Blood is Thicker Than Water

by Paul Gitsham

  Tuesday 10 May 1988. After tonight, nothing would ever be the same again.

  Twenty-Two Years Later

  The scrum of press outside the prison gates was more like that awaiting the appearance of a pop star than a convicted murderer. An explosion of flashbulbs greeted the arrival of a black Jaguar. Some of the dozen or so uniformed police officers, who were stopping the pushing reporters from getting too close to the prison gates, broke off to form a similar line around the rear doors of the luxury car.

  Parked one hundred metres away, DCI Gavin Sheehy looked on with incredulity at the spectacle. All of the major national broadcasters were present, along with several noted international ones. Reporters earnestly spoke into cameras or radio microphones. Recognising one of the BBC’s most famous radio presenters, Sheehy reached for the car radio, selecting Radio 4. Sure enough, the anchor of World at One was reporting on the release of the prisoner, before handing over live to the presenter.

  “The scene outside Wormwood Scrubs prison is unlike anything we’ve ever witnessed before. Vinny Delmarno, the notorious crime lord sentenced in 1988 to life in prison for ordering the killing of a rival drug baron and accused—although acquitted—of dozens of counts of racketeering, money laundering, drug dealing and prostitution, is due to be released any moment on parole.

  “Most prisoners slip out of this back door with little more than a carrier bag, the clothes they wore when they came in, the address of a local bail hostel and forty-six pounds to help them start life again. Vinny Delmarno will have no need of any of these. It is alleged that while he one of the most successful crime lords of the seventies and eighties, he also owned—and some claim still owns—a string of apparently legitimate businesses across the Midlands and the East of England. All of these businesses and his palatial Hertfordshire home were signed over to his ex-wife in an entirely uncontested divorce settlement weeks before his successful conviction. Rumour has it that he and his wife have reconciled over the past twenty-two years and that he will be returning to the couple’s former home as soon as he is released.”

  The anchorwoman broke in, “This has caused some controversy, hasn’t it, Mark?”

  “Indeed it has. Politicians from all sides of the House are questioning if there is any way the state can seize these assets, even though they were legally awarded to his ex-wife. The shadow Home Secretary has claimed that the divorce was clearly a sham and that therefore his assets should be used to repay the millions of pounds of back tax that it is alleged he avoided through money-laundering schemes. It should be noted of course that despite his conviction, he claims to be innocent of all these charges and that he was the victim of a conspiracy.

  “When he is released, any moment now, it is expected that he will give a statement repeating those claims.”

  Suddenly the press started snapping pictures again and even from his distant vantage point, Sheehy could hear the increase in volume from the waiting press. A moment later it became clear why, as a small side door started to open.

  Sheehy’s breath caught in his throat. It had been a long time since he had last set eyes on the man. He wasn’t prepared for the shock. Delmarno was a small, dapper man in his mid fifties. His silver hair had been expertly coiffured and his thin pencil moustache trimmed neatly. The fitted suit that he wore was certainly not the one he’d worn in court; its cut was clearly contemporary. But then he had been a very different man back then.

  “In many ways it is a big surprise to see Vinny Delmarno here today. When sentenced back in 1988, he was believed to be within a year of dying from kidney failure. In fact that was put forward in mitigation by his defence team when the judge sentenced him. Six months into his sentence, however, he received a controversial life-saving kidney transplant. Questions were again raised in the House of Commons and the House of Lords as to whether a convicted murderer should be given such treatment free on the NHS. The then Health Secretary acknowledged such concerns but stood alongside the Home Secretary and the Prime Minister in claiming that denying prisoners such a life-saving operation would be a slippery slope.”

  The anchorwoman cut back in again, “I believe that Mr Delmarno’s lawyer is about to read a prepared statement.”

  A taller man, in an equally expensive suit, was now standing shoulder to shoulder with his client. He paused whilst the various camera crews jostled for the best position and microphones were thrust under his nose. Clearing his throat he began, “I am going to read a short statement on behalf of my client. He will not be answering any questions.

  “This day has been a long time coming, but finally my freedom, wrongly taken from me, has been returned. For over twenty-two years I have languished in prison for crimes that I did not commit, the victim of a conspiracy concocted at the highest levels. In that time I have maintained my innocence. During my incarceration I have been comforted by the support of my family and friends, who have stood by me and championed my innocence, and I cannot thank them enough. In a moment I will be driven away to be reunited with loved ones and I look forward to embracing my son and rebuilding my life. I feel only sadness that I could not do the same to my dear parents, both of whom passed away during my imprisonment.

  “On the advice of my lawyers, I will not be saying any more other than that I will be turning all of my energy towards overturning my conviction and seeking redress for this appalling miscarriage of justice.” The lawyer paused briefly, before continuing, “Those responsible for this cannot hide for ever. We know who you are and we will have justice. That is all.”

  Behind the wheel of his car, Gavin Sheehy’s hands shook. Suddenly and without warning his stomach lurched and he yanked the door open just in time. He was still hanging awkwardly out of the car, dry heaving, as the Jaguar roared past. The rear windows were blackened, but he still felt the man’s eyes burning hatred through the smoked glass.

  Present Day

  Sunday 25 March

  Chapter 1

  The body had been concealed well enough for it to remain unnoticed for at least a couple of days, Detective Chief Inspector Warren Jones decided, as he bent his six-foot frame under the branches of the flowering bush. Nevertheless, after a string of warm spring days the smell had finally attracted the attention of a middle-aged couple out for a post-Sunday lunch dog-walk.

  The two witnesses were now busy giving their statements to Detective Inspector Tony Sutton on the other side of the line of blue-and-white crime-scene tape. Both walkers were wearing disposable plastic booties, their shoes impounded by the forensic team to check for any trace evidence they might have picked up and to distinguish their footprints from any that may have been left by the killer or killers.

  “It looks as though he was initially stabbed over there on the footpath, then dragged through the grass and hidden here at the edge of the forest.”

  Crime Scene Manager Andy Harrison used a white-gloved hand to point out the red, bloody smear to the paper-suited detective. A similarly clad CSI squatting carefully amongst the long grass was filling a series of clear plastic evidence bags with bloodstained vegetation.

  “And what about the dog? I’m assuming it’s the victim’s?” Warren gestured at the black-and-white furry form lying next to the old man.

  “It’s early days and we haven’t moved either body yet, but I can’t see any obvious stab wounds. We’ll get a vet to perform an autopsy to work out how it was killed. The dog’s still wearing its lead, but the victim isn’t holding it. We had a look in the pockets of his windcheater but didn’t find any doggy treats or other evidence that he was walking a dog, so I’m not yet prepared to declare him the owner. If it’s been microchipped that could help us link them. Not to mention help you identify the victim if needs be.”

  “And you didn’t see a wallet or phone or other ID?”

  “Not unless he keeps them in his back pocket, which he’s lying on. We haven’t even found a set of house keys.”

  Warren stared at the body thoughtfully. “No wallet or phone
suggests robbery, but why would they take his keys?”

  The Yorkshireman shrugged, his protective clothing making a rustling noise. “Not really my place to say, Guv, but if he left the missus at home when he went out to walk the dog he may not have had them on him.”

  Warren conceded the point with a small nod of his head. “It’s possible. But something doesn’t seem quite right. He’s an old man, shabbily dressed, not obviously wealthy and he had a dog—not your usual target for some opportunist mugger. And why conceal the body afterwards? If it was a case of ‘stab first, ask nicely for his wallet after’ then we’re dealing with somebody pretty brutal here—especially if they did the dog as well. Would they have taken the trouble to conceal both bodies?

  “And if it was a mugging gone wrong, I’d have expected them to flee the scene immediately, not risk exposure by taking the time to hide the victims.”

  “Like I said, not really my place to say.”

  Warren sighed. “You’re right. I should stop speculating and wait for your findings.”

  Harrison picked up on the hint. “We’ll probably finish processing the scene tonight and get the bodies removed before morning. I imagine the post-mortem will be tomorrow afternoon. I’ll get you a preliminary report before close of play tomorrow.”

  Warren glanced at his watch—just after six p.m. He sighed and pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket. It was going to be a long night—he’d better phone his wife, Susan, and tell her he wasn’t going to be back in time to go to the pub quiz. It looked as if he’d be sleeping in the spare room again tonight.

  Monday 26 March

  Chapter 2

  The eight a.m. briefing was full, the room crammed with most of Middlesbury CID’s detectives. Standing next to the projector, Warren stifled a yawn and took a swig of his coffee before calling for quiet. Leaning against the wall, looking similarly worn out, was Tony Sutton. However, standing at the back, fiddling with his Blackberry, Detective Superintendent John Grayson was as shiny and well groomed as always. If past form was anything to go by, he’d probably nip out to the barber and get a quick trim and tidy before the upcoming press conference.

  The station’s senior detective had appointed Warren lead investigator as usual—where possible Grayson tried to avoid doing any actual detective work, Warren had soon learned—but he would of course be available to talk to the press at any time, skilfully taking any credit for the team’s successes whilst cannily distancing himself from any failures.

  This was largely fine by Warren, who hated being in front of the camera, but at times—usually when he’d had less than three hours’ sleep—it did irritate him that his team’s efforts seemed to be mostly laying the groundwork for his superior’s next promotion and the securement of an increased final salary pension.

  Warren clicked the handheld presenter and two photographs appeared on the screen behind him. On the left was a greyish, blue-skinned headshot of the old man from the park, his snow-white shock of hair lying limp and greasy, a couple of days’ stubble covering his chin. The skin had a slightly puffy appearance from the early stages of decomposition, the effect being to smooth out the lines and creases that would otherwise bear witness to this individual human’s story.

  On the right was a more vibrant picture of the deceased, taken the previous Christmas. In this image the man’s face was a mass of deep wrinkles and smile lines, his skin tanned the dark bronze that comes from a life spent working outdoors. The picture had been cropped, but it was possible to make out decorations in the background. The big grin and slightly unfocused eyes painted a portrait of a happy man, enjoying the festive season with loved ones.

  “Reginald Williamson, aged sixty-eight. Found dead, body concealed under a bush next to his dog, just off a path at sixteen-twenty hours yesterday afternoon by two members of the public walking their dog on the western edge of Middlesbury Common.” Another click revealed an aerial photograph from Google Earth, annotated with the position of the body.

  The common was situated on the edge of Middlesbury, abutting a small wooded area that served as a divider between the small market town and the adjacent farmland. Although the land was popular with dog-walkers, joggers and local kids, the area where Williamson had been dumped was in a secluded corner. It was inevitable that the body would be found sooner, rather than later; however, its concealment had probably gained the killer—or killers—at least a couple of days’ head start.

  “Preliminary cause of death is a stab wound to the chest. Cause of death for the dog is unknown. Initial analysis points to the victim being attacked on the pavement here—” Warren used the laser pointer to circumscribe an area of pavement on the photograph “—then dragged through tall grass into the edge of the woods and dumped out of sight under this bush.”

  Warren cycled through a series of photos of the crime scene, highlighting the bloody trail and the body’s final resting place. “The victim’s pockets were empty, suggesting robbery as a possible motive. A leather wallet with his fingerprints and cards but no cash, was found in a litter bin about eighty metres from the dumping spot. However, forensics have been unable to identify any other prints.”

  Warren paused. “It’s early days, but something doesn’t feel quite right. Our victim lived alone since his wife died three years ago yet we found no house or car keys on him. His niece, who reported him missing, went around to the house Sunday morning and found it locked. His car was still there, so the robbers didn’t steal it. She went in to the house and said that nothing was obviously missing.

  “His mobile phone is also unaccounted for. His provider shows that the handset went dark at about twenty-thirty hours Thursday evening, although we don’t have any other data from them yet. Either it’s been destroyed or the battery was removed. His niece says it wasn’t worth stealing though. It was an old Nokia brick that he’d owned for ever.”

  Detective Sergeant Hutchinson raised a hand at the back. “Does that tie in with the time of death?”

  “We don’t know yet. The PM is scheduled for this afternoon. They’ll try and get an accurate time for us; at the moment we’re operating on a time frame of about forty-eight hours. What we do know is that nobody had seen him since about eleven p.m. Wednesday night when he left his local—the Merchants’ Arms. Apparently he was in the habit of taking his dog for a long walk most evenings, often up the common, then stopping in for a nightcap.

  “Regulars didn’t think anything of it when he didn’t come in for his evening pint on the Thursday, but when he didn’t show on Friday or Saturday either, a couple called his mobile but were diverted straight to voicemail. One of them bumped into his niece Sunday morning and mentioned it, so she took the spare key she keeps for emergencies and went around to see if he was all right. There were pints of milk on the doorstep and Friday’s newspapers stuck in the letter box. That’s when she started to worry and reported him missing.”

  Warren looked around the room. “I want you to all keep an open mind. Don’t just assume it was a random mugging gone wrong—start canvassing his friends, family, neighbours. Let’s see if he had any unusual visitors or mentioned anything that was worrying him. Dig into his background and look at his lifestyle.

  “Meanwhile, let’s see if we can scare up any witnesses. It’s been a pleasant few days. There were bound to have been a few folks in and around the park in the hours before and after the murder. Did they see anyone or anything suspicious?”

  As the meeting broke up Warren crossed over to Tony Sutton, who made a sour face, before commenting.

  “It sounds as though your gut’s asking the same thing mine is. ‘Why would someone kill a retired gardener in a public place, then conceal the body and try to make it look like a mugging gone wrong?’”

  CARINA™

  ISBN: 978 1 474 03415 9

  Blood is Thicker than Water

  Copyright © 2015 Paul Gitsham

  Published in Great Britain (2015)

  by Carina, an imprint of Harleq
uin (UK) Limited, Eton House, 18–24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

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