Silent as the Grave

by Paul Gitsham

  The man seated across from him nodded once and leant forward slightly, although he knew that the high-gain microphone on the PACE tape recorder would pick his voice up easily.

  “Others present in the room consist of myself, Superintendent Stanley Markovich, Senior Investigating Officer, Professional Standards, Hertfordshire Constabulary.”

  The dark-skinned young man to his left spoke next. “DCI Mark Lowry, Investigating Officer, Professional Standards, Hertfordshire Constabulary.”

  “Sergeant Esme Fenchurch, Professional Standards, Hertfordshire Constabulary.”

  To Warren’s left, the only other uniformed officer besides Markovich also spoke up. “Sergeant Anthea Crozier, Police Federation representative, acting on behalf of DCI Jones.”

  “Thank you for attending everybody.” Markovich had a pleasant, cultured voice with just the slightest hint of an Irish burr. The polite smile that he directed at Warren didn’t quite reach his steel-grey eyes.

  “We’re here today to discuss why DCI Jones met with one Billy Obsanjo at the Mount Prison on Monday the second of April.”

  Before Warren could say anything, his representative leant forward.

  “May I ask what DCI Jones is being accused of and why he has been summoned to this meeting?”

  Markovich didn’t miss a beat. “DCI Jones is not being accused of anything at present. As I have said, we are just here to discuss why he decided to meet with Mr Obsanjo, a witness in a serious ongoing investigation, and why he chose to imply that he was a member of Professional Standards.”

  Again, the Federation representative beat Warren.

  “With respect, at no point did DCI Jones represent himself as a member of Professional Standards. DCI Jones has a recording of the meeting—as I believe does Mr Obsanjo’s solicitor—and it is clear that he does not falsely identify himself.”

  Markovich inclined his head, unwilling to entirely concede the point. “I think it is open to interpretation as to whether DCI Jones willingly allowed Mr Obsanjo and his solicitor to misinterpret his affiliation and intentions; however, we will be sure to include the recordings as evidence if necessary.”

  Before Warren could respond to the accusation, Lowry spoke up. “Perhaps you could explain to me why you were interviewing Mr Obsanjo.”

  The man’s eyes bored into Warren’s, making no attempt to conceal his contempt.

  Warren licked his lips. “Mr Obsanjo was a potential witness in a complex investigation that I am currently pursuing.”

  “Which investigation would that be, sir?” asked Fenchurch. “According to our records you are currently investigating the murder of one Reginald Williamson on the twenty-second of March and the unexplained death of Zachary Eddleston on the third of April. Mr Obsanjo has been in prison since the seventh of April last year. I fail to see the connection.”

  Warren had lain awake all night, trying to decide how to answer just such a question. He estimated that Lowry was no older than himself and Fenchurch probably a decade younger; neither of them would have been around at the time that the conspiracy had started. However, Markovich was probably in his late fifties, the same age as Gavin Sheehy, Pete Kent—and for that matter John Grayson. Warren knew nothing about the man’s past—could he be implicated? Bob Windermere’s warning rang in his ears.

  “I have been looking into Mr Williamson’s past and it would seem that the motives for his death may go back some years. Sources suggested that Mr Obsanjo may be peripherally linked to this investigation.”

  Warren was hedging, trying not to give away potentially damaging information, whilst at the same time avoiding falsehoods. Regardless of any future outcomes, lying to Professional Standards was a guaranteed career-ender.

  “I see.” Markovich stared at Warren for a few seconds, no doubt hoping that he would break the silence and give away more. Warren said nothing; he’d played that game himself enough times to know to keep his mouth shut.

  “Could you perhaps tell me who this source is?”

  “I’d rather not say at this time.”

  Markovich raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that, DCI Jones? Everything that is said in this room is treated with the utmost confidentiality, unless it impacts on our investigation. I would suggest that it may be in your interest to co-operate fully.”

  Warren said nothing.

  Crozier cleared her throat. “I believe that DCI Jones has made his position quite clear.”

  “Would that source perhaps be Detective Chief Inspector Gavin Sheehy?”

  Warren said nothing, fighting hard to maintain a neutral face.

  “Could you tell us why you have met with DCI Sheehy on three separate occasions, not including the evening that you and DI Tony Sutton discovered him after his suicide attempt?”

  Warren gave an involuntary start. How did they know about his meetings with Sheehy? Had Grayson told them? He thought for a moment, before deciding there wasn’t enough evidence to decide. Grayson knew about a couple of his meetings, but surely not all three.

  Markovich again. “Why did DCI Sheehy want to meet you? He was gone some months before you took up your current posting and nothing in either of your service records indicates that you knew each other before his arrest.”

  “I’d rather not say,” Warren repeated.

  Fenchurch held up a sheet of paper. “You and DCI Sheehy took quite elaborate precautions to ensure that nobody overheard what you had to say to one another.”

  Lowry again. “What was in the folder that DCI Sheehy handed you on Middlesbury Common?”

  Warren suddenly felt foolish. It hadn’t occurred to him that Professional Standards might have had Sheehy under surveillance.

  “No comment,” said Warren, uncomfortably aware that he sounded dangerously like a suspect in one of his own investigations.

  Markovich leant forward. “I ask again if you are sure about that, DCI Jones?”

  “My client has made it absolutely clear that he has nothing to say on that matter and you cannot compel him to do so, unless you arrest him.”

  Warren winced inwardly. The “discussion” was spinning wildly out of control in a direction that he was not at all comfortable with. “DCI Sheehy claims that he has been framed and he asked me to help clear his name.”

  Lowry made no attempt to cover his disbelief. “You expect us to believe that someone that naïve has made it all the way to the rank of chief inspector?”

  “I don’t think personal insults are necessary,” interjected Crozier as she tried to regain some control of the interview.

  Lowry ignored her, his voice rising. “We’ve been investigating Gavin Sheehy for over twelve months. Who the hell do you think you are? Crashing in here, trampling all over our investigation. If your meddling causes the CPS to drop the case, I’ll personally see to it that you never set foot in CID again.”

  Markovich placed a hand on Lowry’s shoulder. The younger man quietened down, but his face remained fixed in a scowl.

  “I think we would all like to know why DCI Jones agreed to meet with DCI Sheehy in the first place and then chose not to discuss his concerns with Professional Standards.” Markovich’s voice remained calm, almost soothing.

  Warren thought furiously, deciding what to say and what to omit. “I didn’t know that it was DCI Sheehy who posted the note through my front door. I agreed to meet him, with the approval of Detective Superintendent Grayson, since he claimed to have knowledge of who killed Reginald Williamson.”

  Markovich glanced briefly towards Fenchurch, who nodded.

  “OK, that much is on record. The question is why you agreed to go alone with DCI Sheehy, breaking numerous protocols and procedures, including the maintenance of surveillance.”

  “DCI Sheehy refused to give me the evidence where he could be overheard.”

  “And that didn’t strike you as odd?”

  Warren shrugged helplessly. “Yes, of course. But we were desperate. We had no leads and no evidence.” He paused. “I to
ok a gamble.”

  Markovich’s poker face remained in place. “So what happened next?”

  “Sheehy said he had evidence concerning who was responsible for Mr Williamson’s death, but that I would need to help him clear his name first.”

  “So just like that, you agreed? You decided to trick your way into the Mount Prison to see our witness, potentially scuppering our case? What are you, some sort of glory hound?” Lowry’s voice was rising again. Either the man had a very short fuse or he and Markovich were playing their own version of good cop, bad cop.

  Right on cue, Markovich spoke up. “Let’s leave aside the circumstances surrounding DCI Jones’s meeting with Mr Obsanjo for the time being.” Lowry slumped back in his chair, his face a picture of disgust. “The question is why did DCI Jones decided to pursue this investigation on his own, knowing that DCI Sheehy was under investigation by Professional Standards?”

  “DCI Sheehy made it clear that his co-operation was contingent on me helping him. I told him that I would assist him, in the hope that he would give us the information that he claimed to possess.”

  “So why didn’t you come to us? You knew full well that he was under investigation. Why didn’t you report that contact?”

  “DCI Sheehy asked me to keep it quiet for the time being.”

  “And you went along with that?”

  A glare from Markovich shut Lowry down again.

  “I felt it likely that if you were to learn of my contact with DCI Sheehy, you wouldn’t allow me to meet him again and that I would not get the information that I needed.”

  A glance from Markovich pre-empted Lowry’s next outburst.

  “So you unilaterally decided that your investigation was more important than our investigation? Is that it?”

  The remark was deliberately provocative and Warren ignored it.

  “It’s rather unfortunate, don’t you think, that the only person who can corroborate your version of events is lying in a hospital bed and isn’t expected to recover.”

  “Or convenient, depending on how you look at it.” This time it was Fenchurch who was trying to provoke him.

  “Let’s discuss that shall we?” This time Lowry’s tone was flat, businesslike. “According to statements from you and DI Sutton, you interrupted DS Peter Kent trying to kill DCI Sheehy in his hospital bed. Care to suggest why that was the case?”

  CSM Andy Harrison’s findings were already on record, so Warren had no choice but to take them through them.

  “So DS Kent tried to kill DCI Sheehy, making it look like a suicide attempt. Then when that didn’t work, he went back to finish off the job?”

  Warren nodded.

  “So what about the knife and the bloodstained clothes that you found in the laundry hamper? Do you think DS Kent placed them there? Did he kill Reginald Williamson or did DCI Sheehy do so? Could it have been a joint enterprise?”

  “I don’t have any evidence either way at the moment.” It was weak, but the only thing that Warren could think to say.

  “Well again, we’ll probably never know, since DS Kent isn’t here either.” Lowry’s tone was accusatory, as if he held Warren responsible for the hit-and-run.

  Markovich took over, as if summing up a case in court. “So the question, it would seem, is who is responsible for DS Kent’s murder—I think we can call it that, can’t we?—and did they have any link to the death in custody of our most important witness, Mr Obsanjo?”

  “I guess that’s the case, sir.”

  “And ultimately, we need to know what the motivation is behind all of this? Because at the moment, I’m not seeing how all of this fits together.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you have any thoughts that you would care to share with us, DCI Jones?”

  “Not at this time, sir.”

  “I see.” Markovich turned to the tape recorder. “I think now would be a good time for a break. Interview suspended, eleven forty-two.”

  The three Professional Standards officers rose as one.

  “Let’s reconvene in a few minutes, shall we? This old bladder’s not what it used to be.” Again the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  The door closed behind them. Warren turned to Anthea Crozier. “Tell me it’s going better than it appears.”

  She shook her head.

  A few moments later, the three officers reappeared and the tape was restarted.

  This time, Markovich was blunt and matter-of-fact. Lowry and Fenchurch sat either side of him, Sphinx-like. The time for grandstanding was gone.

  “DCI Warren Jones, your lack of a satisfactory response to today’s questions has left much unanswered. At this time there is not enough evidence to arrest you on charges of conspiracy to pervert the course of justice, nor is there enough evidence linking you to the deaths of Detective Sergeant Peter Kent, Reginald Williamson or the attempted murder of Detective Chief Inspector Gavin Sheehy for us to take you into custody.”

  Warren stifled a gasp. It was even worse than he feared. Were they seriously thinking that he was involved in their deaths? Even his Federation representative looked taken aback.

  “However, I am not satisfied with the level of co-operation that you have shown in this interview and feel that you have made sufficient procedural breaches to damage the integrity of several different investigations and call into question the security of any criminal convictions arising from them. This, I feel, warrants your immediate suspension from duties whilst our investigation continues.”

  Chapter 39

  The suspension of a British police officer from duty isn’t quite as exciting as the suspension of an American officer, as portrayed in some US TV shows. Warren didn’t have a gun and unless you counted his lanyard and ID card, didn’t really have a badge. However, he handed over his warrant card, his computer privileges were revoked and he was escorted out of the building.

  By mid morning he found himself sitting at home, staring at the kitchen wall waiting for Susan to return from her parents’ and wondering how the hell he was going to break the news of his suspension to her. And his in-laws. He groaned. If he’d been wondering how things could get any worse, he’d forgotten that Bernice and Dennis were coming down with Susan to celebrate their anniversary.

  His phone rang. He glanced at the screen, an unrecognised mobile number. Should he just ignore it? He knew that his suspension from duty would have been kept quiet, with only those in his immediate circle informed, but it couldn’t hope to remain that way for ever. Could the press have got wind of it already? The last thing he wanted was to appear in that evening’s Middlesbury Reporter.

  He looked at the clock. Barely two hours had passed since he’d left Welwyn. Could the news have spread that fast? If he answered the phone with his customary greeting, he’d be confirming to any journalists that the number they had got hold of was his personal number. He’d never get any peace again. His finger hovered over the reject call icon, before stopping in mid-air. Didn’t his voicemail message confirm his identity? He couldn’t remember.

  He pressed answer.

  “Hello.” His voice was neutral. He’d let the caller identify themselves first.

  “That you, Boss?”

  Warren released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Yes, Tony, it’s me.”

  “Thank God. I wasn’t sure if those bastards at Professional Standards had confiscated your phone.”

  “Tony, I appreciate the call but you know you shouldn’t be speaking to me, even with a new SIM card.”

  Sutton ignored him. “We’ve got to meet.”

  “No, Tony. I’m suspended. You’re skating on thin ice already and I’m not taking you down with me.”

  Sutton ignored him again. “Back room, Prince and Pauper, half an hour.”

  He hung up.

  * * *

  “We must stop meeting like this. People will think we are having an affair.”

  Warren smiled weakly at Sutton’s attempt at levity.

/>   Reaching into his jacket pocket Sutton produced a set of folded computer print-outs. “Gary Hastings and I went back and had a look at everything that Pete printed out for you about Delmarno. The differences are marked with green highlighter pen.”

  There was a lot of green highlighter.

  “Shit,” Warren breathed. There were two new names under the list of known associates, Paul Rubens and Martin Bixby.

  “Rubens is nothing. He’s just a bent accountant. The most interesting person is next on the list.”

  “Martin Bixby. What do we know about him?”

  Sutton produced another wad of papers. “Lots. Would you like the highlights?”

  Warren nodded.

  “Martin Bixby, born in Coventry on the sixth of July 1953—the day after Vinny Delmarno entered this world.”

  Both born in Coventry, they were probably both on the same ward in Walsgrave Hospital, Warren realised.

  “They essentially grew up like brothers—same area of Coventry, same primary school and secondary school. Some minor offences, such as shoplifting, as kids, before they went their separate ways for a few years.”

  Sutton pushed another sheet of paper across to Warren. “This is where it gets scary.”

  Warren skimmed the page, a brief service record from the army. “There’s not a lot here. Joined up 1970, aged sixteen and a half, followed by his service history until sergeant, but then nothing from 1976 until 1983 when he received a dishonourable discharge.”

  “The army refuse to give us any information about the reasons for his discharge, but we have a report that he was arrested several times in the preceding months for being drunk and disorderly. The last one was the week before Christmas when he put some poor sod in hospital with a fractured jaw and four busted ribs.”

  “What about this period between ’76 and ’83? There’s no detail about what he was doing or where he was posted.”

  “That’s the worrying bit. I phoned the MOD; the Military Police are usually pretty helpful, but they suddenly clammed up and claimed that they don’t comment on former service personnel as a matter of policy—which is crap. So on a hunch I went down to see Lee Robson, he’s ex-army.”