Paul Gitsham - Silent As The Grave

“Is that where Reggie Williamson was killed?”

It was a rhetorical question—blue-and-white police tape still fluttered in the breeze.

Aside from a few young boys kicking a football at a makeshift goal made from rolled-up jumpers at the other end of the open field, the two men were now alone in the middle of the common. Nobody could possibly overhear them and Sheehy would have plenty of warning if anyone tried to approach.

“Well I’m here. What have you got?”

Warren’s tone was testy. So far Sheehy had been in charge and Warren was determined to regain the initiative.

“I can point you towards the killer, but first I need a promise from you. I need your word.”

Warren stared at him for several seconds, searching the man’s face.

“What sort of promise?”

“I need your help.”

Warren thought for a long moment. It didn’t take a detective to work out what the man was after. But what did he think Warren could do?

“What’s in it for me? How do I know that you even have the information you claim?”

“A show of good faith. I can identify the person who ordered Reggie Williamson’s death and another killing you aren’t even aware of. Then, after you help me I have other information. Information that you don’t even know that you want yet.”

“What sort of information?”

Sheehy shook his head. “First you have to help me clear my name.”

It was exactly what Warren had been expecting but he was confused. “I don’t see what I can do to help. I have no influence on the outcome of the investigation. It’s in the hands of Professional Standards; in fact I’d even question whether it is appropriate for us to be having this conversation.”

“You’re the only one I can turn to, Warren. This whole thing is not about whether or not I took a bribe. It goes much, much deeper than that. It’s not even about clearing my name. It’s about righting an injustice and making sure that evil men are put away for a long time.”

Warren ignored the man’s familiar use of his first name and his attempt at stirring rhetoric; he wasn’t naïve enough to be persuaded by that old trick.

“Again, I don’t see what I can do to help you—Standards are investigating the case and I have no access to their files or even their officers—by definition they have to be free from outside influence. I doubt they’d even grant me an audience. I didn’t arrive until months after your arrest—this is the first time I’ve met you. Why the hell would they listen to me?”

He was starting to lose patience with the man. He was clearly a drinker and obviously clutching at straws. This afternoon’s operation had cost the force a considerable amount of manpower and resources; if Sheehy had nothing to contribute to the Williamson case, then Warren was strongly contemplating arresting him for wasting police time. He said as much.

“Warren, I can help with the Williamson case and others, but it has to benefit both of us. I need you to help me fight these charges.”

Warren shook his head in exasperation. “Haven’t you listened to anything I’ve said? I can’t intervene on your behalf. I have no influence here. You must know this. I don’t understand why you want me to become involved.”

Sheehy looked at him for several long, hard seconds. When he spoke again, his voice was low, almost gentle. “Warren, you are already involved. You’ve been a part of this since the moment you walked into that garage and found your dad dead in his car.”

* * *

It was as if Warren had been punched in the stomach. All of the air left his lungs and he felt a wave of nausea pass over him. Immediately, the memories flooded back. He could taste the coppery tang of fear, feel the painful pounding of his heart, smell the choking exhaust fumes as they filled his nose and mouth. It was a smell that to this day Warren hated. As a teenager out clubbing in Coventry he’d always make sure he was upwind of the taxi rank, the smell of their idling engines making him feel sick. He’d loathed the old Pool Meadow bus station, with its lines of chugging buses filling the air with smoky pollution.

Somehow, he found a voice, forcing it past the tightness of his throat. “You have ten seconds to explain yourself before I arrest you for wasting police time.”

Sheehy ignored him. “What do you know about your father and his death?”

The voice that answered sounded like Warren’s but it seemed to come from a long way away. “He killed himself after stealing money from a drugs bust.” The voice dripped with bitterness and resentment.

“What if I told you that he didn’t kill himself? That he never stole that money.”

If Warren hadn’t felt so weak and disoriented he’d have punched the man in the face as hard as he could. Could the man stoop any lower, invoking the name of Warren’s father in a crude attempt to manipulate Warren into helping him? It was nearly a quarter of a century ago and Warren had suppressed his feelings for much of that time, but they never went away. And they hadn’t softened. The hurt, the betrayal then finally the anger and, yes, even hatred towards his father. The man he’d admired and looked up to, even wanted to be when he was older—that man had torn Warren’s world apart. To know that his father had chosen to leave them had hurt so hard—that he had been unable to save him had hurt even more.

And then came the revelations. Thousands of pounds seized in a drugs bust, half of it going missing between the crime scene and the evidence room at the police station. His father’s gym bag, housing sweaty towels, stained T-shirts—and wads of fifty-pound notes wrapped in elastic bands.

Quite why his father had decided not to collect the bag from his locker—he would probably have gotten away with it—instead choosing to kill himself, was never satisfactorily answered. Perhaps he had stolen the money on a whim, then felt guilt at what he had done? Unable to face the shame, he’d taken his life that early summer evening.

That was what his mother had clung onto, even as she saw her husband’s memory destroyed, as friends from the force stopped calling or avoided talking to her when they bumped into her in the street. The name Niall MacNamara was toxic and Warren wanted nothing to do with it.

“Leave now, before I make you.” It was all Warren could do to force the words past his clenched teeth. He no longer cared about Reggie Williamson, he just wanted this man out of his life; he could feel the sweat on his brow. It was as if Sheehy had slammed a wrecking ball into Warren’s carefully constructed defences, bringing down the walls. Warren needed time to rebuild them, to reconstruct the ancient structure.

Sheehy ignored him. “Warren, your father was a good man; he was an honest man. He wasn’t a thief…and he didn’t kill himself. I know this. I’ve known it for twenty years. And everything that’s happened recently—it all stems back to what happened that night.”

Warren closed his eyes, concentrating on breathing. He wanted nothing more than to race back to his car, to leave in a cloud of burning rubber and run and hide. But he couldn’t. The memories from that horrific evening had left their mark, but now another scar was itching. One he’d ignored but which was now shouting for attention. Why? Why had it happened? He had to know. He was trapped. If he left now, refusing to let Sheehy talk, he could never have peace. A long-dormant seed had started to germinate and he had to know the truth.

“I knew your father back in the late eighties. We met about two years before…you know. I was a young DC, with only a couple of years’ experience.”

Sheehy stared at his feet. “I was working in North Herts, but I was seconded to West Midlands as part of a small team working as liaisons on the investigation into a huge, cross-county crime ring. Your father was a senior detective sergeant on that team and we worked closely together.” Sheehy raised his head, looking Warren directly in the eye. “He was a good man. And I liked him a lot.”