Paul Gitsham - Silent As The Grave

Warren didn’t trust himself to speak.

“It was a massive enterprise. Basically, it was modelled on the Italian Mafia: drugs, prostitution, stolen goods—you name it; these guys did it. And they were ruthless, anyone who crossed them ended up dead.

“But they were also clever. All of the action was taking place in the West Midlands—Birmingham, Coventry, Nuneaton. But the guy who headed it lived in North Herts and was ostensibly a legitimate businessman. He owned a string of restaurants, fast-food places, leisure centres, B&Bs, minicab firms—you name it. He partnered local tradesmen. All cash businesses. All built from scratch or bought legitimately, with no links to the Midlands and no evidence of any wrongdoing. They even had a charitable foundation, helping unemployed kids learn skills and trades. Local politicians loved him and he was on the front page of the local newspaper at least once a week.

“But, we knew the bastard was a crook. The Hertfordshire businesses were just a front and a way of laundering money. Back in those days you could move money around a hell of a lot more easily than now and a secret Swiss bank account really was a secret. He was worth millions. And he was a murderer. We knew of cases going back to the nineteen seventies—drug dealers mostly but the odd prostitute as well.

“The problem was we couldn’t prove it. He covered his tracks too well. And he rarely got his own hands dirty. We busted a few dealers here and there, but there was never any direct link to him. Witnesses had a tendency to suddenly develop amnesia or even to disappear. We were going nowhere fast. We needed a break.”

Sheehy paused. “You have to realise, Warren, that we knew this guy was filthy. In fact we had tons of evidence that placed him right in the centre of his little ring. Most of the grunt work was carried out by his right-hand man, but it was him that we wanted. What we didn’t have though was the one remaining piece that would open up everything else. He was too high profile for us just to go on a fishing expedition—we’d never get a warrant to search his house or business premises. And that was what we needed. With a warrant we would be able to raid him and that would be enough to open a bridge between the evidence we had and him. But without that information, we didn’t have enough to get a warrant. Catch-22.”

Warren didn’t like the sound of this. Where was it leading? He also had a suspicion about who Sheehy was talking about—and the implications were massive.

“What did you do?” His voice was slow, steady.

Sheehy licked his lips nervously. “Although he kept his hands clean most of the time, it wasn’t always that way. Back in the early eighties, he was dabbling in the club scene—supplying drugs to clubbers. The problem was that if you really wanted to make money, you needed the clubs—or at least the door staff—on your side. And most of the clubs that were willing to take part were already under the control of a guy named Frankie Cruise.

“He approached him about a partnership, but Cruise was an arrogant bastard and wouldn’t play ball. In the end, he shot Cruise dead. The mess was all cleaned up of course, but everyone knew what had happened. In fact he encouraged the rumours to enhance his own reputation. But obviously, that wasn’t good enough for court and no judge was going to grant us a warrant based on that. Especially not for someone so high profile and well connected; he knew where all the skeletons were buried.

“However, ballistics recovered a nearly intact bullet from Cruise after his body floated back to the surface in Coventry Canal. It was no good to us without a gun though.

“Then in mid 1987, we got word that he had been boasting at a party he was hosting at that Hertfordshire mansion of his, about how he had killed a man. He must have really wanted to impress his guests because he eventually went up to his bedroom and fetched the handgun that he claimed to have used to kill Cruise. He was brandishing it like some sort of trophy.”

Sheehy paused. “Your father and I knew that was the weapon he had used, and that it was the final piece of evidence that could blow the whole case open. But we still couldn’t get a warrant. We were told it was just hearsay. The PACE regulations were still fairly new and nobody wanted to be seen to be harassing such a prominent local figure.

“So we made contact with his handyman, who was unhappy with the way he was being treated. We persuaded him to steal the gun, which was kept in his bedroom.”

Sheehy, looked away, unable to meet Warren’s eye.

“You have to realise, we knew that he was guilty. We had so much evidence. That all came out at his trial. It just needed a catalyst to start everything working.”

“So you planted the gun and framed him for murder.” Warren’s voice was bitter. He felt sick.

But Sheehy was shaking his head vehemently. “No! We didn’t frame him for anything he hadn’t done. We just left the gun at the scene of a drugs raid. It was collected along with a load of other weapons. Routine ballistic testing linked the gun to the Cruise murder. There were fingerprints all over the gun. Luckily for us, he’s had a few run-ins with the police over the years. Usually all the charges were dropped when the witnesses mysteriously changed their minds, but his fingerprints were still on file.

“All it did was give us the excuse to raise a warrant. As soon as that happened, we were able to build that link between him and the case we’d built. The case was sitting there, ready to go. It just needed that link.”

“Vinny Delmarno.”

It wasn’t a question. The man had been released whilst he was still with West Midlands Police and there had been anger about the things that had been said in the press. Allegations of corruption and fabricated crime scenes—allegations that Sheehy now claimed were true.

Sheehy nodded but said nothing as if speaking the man’s name out loud was a curse.

“So why are you telling me all of this now?” Warren’s voice was bitter, the anger now simmering just below the surface, “It can’t just be an attack of conscience. You’ve had over twenty years to come clean. Delmarno’s been out how long now?”

Warren was confused; it made no sense. By all reports, Sheehy was in deep trouble already. What benefit was there to adding this long-forgotten miscarriage to his litany of sins? It was clear from his tone that he felt that what he and Niall MacNamara had done all those years ago was still right. Noble-cause corruption they called it.

Sheehy looked at his hands and Warren noticed they were trembling. “Reggie Williamson was the gardener who supplied us with the gun.”

“That’s what this is all about?” Warren couldn’t hide the scepticism in his voice. For sure it was a hell of a coincidence, but surely that was all it was?

He said as much.

“When Vinny Delmarno was released, he swore blind that he would find out who put him away and would get his revenge.”

Warren still wasn’t convinced.

“There’s more.”

Sheehy opened the coat, revealing the concealed file folder, and removed a newspaper article, handing it over. A cutting from a local Hertfordshire paper from February, page one but not the lead. Stapled to the back was a narrow column from page four, continuing the story; a black-and-white headshot, formal-looking and probably taken from an official website, took up barely two inches.

Retired coroner and wife killed in drink-driving smash: Verdict

A former coroner, killed in the early hours of 31 December 2011, was driving too fast and was under the influence of alcohol, an inquest ruled today. The crash, which killed Dr Anton Liebig, 67, and his wife Rosemary, 66 , instantly, happened after a sharp bend on the A5062, on the way back from an awards dinner at The Allingham Golf Club in Hertfordshire, where Dr Liebig—captain of the senior men’s team—had presented several trophies.