Silent as the Grave

by Paul Gitsham

  Then Grayson tipped his hand. “So have I answered your questions satisfactorily? Do you trust me enough to let me in on whatever the hell it is you are investigating? Because frankly, you need all the help you can get, and to put it bluntly having one of my officers suspended for running his own off-the-books investigation, then having his wife kidnapped by some fucking psycho ex-SAS type with links to organised crime, is really going to look bad at my next promotion review board.”

  Warren turned to look at the man in front of him. What was there to lose, really? If Grayson was part of the conspiracy to cover up Warren’s father’s death all of those years ago, then it was clear that he knew that was what Warren was investigating. If, on the other hand, Warren’s gut was right and he had nothing to do with it, then perhaps Warren was about to gain a powerful ally.

  Warren told him.

  * * *

  To say that Grayson was taken aback would have been an understatement.

  The man’s expression had remained neutral at first, before becoming sceptical. However, by the time Warren had laid out the evidence, he was decidedly angry.

  “…so you see, I couldn’t trust anyone who had been around in the eighties. Especially after what happened with Pete Kent.” Warren shook his head sadly. “I guess even Sheehy didn’t see that coming; I wonder why he didn’t name him when we had our talks. Loyalty? Fear? Or leverage. Perhaps he was still playing the long game.”

  “Shit.” Grayson was pacing forward and backwards. In the end he sighed. “I guess I can’t blame you for not trusting me. The question is: what do we do next? My instinct is that we should go to Professional Standards.”

  Already Warren was shaking his head. “We hit the same problem. That Markovich is old enough to have held a senior rank in the eighties.”

  Grayson hissed in frustration. “Dammit, Warren, we can’t dismiss every officer who held rank back in the eighties. That’s half the senior officers in the force. We need to find out who authorised that little operation, or find out who else was involved on the ground. Your father and Gavin Sheehy we know about. I guess Pete Kent must have played a role also—who else was on that team? Are they not listed on the court transcripts?”

  Warren shook his head. “The team’s names weren’t read out in open court for operational reasons and West Midlands shredded the original documents after scanning them onto the system.”

  “And the key documents that named the officer who signed off on the raid weren’t ever scanned?”

  “Not as far as we can tell.”

  “And those same documents are missing from Hertfordshire’s copies in Welwyn?”

  “Yes. Gavin Sheehy almost certainly took them, but I’ve searched his house and couldn’t find them.”

  “Do you think he destroyed them, or held onto them as insurance?”

  “Well I think it’s fair to say that Martin Bixby thinks the documents still exist. He’s clearly trying to track them down.”

  “Why? Surely not just revenge on behalf of his old buddy Vinny Delmarno?”

  Warren tapped his teeth thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking about this. What if Martin Bixby is behind the whole thing?”

  Grayson frowned but gestured for Warren to continue.

  “Look at the facts. When Vinny Delmarno went to prison, his best friend and right-hand man essentially took over from him. Could he have been the person who tipped off the police about Delmarno’s gun?”

  “I thought that was this gardener, Reggie Williamson?”

  “Well he stole the gun, but nothing in his past before or after suggests that he would have had the means or even the contacts to approach my dad or Gavin Sheehy, both of whom were based up in Coventry at that time. Somebody had to be the contact with Williamson down in Hertfordshire and to transfer the gun so that it could be planted.”

  “Pete Kent, presumably.”

  “He was almost certainly involved, but he was only a DC at the time, he’d never have been able to instigate the whole affair. And how the hell would he have known about the gun? What if the person who actually started the affair was Bixby? He arranges for Williamson to approach Pete Kent, who then passes it on to my father and Gavin Sheehy.”

  “And presumably Bixby was working hand in glove with whichever dirty senior officer decided to bring down Vinny Delmarno.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So the question remains: who was this person?” Grayson looked thoughtful. “My immediate thought is, ‘who benefitted most from Delmarno’s imprisonment?’”

  Warren shook his head in frustration. “That’s just it. There are no clear winners. The nature of the investigation was such that dozens of officers were given credit for bringing down his operation. And Gavin Sheehy has never benefitted personally from it as far as I can tell; Pete Kent certainly didn’t. He’d been a DS for how long?”

  “So either any benefit was material—say money—or they did it for other reasons. Such as ideology.”

  “Exactly, and that’s what Gavin Sheehy said. He claimed that he and my father were absolutely convinced that Delmarno was guilty, that they just needed that last piece of the jigsaw puzzle to bring him down.”

  “Noble-cause corruption.”

  “Exactly.”

  Grayson snorted derisively. “Well it’s not looking too noble now. Reggie Williamson, Zachary Eddleston and Anton Liebig and his poor wife have paid a heavy price.”

  “Well you know what they say about the road to hell.”

  * * *

  By the time Warren joined his wife in the Graysons’ guest room, it was well past midnight. However, he couldn’t sleep. Unsurprisingly, neither could Susan. He should have come to bed earlier, he knew. Susan had undergone the most terrifying of ordeals. On the surface she was bearing up well; although how much of that was delayed shock, Warren didn’t know. In theory Susan was due to start back at school at the beginning of next week, but even leaving aside her safety with Bixby on the loose he wanted her to have at least one session with counsellors from victim support. However, he understood his wife well enough to know that she would object vehemently to any suggestion that she miss any school; it was the final half-term before many of her students started exam leave and he knew that as always these last few lessons would be crammed full of last-minute revision.

  Despite his guilt at having neglected his wife, he knew that it had been unavoidable and for the best in the long run. He and Grayson had spoken at length about what to do, but their options were depressingly few.

  Grayson was going to use his rank privileges to do some careful sniffing around Markovich and see if the man could be approached regarding an investigation into the conspiracy. If he couldn’t be, then they would have to look beyond Hertfordshire for help. Grayson had only been half joking when he’d pointed out that Devon and Cornwall Constabulary would have a fully independent Professional Standards department.

  In the meantime, their biggest hope for the future was a miracle recovery from Gavin Sheehy, or capturing Martin Bixby and persuading him that he should assist them with their inquiries.

  As Warren hugged his wife tightly, the future seemed as uncertain as ever.

  Saturday 14 April

  Chapter 53

  The smartly dressed man that accosted Warren on the front doorstep as he arrived home was nervous as he handed Warren the manila envelope.

  “DCI Jones?”

  Warren nodded warily at the stranger standing on his front path. How long would it take for his home to feel secure again? Grayson had pulled some strings and the force had immediately sent the contractors used by the Domestic Violence Unit around to secure the property and install panic buttons and a state-of-the-art alarm system. But if anything the large red button by the front door and the flashing panel in the hallway seemed to remind him of the violation, rather than reassure.

  “I’m acting under instructions from Mr Gavin Sheehy to hand you this, should anything: quote ‘happen to him’ unquote.”

&n
bsp; “What’s in it?” asked Warren, instinctively. The other man shook his head, quickly. “Not a clue, sir. I’m his solicitor and simply acting on his instructions. Please sign here.”

  Warren imagined that he probably received such melodramatic instructions from clients on a regular basis. No doubt he nodded gravely, resisting the urge to roll his eyes as he accepted his orders—and payment. He probably never thought that a client would actually be attacked in such a brutal manner.

  Warren watched as the man pocketed the fine gold pen that he’d used, before scurrying across the road to the Mercedes Benz parked opposite without so much as a backwards glance.

  It was obvious what was in the A4 envelope and Warren felt light-headed. He should take it straight into work and deposit it in documents analysis as potential evidence. But would that be wise? The envelope almost certainly contained evidence implicating senior officers—perhaps still serving—in murder and corruption. Did he want the fact that he knew who they were in the public domain? And what if the documents ‘disappeared’? He needed to know whom he was dealing with before he could decide on the best course of action. At the very least he should scan the documents on his computer as insurance.

  Besides which, this envelope held the key to his own father’s murder. Whoever signed the orders that authorised the drugs bust that allowed his father and Sheehy to plant Delmarno’s handgun where it could be found had to be the one pulling the strings. Warren felt torn; his instincts as a police officer were in direct opposition to his desires as a son.

  The son won out.

  His decision made, Warren inserted his key into the door lock. A high-pitched beeping reminded Warren that he needed to disarm the alarm within the next twenty seconds or risk the embarrassment of his colleagues from the DVU arriving mob-handed, blue lights and sirens ablaze, sometime in the next ninety seconds.

  As he stepped across the threshold he felt the shove squarely between his shoulder blades. Stumbling forward, Warren half turned, before freezing, the all-too-familiar barrel of Bixby’s gun pointed directly at his head.

  “If that alarm sounds it’ll be the last thing you ever hear.”

  * * *

  A sharp pinch on his earlobe brought Warren around quickly, the pain immediately followed by a wave of nausea. The moment he’d entered the code into the alarm panel, Bixby had flipped the gun over and pistol-whipped him.

  The next few minutes had been an indistinct blur. He vaguely remembered hitting the floor, before being dragged into the living room by a foot. After a period of blackness, Warren’s next recollection was of being lifted bodily onto one of the wooden chairs from the kitchen.

  It was this that he was tied to now, he realised as he struggled to move his hands. Looking down, he saw that his wrists were wrapped in what appeared to be torn pillow cases, protecting his wrists from the rough rope that bound him securely to the chair legs.

  “A little trick I learnt in the regiment. Stops chafing on the wrists, so the pathologist can’t prove that the prisoner was tied up before death.”

  Warren said nothing. It probably wouldn’t be wise to point out that modern forensics had moved on considerably in the thirty years since Bixby had left the army and that whatever crime scenes Bixby and his fellow soldiers were responsible for back during the Northern Ireland troubles had probably been taken at face value for political reasons.

  Bixby squatted down in front of Warren, so that he was at eye level. He brandished the envelope like a trophy.

  “You wouldn’t believe the trouble that this has caused.” He slipped a finger under the seal and tore it along its length. “Just one piece of paper with a single signature.” He shook his head. “As soon as I destroy this, it’s all over.”

  His eyes had glazed slightly. He wasn’t talking to Warren any more.

  “Over twenty years I’ve been under the thumb of that bastard. Twenty years, can you believe that?” He turned his attention back to his captive, but Warren doubted he was aware of who he was. “All I wanted was to live my life. With Jocelyn and Filipo. We were a family, you know? All those sins in the past, they were over. Nobody knew what we did; it was all buried.” He waved the envelope. “It wasn’t like he was going to tell anyone, was it? He grew fat off the back of that bust. The famous Vinny Delmarno behind bars due to the efforts of his team; no way he was going to admit he’d stitched him up or ordered the killing of a copper to cover it up. But then he had to come back, didn’t he?”

  It was obvious who he was: Delmarno. “He should have died in prison.”

  He stood abruptly, as if remembering where he was. Tugging the envelope fully open he slid a single, slightly creased, piece of paper out. Warren caught a glimpse of old-fashioned typeface, faded with age, and a scrawled signature in blue ink at the bottom.

  Bixby smiled, humourlessly. “There it is. The only loose end in this whole thing and Sheehy had it all the time.” He shook his head. “He figured it would be his safety blanket. Guess he was wrong.”

  “Who signed it?”

  Warren’s voice was scratchy, sounding as if it was coming from a long distance away. Suddenly it was the only thing that mattered. He was going to die—of that he was certain, but he needed to know who was responsible for the chain of events that had taken place so long ago, that had left a young Warren to not only find his dead father, but also to spend the next two decades despising him for something he had never done. He’d even robbed him of his surname as Warren strove to make his own way in the world without the influence of his father hanging over him.

  Bixby stared for a long moment.

  “No, I don’t think so. I’m not going to give you the satisfaction.”

  He stepped over to the replica fireplace, before squatting down and removing the metal panel that hid the controls from view.

  “It’s amazing how even a modern gas fire can be a risk if you are careless. You wouldn’t believe the number of IRA suspects who died in house fires back in the seventies.”

  “It’s April. Why would I have the gas fire on?”

  Warren was feeling desperate. Bixby’s mental state was even more fragile than Susan had described a few days earlier. He seemed to be occupying several timeframes simultaneously.

  Bixby appeared momentarily nonplussed, before his eyes glazed over again.

  “You were using it to burn papers and had an accident—embers on this lovely old rug. Yeah that’ll work.” He was mumbling now.

  “What papers? I don’t have any. You know that.” If he could pick apart the man’s logic he might be able to reason with him. A desperate hope, but it was all he had.

  “Doesn’t matter.” He turned back to Warren and his voice took on an almost professorial air. “You see it’s all about the misdirection. Throw up a smokescreen to confuse the enemy and use the time gained to exfiltrate the theatre of operations in a timely fashion, with the minimum of contact.”

  “So I was throwing paper into a fire whilst tied to a chair?”

  Bixby sighed as if dealing with a small child. “I already explained that. By the time I’m done nobody will ever know you were tied up.”

  “And then what? I fell asleep in front of the fire? Perhaps I was drunk—you’re good at that one.” Despite his best efforts, Warren felt his voice rising. “You need to change your MO, this forcing people to drink then killing them is getting old. It’s like a bloody calling card.”

  Bixby’s lip curled. “Don’t you worry about that. Me and my boys were faking deaths whilst you were still in nappies. We are the best of the best. Who dares wins.”

  His boys. Thirty years had passed since he was booted out and he still thought he was in the army. Present day or past—Warren knew that he needed the man to occupy one or the other. He couldn’t hope to reason with him whilst he alternated between the two.

  The clicking of the fireplace’s ignition gave way to the muffled whump of the combusting gas.

  “I think we can start with this.” He held up the sheet
of archive paper, waving it enticingly in front of Warren, the scrawled blue signature frustratingly out of focus.

  “I’m curious about the name on that myself.” The voice from the doorway was low and threatening and took both men by surprise.

  Vinny Delmarno looked as if he had been sleeping rough. His eyes were bloodshot and several days’ worth of salt-and-pepper stubble covered his jowls. His once-expensive loafers were caked in mud and he appeared to have snagged the left pocket of his trousers on something, the loose stitching revealing glimpses of his blue undershorts.

  The gun in his hand was even bigger than the one that Bixby had tucked into the waistband of his trousers.

  Bixby froze, the flames stretching towards the paper sheet, as hungry for the paper as Warren and Delmarno.

  “Vinny…” Suddenly Bixby’s confident swagger was gone.

  “Did you think I was stupid? That I wouldn’t find out?”

  “What do you mean?” Bixby stood slowly.

  “Jocelyn! You’ve been fucking her brains out, you bastard.” Delmarno’s face was bright red as he stepped into the room.

  Bixby shook his head. “No way, I wouldn’t do that to you. Why would you think that?”

  Delmarno ignored him. “When did it start? The day I went to prison? The day after? What about before? Do you think I didn’t notice? You were practically dribbling on her during our wedding.” His face was turning even redder, purple tinges appearing along the edge of his ears, yet his gun hand remained as steady as an Olympic marksman’s.

  “No way!” Bixby repeated, more forcefully. “I looked after her; I tried my best to stop her but you know what she’s like.” He licked his lips. “You’re right, she was sleeping around, but not with me.”

  “Who then?”

  “Rubens.”

  Delmarno snorted. “Rubens? That greasy bastard? Jocelyn wouldn’t cross the road to piss on him if he was on fire.”