Silent as the Grave

by Paul Gitsham

  “Who is he?” Vinny’s voice was low, dangerous. He unfolded himself from the couch.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it fucking matters!” His voice was a scream.

  He rounded the chair in three paces and Jocelyn suddenly found herself stepping backwards. She stopped and, ignoring her instincts, stood her ground.

  “You wouldn’t know him anyway.”

  Vinny’s breathing was ragged, his nostrils flaring. “Tell me!”

  Vinny was a violent man; Jocelyn knew this. In addition to the man he had been convicted of killing, his hands were stained with the blood of countless others who had got in his way or tried to betray him. But in a quarter century of marriage, he had never lifted his hand against her. He was old-fashioned in that way, she supposed. But today had to be different.

  His fists were clenching and unclenching, but somehow he maintained his self-control, remained beyond arm’s length, as if by keeping that distance he could stop himself from stepping over that line in the sand.

  Jocelyn stepped forward, forcing herself to keep her eyes open, to accept what she knew was coming.

  “He’s asked me to marry him and I’ve said yes.” She placed her wedding ring and the engagement ring that Vinny had given her all of those years ago on the edge of the bar. And braced herself.

  * * *

  The split lip and swollen tongue made her voice thick and slurred; the tears were real enough. She’d driven for almost twenty minutes before finally pulling over and fumbling for her mobile phone.

  The call was picked up on the second ring.

  It took only a few moments for her to be put through.

  “My name is Jocelyn Delmarno and I’ve been attacked by my husband. He says he’s going to kill me. Please come quick…”

  Chapter 49

  The call to Sutton’s office phone was the last thing he was expecting.

  He was already in the stairwell next to the toilets, mobile phone in hand before the handset finished rattling in the cradle. Given the events of the last twenty-four hours, the last person Sutton should have been phoning was DCI Warren Jones, now that he was on suspension.

  Warren’s phone connected on the second ring.

  “Jocelyn Delmarno’s downstairs. It looks like her husband is on his way back to prison.”

  * * *

  Jocelyn Delmarno was a victim of domestic violence. Therefore there was no way that Sutton or anyone else in CID was getting face time with her any time soon, especially when he refused to give reasons for why he wanted to speak to her. After officers trained in dealing with vulnerable witnesses picked up the distraught woman from the roadside, she had been taken to hospital and assessed. Her injuries had then been photographed for evidence. Finally, she had been returned to Middlesbury police station to make a statement.

  Again, Sutton hadn’t been allowed access to the victim. However, interview room one had two-way glass and the sergeant interviewing Jocelyn Delmarno had decided that objecting to his silent, unseen presence as a point of principle wasn’t worth the grief it would cause.

  Jocelyn Delmarno was a handsome woman. Her date of birth claimed that she was fifty-one years old, but she could probably pass for forty on a good day, Sutton decided. However, today wasn’t a good day.

  The split lip and swelling to the left side of her mouth lent weight to her claim to have been the victim of a right cross. The bruising to her right temple spoke of where her face had impacted the kitchen counter as the punch had knocked her off her feet.

  “So tell me again what happened, Ms Delmarno, in as much detail as you can remember. Take all the time you need.”

  Sutton quietly thanked the constable who had let him into the viewing booth and left. He didn’t need to hear the story again. The most important thing in his mind was the warrant that had been drafted for Delmarno’s arrest and return to prison for breaching his licence.

  Ordinarily, the team would have twenty-four hours to question a suspect before they had to apply for an extension or release them. Because of that, teams often went in underprepared. That wouldn’t be an issue this time. They could take their time in deciding how to question him. He wasn’t going anywhere soon. Which was just as well. At the moment their investigation was still flying under the radar and Sutton wasn’t going to draw attention to their interest in Vinny Delmarno until Warren gave the say-so.

  * * *

  Vinny Delmarno’s rage had eventually evaporated to be replaced by a sense of shame and fear—shame at what he had just done and fear for the consequences. The Mafiaesque lifestyle that Delmarno had grown up idolising was a sanitised, Hollywood version where men where men and honour was the driving force behind what they did. As he grew older he soon came to understand that organised crime was a filthy, honourless profession. That the Mafia—be it Italian, Russian or even British was populated by amoral scum, with no values. That even the Krays were ultimately nothing more than common thugs.

  Regardless, Delmarno had always had one rule: never hit a woman. That he had arranged for the “disciplining” of prostitutes was not a contradiction—that was business, not anger. And besides he never actually did it himself. He had kept that rule his entire life. Until today.

  And today’s mistake just might be the end of him. He had no doubt that Jocelyn was on her way to the police. That within hours they would be there, warrant in hand, to take him back into custody. He swallowed hard. He was afraid, he realised. Twenty-two years had been stolen from him. How many more would he lose? He’d survived the last stretch on hate. Hatred for those who had betrayed him. But was that enough now? Martin had killed that treacherous gardener and the pigs who had framed him had all got what was coming to them. Did he have enough hate left to sustain him through another stretch? He feared the answer was no.

  How long did he have now? An hour? More? He had no idea. Regardless, he wasn’t going to be here when they arrived. He glanced at the clock. No time to get changed, he decided, as he grabbed a small rucksack from the hall cupboard.

  Think. What did he need to take with him? What was necessary and what could he get Bixby to pick up for him at a later date?

  Taking a deep breath he tried to calm his racing mind. First stop the medicine cabinet. He’d been a slave to its contents for almost half of his life. He thought back to those first warning signs. Could he have prevented it? The diabetes wasn’t his fault, but his failure to control it and its ultimate effects were. He’d been arrogant. He accepted that now. Vinny Delmarno, king of all he surveyed, wasn’t going to let bloody diabetes defeat him. He was young. He had his best years ahead of him. He had a wife, a kid and more money than he knew what to do with. Most importantly, he had respect.

  He’d been a bloody fool. Decades staring at the same four walls gives a man a lot of time for introspection. He’d ignored the symptoms, the tiredness and peeing, for over a year before deciding reluctantly that maybe the doctors were right and it was time to start controlling his diabetes a bit better. When a change of diet and cutting back on the booze made no difference, he finally went to his GP. Protein in his urine, they said. Well obviously, I’m diabetic, he’d countered. No, the reply came, that’s glucose. Protein is different. Protein is more serious.

  Delmarno’s formal science education had ended at fifteen, but pretty soon he was using terms like glomerular filtration rate, proteinuria and haematuria like a professional. But he’d left it too late. A lifetime of ignoring the rules—even those set by his doctors—was catching up with him, and by mid 1987 new words, like dialysis and most scarily of all renal failure were also part of his lexicon.

  By the end of that year a lifetime of ignoring other rules meant that his newfound medical vocabulary was being supplemented by a new legal one: remanded, living off immoral earnings and finally murder. By the time he was formally charged in January of 1988 he was spending four days each week in hospital, surrounded by both nurses and lawyers.

  He pulled out the pac
kets of drugs. How many days’ supply did he have left? Like all transplant patients he relied on a cocktail of immunosuppressive drugs to stop his body rejecting the replacement organ. Stop taking them and within days his immune system would reawaken, recognising the kidney as non-self, as foreign, and start attacking it as if it was a tumour or invading pathogen.

  Six days’ worth. He swore. He’d have to get Martin to pick up his repeat prescription within the next twenty-four hours. He doubted that the police would have the common sense to stake out his local pharmacist, but he wasn’t going to take any chances and the sooner he got the next three months’ supply the better.

  Next stop the master bedroom. Delmarno had learnt from his mistakes. He ignored the small safe in the wardrobe—the same safe that snake-in-the-grass gardener of his had stolen his gun from—that was just for show. (How had he got the combination? Delmarno had never received a satisfactory answer to that question.) Jocelyn kept her jewellery in it and a few hundred pounds in cash. Instead, he went straight to the king-size bed. With a grunt he slid it across the wooden floor, before dropping to his knees.

  The floorboards had been replaced so expertly, that even when you knew what you were looking for the hairline gaps were all but invisible. A firm push on the edge of the correct board resulted in a muted click. Now the board could be slid to one side, revealing another, smaller safe. A quick spin of the reassuringly weighted dials (Delmarno didn’t trust the newfangled digital ones) and the door opened to reveal what he euphemistically called his “life insurance policy”. Except that this policy paid out to preserve his life, rather than at the ending of it. Five thousand pounds in cash—plus another five thousand euros—was useful, but the large, untraceable handgun and two dozen bullets would be even more helpful, he decided.

  He glanced at the clock in the kitchen. Jocelyn had left forty-five minutes ago. If he assumed that the police would be here within the hour, it was time to leave. But where could he go? He entered the enclosed garage and stopped. Jocelyn would no doubt tell the police the registration numbers of all his cars. Wherever he chose to go had to be within walking distance. Bixby. It was his only choice. He pulled out his phone, before pausing again. Couldn’t the police trace mobile phone calls? If he called his old friend, he’d be leading them right to him. Remembering a movie he’d once seen he removed the phone’s battery and placed it in the bin. The little gadgets were like tracking devices, he recalled.

  Would Jocelyn tell the police that he was at Bixby’s? He doubted it. She hadn’t said five words to the man in all the time that Delmarno had been out of prison. He was just the hired help. He doubted that she even knew where he lived. Fortunately, Delmarno had always taken an interest in his old friends. It was one of the reasons they stayed loyal to him, he felt.

  He took one more look around at the house that the Delmarnos had called home for so long. Was this the last time he’d see it? He remembered the time over twenty years ago when he’d done the same thing. That time he had been convinced that he would be coming back—and he had, twenty-two years later. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  Yet strangely, he didn’t feel sad. It wasn’t his home, he saw, with sudden clarity; it hadn’t been for over twenty years. For the past few months, he had been little more than a house guest. Every room in the place had been redecorated at least once in the time that he had been gone. He hadn’t chosen any of this wallpaper. He’d had no say in the pale cream gloss paint on the door frames. The chrome-and-glass kitchen was nothing to do with him. It was all Jocelyn. It was her home, the centre of a life that he was no longer a part of.

  He curled his lip. Well screw the bitch. She needed him more than he needed her. When all of this blew over, he’d start again. Rubens had already created that fictional investment company to channel his overseas earnings back into the country. He could just get him to invest the money in a new venture.

  Delmarno smiled. This was just another temporary setback. In a few months’ time it’d be back the way it used to be. A simpler time. Him, Bixby and Rubens against the world.

  Friday 13 April

  Chapter 50

  Eight a.m. and Bixby sat on the edge of the bed, wearing nothing but his underwear. He took another long swig from the bottle of whisky, having dispensed with the tumbler some hours ago. Shards of it mingled on the carpet with fragments from the broken picture frames that he’d smashed in an explosion of temper after the phone call. Blood from when he’d stood on the sharp splinters on his way back from the bathroom now stained the cream carpet. He should go and clean the cuts and bandage them, he thought distantly. Instead, he took another mouthful, the alcohol numbing the throbbing pain in his foot. How long until the booze numbed his brain enough for him to sleep without the dreams?

  He squinted blurrily at the clock. Over twenty-four hours had passed since he’d last slept. If two hours of fitful tossing and turning could be called that.

  It was all coming apart. The slow downward spiral that had started when Vinny left prison was now a terrifying plummet towards oblivion. Bixby felt as if he was being suffocated.

  Barely twelve months ago, he and Jocelyn had been living their dream. Or so they had convinced themselves. Running clean, successful, legal businesses, Jocelyn had broken her links with the filth and corruption that had hung around Vinny like a stinking cloud. They hadn’t been rich—comfortable for sure, but not wealthy. And neither of them cared. Vinny had craved money; he’d driven himself to acquire material goods as a proxy for the respect that he’d been denied since childhood.

  Bixby placed his head in his hands and thought about his old friend—a man whom he had once loved like a brother—whom he still loved. It was only that love that kept Delmarno alive, when all logic said that he should be killed.

  Vinny was a disappointment to his family, to his father in particular. Short and weedy, he’d been an embarrassment on the football pitch. Nobody in his immediate family was remotely academic, so his failures at school were less of a source of dismay than his lack of athletic prowess. Perhaps if he had taken a more active interest in his parents’ pizza business, he could have gained the approval that he so desired.

  But his parents were conservative in matters of money. Years of hardship had lowered their expectations, had led them to favour security over risk-taking. When the shop next door to their pizza parlour had become vacant, a teenage Vinny had urged his father to take it over. To knock through and expand their business from an over-the-counter fast-food parlour into a proper restaurant and expand the menu to include some of the pasta dishes his mother was so expert at making. His father had refused, scornful of his young son’s naiveté, and to this day, Vinny would speak disdainfully of a missed opportunity to capitalise on the growing popularity of Italian cuisine in the late sixties and early seventies.

  But as an outsider, Bixby had seen what Vinny could not. That Delmarno senior was still scarred from his experiences during and after the war. The rise of fascism and the policies of Mussolini had led to the Delmarnos, like so many families, fleeing first to France, then after the war further afield. Settling initially in Birmingham, Delmarno’s father, Ernesto, and his two older brothers had moved to Coventry to seek work during the post-war construction boom.

  After marrying another member of this close-knit diaspora, Ernesto had spotted a gap in the market and started selling Italian-recipe ice cream and later pizza. These exotic foodstuffs had appealed to a niche market initially and times were hard. Added to that, casual and even overt racism had made fitting into this new society difficult at times. “Wop” or even the incorrect “spic” had been some of the milder racial abuse directed at the family in the early years. That the Delmarnos had fled Italy because of their opposition to fascism and the policies of Mussolini had cut little ice with some of the residents of a city still scarred by the devastating blitz of November 1940.

  To outsiders, Vinny espoused a loyalty to his family that echoed the strongest of Italian traditions; yet Bixby had se
en the real man. Vinny was contemptuous of his father’s timidity, yet it didn’t take a psychologist to see that everything he had done since was aimed at gaining his father’s approval. Ernesto Delmarno had lived in near poverty, working sixteen hours a day six days a week and had still laboured to keep his ancient bicycle roadworthy. Vinny had bought his first new car before his twentieth birthday and had insisted on parking it outside his parents’ run-down council house where all the neighbours could see it. When Vinny turned eighteen, his father had taken him to their local pub and bought him his first legal pint, but then suffered the ignominy of having to borrow money from a friend to purchase a second round; on the occasion of his twenty-first birthday, Vinny had hired the whole pub and paid for an open bar.

  Yet despite his desire to prove himself a better man than his father, none of Vinny’s fast-food outlets sold pizza…

  Bixby took another swig and was surprised to find it empty. He looked blurrily towards the kitchenette, unable to remember if there was anything more to drink. The bottle dropped to the carpet and his head sank into his hands.

  Everything was a mess; he just wanted to run and hide. But where to? And with who? He should be elated. In just a few days Jocelyn, the only woman he had ever loved, the woman who had finally given him a reason to grow old, had been due to become Mrs Delmarno for the second time, banging the final nail in the coffin of a relationship that started to implode the moment Vinny had left prison. For the second time he would have been forced to watch as Vinny took the woman that he didn’t deserve away from him. And then what? Vinny was expecting him to kill her. To yet again make use of those special skills that made him so valuable.

  But Jocelyn had solved that problem. Vinny was on his way back to prison, Rubens was due to arrange the money that would secure all of their hard work and they were free to resume the life that both of them wanted.