Paul Gitsham - Silent As The Grave

A police spokesperson said that skid marks at the scene of the accident revealed that Dr Liebig had rounded the blind bend at a speed in excess of fifty miles per hour, before apparently losing control and leaving the road, where he hit a tree. A post-mortem revealed a blood alcohol level of 85 milligrams per 100 ml. The legal limit is 80mg.

The coroner, Dr Lila Schiff, called upon North Hertfordshire District Council to look into the safety of that stretch of road, which has been the scene of numerous serious accidents in recent years, resulting in three fatalities.

Dr Liebig worked as a coroner throughout Warwickshire, before retiring. Rosemary Liebig was a keen painter. They are survived by a son and two grandchildren.

Warren finished reading the report and looked up at Sheehy. “So?”

The story meant nothing to him. He worked in Middlesbury CID. The incident would have been dealt with by traffic down in Welwyn. Besides which, Warren had had enough on his plate over the new year to worry about the ins and outs of some drink-driver.

Sheehy took a deep breath. “Anton Liebig was the coroner who oversaw your father’s inquest, Warren.”

Sheehy’s voice was fading out, replaced by the sound of blood rushing through Warren’s ears. His father’s inquest.

He still remembered that day. The courtroom had been nothing like he’d expected it to be from the TV. A small, wood-panelled room with a row of tables for the “interested parties” to sit—interested parties such as Warren, his mother and his grandparents. A chair sat empty for his brother who hadn’t come home the previous night. Behind them several lines of blue plastic chairs constituting the “public gallery” were mostly filled with journalists, representatives from the Police Federation and a few family friends. Nobody from the station that Niall MacNamara had worked at for more than half his career were present. None of his police “friends”. He’d been dropped; nobody wanted to be associated with him now, the thief who’d stolen drugs money then taken the coward’s way out.

The formal hearing had been a short, almost anti-climactic affair, delivered by the coroner sitting at his slightly raised dais, a much younger version of the man in the newspaper photograph. The family already knew the verdict, having been told quietly beforehand.

Suicide. Carbon monoxide poisoning from his own car engine, administered by a hosepipe attached to the exhaust, an empty bottle of whisky by his side. Found by his teenage son. No suspicious circumstances.

No mention was made of why he did it; that was beyond the purview of the court. But everyone in that room knew the rumours, were aware of the investigation underway. And you can’t libel the dead.

Sheehy’s voice pulled Warren back to the present. “Your father didn’t commit suicide; he was killed. Revenge for what he did? I don’t know. But I knew the moment I got the call about your dad’s death it wasn’t a suicide. I’ve known for over twenty years.”

He continued to avoid Warren’s eyes, having the sense not to try and apologise. He couldn’t; the words didn’t exist that could in any way lessen his guilt, to begin to atone for the literally decades of hurt that he’d help cause.

“Why?” That one word was all Warren could manage. A half-dozen questions were all rolled into that one word.

“Fear. I was scared, Warren. Shit-scared. They’d killed your father and covered it up. Somehow they hadn’t fingered me as his accomplice—too junior I guess. My name didn’t appear on any paperwork. So I kept quiet.”

He still wouldn’t meet Warren’s eyes.

“He was supposed to die in prison, kidney failure. He’d been on dialysis for years. They even put it forward in mitigation, tried to get him a shorter sentence. Perhaps it worked. With the case we had he could have gotten life with thirty years. He got twenty-two. I forgot about him. Got on with my life.

“And then he got a new kidney. God love the NH fucking S. His name came up on the transplant list as the best match and before you know it some poor donor’s kidney is inside that bastard’s body.

“The kidney took, he served the rest of his sentence and now he’s free.”

Sheehy’s voice was a mixture of bitterness and fear. “And now he’s clearing the decks. Settling scores and cleaning up his mess. Reggie Williamson for his betrayal and Anton Liebig because he was a loose end who could link him back to his first act of revenge—the death of your father.

“And that just leaves me. I’m the only one left.”

Warren found his voice. “I still don’t understand. What has this got to do with the current investigation into your misconduct?”

“It’s a set-up; it’s all fake. Delmarno wants his payback, but killing me would be too easy. He’s had two decades to dream about what he wants to do to me and he wants to do it slowly. He wants to ruin me, send me to prison and make me suffer like he did. And then, when I’m finished and due for parole, that’s when he’ll probably make his final move. I’ll be dead before I walk out that prison.”

Chapter 10

Warren received a less than rapturous welcome when he returned to the station.

“My office, now.”

The roasting from Grayson was pretty much what he’d been expecting; the man had been unable to decide which of Warren’s misdemeanours should be addressed first and in the end had simply settled on a chronological listing: getting in a car with a potential killer, removing his earpiece so he could no longer receive instructions, leaving a contained area with a suspect, circumventing surveillance and ignoring procedures for the collection of a witness statement.

However, Grayson had reserved most of his vitriol for Warren’s apparent agreement to help his predecessor fight the charges against his name. Sheehy had said nothing about it where they could be overheard, but Grayson wasn’t a fool. It was obvious that was what Sheehy was after.

“It’s not your job to help some bent copper fight Professional Standards. The Federation and his lawyers can do that. You’ve got enough on your plate solving this murder; besides, we can do without the negative publicity. We’re going to have enough shit flying at us when this comes to court next month without the press getting wind of your escapades.”

Warren stood and took the flak, mostly allowing the shouting to wash over him. It was to be expected and he was too emotionally tired to care about a bollocking that would ultimately lead nowhere. Regardless, he was struck by two remarks all-but buried within the verbiage; the first a cynical observation that Grayson had never concerned himself before with the amount of work piled on Warren’s “plate”—he usually loaded it as gleefully as a glutton at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Secondly, it was the first time that Warren could recall the man referring to Middlesbury as “we” or “us”.

After the obligatory threat that he was contemplating suspending Warren, Grayson finally asked what Sheehy had to offer.

“That’s it?” he responded when Warren had finished. “This Reggie Williamson offered a gun to Sheehy back in the 1980s, which Sheehy then planted at the scene of a crime to frame him and now this Vinny Delmarno character wants his revenge? Sheehy really is a dirty bastard. It sounds like it’s all coming back to bite him on the arse.”

“Well, it’s not as if Delmarno is an innocent in all of this,” Warren found himself defending Sheehy—a position he was not exactly comfortable with.

Grayson was dismissive. “Who gives a shit about Delmarno? He got what he deserved. Besides, it’s clear that Sheehy has form when it comes to corruption.” He sighed. “Regardless, it’s something. See where it takes you. Is there anything else?”