by Paul Gitsham
“Who gave the orders?”
Warren tried to sound casual, to hide his desperation. Bixby ignored him.
“Kent tried to throw Sheehy off the scent. He played along with him, used his knowledge of police records and computer systems to control what Sheehy saw. Silly sod never had a clue. He trusted Kent completely. But he still wouldn’t let it go. And so eventually I was told to clear it all up.”
Warren’s mind was racing ahead, making connections, but there were still a few pieces missing.
“Why didn’t you get rid of Sheehy then? Why this elaborate plot to frame him?”
The twitch in Bixby’s eye was getting worse—was it a sign that Warren should back off or should he keep on pushing?
“I was told to clean everything up. Not to leave any loose ends or it’d all come back on me and Jocelyn. So I did.”
Warren decided to push. “But why didn’t you kill Sheehy? Why try and set him up? Surely that’s a huge loose end?”
“Vinny’s idea. He wanted revenge. Reggie Williamson and your old man were dead, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted someone to suffer. And he liked the idea that whoever stitched him up should get a taste of their own medicine.”
“What about Jocelyn? What did she think?”
Bixby shook his head and said nothing. The twitch had spread to his cheeks and he had started to lick his lips. For a second, Warren thought he was about to say something, then the face went blank.
And there was the root of Bixby’s dilemma. The man was mentally fragile from his war experiences and now he was being pulled in competing directions—the battered psyche that he and Jocelyn had worked to strengthen over the years was struggling to withstand a sustained assault from so many different sides. It was as if he was treading a tightrope, trying to please Delmarno and still keep his puppet master happy whilst at the same time protecting Jocelyn and Filipo and trying to preserve the happy lifestyle that he had worked so hard to cultivate for the past two decades. Add to that his conflicting loyalties—it was clear that despite everything he still loved Delmarno—and Warren could see that the only way his tortured psyche could deal with the conflict was to break apart, to shatter into different fragments, each with their own self-contained compartment.
Warren had spotted the compartment that could save him.
“Why are you doing this to me? Think about Filipo.”
Bixby looked confused. “What’s he got to do with this.”
“You say that the sins of the father should be visited on his sons. That I should be made to suffer for the wrongs that my father committed. But what about Filipo?” Warren nodded towards Delmarno. “You’ve said it yourself; Vinny was a monster, but you didn’t want Filipo to be tainted by that.”
Bixby was shaking his head, but Warren could see that his words were having an impact. “And what about the sins of his real father? The man who brought him up as his own—who has loved him and his mother far more than that man lying over there could ever do. What about his sins? Should Filipo have to answer for those?”
Sweat had started to bead on the former soldier’s forehead. He crumpled the paper into a ball.
“Untie me, Martin. Tell me who started this all and let me bring them to justice. Let them answer for their crimes.”
Bixby was absolutely still, but his face was a riot of different emotions.
“Tell me who did it, Martin. Let them answer for their crimes.” Warren lowered his voice. “Do the right thing, Martin. Stop the killing; bring it all to an end. Give me the piece of paper—let’s close it. Let Jocelyn and Filipo walk away from this. Vinny’s gone. There’s no evidence connecting them to the crimes he committed decades ago.”
Warren held his breath. He could see the fight between the fractured shards of Bixby’s psyche playing out across his face. Time stretched endlessly.
“No.”
Warren’s heart sank.
“You’re right. It’s time to bring it to an end—” he raised the piece of paper “—but this isn’t enough. You know that. It’s circumstantial at best. You’ll never be able to deliver the justice that he deserves.”
He crumpled the sheet still tighter and tossed it lightly into the fire.
Warren opened his mouth to cry out in protest, but it was drowned out by the sound of Delmarno’s gun.
The bullet pounded into the former soldier, slamming him into the fireplace so hard that the mantelpiece followed him down as he slumped to the floor, the vases either side of the chimney smashing.
Warren turned in shock towards Delmarno, who lay in the same semi-foetal position he had been in since Bixby had shot him minutes before. The man’s face was a swollen, beaten mask. His eyes were barely visible behind the bruising—his nose a flattened, bloody mess.
The gun swung slowly towards Warren, who froze. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t think what to say. His impassioned plea to Bixby had probably burnt all of his bridges with Delmarno. The killer’s finger tightened on the trigger as he glared at Warren. Despite himself, Warren closed his eyes. A wave of exhaustion swept over him. Just do it, he thought, as he braced himself for the deafening bang and percussive force that would finally end a twenty-four year story. There was no way that Delmarno could fail to hit him from such a short distance.
Unbidden, images that Warren had suppressed for the past two decades swam to the surface. Christmas day: Warren sat on his father’s knee as he read him stories about Noddy and Big Ears. At his father’s feet, Granddad Jack was helping James build a Lego spaceship. At the far end of the room Nana Betty was helping his mother lay the table yet again, the smell of warming sausage rolls from the kitchen teasing everybody’s noses.
Susan squeezed his hand gently. That was impossible. He and Susan wouldn’t meet for another twenty years, yet it seemed right that she was here as well, sharing the moment with everyone else Warren loved.
He felt the tears trickle down his cheeks. Who knew what could have happened if those terrible events of so long ago had never taken place? What else had little Warren MacNamara been cheated of on that terrible May night?
The bang when it came was quieter than Warren had expected. More of a clatter than an explosion.
He opened his eyes. The gun lay on the floor. Delmarno’s face was slack, his hate-filled eyes turning glassy.
Warren took a deep shaky breath. It was over. Bixby and Delmarno were both dead. He slumped in relief, only the rope around his chest stopping him from sliding off the seat.
He coughed and turned back to the fireplace. Bixby lay half in, half out of the fireplace, his cheap suit now ablaze, smoke pouring from his body. As Warren watched in horror, the flames licked at the smouldering rug. They caught.
Wednesday 18 April
Chapter 54
Warren steered Susan’s car into Bob Windermere’s driveway. Warren’s Mondeo had been declared a write-off by his insurance company, but they were contesting responsibility, given that he had been responsible for the damage when he rammed Bixby’s BMW. Grayson was trying to claim that Warren was on official police business when the collision occurred and due a payout from the joint liability pot, but the force’s bean counters were taking some convincing.
The former detective had been busy since Warren’s previous visit, he noted. A battered yellow skip had recently taken up residence in the front garden and was already half full of ancient kitchen units and an avocado bathroom suite. Warren barely had time to exit the car before his former mentor was at his side, his massive paws swallowing Warren’s in a bone-crushing handshake. He stepped back and eyed the younger man appraisingly,
“Looks painful.” He pointed to the left side of his face.
“It’s not too bad now, no worse than a nasty case of sunburn.” Warren dismissed the angry red burns to his cheeks, firmly pushing away the memories of heat and the smell of burning flesh and hair—most of it Bixby’s, some of it his.
Following Windermere into the house, they headed for the kitchen, stepping
over the boxes of bathroom tiles and tubs of concrete that half filled the hallway.
“’Scuse the mess. I’m doing the bathroom this week. I got the old suite out yesterday and now I’m plumbing in the power shower.” He paused. “Everything OK, Warren?”
Warren shook himself and forced himself to sit down on the wooden chair that Windermere had placed his coffee cup in front of.
“Fine,” he lied. It’s not even the same type of chair, he admonished himself. Nevertheless, he and Susan had used the fact that that they no longer had four matching chairs as an excuse to get rid of the three surviving pieces of furniture. Their replacements—on order from an obscure online furniture company—were ugly, overpriced and heavy but their solid frames provided little in the way of purchase to wrap a rope around.
He positioned himself more comfortably. The long drive had caused his left shoulder to stiffen again. He’d damaged the ligaments over the winter and the combination of the collision with Bixby’s car and his desperate shoulder barge through the locked kitchen door, hands still bound behind him, as he escaped the conflagration in the living room, had left him using a sling again.
Windermere stared at him, his eyes searching Warren’s face.
“Don’t give me that. How are you holding up?”
“Really, I’m fine.”
Windermere clearly wasn’t convinced, but decided to drop it. “Have you spoken to your Federation rep recently?”
Warren nodded. “I’m due another hearing with Professional Standards next week. She thinks that given everything that’s happened, they’ll reinstate me. I’ll probably get a black mark on my record and a formal letter of reprimand, but it’s clear I didn’t have anything to do with Billy Obsanjo’s death.”
“Good, I’m relieved. Have you decided what you are going to say?”
“No, I still don’t know enough about this Markovich character to decide if it is safe to tell him what I know.”
“I think you’re probably right to be cautious. If he is involved, you don’t want him coming after you. Or Susan for that matter. How is she, by the way?”
Warren shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s back at school, acting like nothing happened, but she had a really bad nightmare last night that she wouldn’t tell me about. Bernice and Dennis are still staying with us. They insist that they want to help us redecorate, but I know they’re worried about her. About both of us.”
“So, any idea who was responsible?”
Warren shook his head in frustration. “Somebody senior enough at the time of the killings to sign off the drugs raid, but the records just aren’t there any more. That piece of paper was the only remaining evidence; everything else has been shredded or deleted. And everyone who was involved is either dead or won’t be talking.”
“I take it Gavin Sheehy hasn’t come around?”
Warren shook his head again. “We stopped Pete Kent from finishing him off, but it didn’t really matter. He was already too badly brain-damaged. He’ll probably never recover consciousness.”
“What about Jocelyn Delmarno? Does she have any ideas?”
“No. Bixby never told her anything. We questioned her at length and she’s still on police bail, but she’s not got anything to give us. If she knew anything she’d have told us, I’m sure of it. She’s scared that whoever this bastard is, they might see and her son as ‘loose ends’ that still need tidying up. I can’t see it myself, but I can’t blame her for being worried.”
“So that’s it then.”
Warren’s shoulders slumped. “It can’t be, Bob. There must be something left. Something else I can do.” He looked imploringly at his former mentor—the man he still regarded as the best detective he’d ever worked with. “I can’t let this go.”
He stood up abruptly, unable to sit any more. “Somewhere out there is the person who ordered the killing of my father. Bixby said as much. That person set this whole thing in motion.” He closed his eyes, rubbing them wearily. “He could still be working for the police for Christ’s sake!”
Windermere’s hand was heavy, comforting, on Warren’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry, son. I don’t see what we can do. Even if you could figure out who did it, there’s no evidence left. Short of a confession from somebody else involved, you’ll never get the charges to stick.” He squeezed gently. “I think it’s over.” He turned Warren to face him. “I think you have to face facts and accept that you’ll never fully clear your old man’s name—but the important thing is that you know that he was innocent.”
Warren nodded miserably.
“You need a proper coffee. Go in the living room. This place is like a building site.”
Following his instructions, Warren picked his way through the building material and made his way into the living room.
Since his last visit, Windermere had finished repainting the old-fashioned fireplace. Unbidden, his last images of Bixby, clothes on fire, sprung to mind. Warren breathed deeply, forcing down the horror. He closed his eyes. The side of his cheek stung with the memory of those flames, as he desperately tried to break free of the chair. He’d given up on freeing his hands, concentrating instead on getting his feet down on the floor and trying to stand. He’d finally succeeded in shuffling forward, curled over with his buttocks still pressed against the seat, his wrists tied firmly to the chair legs.
He’d managed only a few steps before he’d lost his balance, landing head first on the flaming rug. Throwing himself backwards in panic, he’d managed to break the front legs off the chair. Suddenly able to move his legs properly, he’d scrambled back to his feet, heading towards the kitchen. The air was already thick and the smoke detectors were screaming. It had taken three bone-crunching charges before the door finally crashed open and Warren collapsed, wheezing, into the arms of his next-door neighbours.
Warren forced himself to open his eyes and take in the fireplace. Getting rid of kitchen chairs to banish bad memories was one thing, but he couldn’t afford to rip out the fireplace as well. The fire brigade had arrived less than a minute after Warren’s escape and the damage to the living room wasn’t nearly as extensive as it could have been. The fireplace would need a bit of paint and the carpet and rug were a complete loss—at least the fire meant that they didn’t have to figure out how to remove Delmarno’s and Bixby’s bloodstains.
Windermere’s mantelpiece was cluttered with pictures and trophies. Pride of place was a team photograph of CID, the day that Windermere was promoted out of the division. Warren stood next to him, grinning happily. Warren’s eyes moved across the mantelpiece to a clutch of trophies. The blood started to pound in his ears.
“Warren, if you think it will help, you can speak to me.” Warren hadn’t even heard Windermere re-enter the room.
There was a metallic taste in his mouth.
“Tell me what actually happened in your living room on Saturday. There’s been nothing in the papers and I’m not as in the loop as I used to be. Let me know what went down.”
“I’d rather not talk about it.” Warren’s voice was thick, almost slurred.
“You really should.” Windermere was pressing another mug of steaming coffee into his hand, the familiar smell of brandy suffusing the vapour. “I know it’s hard, but you have to speak to someone. Someone who understands.”
Warren felt sick. “I need to go.”
“Jesus, Warren. You’re as white as a sheet. You can’t drive now. Sit down. You need to talk. Don’t bottle it up.”
“I’ll be fine. I just need an early night. Susan is going to be back home soon. I need to see her.” He was babbling but he didn’t care.
“At least tell me what happened to Bixby. The papers mentioned one dead body, but no casualties apart from you. Was the stiff Delmarno?” Windermere’s tone was slightly strained.
“Delmarno shot him,” was all Warren could manage.
“Then why only one dead body? Did the papers get it wrong?”
Warren ignored him, stumb
ling towards the front door. “I have to go. Susan is still on edge. She’ll be worried if I’m not home when she gets back from school.”
The sun was bright after the dimness of Windermere’s living room and Warren found himself squinting as he fumbled with the unfamiliar car keys. Windermere had followed him onto the driveway.
“Is Bixby dead?”
“I’ve got to go. Thanks for the coffee,” Warren managed as he slid into the driver’s seat. He pressed the starter button and the engine leapt into life.
The car’s wheel’s spun on the loose gravel of the driveway as Warren pressed the accelerator slightly harder than he intended. Within seconds, Windermere was a rapidly shrinking dot in the rear-view mirror.
Windermere’s house was up a narrow, single-track lane and Warren drove several miles before he was able to pull over. By now, his shock had worn off, his agile mind making the connections, then trying to break them—to disprove what he knew was true. Warren had cried more in the past few weeks than he had done since he was a child. But this time his eyes were dry, even as his heart broke at yet another betrayal.
Nagging thoughts that had floated around his subconscious now made sense; how had Windermere known that the gun stolen by the gardener had appeared at the scene of the drugs bust a few weeks later? And what about his stating that Beno Richter, the pathologist who had performed his father’s autopsy, was dead? Professor Jordan hadn’t informed Warren of his discovery until after he’d met with Windermere. A slip of the tongue? It seemed unlikely.
Then there was Windermere’s immediate recollection of the facts surrounding Operation Leitmotif. How many hundreds of operations had Bob Windermere been involved in over the past two decades? How likely was it that he’d be able to remember such intimate details years later?
He thought back to the day that Windermere retired—how he’d encouraged Warren to start looking for opportunities outside of the West Midlands. Had he known about Sheehy’s upcoming disgrace? In fact, hadn’t he drawn Warren’s attention to it—an unexpected phone call a few months later. Sheehy’s suspension wasn’t a secret, but it was hardly being shouted from the rooftops and the force had moved quickly to block all but the most cursory reports from the media. How would a retired detective chief superintendent in a different force—even one as well respected and connected as Bob Windermere—hear that a vacancy was coming up? And why was he so keen for Warren to apply for the position?