by Paul Gitsham
Chapter 12
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
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
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
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.”