by Paul Gitsham
Did he think that he could control Warren, to stop him digging too deep? Any other officer approached by Gavin Sheehy would probably have gone straight to Professional Standards. Warren had been played for a fool.
It was all circumstantial—each occurrence could be dismissed as coincidence, faulty recollection on Warren’s part or any one of a dozen other innocent explanations. As could the final part of the jigsaw. The final, devastating piece that convinced Warren—if nobody else—who the puppet master was. Who the person was who had started the whole affair a quarter of a century ago, had stolen Warren’s father from him and then, ten years later taken over that role, whilst all the while manipulating Warren as he worked his way through the police?
Moving quickly, Warren opened the driver’s door as he vomited his breakfast onto the grass verge. Finally, he felt better. Wiping his mouth with some tissues that Susan kept in the glovebox, Warren leant back in the seat and closed his eyes. He knew that it would be a long time before the image that hovered before him would fade away.
A silver trophy, engraved in cursive script, “Winner: 2011 Men’s Senior Individual. The Allingham Golf Club and Hotel: Robert Windermere.”
Epilogue
Saturday 12 May
Epilogue
Sunlight glinted off the wet grass as Warren waited by the entrance to the small cemetery. He’d been here for ten minutes and spent the time finding a watering can and using his penknife to remove the packaging and the tips of the stalks from the bunches of flowers he’d bought from the nearby florist. He could have gone ahead, he supposed, and made a start on tidying the graves, but he couldn’t bring himself to make his way down the familiar pathway alone. Thursday had been the twenty-fourth anniversary of his father’s murder. He had intended to take a half-day’s personal leave to attend the grave, but he’d changed his mind at the last moment, unable to face the trip without Susan’s support.
The quiet scrunch of gravel underfoot announced the arrival of his wife, arm in arm with Granddad Jack. Dressed soberly in dark trousers and an open necked-shirt, the old man’s tread was slow but had a new lightness to it, as if the revelations of the past few weeks about his son had taken the last few years off him. In his left hand he held several bunches of flowers similar to Warren’s and a pot plant; Susan carried a rolled-up newspaper.
“I thought you might want a look at this,” she said, offering the newspaper by way of a greeting. Warren traded knife for paper and spread it open. Page three, lead article of the local gazette.
Death of retired policeman an accident, inquest rules
Coroner reminds DIY enthusiasts of the need to use certified tradesmen for electrical work
The death of local resident, retired police superintendent Robert Windermere, 66, was ruled death-by-misadventure by Coroner Mohammed Asif today. The body of Mr Windermere, who lived alone, was found in the bathroom of his cottage by concerned neighbours on 28 April. Mr Windermere bought the cottage as an investment after he and his wife separated shortly after his retirement.
“Bob was a keen DIY expert and he bought the property about eighteen months ago as a project. The house had been empty for some time and needed lots of work done on it. He wanted to do it up and sell it as a profit, then move by the sea,” said neighbour Stanley Addlemoor who discovered Mr Windermere’s body after becoming concerned that he hadn’t collected his milk and newspapers for a few days.
It was believed that Mr Windermere had decided to cut costs by doing all of the renovations, including electrical work, by himself. The cause of death was ruled to be electrocution by an incorrectly wired power shower that Mr Windermere had recently fitted. The incorrect wiring was compounded by a faulty circuit breaker that failed to cut off the power when the fault developed.
Dr Asif recorded a narrative verdict, in which he restated a 2005 change in the law that requires all electrical work to be carried by accredited professionals to stop just this sort of tragic accident from occurring.
The remainder of the article went on to praise Windermere’s career in the police and his charity work, with quotes from the chief constable and other senior officers. Warren closed the paper, unable to finish it.
“Dangerous stuff, electricity,” stated Susan flatly.
“Looks like it,” responded Warren neutrally. “Shall we get on with it?”
Dumping the newspaper in a nearby bin, Warren slipped an arm around Granddad Jack’s skinny shoulders. The worn path between the graves was covered in loose scree to help drainage and Warren worried about the old man’s footing.
Two stones, side by side, the first engraved with his parents’ names, the second with Nana Betty’s—a space below was left for the name of Granddad Jack. Not any time soon, Warren prayed quietly. After all that had happened in the last six months he didn’t think he could cope with the loss of Granddad Jack as well. He needed time to take stock and heal emotionally.
By unspoken consent, they tended to Nana Betty’s grave first. It had been her birthday a few days ago and the spray of pansies were still fresh and bright. Susan plucked a few dead stalks from a previous bunch, making room for her and Warren’s new delivery.
His parents’ grave was less well tended and Warren felt a stab of shame. A few weeds had started to grow across the plinth of the headstone and a pot plant, probably from Granddad Jack, was now past its best.
“Let’s dig them out and replace the plant,” suggested Jack, producing a small trowel from the bag with the plant in it. The gathering lapsed into silence as Warren knelt down on a carrier bag to dig out the weeds and make an indentation for the pot plant.
“We should have filled the watering can before we came all the way down here,” Susan stated, before squeezing the hands of both men and heading back to the standpipe by the entrance.
Now alone, it was Granddad Jack who broke the silence.
“We never believed everything they said about him.”
Not trusting himself to speak, Warren could only nod.
“The truth’s never going to come out is it?” Jack’s voice was sad, but held no bitterness.
Warren shook his head. He’d given everything that he had to Professional Standards, but it was all circumstantial at best. They’d look into it, he’d been assured, but he doubted anything would come of it.
Vinny Delmarno was dead. Jocelyn Delmarno and her son, Filipo, would never tell the authorities anything and all the other witnesses were either dead or vegetative. Judith Sheehy was deciding if she should turn off her husband’s life-support machine. And Bob Windermere was a hero to many. Nobody was going to trample on his memory without rock-solid evidence.
Jack squeezed his grandson’s shoulder. “Well everyone who needs to know knows, and that’s what matters in the end.”
“Nana didn’t.” Warren inclined his head towards the adjacent grave.
“Yes she did, son. She always knew.”
The two men lapsed into silence again, before Granddad Jack started again.
“I know it’s wrong to want revenge, and I know that what Niall did was immoral, but I wish that the bastard who started this all off could have answered for his crimes. For his betrayal. But justice won’t be done, will it?” The old man turned to Warren, his eyes narrowing, their gaze penetrating Warren’s.
“Not in a court of law,” was all Warren could bring himself to say.
Jack held his gaze for a few seconds longer, before grunting quietly.
It was a few minutes before Susan returned with the watering can, which Warren used to give the flowers on both graves a good soaking.
“Let’s get rid of all these dead ends and wrappers before the wind blows them all over the place,” suggested Granddad Jack tying the handles of the carrier bag. He took Susan’s arm, and they headed back to the entrance, finally leaving Warren alone.
As upsetting as it was that Windermere would never set foot inside a courtroom to answer for his crimes, Warren was more sad that he would never get a chance
to ask his former mentor why he had done it. Had he benefitted in some unknown way, or was it really ‘noble-cause corruption’ as John Grayson had suggested? Warren doubted he would ever know.
The padded envelope in Warren’s breast pocket weighed heavily. It had arrived unannounced in the post earlier that week. No labels or card. It was completely anonymous. The address on the envelope had been handwritten. Perhaps the graphologists down at Welwyn could have identified the sender; they almost certainly had his writing on file somewhere.
But it wasn’t necessary. Warren knew who it was from. He silently acknowledged the gesture with a nod. It wasn’t an apology exactly—and he wouldn’t have accepted it if it were, but it was something. The righting of at least one wrong. The newspapers had been right—there was only one body found in the remains of Warren and Susan’s living room. The blood trails from the fireplace had continued over the windowsill and across the front garden. Still more blood had been found in the burnt-out wreck of Warren’s neighbour’s car, after it had been dumped, but that’s where the trail had ended.
The search for Martin Bixby was active. The man was a multiple murderer. Specks of blood in the boot of his car had been positively identified as Reggie Williamson’s, presumably from the blood-soaked clothing that he’d brought back from the murder on the common. Police forces across the UK as well as INTERPOL were on the lookout for him, but Warren doubted they’d find him. His passport was nowhere to be found and his bank account was empty. It might have been thirty years ago, but he’d been trained to avoid capture by the finest special forces outfit in the world; if he was in touch with Jocelyn Delmarno and his adoptive son, the police had yet to prove it and they could only keep them under surveillance for so long.
Warren no longer had the trowel, so he made do with his bare hands, taking care to pat the soil down when he’d finished.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” was all Warren could think to say as he stood up. He could never clear his father’s name. He’d accepted that. But at least those who mattered knew the truth—him and Granddad Jack. And if there was a heaven, Mum and Nana Betty.
And as for those who’d set it all in motion and caused nearly a quarter of a century of pain and suffering. Well, justice of a sort had caught up with them all.
* * *
The old man with the litter-picker watched the man leave. He seemed a lot more relaxed than when he’d arrived, pacing around the entrance as he waited for the other two to join him. Good, that’s what a cemetery’s for. To bring peace to those still living, whilst the dead rested in peace for eternity.
At least they’d taken their litter with him, he thought as he completed his rounds. They’d done a good job tidying the graves up as well, he noticed as he got nearer. It wasn’t up to him to maintain them, but he used to give a bit of attention to some of the more neglected plots. Perhaps when he eventually joined his beloved Violet, somebody would do the same for them he mused.
A flash of reflected sunlight caught his eye. Bending over he saw the edge of something white and plastic sticking out of the freshly turned soil around a new pot plant. Plucking it out, he turned it over in his hands in surprise. Over the years he’d found all sorts of strange things fluttering around the graveyard, everything from carrier bags and crisp packets to empty beer bottles and the head off a Barbie doll. But it was the first time he’d found an electrical circuit breaker…
Hooked on Silent as the Grave? Keep reading for an extract from Blood is Thicker than Water, an electrifying DCI Warren Jones short story…
The old man wakes with a start. It’s pitch black and for a moment he’s disoriented. He’s sitting upright; he must have fallen asleep in the chair in front of the TV again. So why isn’t the light on? Has the electricity gone off? A blinking green glow across the room is slowly coming into focus—the clock on the video player. 01:27. So, no power cut but it did explain why the TV was off. It had switched to power-saving mode. Had he turned the light off before snoozing? He didn’t think so.
Bloody eco light bulbs. They were supposed to last for ten years; he’d only fitted it six months ago. He didn’t give a fig about global warming, but his daughter had shown him how much money he would save on his electricity bill and that had convinced him to pay the premium. Had he recouped his investment yet? He didn’t think so.
His legs were stiff. He couldn’t sleep here all night, he decided. Besides he needed the bathroom. The room was still dark; neither the green of the video clock nor the faint glow from the streetlamps through the curtains provided enough illumination for him to make out anything but the darkest of shadows. He thought about waiting for a few more moments to see if his eyes would adjust any more, but now thoughts of the toilet had taken hold and wouldn’t be denied much longer.
Reaching forward he groped for the wheeled trolley. He still resented the contraption. It had a tray and all sorts of useful pockets, allowing him to shuffle around his house unaided, but despite what the brochure and his carers might call it, the damn thing was a Zimmer frame. His fingertips met nothing but empty air. Where was it? Had he kicked it away in his sleep? Some sort of leg spasm that sent it skittering out of his grasp?
He swept the air in front of him with his right hand, his eyes straining uselessly. Where was the bloody thing? The discomfort in his bladder was growing. He’d have to get to the bathroom soon. Time for Plan B he decided, turning in his seat for the wooden cane—he refused to call it a walking stick—that he kept hanging from the back of his armchair. His fingers brushed against the fabric of the wing-backed chair. It must have fallen on the floor he decided.
Reaching down he moved his fingers methodically across the carpet. After a few moments he gave up, his breath ragged from the pressure on his diaphragm, tiny stars sparkling at the edge of his vision. For the first time he started to doubt himself. Had he imagined hanging the cane off the back of his chair? It was something that he did every day—had he just assumed that he had done so last night? A chill ran through him. These little episodes were becoming more frequent. Was he just getting a little forgetful in his old age or was there more to it? Something more sinister? It ran in families sometimes he’d read somewhere. His mother had remained as sharp as a pin into her nineties, but his father had died too young for any of the symptoms of Alzheimer’s disease to manifest themselves. However, both of his father’s brothers had been showing at least some of the symptoms of dementia before the family curse of heart disease had taken them as well. He’d inherited the heart problems. Had he also inherited something else?
This time of year the sun made an appearance about six. Could he just sit it out until it became light enough for him to see what he’d done with his mobility aids? A rumbling in his bowels joined the pain in his bladder, answering that question. He gritted his teeth. No chance. Old and infirm he may be, but he still had his pride—too much pride, even he could admit at times—and he would not be found sitting in his own piss and shit.
Taking a deep breath, he shuffled to the end of the chair. He’d finally accepted the logic of a stairlift—it was either that or be confined to the ground floor of his own home, suffering the ignominy of bathing in the kitchen or downstairs loo and sleeping in the dining room, with a twice weekly trip to the upstairs bathroom to wash properly. He had, though, drawn the line at one of those tilting armchairs that delivered you to your feet. Not least because of the price. Eight hundred pounds for a chair! He regretted that now. Gripping the armrest with his right hand he pushed down, struggling to clamber to his feet. The chair rocked alarmingly as his full weight resting on one side threatened to topple it.
Finally he stood precariously upright, feeling a flash of pride in his accomplishment, followed immediately by a sense of shame at being proud of such a minor achievement. Maintaining a grip on the side of the chair, he shuffled his feet until he stood more firmly. His left leg was weaker than his right—not as useless as his left arm, fortunately, but it still made crossing the darkened room a time-consuming
process.
The rug in front of the fire was an old, shaggy affair nearing the end of its fifth decade. It had been lying there since he’d moved into the house and had been the first piece of “luxury furnishing” his wife had bought. It had cost her a week’s wages—not that she’d earned much back then, not compared to him—but it had been important for her. Her income had been little more than pocket money really. He’d been the breadwinner but it had been important that she felt she was contributing.
He was fortunate that it was his weaker left foot that caught the fold; it left his stronger right leg to help him regain his balance. He breathed out shakily. That had been too close.
And then he was falling. Time seemed to slow and then the stars were back, an explosion of light before his eyes from the sudden contact with the mantelpiece. They were beautiful in their own way, he supposed. He felt weightless, even as he continued downwards. There was no pain; there hadn’t been time.
Then it was all over. A final crack as he met the stone hearth of the fireplace and that was it.
“Charles Michaelson, seventy-eight years old, lived alone,” the young constable greeted Detective Chief Inspector Warren Jones as he stepped out of his car. He nodded in the direction of a middle-aged woman dressed in a plain skirt and woollen cardigan, talking to another uniformed officer. “That’s his daughter over there. She discovered the body this morning when she came by to help the deceased get ready for the day.”