by Paul Gitsham
But he’d screwed it all up. Jocelyn hadn’t been naïve enough to expect him to take the news of what she had done well; but neither had she expected the violence of his reaction. He hadn’t hit her, like that bastard Vinny, but was that only because she’d fled before his rage had made him cross that line?
Why had he reacted the way he had? She’d done what she had done for them. He knew that she felt nothing for Rubens. She could barely stand the man. Yet the idea of him pawing at her body had sickened him. Somehow he’d blotted out what she must be doing with Vinny each night, but now that too was running through his mind, on an endless loop.
The real question, the one he couldn’t really answer, was what did he have to offer her? He knew that he’d been a good husband and father—yet what else could he give? To the world outside and to Vinny Delmarno in particular, he was just the hired help. Even those who knew him most closely thought he and Jocelyn were little more than business partners. His name wasn’t even above the golf club that he had managed for the past twenty years. What would Vinny think if he knew that Jocelyn had been unable to set foot inside the club that still bore her maiden name, that instead she had left it to Bixby to nurture? Even worse, what would Vinny think if he knew that Bixby and Jocelyn had become more than business partners, that his only son called Bixby his stepdad?
To the world at large, Martin Bixby was just one thing—a thug for hire. A trained killer who could solve “problems” and make them go away. Who followed orders.
But he didn’t always follow orders, did he?
“Kill Delmarno,” the voice at the end of the phone had said, when Vinny was released. A voice he hadn’t heard for over twenty years.
But Bixby didn’t want to kill again. He hadn’t killed since that warm, summer evening so many years ago. He still remembered the sensation, the way his victim had bucked wildly against the chokehold, chest heaving, a gasping, gargling noise getting quieter as the thrashing slowed. Finally it had stopped, the body becoming limp in his arms. He’d maintained the hold for another thirty seconds, as he’d been trained to do, making certain that the man wasn’t suddenly going to awaken. Then there had been the staging of the scene; to this day the smell of exhaust fumes could transport him without warning back to that night.
When he’d finished he’d locked the garage and walked briskly to the nearest pay phone, his head bowed, collar upturned in case anyone paid too much attention to a stranger in the quiet street.
“It’s done,” was all he’d said after the number had connected. The voice on the end of the phone had simply grunted in acknowledgement before hanging up.
After that, he’d dialled another number.
“It’s done,” he’d repeated.
The response of Vinny Delmarno’s lawyer hadn’t been much more verbose, “I’ll tell him.”
That evening Martin Bixby’s life as a killer had ended.
Or so he’d thought. For years he’d done his best to forget what he had been, trying to blot out the faces of those he’d killed by burying their names and faces under a layer of booze, and when that didn’t work he’d finally given in to Jocelyn’s pleas and confronted his past. Endless sessions with therapists and psychologists, face-to-face or sitting in a large group, sharing feelings that a lifetime of training had told he should bury, hide away, lest he be seen as weak. Finally he’d come to terms with what he’d done. For the first time in decades he’d been able to go to sleep without the help of alcohol, without feeling trepidation at what the night’s dreams might bring.
And then Vinny had been released and Bixby found himself serving two masters.
To the voice on the phone, he promised he’d deal with Delmarno, but killing him wasn’t the answer.
“You’d better. If I go down, you go down. Never forget that.”
To Vinny, he’d promised to help him craft his revenge.
After a plausible wait he’d given Vinny the name of Gavin Sheehy, Niall MacNamara’s partner in the planting of the gun. Killing Sheehy was the sensible thing to do; the disembodied voice on the end of the phone had said as much. Bixby’s training told him that it was necessary. But Vinny had wanted his retribution. He’d wanted Sheehy to suffer the humiliation of false conviction and prison, followed by the knowledge that at some point in the future—at the moment when he least expected it, somebody would step out of the shadows and kill him.
Pete Kent had been furious to be contacted again. Decades had passed since he’d given in to the lure of easy cash and hints that what he was doing was ultimately for the greater good. Young DC Kent had convinced himself that his small part in the planting of evidence was morally the right thing to do and that he’d have played his role even without the money.
Had the man even thought about what he’d done over the past two decades? Had he and Gavin Sheehy ever talked about it? Surely it must have come up in conversation when Vinny was released. The men had worked together for most of that time, Sheehy receiving multiple promotions whilst Kent had ridden his coat-tails, ultimately landing a cushy desk job in the unit Sheehy commanded.
Yet that loyalty had counted for little in the long run. When Bixby had made it clear that he had no qualms about exposing Kent’s role in the sordid enterprise, the man had changed his tune immediately. It had been Kent’s idea to stitch up Sheehy by impersonating him in meetings with some lowlife drug dealer. He’d done it, he claimed, because it meant he wouldn’t have to kill his old friend.
Bixby had successfully navigated the tightrope, appeasing both the voice on the phone and Vinny, all without any need to resort to killing.
Or so he’d thought.
The voice on the phone had thought differently.
Which meant that the first death was unavoidable. Anton Liebig knew what they had done. More importantly, he’d known who had ordered it done. Bixby had looked for another way, but the voice on the phone had been adamant. “If I go down, you go down.”
He’d been wracked with guilt, in particular over the death of the man’s wife—a complete innocent. But buried below that, in a part of his psyche that he’d tried hard to banish, he’d felt a rush of adrenaline that he’d not experienced in over twenty years—a job well done. Just like Niall MacNamara or countless terrorists before him, the death had been recorded as something other than homicide.
But it hadn’t been enough. Liebig was just one loose end. There were plenty more that needed to be fixed.
He’d had no choice about killing Reggie Williamson either. It was Vinny’s fault. Since he’d left prison he’d been like a dog with a bone. “How did the police get hold of that gun?” he’d asked.
Again and again. As always when he had a problem, he’d given it to his best man to solve.
He’d been somewhat appeased when Bixby had handed him the name of Gavin Sheehy and arranged for his downfall. But eventually he’d spotted the unfilled gap in the chain of events.
“How did Sheehy get hold of the gun to pass onto that shit MacNamara? It must have been somebody close to me. Somebody I trusted.” He’d continued to obsess about it.
It had been as they sat around the table eating Sunday lunch that Bixby had realised that he would need to give Vinny someone else. Jocelyn had gone into the kitchen and Delmarno had leant over to him. After years of abstinence, spurning even the illicit hooch brewed up inside the various institutions that he’d spent the past decades in, Vinny had rediscovered the joys of alcohol. His breath smelt of a mixture of red wine and mild acidosis from elevated blood glucose.
“Keep an eye on her,” he’d slurred. “I can’t think of anybody else who could have stolen that gun.”
An icy hand had gripped Bixby’s insides. A week later, he’d finally given Delmarno the name of Reggie Williamson and some suggestions as to how he could exact revenge on the former handyman and gardener.
Delmarno had been contemptuous. “Don’t waste your time on the fucking hired help,” he’d snorted. “Just kill the bastard.”
&nbs
p; A few days later, when the police had announced the death of the former gardener, Delmarno hadn’t even made the connection until Bixby reminded him. Delmarno had completely forgotten the man’s name.
“Good job, Martin. Pity about the poor dog though. Did you really need to do that?”
Delmarno was now satisfied. As far as he was concerned, the chain had been completed. Reggie Williamson had stolen the gun. He’d then handed it on to Gavin Sheehy and Niall MacNamara, who’d planted it at the scene of some drugs bust in Coventry. MacNamara had been killed years ago, Gavin Sheehy was about to get what he deserved and Reggie Williamson had been dealt with. Honour was satisfied; Delmarno was about to get remarried and retake his place at the head of his empire and all was good with the world.
For a time, Bixby had thought that the killing was over. He’d retreated into himself, trying to repair the damage done to him by the recent killings. To lick his wounds and decide what he was going to do about Jocelyn.
And then DCI Warren Jones had turned up at the golf club.
Bixby had moved quickly and decisively. He had no idea if Zachary Eddleston had told the detective about how he’d been bribed to spike Anton Liebig’s drinks that night; what he did know was that he could identify him. And so a college kid who was guilty of nothing more than naiveté and greed had to be killed. Problem solved.
The voice on the end of the phone had also thought that Bixby had solved their problems. He hadn’t.
Bixby had been astounded when he was told who Jones was.
“Should I kill him?”
“No,” the voice had instructed. “He’s lead investigator on multiple murder investigations. Kill him and the whole thing will blow wide open. You need to cover your tracks. Remember, if I go down, you go down.”
No more traces could be left. It was time to start cleaning up.
Reluctantly, Bixby had decided to kill Sheehy. Vinny’s insistence on the humiliation of the man he thought had orchestrated his downfall now had to play second fiddle to Bixby’s need to clear up the rapidly escalating mess. And then Pete Kent had called, panicking.
“Jones knows.”
The veteran police officer, who knew all the secrets and had carefully delivered to the young DCI only the information that they’d wanted him to see, had got wind that Jones was making a trip to the archives. To find the information that he’d thought buried, safely deleted. Information that Gavin Sheehy had stolen and now held on to like a security blanket.
“Kill Sheehy and clear up any loose ends.” This time the voice didn’t need to remind him, if I go down, you go down.
Framing Sheehy for the murders of Reggie Williamson and Zachary Eddleston had come in a flash of inspiration. The bag containing the blood-soaked knife and the clothes that he’d worn that night up on the common was in a lock-up garage, paid for by cash, on the outskirts of town. Getting rid of the clothes would be nigh-on impossible for at least a few weeks, whilst the police investigation was at full strength. Besides which, he’d made sure that on the night of Reggie Williamson’s murder, Vinny had no alibi. A return to prison for the former gangster would bring Jocelyn back to Bixby without the need to kill his old friend.
Pete Kent had put up only a token resistance when he’d told him his plan. The detective knew that if it all fell apart, he’d be spending the rest of his life in prison. And so it had been Pete Kent who’d turned up on his old friend’s doorstep with a bottle of whisky, making certain that the front door didn’t quite close properly. It had been Pete Kent who’d prepared the noose, throwing the rope over the bannister whilst Bixby had sat in the front room with a terrified Sheehy.
By the time Kent had finished setting the scene for his former friend’s suicide, Bixby had determined that the single sheet of paper that could bring the whole conspiracy crashing down was no longer in Sheehy’s possession. A simple chokehold, no different to the one that had killed Niall MacNamara so many years ago, was enough to render Sheehy unconscious, the faint bruising around his carotids easily covered by the chafing that would come from the rough hemp of the rope.
It had been logical for the heavier Kent to hoist Sheehy’s limp form up whilst Bixby raced around the house, planting the blood-soaked clothes and weapon in the laundry hamper and putting the hoody that he’d worn whilst killing Zachary Eddleston in the man’s wardrobe.
Finally, Kent had kicked the stool over, leaving his former friend to dangle, his face turning a hideous purple. The two men had exited via the rear of the house. Bixby had relocked the kitchen door behind them with a set of lock picks, managing the feat in half the time it had taken him to complete the same action on Zachary Eddleston’s flat; it was as if the past thirty years had never happened. He was back with his boys in Northern Ireland. Breaking and entering, planting evidence and faking suicides or constructing crime scenes had been his bread and butter during his days with the regiment.
But he wasn’t back with the regiment and Pete Kent wasn’t one of his boys. He should have checked the man’s handiwork, not trusted him the way he would have trusted his fellow soldiers to complete the job. Sheehy had survived. Just.
The voice at the end of the phone was furious. “Complete the job, soldier. Do it properly and don’t leave any loose ends.”
And so here he was. Yet another death on his hands. The look of terror on Pete Kent’s face had lasted only a second but it had seared itself into Bixby’s mind. The sound of the impact still echoed in his ears. It haunted his sleep, forcing him to seek oblivion in the bottle of whisky that Vinny had given him last Christmas.
But, as the saying goes, the night is always darkest before the dawn and the dawn was on the horizon. Jocelyn had effectively removed Vinny from the equation. That huge loose end had been neutralised without the need to kill him. Suddenly, all that remained now was to deal with that piece of paper.
Where was it? He couldn’t imagine Sheehy destroying such a valuable piece of evidence. But he’d looked all over the house for it. He was a bit rusty, but they’d taught him to conduct searches in the regiment. If it had been there, he’d have found it.
So what would he have done with it? Sheehy had known his life was in danger. He must have arranged for it to be kept somewhere safe. He thought back to the man’s last few moments, before his stranglehold had finally silenced him.
“Kill me and it all comes out. Every last detail.”
He’d taken the words as those of a desperate man, a man who would say anything to save his life. But what if he hadn’t been bluffing? What if he had been telling the truth? Had he arranged for his story to be published after his death? A letter to be sent to the local newspapers?
Bixby dismissed the idea. Without real evidence, the man would be dismissed as a crank. A twenty-four-year-old conspiracy, with no corroborating testimonies, from a man under investigation for corruption. No serious news editor in the land would touch it. He must have known that.
And then it came to him. There was one person who would know what to do with the information if he received it. Bixby climbed to his feet, and headed for the kitchen. He needed caffeine and lots of it.
Chapter 51
Warren was bone-weary as he clambered up the garden path. He’d spent the morning with Tony Sutton, followed by the afternoon with his Federation representative, opting to meet her in a pub, rather than having her come to his house. He’d been bitterly disappointed—although not surprised—when Sutton had called to tell him that Delmarno had already disappeared by the time uniform had finally got around to visiting his house to arrest him. He was now listed as wanted for questioning, but as far as the police were concerned, he was just another name on their ever-growing list of violent former partners who they’d like to arrest, but didn’t have the resources to actively search for. Unless he did something stupid and got himself picked up, or otherwise called attention to himself, he could stay out of sight indefinitely.
Warren still hadn’t told his in-laws about his suspension and didn’t f
eel ready to address that issue just yet, so he forced a smile as he fumbled for his house keys. Tonight was supposed to be a special evening. Dennis had insisted he and Bernice would take care of dinner since Warren had been unable to join them for Easter and Warren was determined to enjoy Dennis’s magnificent cooking. The bottle of red wine he’d picked up from the Costcutter was from the more expensive end of the shelf and he had found some nice-looking bottled beers.
The door swung open freely as he inserted his key into the lock. The bottles smashed on the doorstep as he saw the devastation inside.
* * *
“Where’s Susan?” Warren’s voice was almost a shout as he tore the tape from Bernice’s mouth. The side of her face was reddened, already starting to swell; the tears running down her face had caused her normally immaculate make-up to smear. True to form though, her voice was more angry than afraid.
“He took her. The man with the gun.” Angry or not, she was babbling, clearly in shock.
Dennis, tied back-to-back with Bernice, sported a bloody nose, nevertheless his voice was more controlled as Warren ripped the tape off.
“He burst in through the back door when we were in the kitchen, he had a handgun and he grabbed Susan by the hair.” Dennis coughed and spat blood. It looked as though he’d taken a hit to the mouth as well.
Warren didn’t need to ask who the intruder was. Delmarno was almost certainly in hiding and that left Bixby.
“What happened? Where’s Susan?” Warren repeated.
“He kept on shouting, ‘Where did he put it?’” Dennis put his arm around his wife as Warren cut the tape binding the couple together.
“Susan didn’t know what he was looking for, but he didn’t believe her.” Bernice had taken over the story, as was usual for the couple, her voice still shaking. “He kept on waving the gun around and shouting. When she carried on saying she didn’t know what he was talking about, he started searching the living room.”