferred it directly into my account so that it could be paid out immediately, rather than having to wait for Tabby to transfer it from her account.”
“So why didn’t you just arrange the loan in your name?”
He snorted. “I’m unemployed. Even payday loan companies have some standards.”
Warren doubted that the man’s story would stand up to serious scrutiny. He was sure that there would be a voice recording somewhere with Menendez’s voice making all of the arrangements. It was interesting how a male caller had managed to set up the deal on behalf of a female client. However, that wasn’t what he and Hardwick were here for.
“Tell me, Mateo. Where were you Thursday evening?”
The man thought for a moment. “I took the kids out to Maccy D’s then they played in the park until it got dark, then we went home. Candy—that’s my girlfriend, Candice—was out doing her Zumba class, so I put the kids to bed and watched TV.”
“Which park was that?”
“The kiddie play park up on the common.”
“And can either of the children vouch for your whereabouts?”
Menendez stared at him. “Tyson is three and a half. He can just about string a sentence together. Jayden is two. She still sleeps in nappies. What do you think they’re going to tell you?”
Despite the man’s protestations, Warren felt a slight thrill. Menendez had been on Middlesbury Common on the night that Reggie Williamson had been killed and so far had no alibi.
* * *
Questioning of Reggie Williamson’s drinking partners had revealed nothing of interest. He and Smiths had been regulars at the Merchants’ Arms for as long as anyone could remember, popping by most nights for a pint after a brisk walk. Few people like to speak ill of the dead, but it truly seemed nobody had a bad word to say about Reggie. Sociable, but not too loud; generous enough to get his round in and pop a quid in the charity box, but not flashy; willing to chat about current events and engage in a bit of bar-room philosophy, but with fairly mainstream views and not too opinionated. A useful darts player who’d won more than his fair share of pub quizzes, he was usually gracious enough to share his winnings—a round of drinks—with the runners-up.
A few of the regulars had known him as he’d nursed his wife, when his trips to the pub had dwindled to once week. When she finally passed away, everyone had given a few pounds to Alzheimer’s Research in her memory, at his request. Since then there had been nobody special that anybody knew of.
His conversation and demeanour in the past few weeks had been apparently unchanged. The only source of concern he’d mentioned was Smiths’ advancing years—she’d been slowing down lately and had a couple of accidents.
“All in all, a pretty normal bloke who it seemed got on with his life and didn’t rub people up the wrong way,” summarised Tony Sutton.
“Thanks, Tony. Pete, what have you got for us?” Detective Sergeant Kent was the unit’s resident expert on the use of the various databases that the force had access to. A squat man in his mid fifties with thinning hair that was more than compensated for by a full beard, he was edging close to retirement and had been helping train Detective Constable Gary Hastings in recent months. He was the officer in charge of coordinating information that came into the major incident desk that he’d help set up the previous night.
“Not a lot. He was basically unknown to us. Our only contact was a naughty drivers’ course after being flashed by a speed camera on Hills Road in Cambridge—but then haven’t we all had that?” There were a few smiles, some sheepish, around the room. The stretch of road alongside Homerton College and the sixth form was notorious for its rigorously enforced thirty miles per hour limit—a necessary precaution given the number of darkly dressed, drink-addled student cyclists without lights wobbling up the road at all hours.
“I contacted the council who confirmed that he worked for them for many years until taking early retirement to care for his wife, when he drew a reduced pension. A fair few in the Estates department remembered him and they’ve given us a list of people he worked with regularly.
“On a similar note, forensics are still searching his house. Nothing of interest yet, but they have found the box file that he used to keep track of his part-time gardening jobs. Documents analysis are going through it and compiling a list of customer contacts.”
“Good, pass them on to Tony when you have them to set up interviews. Anything else?”
“The remainder of the mobile phone data from the cell dump is being collated as we speak, but there’s not a lot we can do with it until we get a more precise time of death. Those cell towers serve hundreds of houses each. We’re looking at over a million individual network access requests for the twenty-four hours between Thursday afternoon and Friday alone. Bloody smartphones, pinging Twitter every ten seconds to check if Beyoncé’s changed her hair.”
Warren thanked him quickly, knowing that if he didn’t cut him off now they could be in for a lengthy grumble about the frivolous use of modern technology and its impact on modern policing.
So far nothing. Were they looking at a random stabbing after all? Warren hoped not. With no extrinsic motive or apparent link to the victim, such a killer would be hard to find. The explanation gnawed at him, however. The careful hiding of the body and the fact that no witnesses had come forward suggested that if the killer was mentally disturbed, they were still in possession of at least some of their faculties. It seemed a fair degree of planning and forethought had gone into the attack.
They needed a motive.
“Then it looks as if our best bet so far is Mateo Menendez—an unemployed love rat and small-time fraudster who did the dirty on Reggie Williamson’s niece, Tabitha, and saddled her with large debts before going back to the mother of his two kids. A real charmer.” He smiled slightly. “He made quite an impression on DC Hardwick.”
“Not a good one. I need a shower.”
“Any reason to suspect him, other than possible conflict with her uncle?” asked DS Hutchinson after the chuckles had died down.
“By his own admission, he was with the kids up the common Thursday afternoon. Unfortunately, he claims to have gone home when it got dark, which is a good hour before Reggie Williamson’s mobile phone lost contact with the network. He says he was in McDonald’s before he went to the park, feeding his two toddlers something appropriately healthy and nutritious. We’re waiting for the restaurant’s CCTV footage to see if he was there when he said he was.”
“Where is he now?” asked DS Margaret Richardson, a mother of two, her expression clearly conveying what she thought of Menendez’s dietary choices for his young offspring.
“Downstairs. I’m going to bail him for further questioning. He’s co-operating so we haven’t arrested him yet and he still hasn’t asked for a lawyer, despite being advised of his rights. Either he’s as arrogant as Tabitha Williamson says, he’s incredibly naïve or he’s innocent. Maybe all three. As soon as we get a time of death, we’ll start picking away at his alibi.”
* * *
A cause and time of death became available late that evening. Professor Ryan Jordan was one of a number of Home Office Certified Pathologists used by Beds and Herts Major Crime Unit and Warren was pleased to see that he’d picked up the case. Not only was the middle-aged American highly competent and easy to work with, he didn’t insist on holding meetings in the morgue.
It wasn’t that Warren was particularly squeamish—he wouldn’t have been staring at the A4 colour photographs spread across his desk otherwise, he told himself—however, he’d rarely seen the need to see the victim’s dissected remains up close and personal. He’d much rather have high-resolution photographs, pre-interpreted by experts far more qualified than he.
“The cause of death was fairly straightforward—single stab wound to the heart. Dead before he hit the ground. There would have been lots of blood, so the attacker’s clothes would have been soaked, although the heart will have stopped pumping pretty much instantly so once he dropped there shouldn’t have been a huge puddle.”
Warren remembered the blood smears on the grass and the relatively small patch on the tarmac pathway. “Given the lack of blood spatter on the path away from the pool where we think he fell, would that be consistent with his attacker standing in front of him?”
“I’d say so. If he’d been attacked from behind—” Jordan mimed a stabbing action towards his own body “—he’d have sprayed at least some blood forward, leaving marks on the sidewalk. It looks as though his killer caught the brunt of it.”
Warren made a note on his pad. A search was already underway to comb bins and possible hiding places for discarded garments. There might also be spots of blood leading away from the scene of the attack. There hadn’t been any rain and so they might still be visible. He made a note to request a fingertip search to find any such trace.
Assuming they found a suspect, perhaps they had been seen trying to clean clothes or dispose of rubbish unexpectedly.
“What about defensive marks?”
“None that we can find.”
“So his killer took him by surprise. Do we have any information about the murder weapon?”
“From the size of the laceration, we’re talking about something sharp with a five- to six-inch blade. Not too wide, but pointed. No serrations. We’ve not found any traces of rust in the wound and, unfortunately, the nature of the attack means that it missed any bones or ribs, so there aren’t any metal fragments that would allow us to identify the knife more precisely.” Jordan shrugged. “I suspect that we’re looking at a run-of-the-mill stainless steel kitchen knife, unused, or at least well cleaned before the attack. Assuming there was any premeditation, it may have been bought anywhere from a supermarket chain to a hardware store. Find me the weapon and I might be able tell you more, but until then I’m speculating.”
Warren sighed. They’d found the victim’s wallet, but nothing else. “So it could still be a bog-standard, mugging gone wrong?”
Jordan shook his head. “I’m not so sure.” He picked up the folder that he’d brought the photographs in. “Leaving aside all the inconsistencies, the precision of the killing worries me—a single stab wound to the heart. It’s very clean. Straight into the diaphragm, missing the sternum and ribs, but angled upward directly into the heart. Ordinarily, I’d be happy to dismiss that as good luck. But there’s also the dog.”
“How was it killed? I didn’t see any blood.”
Jordan pulled out another sheet of paper. “According to the vet, its neck was broken. A shattered jaw suggests a single kick, snapping its head back with such force the cervical vertebrae were fractured.”
Warren felt a chill go down his back. “What are you suggesting, Professor?”
“A perfectly targeted, instantly fatal single stab wound to the heart with no opportunity for the victim to defend himself and a precisely killed dog, both concealed quickly with little trace evidence left behind—I think we’re dealing with a trained killer.”
Tuesday 27 March
Chapter 5 (#ulink_b5db8c07-f243-5e3e-a663-9dd4b713ce0c)
Warren was back at his desk well before seven a.m. Tuesday morning. The proverbial ticking of the clock had weighed heavily on his mind the previous night, resulting in broken and restless sleep. By late afternoon Menendez had been getting impatient and making noises about getting a lawyer so Warren had authorised his release, knowing that if Menendez was innocent, the suspect column would soon be empty. Before he left, Warren broke the news of Reggie Williamson’s murder to him. The man’s look of incredulity, then horror as he realised that he had been a suspect, strengthened Warren’s suspicion that he was not who he was looking for. Regardless, he had been unable to resist one last dig at the man who had caused Tabitha Williamson so much misery and was probably fleecing the hapless Candice even now.
“I have my eye on you, Menendez. If your name comes across my desk in future, I’ll remember. And I’ll be happy to pass on the details of anyone else you’ve been ripping off.”
It was an empty threat. Low-level identity theft and fraud never came anywhere near Warren’s desk—but Menendez didn’t know that. He’d looked suitably shaken as he left.
It was a small victory, but at the moment, Warren was taking them where he could.
By six a.m, Warren had finally given up on sleep and slipped out early, taking care not to wake Susan.
Professor Jordan had calculated a preliminary time of death roughly sixty to seventy hours before the body was found, which, allowing for the weekend’s clock change, made it between about eight p.m. on the Thursday evening and four on the Friday morning. The range fitted with Williamson’s mobile phone leaving the network at eight-thirty on the Thursday.
It had got dark at approximately six-fifteen that evening, which if Menendez was to be believed was the time at which he had left the park and returned home. Candice, his partner, had returned from her Zumba class just after nine-thirty and confirmed that Menendez had been sprawled across the sofa watching TV.
Warren had passed on the details of Menendez’s mobile phone to the team working their way through the cell dump and was waiting to see if it would confirm his movements. Fortunately, the man was an avid social networker and his phone regularly connected itself to the network to look for new content. The team had already confirmed that the common and the flat Menendez shared with his partner were far enough apart for the phone to use different cell towers at the different locations.
The search of the common by the forensic team had not found any more clues within a two-hundred-metre radius of the body’s dumping spot, and DSI Grayson had authorised the cost of emptying all of the bins within a kilometre radius. It was almost a certainty that the killer would have had to dispose of heavily bloodied clothes and possibly even the murder weapon. Unless he’d covered himself up, he was unlikely to have walked too far before doing so; even in the dark, the chances of being seen would have been too great for any sane person to have risked it, Warren decided. Warren just hoped that the killer was at least partly sane. Otherwise all bets were off.
He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. It was getting long; it probably needed a cut. Too late for that now. The press conference was scheduled for the late morning. Grayson, as usual, had mysteriously disappeared the previous afternoon and Warren was willing to bet good money that he’d be immaculately groomed for the cameras later.
There had been little to report overnight and he didn’t expect anything until after the morning briefing, so Warren poured himself another coffee and settled down to do some paperwork. He chafed at the forced inaction, but took solace in the fact that if he could shrink his inbox to a more manageable size now he would be able to focus more clearly on the days and weeks ahead. That was the theory at least.
DSI Grayson still hadn’t appeared by the time that Warren needed to leave Middlesbury to travel down to Welwyn Garden City for the press conference and Grayson’s mobile was going straight to voicemail. This suited Warren fine, as he could drive himself down to the County’s Headquarters. The cost of petrol was well worth it to avoid the terror of the high-speed jaunt down the A1 that Grayson favoured. The superintendent had the unsettling habit of finding the most reckless drivers in the pool, authorising use of blues and twos, then settling back and calmly playing with his Blackberry, whilst Warren—not a happy passenger at the best of times—would find himself stamping on an imaginary brake pedal all the way.
Tabitha Williamson and Karen Hardwick were waiting for him when he arrived. The young DC had insisted on driving around to pick Tabitha up, despite technically being off duty.
Grayson was apparently somewhere in the building in a meeting. Warren knew nothing about it, which suggested it was unlikely to be connected to the day-to-day workings of Middlesbury CID. Laying the groundwork for that next promotion, Warren thought sourly, before mentally pinching himself for his uncharitable thoughts—the meeting could be about anything from budget setting to a statistical analysis of their latest performance figures. If that was the case, Grayson was welcome to it.
Tabitha Williamson was nervous and pale, but nonetheless adamant that she wanted to make an appeal for information. The Force’s press officer therefore took her away to familiarise her with the set-up of the briefing room and explain to her what to expect. Karen Hardwick went with her.
“She’s turning into a fine young officer, that Karen Hardwick.” Grayson had pulled his uncanny trick of managing to appear, ghost-like and without Warren noticing. He was glad that the unit’s commander had noticed her.
“She is. She’s got good instincts. Having said that, she’s doing the role of a family liaison officer, which isn’t her job. I know Reggie Williamson wasn’t Tabitha Williamson’s father and he didn’t bring her up, but she’s pretty vulnerable. Any chance that we can get an FLO authorised to support her?”
Grayson pursed his lips; the money didn’t come out of Middlesbury CID’s budget, but it had to come from somewhere and Grayson was the one who’d have to ask for it.
“I’ll look into it.” No sort of answer really, but at least it wasn’t a flat no.
By the time the press arrived, Tabitha Williamson had been prepared as much as possible and they took their seats. Warren had a feeling that information from the public could be what would turn the case and so they needed to make the story as newsworthy as possible. The inclusion of a photograph of Smiths and images of the grieving Tabitha Williamson would hopefully gain the story a few more column inches in the newspapers and a few more seconds on the local news.
They needed all the help they could get; Warren couldn’t help comparing the half-filled room of bored journalists in front of him, waiting to hear about the death of a retired gardener in his sixties, to the packed and jostling crowd that had demanded information about the pretty, young, blonde women who had started disappearing before Christmas.
The press conference was over in time for the early evening news bulletins and first editions of the next day’s papers and, finally, Warren was free to return to CID. It was hardly worth it. A cursory read of his team’s summaries of the interviews conducted with Reggie Williamson’s former acquaintances revealed nothing of any interest. The office was depressingly quiet. He stifled a yawn and glanced at his watch; the local news was due to start in twenty minutes or so. Time to go home, he decided, fighting down a brief twinge of guilt. His team had his number if anything important turned up and there was no point sitting there twiddling his thumbs. Perhaps he’d be able to sleep a bit better this evening? Turning off his computer and grabbing his jacket, Warren felt a familiar sensation of frustration. Day three of the investigation was almost over and almost nothing was happening. Not a good sign. Let’s hope for something from the public appeal, he prayed as he turned his office light off.
* * *
Despite his best intentions, Warren had been unable to resist accessing his email, reading the various reports as they entered his inbox and before he knew it, it was late again. He rubbed his eyes. They were at the slightly stinging stage. From experience he knew that the next stage was grittiness, then bloodshot then blurred vision. He had a suspicion that this would be one of those times. On the way home, he’d stopped off at the garage and bought some paracetamol. Headaches were almost guaranteed over the next few weeks and he wanted to be prepared. What a job. At least he could look forward to a quiet time at home—or at least that’s what he’d expected.
“Mum and Dad are coming down for a few days, at the end of the Easter holidays to celebrate their wedding anniversary,” Susan had announced as they prepared for bed. “They’re going to spend a few days with us before spending some time with Felicity.”
Warren had managed not to groan out loud, but his expression had given him away. Susan had pouted—she found her domineering mother to be as hard work as Warren did, but that didn’t mean he was allowed to criticise her.
“Sorry sweetheart, it’s just bad timing. I’d hate for this thing to get in the way of the celebrations.”
Susan had been somewhat mollified, but she had done the sums the same as Warren; the school Easter holidays started at the end of the week, with the long weekend a week later.
“Is this going to be a big one, do you think?” she’d asked after the press conference had been aired on Look East, earlier that evening.
Warren had only been able to nod. His gut was telling him that it was going to be a protracted investigation. The lack of progress so far had deflated him somewhat. Their plans for the Easter vacation would be on hold; at least they hadn’t booked to go away anywhere.
Susan had picked up on his mood. “You looked handsome tonight—I can’t understand why they don’t give you more screen time,” she teased lightly.
“I can never compete with a Border collie, you know that.”
Just as he’d predicted, Smiths had received almost as much screen time as Reggie Williamson—more if you counted the fact that she was also in the photograph of Reggie. Still, if it jogged a few more memories or made a few more people look in their bins or gardens for discarded items of bloodied clothing, Reggie Williamson’s mobile phone or the murder weapon then it had done its job. As usual, Warren had found himself relegated to the background, behind John Grayson, who was resplendent in a freshly starched dress uniform. That suited him fine, he mused as he lay back on the pillow, willing sleep to take him.
Wednesday 28 March
Chapter 6 (#ulink_0cb95167-e466-5936-92c2-ef31ab71b5df)
The third dawn briefing since the discovery of Reggie Williamson’s body was a low-key affair. If, as they believed, he had been killed Thursday evening it was coming up on six days since his murder. Aside from the increasingly unlikely Mateo Menendez, there were still no suspects. CCTV from McDonald’s had shown Menendez with his two young children tucking into their fast food at about four p.m, verifying that part of his story. The confirmation said nothing about his whereabouts at the critical time surrounding the murder, but catching him out in a lie at this stage would have made Warren immediately suspicious.
The search area had been widened; they still hadn’t found his mobile phone or the murder weapon. Teams of uniformed officers were still knocking on doors, but nobody seemed to remember anything. As always the press conference had generated a flurry of calls, which were being sifted through, but aside from a confession, nothing of immediate note had been offered.
As for the admission of guilt, the call taker had wryly noted that it had been logged alongside the caller’s previous claims. If the more—“eccentric”—members of the community ever thought to use a different phone, then the call taker’s job would be more difficult, since they’d be forced to actually investigate the call rather than simply cross-referencing the caller ID against the “Loony List”.
As Warren left the briefing room, Tony Sutton came alongside him.
“Can I have a private word?”
The older man looked tired; in his left hand he carried a white envelope.
Warren motioned him into his office and sat down behind his desk. Sutton took the visitor’s chair directly opposite. The man’s hands were trembling slightly.
“Sounds serious,” Warren offered after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence.
“This arrived in the post this morning.”
Sutton pushed the envelope across the table. Now face up, the scales of justice logo of the Crown Prosecution Service was clearly visible. Warren slipped out the single sheet of A4 typed paper and read the contents quickly. It was a summons ordering Sutton to appear as a witness for the prosecution in the trial of Detective Chief Inspector Gavin Sheehy on charges of corruption and misconduct in a public office.
“Damn. We always knew it was a possibility. What do you think they want with you?”
Sutton took a deep breath. “They’re going to hang him out to dry, make an example of him. Rumour has it they want me to testify that in the months leading up to his arrest he was secretive and non-communicative. That he received phone calls at odd times and kept on disappearing.”
Warren sat back and eyed the detective inspector with concern. He knew how much his predecessor—Sutton’s mentor—had meant to him. Warren had never met the man; rather he had been parachuted in, newly promoted, the previous summer after DCI Sheehy had been arrested and removed from his post.
The arrest had come as a massive shock to the small, close-knit CID unit operating out of Middlesbury police station. Sheehy’s friend and subordinate Tony Sutton had been arrested also, before being released without charge after a brief investigation. Sutton had felt betrayed and hurt after the man he admired so greatly—who had in fact persuaded him to apply to join CID years before—had been accused of corruption.
The repercussions from Sheehy’s arrest cut deep, Warren soon found out after his arrival, threatening the very existence of the unit he had headed.
Middlesbury CID was something of an anomaly. Some years previously, the police forces of Hertfordshire and the adjacent county, Bedfordshire, had decided to pool their resources and formed a new, single Major Crime Unit, operating out of Welwyn Garden City. Faced with the closure of what he believed to be a unique and essential service in the very north of the county, DCI Gavin Sheehy had successfully fought against the closure of the small, but effective CID unit housed at Middlesbury police station. The result had been a highly focused, local team able to respond rapidly to major crimes in Middlesbury and the many little villages that surrounded the area.
With its extensive local knowledge and close ties to the community, the squad proved highly effective in reducing and solving crime. Nevertheless, it was expensive and Sheehy’s uncompromising style had won him many enemies—enemies who were now circling, using Sheehy’s recent disgrace as evidence that the team should be disbanded and absorbed into the main major crime unit. The result was that the unit was effectively ‘on probation’, having to prove its worth. Detective Superintendent John Grayson was assigned to oversee the unit. If his job was to be impartial about the role of the unit, then he was a good choice—nobody could divine if he was in favour or against the continued existence of the team. Many suspected that the survival of the unit was linked directly to Grayson’s perception of its usefulness to his own career goals.
None of this had been explained to Warren of course, who had been promoted to DCI the previous summer, moving from the West Midlands Police to fill the role vacated by Sheehy. It had been presented as a golden opportunity to gain command experience for the ambitious young officer; he had been ill-prepared for the maelstrom of local politics that awaited him upon his arrival.
Tony Sutton, smarting from the betrayal by Sheehy and the humiliation of his own, brief arrest, had been suspicious of Warren, assuming that he was there to covertly make recommendations about the future of the unit. The two men had butted heads over Warren’s management of his first major crime, resulting in an explosive encounter between them. Since then, the two officers had grown to respect and like one another and, to his surprise, Warren had found himself warming to his new command and was starting to regard it as more than just a stepping stone to bigger things.
“So the court case starts next month? How do you feel about it?”
Sutton sighed. “I’m torn. The bastard deserves to go down—but I still can’t quite believe it.”
“What do you think they’ll ask you about? The investigation cleared you of any involvement.”
“Yeah, but it’s still going to look bad for me. I was his friend and his immediate subordinate—people are going to question why I didn’t suspect anything. You know how mud sticks—people will think either I was in on it or I’m a fool.”
Sutton shook his head. “Maybe I was. I didn’t spot the signs—or rather I chose to ignore them. The sudden phone calls, the unexplained absences…” He snorted derisively. “I thought he was having a bloody affair.” He shrugged. “I didn’t approve, but then who am I to lecture?”
Warren nodded in sympathy. Sutton was right. He had a chequered history when it came to extra-marital affairs. His first marriage had imploded after Sutton had indulged in a drunken one-night stand. Years later he was still rebuilding the pieces of that relationship and Warren knew that he felt ashamed and guilty, even as he and his former wife forged new relationships and co-operated to bring up their teenage son.
“Well, Tony, you know that you have my support.”
Sutton nodded. “Thanks, Boss. I guess I’ll just have to tell the truth, answer their questions and let the cards fall where they may.”
* * *
His conversation with Tony Sutton had left Warren feeling downbeat. As much to clear his head and stretch his legs as to fulfil his caffeine and sugar needs, Warren decided to treat himself to a decent coffee and Danish pastry from the canteen, rather than simply adding another fifty-pence piece to the honesty jar next to the communal coffee urn. At last count, there had been twelve pounds fifty in the jar—all of it Warren’s.
There was a copy of the Middlesbury edition of the Cambridge News lying on a table. Reggie Williamson’s picture—the one with Smiths naturally—took up over half of the front page, along with a suitably lurid headline. The story was continued on page three, where another picture—this one a long-lens shot of white-suited CSIs working the scene up on the common—dominated.
The story was essentially a report of the press conference, along with a few tributes from various drinkers in the Merchants’ Arms.
The shrill ringing of Warren’s mobile phone made him jump.
“It’s Tony, Boss. Where are you?” The DI’s voice was excited, with no hint of the depression he had been exhibiting barely minutes ago.
“Downstairs in the canteen.” Warren felt a thrill go through him; he hadn’t been away from his desk for five minutes. Sutton wouldn’t have called him on his mobile unless it was extremely urgent.
“It looks like we were too hasty releasing Mateo Menendez yesterday.”
* * *
Mateo Menendez was extremely unhappy about being picked up for a second time. This time he refused to come voluntarily and Warren was given no choice but to serve the arrest warrant that Grayson had signed. He immediately requested a lawyer.
By the time a police solicitor had been arranged, a search of the flat that Menendez shared with his partner and their two young children was well underway and the life and background of the Spanish national was under the spotlight, with records requested from Spanish sources as well as UK authorities. His girlfriend was currently being questioned and specialist officers were assessing whether the older of the two children, three-and-a-half-year-old Tyson, would be any use as a witness.
The paper-suited man in front of Warren and Sutton was a lot less confident now. His clothes had been collected for evidence and his mobile phone, which had been so helpful up to this point, had now been formally confiscated and was undergoing rigorous forensic examination at the computer crime division in Welwyn Garden City. Twenty-four hours previously, the young man had been unpleasantly arrogant, even trying to flirt with Karen Hardwick. Now he just looked scared.
“Before we start, I would like to know why my client has been called in again. In his last interview—which he gave without counsel present, I might add—it was established that Mr Menendez was at home at the time of the attack on the unfortunate Mr Williamson.”
Warren ignored the implied rebuke concerning the previous interview. The recording on the PACE tape recorder would clearly show that Warren had advised Menendez of his rights; furthermore, he had not been under arrest at the time.
“Mr Menendez, I would be grateful if you could describe again your movements on the night of Thursday the twenty-second.”
Menendez licked his lips nervously. “No comment.”
“Are you sure about that, Mateo? We have you on tape already. I just want to clarify a few details.”
He glanced over at his solicitor, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
“It’s like I said, I took the kids to McDonald’s then to the park up on the common. Then when it got dark, I took the kids back to Candy’s and put them to bed.”
“And are there any witnesses who can corroborate this?” It was the first thing that Tony Sutton had said after identifying himself for the tape.
Menendez hissed in frustration. “We’ve already been through this. The kids are too young, but Candy saw me when she came in about half nine.”
Warren watched the man closely. On the face of it, his reaction was appropriate, but it seemed forced. As if he knew what reaction was expected of him and didn’t want to disappoint.
He decided to give the man a bit more rope to hang himself with. “Just to be clear; the sun goes down about quarter past six this time of the year. Are you saying that you left Middlesbury Common and returned to your partner’s flat, number 27b Eastcotes Terrace, at that time? It’s not very far; did you go home directly?”
The man’s eye twitched slightly. “Yes, straight home.”
“So you would have been in from about what, six-thirtyish until your partner returned from Zumba a bit after nine-thirty?” Sutton again.
“About that.”
“Did you stay in for the rest of the night?”
“Yes, we watched a bit of telly and then went to bed.”
“And again, can your partner corroborate this.”
“Absolutely.” The man’s voice was confident again.
Warren nodded and scribbled on the notepad in front of him.
“OK, you’ve been very helpful, Mr Menendez.”
The man blinked in surprise.
“Am I free to go?”
His solicitor, an experienced-looking middle-aged woman narrowed her eyes slightly, but said nothing.
“Just one more thing,” Sutton spoke up. “Do you carry your mobile phone with you at all times?”
Before his solicitor could interject, the man nodded his head.
“Yeah, ’course. Who doesn’t?”
“And you had it with you on Thursday evening?”
“May I ask where this is going, DCI Jones?” Menendez’s solicitor was looking decidedly anxious now and was directing her question to the senior officer in the room. She had clearly worked out what was happening, even if her client hadn’t.
“Just clarifying something,” responded Sutton. Warren said nothing.
“Like I said, yeah I carry it everywhere. I definitely had it Thursday.”
Now it was Warren’s turn to speak up. “Given everything that you’ve told us, could you explain why cell-tower triangulation places your smartphone at Middlesbury Common from ten past five until almost twenty past nine and that your partner thinks that you lied about bathing the children that evening?”
Thursday 29 March
Chapter 7 (#ulink_fd13d2c2-73b8-50e9-b679-966cc200b2b6)
Warren and Sutton’s elation lasted barely twelve hours. Nine a.m. the following morning found them perched between piles of unironed clothes on the edge of a suspiciously grubby sofa. Every surface in the flat, the two detectives included, was covered by hairs from the numerous cats wandering around the dwelling. The smell of cat’s pee and old food was poorly masked by cheap air freshener and cigarette smoke.
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 31 March
Chapter 8 (#ulink_7bc57d1e-8371-5764-ad43-8c1fed94897a)
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.”
Chapter 9 (#ulink_287d8419-fa1d-5102-bab7-db459019bacd)
Warren stared at the man, taking in his dishevelled appearance; his scruffy grey beard and unkempt hair were both in desperate need of a good trim and the man’s face was lined, with dark smudges beneath his eyes. Eyes that were slightly bloodshot, Warren noted. Up close the man’s cologne was almost overwhelming and he smelled as if he’d just eaten two whole packets of extra-strong mints.
“I thought you said that you had information about Reggie Williamson?” Warren ignored the man’s proffered hand. He was surprised at the intense feelings of anger he felt towards the man. Police corruption was something that Warren had felt strongly about ever since he’d joined the force; the betrayal of the public trust was a slap in the face to the thousands of dedicated officers who risked their lives day in, day out in an often-thankless job. Since moving to Middlesbury, the feelings had intensified as he saw firsthand the devastating effects that such betrayal had on those officers closest to the traitor.
Sheehy dropped his hand. It shook slightly, Warren observed. Clearing his throat the older man unzipped his coat slightly, revealing the edge of a manila folder. “I have. But first we need to take a drive.”
The car park was full of Warren’s colleagues, all of whom were tensed and ready to rush in at the nearest hint of any trouble. To leave with Sheehy would be a breach of protocol and absolute madness, although Warren felt it unlikely that he was in any physical danger.
“Not a chance. If you have information on the murder then you can share it here.”
Sheehy shook his head. “No. What I have is for your ears only.”
“If that’s your attitude, how about I run you down the station and charge you with obstruction and help myself to the information?”
Sheehy snorted derisively. “Investigation going well, is it? Lots of suspects all lined up?”
The man was right. They had drawn a complete blank; whatever information Sheehy possessed about the old man’s murder, Warren needed to know it.
Warren looked at him long and hard.
“How do I know you didn’t kill Reggie Williamson? That you’re not some deranged killer who’s going to stab me as soon as we move on?”
“If you thought that, you wouldn’t be sitting here with me, even with a van full of rugby players three spaces along and Gary staring all gooey-eyed at that new detective constable over in the beer garden.”
Warren’s mind raced through the possibilities, but he’d already made his mind up. He slipped the car into gear.
“Where are we going?”
“I’ll point; you drive.” Sheehy wasn’t silly enough to announce their destination to whoever may be listening. He raised his voice.
“And if that’s you on the other end of DCI Jones’s open radio link, Grayson, tell the officers parked at either end of the road to stay where they are. And it’s a clear day with good visibility. I’ll see the chopper a mile off and you can kiss goodbye any information that I’m going to give him.”
Sheehy put a hand out. “Remove the earpiece. Save yourself an earbashing.”
“Do as he says,” instructed Warren to the surveillance team, a small part of him enjoying the sudden silencing of DSI Grayson’s squawking as he pulled his hidden earpiece out and Sheehy tossed it out the window. He’d get it in the neck when he returned to the station, but he’d deal with that then. Hopefully the information Sheehy claimed to have would be worth it.
* * *
Sheehy’s directions had been by hand gesture only; he was too experienced to think that Warren’s earpiece was the only open communication channel from the vehicle. After passing the unmarked cars at the top end of the street—the officers glared openly, but made no immediate move to follow them—they were soon heading towards the north end of town. It didn’t take Warren long to work out where they were headed.
“It’s a lovely evening, Warren. You won’t need your coat.”
Warren sighed, tossing the heavy jacket with its hidden microphone onto the rear seat. He pointedly didn’t remove the blue stab vest, but as they left the Mondeo in the small car park on the edge of Middlesbury Common he was uncomfortably aware that he was leaving behind his last means of communication with the surveillance team. He was going to have a lot of explaining to do when he got back.
“Is that where Reggie Williamson was killed?”
It was a rhetorical question—blue-and-white police tape still fluttered in the breeze.
Aside from a few young boys kicking a football at a makeshift goal made from rolled-up jumpers at the other end of the open field, the two men were now alone in the middle of the common. Nobody could possibly overhear them and Sheehy would have plenty of warning if anyone tried to approach.
“Well I’m here. What have you got?”
Warren’s tone was testy. So far Sheehy had been in charge and Warren was determined to regain the initiative.
“I can point you towards the killer, but first I need a promise from you. I need your word.”
Warren stared at him for several seconds, searching the man’s face.
“What sort of promise?”
“I need your help.”
Warren thought for a long moment. It didn’t take a detective to work out what the man was after. But what did he think Warren could do?
“What’s in it for me? How do I know that you even have the information you claim?”
“A show of good faith. I can identify the person who ordered Reggie Williamson’s death and another killing you aren’t even aware of. Then, after you help me I have other information. Information that you don’t even know that you want yet.”
“What sort of information?”
Sheehy shook his head. “First you have to help me clear my name.”
It was exactly what Warren had been expecting but he was confused. “I don’t see what I can do to help. I have no influence on the outcome of the investigation. It’s in the hands of Professional Standards; in fact I’d even question whether it is appropriate for us to be having this conversation.”
“You’re the only one I can turn to, Warren. This whole thing is not about whether or not I took a bribe. It goes much, much deeper than that. It’s not even about clearing my name. It’s about righting an injustice and making sure that evil men are put away for a long time.”
Warren ignored the man’s familiar use of his first name and his attempt at stirring rhetoric; he wasn’t naïve enough to be persuaded by that old trick.
“Again, I don’t see what I can do to help you—Standards are investigating the case and I have no access to their files or even their officers—by definition they have to be free from outside influence. I doubt they’d even grant me an audience. I didn’t arrive until months after your arrest—this is the first time I’ve met you. Why the hell would they listen to me?”
He was starting to lose patience with the man. He was clearly a drinker and obviously clutching at straws. This afternoon’s operation had cost the force a considerable amount of manpower and resources; if Sheehy had nothing to contribute to the Williamson case, then Warren was strongly contemplating arresting him for wasting police time. He said as much.
“Warren, I can help with the Williamson case and others, but it has to benefit both of us. I need you to help me fight these charges.”
Warren shook his head in exasperation. “Haven’t you listened to anything I’ve said? I can’t intervene on your behalf. I have no influence here. You must know this. I don’t understand why you want me to become involved.”
Sheehy looked at him for several long, hard seconds. When he spoke again, his voice was low, almost gentle. “Warren, you are already involved. You’ve been a part of this since the moment you walked into that garage and found your dad dead in his car.”
* * *
It was as if Warren had been punched in the stomach. All of the air left his lungs and he felt a wave of nausea pass over him. Immediately, the memories flooded back. He could taste the coppery tang of fear, feel the painful pounding of his heart, smell the choking exhaust fumes as they filled his nose and mouth. It was a smell that to this day Warren hated. As a teenager out clubbing in Coventry he’d always make sure he was upwind of the taxi rank, the smell of their idling engines making him feel sick. He’d loathed the old Pool Meadow bus station, with its lines of chugging buses filling the air with smoky pollution.
Somehow, he found a voice, forcing it past the tightness of his throat. “You have ten seconds to explain yourself before I arrest you for wasting police time.”
Sheehy ignored him. “What do you know about your father and his death?”
The voice that answered sounded like Warren’s but it seemed to come from a long way away. “He killed himself after stealing money from a drugs bust.” The voice dripped with bitterness and resentment.
“What if I told you that he didn’t kill himself? That he never stole that money.”
If Warren hadn’t felt so weak and disoriented he’d have punched the man in the face as hard as he could. Could the man stoop any lower, invoking the name of Warren’s father in a crude attempt to manipulate Warren into helping him? It was nearly a quarter of a century ago and Warren had suppressed his feelings for much of that time, but they never went away. And they hadn’t softened. The hurt, the betrayal then finally the anger and, yes, even hatred towards his father. The man he’d admired and looked up to, even wanted to be when he was older—that man had torn Warren’s world apart. To know that his father had chosen to leave them had hurt so hard—that he had been unable to save him had hurt even more.
And then came the revelations. Thousands of pounds seized in a drugs bust, half of it going missing between the crime scene and the evidence room at the police station. His father’s gym bag, housing sweaty towels, stained T-shirts—and wads of fifty-pound notes wrapped in elastic bands.
Quite why his father had decided not to collect the bag from his locker—he would probably have gotten away with it—instead choosing to kill himself, was never satisfactorily answered. Perhaps he had stolen the money on a whim, then felt guilt at what he had done? Unable to face the shame, he’d taken his life that early summer evening.
That was what his mother had clung onto, even as she saw her husband’s memory destroyed, as friends from the force stopped calling or avoided talking to her when they bumped into her in the street. The name Niall MacNamara was toxic and Warren wanted nothing to do with it.
“Leave now, before I make you.” It was all Warren could do to force the words past his clenched teeth. He no longer cared about Reggie Williamson, he just wanted this man out of his life; he could feel the sweat on his brow. It was as if Sheehy had slammed a wrecking ball into Warren’s carefully constructed defences, bringing down the walls. Warren needed time to rebuild them, to reconstruct the ancient structure.
Sheehy ignored him. “Warren, your father was a good man; he was an honest man. He wasn’t a thief…and he didn’t kill himself. I know this. I’ve known it for twenty years. And everything that’s happened recently—it all stems back to what happened that night.”
Warren closed his eyes, concentrating on breathing. He wanted nothing more than to race back to his car, to leave in a cloud of burning rubber and run and hide. But he couldn’t. The memories from that horrific evening had left their mark, but now another scar was itching. One he’d ignored but which was now shouting for attention. Why? Why had it happened? He had to know. He was trapped. If he left now, refusing to let Sheehy talk, he could never have peace. A long-dormant seed had started to germinate and he had to know the truth.
“I knew your father back in the late eighties. We met about two years before…you know. I was a young DC, with only a couple of years’ experience.”
Sheehy stared at his feet. “I was working in North Herts, but I was seconded to West Midlands as part of a small team working as liaisons on the investigation into a huge, cross-county crime ring. Your father was a senior detective sergeant on that team and we worked closely together.” Sheehy raised his head, looking Warren directly in the eye. “He was a good man. And I liked him a lot.”
Warren didn’t trust himself to speak.
“It was a massive enterprise. Basically, it was modelled on the Italian Mafia: drugs, prostitution, stolen goods—you name it; these guys did it. And they were ruthless, anyone who crossed them ended up dead.
“But they were also clever. All of the action was taking place in the West Midlands—Birmingham, Coventry, Nuneaton. But the guy who headed it lived in North Herts and was ostensibly a legitimate businessman. He owned a string of restaurants, fast-food places, leisure centres, B&Bs, minicab firms—you name it. He partnered local tradesmen. All cash businesses. All built from scratch or bought legitimately, with no links to the Midlands and no evidence of any wrongdoing. They even had a charitable foundation, helping unemployed kids learn skills and trades. Local politicians loved him and he was on the front page of the local newspaper at least once a week.
“But, we knew the bastard was a crook. The Hertfordshire businesses were just a front and a way of laundering money. Back in those days you could move money around a hell of a lot more easily than now and a secret Swiss bank account really was a secret. He was worth millions. And he was a murderer. We knew of cases going back to the nineteen seventies—drug dealers mostly but the odd prostitute as well.
“The problem was we couldn’t prove it. He covered his tracks too well. And he rarely got his own hands dirty. We busted a few dealers here and there, but there was never any direct link to him. Witnesses had a tendency to suddenly develop amnesia or even to disappear. We were going nowhere fast. We needed a break.”
Sheehy paused. “You have to realise, Warren, that we knew this guy was filthy. In fact we had tons of evidence that placed him right in the centre of his little ring. Most of the grunt work was carried out by his right-hand man, but it was him that we wanted. What we didn’t have though was the one remaining piece that would open up everything else. He was too high profile for us just to go on a fishing expedition—we’d never get a warrant to search his house or business premises. And that was what we needed. With a warrant we would be able to raid him and that would be enough to open a bridge between the evidence we had and him. But without that information, we didn’t have enough to get a warrant. Catch-22.”
Warren didn’t like the sound of this. Where was it leading? He also had a suspicion about who Sheehy was talking about—and the implications were massive.
“What did you do?” His voice was slow, steady.
Sheehy licked his lips nervously. “Although he kept his hands clean most of the time, it wasn’t always that way. Back in the early eighties, he was dabbling in the club scene—supplying drugs to clubbers. The problem was that if you really wanted to make money, you needed the clubs—or at least the door staff—on your side. And most of the clubs that were willing to take part were already under the control of a guy named Frankie Cruise.
“He approached him about a partnership, but Cruise was an arrogant bastard and wouldn’t play ball. In the end, he shot Cruise dead. The mess was all cleaned up of course, but everyone knew what had happened. In fact he encouraged the rumours to enhance his own reputation. But obviously, that wasn’t good enough for court and no judge was going to grant us a warrant based on that. Especially not for someone so high profile and well connected; he knew where all the skeletons were buried.
“However, ballistics recovered a nearly intact bullet from Cruise after his body floated back to the surface in Coventry Canal. It was no good to us without a gun though.
“Then in mid 1987, we got word that he had been boasting at a party he was hosting at that Hertfordshire mansion of his, about how he had killed a man. He must have really wanted to impress his guests because he eventually went up to his bedroom and fetched the handgun that he claimed to have used to kill Cruise. He was brandishing it like some sort of trophy.”
Sheehy paused. “Your father and I knew that was the weapon he had used, and that it was the final piece of evidence that could blow the whole case open. But we still couldn’t get a warrant. We were told it was just hearsay. The PACE regulations were still fairly new and nobody wanted to be seen to be harassing such a prominent local figure.
“So we made contact with his handyman, who was unhappy with the way he was being treated. We persuaded him to steal the gun, which was kept in his bedroom.”
Sheehy, looked away, unable to meet Warren’s eye.
“You have to realise, we knew that he was guilty. We had so much evidence. That all came out at his trial. It just needed a catalyst to start everything working.”
“So you planted the gun and framed him for murder.” Warren’s voice was bitter. He felt sick.
But Sheehy was shaking his head vehemently. “No! We didn’t frame him for anything he hadn’t done. We just left the gun at the scene of a drugs raid. It was collected along with a load of other weapons. Routine ballistic testing linked the gun to the Cruise murder. There were fingerprints all over the gun. Luckily for us, he’s had a few run-ins with the police over the years. Usually all the charges were dropped when the witnesses mysteriously changed their minds, but his fingerprints were still on file.
“All it did was give us the excuse to raise a warrant. As soon as that happened, we were able to build that link between him and the case we’d built. The case was sitting there, ready to go. It just needed that link.”
“Vinny Delmarno.”
It wasn’t a question. The man had been released whilst he was still with West Midlands Police and there had been anger about the things that had been said in the press. Allegations of corruption and fabricated crime scenes—allegations that Sheehy now claimed were true.
Sheehy nodded but said nothing as if speaking the man’s name out loud was a curse.
“So why are you telling me all of this now?” Warren’s voice was bitter, the anger now simmering just below the surface, “It can’t just be an attack of conscience. You’ve had over twenty years to come clean. Delmarno’s been out how long now?”
Warren was confused; it made no sense. By all reports, Sheehy was in deep trouble already. What benefit was there to adding this long-forgotten miscarriage to his litany of sins? It was clear from his tone that he felt that what he and Niall MacNamara had done all those years ago was still right. Noble-cause corruption they called it.
Sheehy looked at his hands and Warren noticed they were trembling. “Reggie Williamson was the gardener who supplied us with the gun.”
“That’s what this is all about?” Warren couldn’t hide the scepticism in his voice. For sure it was a hell of a coincidence, but surely that was all it was?
He said as much.
“When Vinny Delmarno was released, he swore blind that he would find out who put him away and would get his revenge.”
Warren still wasn’t convinced.
“There’s more.”
Sheehy opened the coat, revealing the concealed file folder, and removed a newspaper article, handing it over. A cutting from a local Hertfordshire paper from February, page one but not the lead. Stapled to the back was a narrow column from page four, continuing the story; a black-and-white headshot, formal-looking and probably taken from an official website, took up barely two inches.
Retired coroner and wife killed in drink-driving smash: Verdict
A former coroner, killed in the early hours of 31 December 2011, was driving too fast and was under the influence of alcohol, an inquest ruled today. The crash, which killed Dr Anton Liebig, 67, and his wife Rosemary, 66, instantly, happened after a sharp bend on the A5062, on the way back from an awards dinner at The Allingham Golf Club in Hertfordshire, where Dr Liebig—captain of the senior men’s team—had presented several trophies.
A police spokesperson said that skid marks at the scene of the accident revealed that Dr Liebig had rounded the blind bend at a speed in excess of fifty miles per hour, before apparently losing control and leaving the road, where he hit a tree. A post-mortem revealed a blood alcohol level of 85 milligrams per 100 ml. The legal limit is 80mg.
The coroner, Dr Lila Schiff, called upon North Hertfordshire District Council to look into the safety of that stretch of road, which has been the scene of numerous serious accidents in recent years, resulting in three fatalities.
Dr Liebig worked as a coroner throughout Warwickshire, before retiring. Rosemary Liebig was a keen painter. They are survived by a son and two grandchildren.
Warren finished reading the report and looked up at Sheehy. “So?”
The story meant nothing to him. He worked in Middlesbury CID. The incident would have been dealt with by traffic down in Welwyn. Besides which, Warren had had enough on his plate over the new year to worry about the ins and outs of some drink-driver.
Sheehy took a deep breath. “Anton Liebig was the coroner who oversaw your father’s inquest, Warren.”
Sheehy’s voice was fading out, replaced by the sound of blood rushing through Warren’s ears. His father’s inquest.
He still remembered that day. The courtroom had been nothing like he’d expected it to be from the TV. A small, wood-panelled room with a row of tables for the “interested parties” to sit—interested parties such as Warren, his mother and his grandparents. A chair sat empty for his brother who hadn’t come home the previous night. Behind them several lines of blue plastic chairs constituting the “public gallery” were mostly filled with journalists, representatives from the Police Federation and a few family friends. Nobody from the station that Niall MacNamara had worked at for more than half his career were present. None of his police “friends”. He’d been dropped; nobody wanted to be associated with him now, the thief who’d stolen drugs money then taken the coward’s way out.
The formal hearing had been a short, almost anti-climactic affair, delivered by the coroner sitting at his slightly raised dais, a much younger version of the man in the newspaper photograph. The family already knew the verdict, having been told quietly beforehand.
Suicide. Carbon monoxide poisoning from his own car engine, administered by a hosepipe attached to the exhaust, an empty bottle of whisky by his side. Found by his teenage son. No suspicious circumstances.
No mention was made of why he did it; that was beyond the purview of the court. But everyone in that room knew the rumours, were aware of the investigation underway. And you can’t libel the dead.
Sheehy’s voice pulled Warren back to the present. “Your father didn’t commit suicide; he was killed. Revenge for what he did? I don’t know. But I knew the moment I got the call about your dad’s death it wasn’t a suicide. I’ve known for over twenty years.”
He continued to avoid Warren’s eyes, having the sense not to try and apologise. He couldn’t; the words didn’t exist that could in any way lessen his guilt, to begin to atone for the literally decades of hurt that he’d help cause.
“Why?” That one word was all Warren could manage. A half-dozen questions were all rolled into that one word.
“Fear. I was scared, Warren. Shit-scared. They’d killed your father and covered it up. Somehow they hadn’t fingered me as his accomplice—too junior I guess. My name didn’t appear on any paperwork. So I kept quiet.”
He still wouldn’t meet Warren’s eyes.
“He was supposed to die in prison, kidney failure. He’d been on dialysis for years. They even put it forward in mitigation, tried to get him a shorter sentence. Perhaps it worked. With the case we had he could have gotten life with thirty years. He got twenty-two. I forgot about him. Got on with my life.
“And then he got a new kidney. God love the NH fucking S. His name came up on the transplant list as the best match and before you know it some poor donor’s kidney is inside that bastard’s body.
“The kidney took, he served the rest of his sentence and now he’s free.”
Sheehy’s voice was a mixture of bitterness and fear. “And now he’s clearing the decks. Settling scores and cleaning up his mess. Reggie Williamson for his betrayal and Anton Liebig because he was a loose end who could link him back to his first act of revenge—the death of your father.
“And that just leaves me. I’m the only one left.”
Warren found his voice. “I still don’t understand. What has this got to do with the current investigation into your misconduct?”
“It’s a set-up; it’s all fake. Delmarno wants his payback, but killing me would be too easy. He’s had two decades to dream about what he wants to do to me and he wants to do it slowly. He wants to ruin me, send me to prison and make me suffer like he did. And then, when I’m finished and due for parole, that’s when he’ll probably make his final move. I’ll be dead before I walk out that prison.”
Chapter 10 (#ulink_96346da2-70c2-5b76-b38c-71536093ae83)
Warren received a less than rapturous welcome when he returned to the station.
“My office, now.”
The roasting from Grayson was pretty much what he’d been expecting; the man had been unable to decide which of Warren’s misdemeanours should be addressed first and in the end had simply settled on a chronological listing: getting in a car with a potential killer, removing his earpiece so he could no longer receive instructions, leaving a contained area with a suspect, circumventing surveillance and ignoring procedures for the collection of a witness statement.
However, Grayson had reserved most of his vitriol for Warren’s apparent agreement to help his predecessor fight the charges against his name. Sheehy had said nothing about it where they could be overheard, but Grayson wasn’t a fool. It was obvious that was what Sheehy was after.
“It’s not your job to help some bent copper fight Professional Standards. The Federation and his lawyers can do that. You’ve got enough on your plate solving this murder; besides, we can do without the negative publicity. We’re going to have enough shit flying at us when this comes to court next month without the press getting wind of your escapades.”
Warren stood and took the flak, mostly allowing the shouting to wash over him. It was to be expected and he was too emotionally tired to care about a bollocking that would ultimately lead nowhere. Regardless, he was struck by two remarks all-but buried within the verbiage; the first a cynical observation that Grayson had never concerned himself before with the amount of work piled on Warren’s “plate”—he usually loaded it as gleefully as a glutton at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Secondly, it was the first time that Warren could recall the man referring to Middlesbury as “we” or “us”.
After the obligatory threat that he was contemplating suspending Warren, Grayson finally asked what Sheehy had to offer.
“That’s it?” he responded when Warren had finished. “This Reggie Williamson offered a gun to Sheehy back in the 1980s, which Sheehy then planted at the scene of a crime to frame him and now this Vinny Delmarno character wants his revenge? Sheehy really is a dirty bastard. It sounds like it’s all coming back to bite him on the arse.”
“Well, it’s not as if Delmarno is an innocent in all of this,” Warren found himself defending Sheehy—a position he was not exactly comfortable with.
Grayson was dismissive. “Who gives a shit about Delmarno? He got what he deserved. Besides, it’s clear that Sheehy has form when it comes to corruption.” He sighed. “Regardless, it’s something. See where it takes you. Is there anything else?”
“No, sir.” The lie came more smoothly than Warren was comfortable with.
“Well let’s hope this leads us somewhere. This afternoon’s little jaunt cost us an arm and a leg.”
The dismissal was clear and Warren wasted no time turning for the door.
“Oh and Warren, take that bloody stab vest off or everybody will see through this carefully cultivated, cuddly facade.”
* * *
Warren’s first stop on leaving Grayson’s office was DS Peter Kent’s desk. The veteran detective looked up.
“You survived, I see. Those vests are worth every penny.”
Warren smiled tightly. “Apparently coming out of the Super’s office wearing one ruins his cuddly image.”
Kent snorted in amusement. “His bark’s worse than his bite. Although he can certainly bark loud enough.”
Warren winced. Kent was at the far end of the room from Grayson’s office. “You heard that then?”
He smiled. “Why do you think half the office has gone for a coffee break?” Kent’s smile faded. “How was he?”
No need to ask who “he” was.
Warren shrugged, replying cagily, “I never met him before today, so I can’t say if he was any different to when he worked here.”
Kent said nothing, waiting.
“But unless he was unkempt and a daytime drinker when you knew him, he’s probably not doing as well as you hope.”
Warren’s sympathy for his predecessor was close to non-existent; however, he had been a much-loved boss and people like Pete Kent had known him for years. Warren would have to be careful not to be too dismissive of their feelings.
“What can I do for you anyhow, Chief?”
Although all officers in CID could use HOLMES 2, the service-wide computer database that was used to store records and reports on major incidents, Warren had a feeling he’d need specialist help.
“I need details on a cold case from the eighties. Will they be available electronically?”
DS Kent looked at him warily. “They might be. The original HOLMES went live in 1986 for major incidents, but it’s a bit patchy. It hasn’t got half the functionality of HOLMES 2 and some forces still did a lot of their record keeping manually, scanning them in after the fact. The cross-referencing can be pretty poor. What do you need?”
“I need the records for a joint Hertfordshire – West Midlands Police operation concluded in 1988. I don’t have an operation name, but it resulted in the conviction of a Vinny Delmarno. If you could get me his records as well, that would be great.” Warren glanced at the clock above Kent’s head; the man’s shift finished in half an hour. “Actually, get Gary on it when he returns from his break.”
“I’ll do it, Chief. I’m not in a rush. Gary’s finishing himself in a few hours then he and Karen are off on that dirty get-away they think nobody knows about. I’ll only end up reinventing the wheel if he starts the job and then hands it over.”
Warren thanked the man and turned to head back to his office, before another idea struck him. “Could you also get onto Revenue and Customs and check the tax and National Insurance returns for Reggie Williamson during the same time period? I’d like to know what he was doing and who he was working for back then.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” the older man promised, “but it may take a while. HMRC deal with most requests during office hours.”
“Well do what you can. I’ll be in my office. Print it out when you’re done.”
One last thought occurred to him, he glanced over at Grayson’s office before leaning in to Kent. “Do me a favour and keep this between us for the time being.”
Kent glanced over at Grayson’s office and smirked slightly, as Warren had known he would. “Of course.”
* * *
Tony Sutton was a lot politer than Detective Superintendent Grayson. Nevertheless he made it quite clear how reckless he thought his DCI had been; and was similarly disapproving of Warren’s tacit agreement to help clear Sheehy’s name as a reward for more information.
Warren had wrestled with the revelations that Sheehy had made all the way back to CID. He’d been standing in front of Grayson, absorbing the man’s anger before he’d eventually decided that he wasn’t ready to share everything Sheehy had revealed to him or broach the subject of his father’s death with the man.
The wound that Sheehy had so brutally reopened on Middlesbury Common was gaping wide and Warren was confused and bewildered; however, his instincts were telling him that he couldn’t trust the man until he knew more.
To somebody of Warren’s age, those events in the mid eighties seemed a lifetime ago, but he was uncomfortably aware that officers such as Gavin Sheehy and John Grayson had started their careers back then and were still in the force today, working in positions of influence and responsibility.
Sheehy’s account had almost made it sound as if he and MacNamara had planned the whole stitch-up single-handedly, but even back in the eighties the police didn’t work that way. The two officers would have been part of a much larger team and it was almost inconceivable that they worked alone or were even the masterminds of the subterfuge. Until Warren read the report on the case, he wasn’t sharing the contents of the manila folder, sandwiched between his stab vest and shirt, with anybody.
Chapter 11 (#ulink_e62ebfd8-e6b9-5179-a389-71ed32522477)
“Is that all we’ve got?”
The pile of printouts was surprisingly small for such a major incident.
“For the moment. West Mids were charged with entering the paperwork into HOLMES, but they prioritised the key documents.” Kent looked apologetic. “I’m still tracking down everything as it’s been filed a bit sloppily. I guess once they’d secured his conviction they expected him to die in prison and so they didn’t bust a gut scanning everything in. These are the records for Vinny Delmarno. I’ll get the rest to you when I’ve collected it all together.”
“Well I’m sure that if it’s in there you’ll find it, Pete. Thanks.”
The documents had been divided into two piles and joined together with oversize paperclips. The first was the record for Vincent (Vinny) Delmarno. Warren recognised the formatting from the Police National Computer. The second was other associated paperwork, such as reports from the National Probation Service.
Like all prisoners released from a life sentence, Delmarno had to serve out the rest of his sentence “on licence”. According to the NPS, he lived with his wife on the easternmost fringes of Middlesbury, reporting to his probation officer fortnightly. The latest account was dated the beginning of the month and reported that he was meeting the terms of his parole satisfactorily.
A biography of Delmarno had attached photographs showing him after his arrest and more recently on release. Warren stared at them. Was this the man who had killed his father? He felt a cold shiver run down his spine. Over two decades in prison had changed the man almost beyond recognition.
According to his date of birth, Delmarno had been just shy of thirty-five years old when he’d been convicted, a little younger than Warren was now, but his hair was already snow white. His face was swollen and darkened, a symptom of his end-stage-renal failure.
By contrast, the photograph taken upon release showed a fit-looking man in his late fifties. Although lined and hardened, the face had lost its swelling and the skin tone had returned to the natural, olive complexion that spoke of his Italian heritage. His hair, though white, was as full as the day he went in.
The one feature that had not changed was his eyes. Warren had seen thousands of mugshots over the years, but rarely had he seen such hatred staring out of a photograph at him.
The biographical details were terse and factual, but Warren found himself filling in the missing details with his own knowledge both from his upbringing in Coventry and the time he served with the police.
Delmarno had been born in July 1953, the son of an Italian father and an Irish Catholic mother who’d met in Coventry shortly after the war. Both parents died whilst he was in prison. Schooled at one of the city’s three Roman Catholic secondary schools—not the one he’d been to, Warren was strangely relieved to see, even though they would have attended twenty years apart—he’d been expelled at age fifteen for fighting. After a few minor skirmishes with the law as a youth, he apparently avoided arrest until 1988.
The list of crimes of which he was suspected filled three pages. Drug dealing, living off immoral earnings, assault and attempted murder. In almost all cases, charges either weren’t filed or were dropped.
As Sheehy had explained, it was the shooting of Frankie Cruise in 1984 that was his undoing and the search warrant obtained after the handgun was “found” at the scene of a drugs bust in Coventry had led to his trial on a dozen further charges, including two counts of conspiracy to murder, money laundering and possession with intent to supply. As in the past, he was cleared of many of the charges when witnesses failed to attend or his lawyers successfully had them thrown out on a technicality. Nevertheless he received life with a minimum sentence of twenty-two years and eight months for the murder of Frankie Cruise.
He was released on 6 September 2010.
The final page contained a list of Delmarno’s known associates. Most were either behind bars themselves or dead, either of natural causes or murdered. It also listed his wife, Jocelyn, and his son, born five years before his father’s incarceration.
If Warren had expected some remarkable insight into the events of the past week or even twenty-four years previously, he was to be disappointed.
“Anything you want me to do before I go home, Boss?”
The question was as much a peace offering as anything else and so Warren felt even more guilty as he dismissed Tony Sutton for the evening. The older man had looked at him for a few, long seconds before nodding and saying good evening. Sutton was no fool; he knew that Warren was hiding something from him. The two men had barely spoken over the last few hours; for want of a better word, Sutton seemed to have been sulking.
That suited Warren fine. He hadn’t yet decided how much to share with Tony Sutton. The man had been investigated immediately after Sheehy’s arrest and cleared of any wrongdoing, but Warren couldn’t dismiss the possibility that he was helping his former DCI and friend to play him, manipulating him to help clear the man’s name. Warren hoped that wasn’t the case. He’d come to value Sutton’s counsel—and friendship, he realised. Until he could be sure, though, he was on his own.
Chapter 12 (#ulink_97528180-780b-5091-ac6f-8b57506c670a)
It was late by the time that Warren arrived back home. Susan’s expression suggested that he was in for another earbashing—it was definitely today’s theme.
“You did what?”
“I already knew who he was. I was certain that I wasn’t in any danger. Besides, I had my stab vest on.”
“Covers your neck does it?” Even when angry, his wife could be logical to a fault. “So what did this Gavin Sheehy want? Did he actually have any evidence to help you work out who murdered that poor man?”
“I’m not sure. The folder he gave me was just the write-up of a fatal collision over the New Year. Nothing jumped out at me.”
The two of them had moved into the lounge and the red wine Susan had poured herself seemed to cool her temper somewhat. Nevertheless, Warren was reminded that Susan’s temperament probably owed more to her fiery mother than her decidedly docile father.
Warren had been thinking about what to tell his wife ever since he’d left the office. The fact was, he needed a sounding board; his decision not to tell Tony Sutton the full details of his conversation with Sheehy had left Warren feeling isolated and he valued his wife’s insights. And he needed her support. He closed his eyes.
They had been dating for more than two years before Warren had told Susan the full story of his father’s suicide. They’d been on holiday in Prague, lying in bed after a romantic meal down by the Charles Bridge. Warren had never shared his true feelings about his father’s death and how it had affected him.
He’d been scared that people would see him differently—and he was ashamed. He knew he shouldn’t be—that his father’s sins were not his own, but he couldn’t help it.
Susan had listened without saying anything, her tight embrace easing his halting speech until it was flowing like a tap—years of hurt and resentment finally getting its release. When he was eventually finished, she’d whispered into his ear, “Thank you.”
The next day, standing on top of Petřín Hill, Warren had asked her to marry him.
The touch of Susan’s hand brought Warren back to the present.
“For most of my life, I’ve thought my father abandoned me and my mum and brother, that he was corrupt and a thief. Today I found out that I may have been wrong all of these years.”
Warren felt Susan stiffen. She said nothing. And it was as if he’d been transported back in time to that evening in Prague as he again unburdened himself to the woman he loved so much.
“What are you going to do?” asked Susan when he finally finished.
“I don’t know. Gavin Sheehy has admitted that he and my father helped secure an unsafe conviction all of those years ago, he’s not an honest man. But what if he is telling the truth?”
“You can’t ignore it.”
She was right—he had to check the truth of what Sheehy was saying for himself. But how? Events had been successfully concealed for nearly a quarter of a century.
“Sheehy claimed to have more information. You have to get it from him. Whatever it takes.”
“But how can I know if I can trust him?”
“Does it matter?”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at what Sheehy’s asking you to do. He’s basically asking you to investigate the allegations made against him. Furthermore, he’s given you potential clues that could help you solve one confirmed murder and another possible killing. Treat it like any other case. Take what he’s given you and add it into the mix. As for the allegations against him—surely it can’t hurt to do a bit of digging around, to see if he really is being framed?”
“Grayson has banned me from looking into Sheehy’s case.”
“So when has that stopped you before?” She placed her hand on his chest and kissed him lightly on the forehead. “Follow your gut, Warren. You need to see this through. If there is any truth at all to what Sheehy is saying, then you need to know.”
She kissed him again. “We need to know. You can’t let it lie; you know that.”
Warren nodded, wearily. He was exhausted. Not just from the long hours he’d worked, but also the constant adrenaline.
“You’re right,” he admitted. “I’ll get Mags Richardson to look over the report into Dr Liebig’s accident. She worked Traffic before joining CID. She’ll spot any inconsistencies. If it looks as though there are suspicious circumstances, I’ll go back to Sheehy and see what else he has.”
“What about Tony Sutton?”
“Not yet. He was investigated alongside Sheehy when he was first arrested. I need to satisfy myself that he is completely clean before I bring him in on this.”
Susan squeezed his hand again. “Well do it quickly. You can’t work this alone. You need help.”
Susan was right as usual. The logical science teacher had cut through the confusion and suggested a course of action. Marrying her was still the best decision he had ever made.
Chapter 13 (#ulink_331650ad-2f4f-5747-a520-3bc29ab250c1)
He’s walking down the garden path again, the coffee cups balanced in his hands. He tries to stop, the feeling of dread mounting in him, but it’s useless. His legs, ignoring his desperate commands, carry him relentlessly towards the garage door. Towards what he knows lies on the other side.
No, not again, he cries out silently. He knows it’s a dream of course; the same dream that visited him every night for years. Almost a quarter of a century on, the dream comes less often now. But when it does, it’s lost none of its power.
The rusty hasp needs a tug, and the spilled coffee scalds him. As always, he tries to turn back, but try as he might, he’s committed, the same story playing out again and again. His ears are filled with the chugging of the car’s engine. His nose is clogged with exhaust fumes.
And then he’s at the car door, swinging the hammer with all of his strength. Please let it be different this time, he pleads, just this once.
But it’s not. The whisky bottle clatters to the floor as he reaches in to turn off the engine. But he’s too late again. The last thing he sees before he jerks awake, sobbing, is his father’s white, bloodless face…
“Warren, it’s OK. Warren, I’m here.” Susan’s voice is soothing, the warmth of her arms around his chest. Gradually his heart rate slows, calmed by her gentle caresses.
“The dream?”
Nothing more is required. They’ve been together for eight years and she recognises its symptoms—the crying and the tears, the way he cradles his hand as if scalded by hot coffee. The dream comes to him just a few times a year now, usually around the anniversary or his father’s birthday. It doesn’t take a genius to work out why it’s chosen to come back tonight.
Warren nods. Reaches out for the glass of water on the bedside table and takes a long swig.
“I’m OK now. It only ever comes once.” Despite the fluid his voice is croaky.
The bedside clock reads three-thirty.
“Go back to sleep.” He kisses her on the forehead.
It’s true, the dream does only come once in a night and afterwards, Warren sleeps a deep and dreamless sleep and will awake in the morning fully refreshed. It’s as if it’s been purged from his system and won’t need to return again for at least a few more nights.
But tonight is different. In a few minutes, Susan’s breathing changes as she drifts back to sleep. But sleep won’t come to Warren. Try as he might he can’t stop thinking about that night, reliving it again. Why? Why won’t his subconscious let it go?
He starts to obsess about small details. The way the hasp squeaks as he forces it open. The clatter of the whisky bottle as it hits the floor. His father’s pale, bloodless lips.
The hasp. It squeaks as he forces it open.
As he forces it open.
Suddenly Warren sits bolt upright in bed, realising that what Sheehy has told must at least be partly true. If his father was inside the garage, who had closed the rusty hasp on the outside of the door?
Sunday 1 April
Chapter 14 (#ulink_57fa8917-1184-5a2b-be18-fe4175cab41b)
Warren finished leafing through the report describing the road traffic collision that had killed the late coroner Dr Anton Liebig and his wife, Rosemary, three months before. Putting it down on his desk he turned to the inquest findings, skimming the legalese before skipping to the narrative verdict. Something wasn’t right; he was sure of it. The deaths and their timing were too coincidental, but to his untrained eye everything seemed normal. Despite his reluctance to involve too many people at this stage, he needed help.
Leaning out of his office door, he summoned DS Margaret Richardson from her desk in the far corner. Richardson was a heavy-set woman in her mid forties. A mother of two, she had worked traffic for a number of years before switching to CID.
Warren pushed the printouts across the desk to her. “I need your expertise. I want you to read these reports and tell me what you see.”
Placing her ever-present bottle of mineral water down next to Warren’s laptop, she fished out a pair of small reading glasses, picked up the pile of papers and started reading.
It took her barely five minutes to finish both of the documents—five minutes that Warren spent trying to appear unconcerned and busy.
“Well it seems fairly straightforward at first glance. I can see why the inquest drew their conclusions.” She raised a hand, ticking off each point. “Dr Liebig was driving late at night, on a narrow country road in poor weather with a blood alcohol level above the legal limit. The car was in good repair, but he was driving too fast for the conditions around a deceptively sharp bend with a reputation as an accident black spot. Best estimates put the car’s speed at over fifty miles per hour prior to it leaving the road shortly after the bend.”
“And the conclusion from the inquest?”
“Pretty much what I’d expect. The car plunged down a steep embankment and impacted a tree, which impaled Dr Liebig through the windshield, killing him instantly. His wife died from massive internal bleeding at the scene as the emergency services attempted to cut her out. Death by dangerous driving, namely excess speed and impairment by alcohol.”
Warren nodded. “Is there anything in the report that doesn’t fit that explanation?”
Richardson’s tone was cagey. “Well, sir, you have to realise that RTCs are complex, especially when there are no witnesses or survivors. There are always unanswered questions; the best we can do is come up with a sequence of events that fits the evidence and decide if an offence has been committed. In the case of a fatal accident, it’s up to the coroner presiding over the inquest to determine if there was anyone at fault, or if steps should be taken to reduce the likelihood of a similar accident. In this case she recommended safety barriers to prevent cars leaving the road, and improved signage.”
Warren leant back in his chair. “OK, I understand that, Mags, but I have reason to suspect that this accident might not be as clear-cut as the report suggests. Are there any inconsistencies here or unanswered questions?”
“Let me have another look.” Picking up the papers again, she took a pen out of a coffee cup masquerading as a pencil pot and raised an eyebrow. Warren signalled his agreement. The originals were safely locked away.
This time, she took longer. Warren forced himself to turn back to his bulging inbox, resisting the urge to try and interpret the officer’s upside-down handwriting. However, he was rereading a missive about next year’s budget predictions for the third time, and still not comprehending it, when Richardson finally put down the papers and cleared her throat.
“Anything?”
“Well, if you want to turn over every stone, there are a few discrepancies, I suppose.” She sounded a little uncomfortable, clearly concerned that she might be overstating her observations.
“I’m all ears,” responded Warren, trying not to sound too eager as he picked up his own pen and turned over a new page in the spiral-bound scribble pad next to the phone.
“First off, his blood alcohol level was 85 milligrams per 100 millilitres. That’s only just above the legal limit. That doesn’t mean he was safe to drive, but he wasn’t pissed. Eyewitness reports state that he drank two small glasses of red wine with a three-course meal, about three hours prior to leaving the golf club. After the wine, witnesses say he switched to soft drinks. An analysis of his stomach contents is consistent with a large meal, traces of red wine and a substantial amount of what appears to be Coca Cola. The pathologist thought there might have been traces of spirits in there, but the blood alcohol results were back so he didn’t pursue it further.”
“What about his blood-glucose levels? The report noted that he was diabetic, but I don’t know enough to tell if they were too low. Could he have become hypoglycaemic and lost control of the car?”
Richardson shook her head. “Unlikely. His blood glucose was 14.2 millimoles per litre. If anything that’s too high. It may have contributed to fatigue or confusion, especially if he was tired late at night and under the influence of alcohol.”
Warren studied her intently. “Your expression tells me you aren’t convinced.”
Richardson sighed. “It may be nothing, but I’m not happy about the skid marks on the road.” She flicked the folder open to reveal flood-lit photographs of the road surface. Two thick, black tyre marks were clearly visible after the apex of the left-hand bend, heading straight on, before veering sharply to the right and off the road. The rear of the Liebig’s Jaguar was just visible at the edge of the image. Its wheels were hanging well clear of the road, hinting at the sharp downward angle that it had come to rest at. Blue smears across its shiny paintwork advertised the presence of emergency vehicles, their flashing lights just off camera.
“It looks to me as though he had made it safely around the bend; although he was travelling very fast he was in a performance car with good tyres. For some reason though, he slammed on the brakes and swerved violently as he exited the bend, losing control.”
“An obstruction? A deer in the road perhaps?” Warren had had his own rather uncomfortable encounter with just such a creature the previous winter.
Richardson shook her head slightly. “I don’t think so. There aren’t many deer in that area and he was an experienced driver. I doubt he’d have over-reacted for something like a rabbit.”
“Anything else?”
“Well there is a report of two cars travelling at high speed, very close to one another about a mile prior to the accident; however, the witness herself admits it was very dark and it was hard to judge distances and speed.”
Warren leant back in his chair and tapped his pen against his lip thoughtfully. The evidence pointed towards a tired driver under the influence of alcohol, possibly a little confused from high blood sugar, taking a bend too fast then losing control. But the inconsistencies gnawed at him like a dog with its favourite stick. Were they just the inevitable loose ends from a perfunctory investigation into an apparently clear-cut case, or where they more significant?
Chapter 15 (#ulink_da12e6be-421e-507e-8540-09b7c976679b)
They were meeting in a car park again. As before, Sheehy insisted that they drive to a secluded area where they couldn’t be overheard. It wasn’t necessary. Warren had told nobody about this visit.
“So, you’re convinced I’m telling the truth?”
Convinced was too strong a word, Warren decided. However, everything that Sheehy had told him so far had been borne out. Warren admitted as much.
“You said that you had more information for me.”
Sheehy shook his head. “You know the agreement. I’ve given you a show of good faith; now you need to do the same. You need to help me.”
Warren sighed. He still didn’t see what he could do to help the man.
Sheehy had brought another file folder with him. He removed another newspaper clipping and handed it over wordlessly. The clipping was dated the eighth of April the previous year—roughly four weeks before Sheehy’s suspension.
Police sting closes Herts-based drug distribution network
Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire Major Crime Unit, working with colleagues across East Anglia, announced today the results of a series of dawn raids conducted at the weekend. Twelve arrests were made as a result of the months-long investigation, Operation Fahrenheit, into drug production and distribution, mostly centred in North Hertfordshire. The majority of the arrests were for dealing, however, three individuals were charged with production of Class B drugs, including cannabis and ecstasy. Several kilos of crack-cocaine were also retrieved from one of the properties in Middlesbury, along with firearms and an undisclosed quantity of money. A spokesperson for Herts and Beds Major Crime Unit said that the raids had netted a number of known and unknown dealers, as well as the man that they believe is behind the operation.
“Drugs are a scourge in our communities. Illegal drug use is a major contributor to violent assaults, robbery, theft and antisocial behaviour. Hertfordshire prides itself on its comparatively low crime rate and this sends a strong message that the production, distribution and use of illegal drugs in our county will not be tolerated.”
He said that the operation was ongoing and that more details would be revealed in due course.
Warren handed back the piece of paper. “So what has this got to do with you?”
“The man at the centre of the operation was one Billy Obsanjo, a Middlesbury-based gangster wannabe. We’d been watching his operation for about a year, working with the drug squad down in Welwyn. He had big ambitions, but at the time he was still mostly active in this area, hence our involvement. His ‘crew’ as he called it all went to school together and they operated cannabis factories out of terraced houses up on the Westfield estate. We’d closed a few of them down over the past few months and made a couple of arrests, but they were all low-level dealers and it was clear to us that even though the operation was pretty small-scale at the moment, it was well organised. Our biggest worry was that it would gain a real foothold and it’d expand, bringing in undesirables from outside the county. Our aim was to shut it down whilst it was still small.”
“So what went wrong?”
“We’d had an eye on Obsanjo for some time, but we couldn’t ever link him with the operation. Most of the dealers that we arrested were too far down the totem pole to give us a name and those that were more connected wouldn’t say anything. Obsanjo might be small-time but he had convictions for assault and there were unconfirmed rumours that he wasn’t above threatening families and loved ones to ensure people kept quiet.”
“So you had nothing? Why not just fit him up? It’s not like you haven’t done it before.”
Sheehy opened his mouth, before closing it again. After a brief pause, he continued, “He was a slippery bugger. Every time we thought we had him, he’d get away before we could arrest him at the scene. We’d be left with a few pot plants, a couple of wraps of heroin and if we were lucky, some dumb idiot who was too stoned to run away when we bashed the door down.
“Anyhow, it was his own arrogance that got him in the end. He hit his girlfriend one time too many and she reported him for assault. She knew that if he found out she’d been to the police he’d probably kill her, so she gave us details of where and when we could find him with some of his product. This time, when we made the raid we hit seven properties simultaneously. We caught him with his pants down—literally, he was in the back room getting favours off some junkie.”
“OK, so where do you come into all of this?”
Warren had his suspicions, but he wanted Sheehy to spell them out for him.
“I was DCI here in Middlesbury, as you know, and I helped coordinate the investigation and organise the raids in this area. The thing with Obsanjo though was that although he was running this operation, he was a dumb shit. We couldn’t figure out how he kept one step ahead of us. Seriously, he was mean and violent and ambitious, but he wasn’t at all bright. He simply shouldn’t have been able to avoid us like he did.
“Anyhow, we’d finally got him and we charged him with intent to supply, unlawful production, the whole works. Good enough to get him twenty years if the judge and jury saw it our way. We just put his avoidance down to luck—his good luck, our bad luck.
“Anyway, a few weeks after the operation was concluded, we’d all moved on and suddenly Professional Standards arrive at my house. Six a.m. on a Sunday morning, mob-handed, brandishing warrants. I’d come off a night shift and so Judith answered. It frightened the hell out of her. By seven a.m. I was in custody suite one, waiting for my lawyer. I still didn’t know what it was all about.”
Sheehy had stopped pacing and was now grinding his teeth.
“They said that Obsanjo had claimed he was able to avoid arrest for so long because he was getting regular tip-offs about when raids were about to occur. He was bribing a member of Middlesbury police to tell him what our plans were.”
Warren contemplated the man before him.
“And he named you?”
“Not in so many words, but he gave a description that could have been me. He claimed his source would disguise himself or conceal his identity whenever they met. He’d phone him on a Pay-As-You-Go mobile phone.”
“Well they must have had more to go on than that. Trying to get a more lenient sentence by co-operation is hardly a new ploy and claiming to have been helped by some bent copper is old hat.”
“He had copies of internal memos about the operation that he claimed had been passed to him by his source. In return, he handed over bundles of cash. Used notes mostly, wrapped in elastic bands and stuffed in envelopes.” Sheehy paused. “Somebody was dirty, make no mistake about that. But it wasn’t me.”
He continued his story. “Anyway, they interviewed me all day. By mid afternoon, I wasn’t really that concerned any more. Allegations are made all the time. You know that. I figured that Professional Standards were under pressure to put on the whole cart-and-pony show because of the politics—you know that they have been looking for an excuse to close us down ever since we survived the merger. But the fact was I hadn’t done anything wrong and I was confident that there was nothing to worry about. I’ve grown a pretty thick skin over the past few years and I figured it would all be over in a couple of weeks: ‘nothing to see here, move along’.”
He went quiet. “But I was wrong. About four o’clock in the afternoon the investigator in charge, some DCI Lowry, came back in, brandishing a fistful of photographs like a trophy. They’d found a shoebox hidden in the loft, with about eight grand in used notes all rolled up neatly in elastic bands, just like Obsanjo claimed.
“Forensics found traces of drugs on the notes above the usual background levels and Obsanjo’s thumbprint on one of the envelopes. They also found a Pay-As-You-Go SIM card in my desk at work that matched the number Obsanjo claimed had been used to call him.”
The man went silent, waiting.
Warren thought hard. What the man was saying was incredible; the evidence as he’d laid it out was compelling and he could see why Professional Standards had arrested and charged him. The man in front of him was desperate, of that there was no denying and there was no reason to accept what he was saying as the truth. Except that the evidence he had given Warren so far had been largely true. And what did he have to gain by lying? The chances that Warren would find evidence to exonerate him were slim—even more so if he wasn’t actually innocent.
“So why do you think Delmarno is behind this?”
Sheehy sighed. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. Vinny Delmarno made it clear that he wanted revenge, that he wanted those responsible for sending him to prison to suffer. This happened barely six months after he was released. Then in December, Anton Liebig is killed in a supposed car accident and finally Reggie Williamson is stabbed to death on Middlesbury Common. It’s too much of a coincidence.”
It wasn’t enough. Warren knew, but he couldn’t dismiss it. “So who was feeding the information to Obsanjo? You said that you thought it was authentic, that somebody had been passing material on.”
Sheehy shrugged. “I don’t know. You know how big these sorts of operations are. Middlesbury was taking point because of our local knowledge and connections but there was a huge team behind this down at Welwyn. It could have been any one of them. Vinny Delmarno’s got deep pockets; he could definitely afford to pay somebody.”
Warren chewed his lip, thinking hard. The idea that there were other corrupt officers beyond Sheehy—maybe even officers he knew and worked with—left a sour taste in his mouth. “What about Tony?”
Sheehy grimaced. “What they did to him was spite, pure and simple. There was no reason to suspect him, other than his friendship with me. They humiliated him, dragging him into this. Poor bloke didn’t even know what it was about.”
“You know that he’s been summonsed?”
Sheehy nodded and sighed. “I’m innocent, but I’m a detective—I can put myself in their shoes. I can see why they arrested me and why they are confident of a conviction. But there’s no need to drag Tony into this. What’s he going to say? That I sometimes used my mobile phone or that I wasn’t always available?
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Paul Gitsham
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 17.04.2024
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О книге: It’s DCI Warren Jones’ coldest case yet…The body of Reginald Williamson had been well concealed under a bush in Middlesbury Common and the murder efficiently carried out – a single stab wound to the chest. Reggie’s dog had been killed just as efficiently. With no clues or obvious motive, the case is going nowhere. Then he gets a break.Warren’s instincts tell him that the informant is dodgy – a former police officer under investigation. But when Warren hears the incredible story he has to tell, he′s glad to have given him a chance to speak. Suddenly, a wide criminal conspiracy, involving high-level police corruption, a gangster and a trained killer, is blown wide open…and Warren finds that this time, it’s not just his career under threat, but his family – and his life.Fans of Peter Robinson and Peter James will love Silent as the Grave, the third novel in Paul Gitsham′s DCI Warren Jones series.More DCI Warren Jones books by Paul Gitsham:The Last StrawNo Smoke Without FireBlood is Thicker Than Water(A DCI Warren Jones short story)Praise for Paul Gitsham:"A wonderfully classy crime novel. Fluent writing style, great pace to the action. What′s not to like? I′ll be reading number 2 as quickly as I can download it. Crime Writing at its very best" – Kate Rhodes, author of Crossbones Yard and the Alice Quentin series