by Paul Gitsham
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
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
“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 almo
st 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.