by Paul Gitsham
Bixby bellowed in pain. Warren couldn’t understand what his wife was screaming in the killer’s ear but her fingernails, torn and bloody from her ordeal, were jammed into his eyes, digging in, and then she stopped screaming and Bixby bellowed even louder as Susan’s teeth found his left ear.
The distraction was enough. Warren gave up on the battle of strengths, instead forcing his index finger into the gap between Bixby’s trigger finger and the gun’s trigger guard. The sheer force of the gun discharging was almost enough to cause Warren to lose his grip, but he’d been expecting it and he closed his eyes against the shower of plastic fragments from the glovebox. Unfortunately, the recoil had worked in Bixby’s favour and the gun had been forced upwards a few more degrees.
Warren pulled the trigger again and once more the gun recoiled, forcing it upwards a few more degrees. Another explosion and now the entire central console was missing. How many bullets did the gun have? Warren knew next to nothing about the capacity of this model of handgun, and even if he did he’d lost count of how many bullets had already been fired.
Warren squeezed again and the remains of the dashboard disappeared. Again and a hole was punched in the windscreen. Again and another hole appeared.
Then nothing.
A click.
Another click.
Over the sudden silence the sirens were obviously nearer. And it was this sudden relief from the disappearance of the threat and the prospect of an imminent rescue that caused Warren and Susan to relax fractionally.
Bixby relaxed too and his sudden lack of resistance was enough to catch the Jones off guard. Letting go of the useless gun, he swung his left hand around in a sweeping haymaker, aimed directly at Warren’s battered nose. At the same time he jabbed his right hand up and over his own shoulder, fingers extended towards Susan’s face.
With both of his attackers temporarily disabled he lifted his feet over the shattered dashboard and kicked the remains of the windscreen out. Then, before they knew it he was out, head first, sliding down the BMW’s bonnet to land awkwardly on the road.
And then he was gone.
Chapter 52
It was late evening before Warren was discharged from accident and emergency. His whole body ached, but the ringing in his ears from the airbags had subsided and aside from a swollen nose and an assortment of cuts, bruises and sprains he had been pronounced fit and well by the doctors.
To his relief, Susan and her parents were also largely unscathed, with Dennis having borne the worst of it, sporting a chipped tooth and a couple of nasty cuts to his mouth. Bernice may or may not have had a slight black eye, but true to form she had reapplied her make-up before leaving the cubicle.
Tony Sutton had already talked his way in to see his chief inspector whilst the doctors were assessing him and so Warren already knew that the immediate search of the surrounding streets had failed to locate Bixby. The DI was now back at the Joneses’ house, working with Crime Scene Manager Andy Harrison and his SOCO team. Karen Hardwick and Mags Richardson were en route to the site of another abandoned vehicle north of Hertford, whilst Gary Hastings continued to work the computers back at Middlesbury CID, trying to determine if Pete Kent had concealed any more information about Martin Bixby.
By all reports, the CID office was filled to bursting as off-duty colleagues came in to help out and others stayed past the end of their shift. At times like this, the Police were like a family, and the close-knit nature of Middlesbury CID made it more so.
Most surprising to Warren had been the response of DSI Grayson. When he heard that Warren, Susan and her parents would be taken to an anonymous Travelodge on the outskirts of Stevenage whilst their house was examined and then secured, he had immediately insisted that they use his own home.
The offer had been completely unexpected—and seemingly out of character. Or was it? Since day one, Grayson had struck Warren as the worst kind of self-serving political animal. Brought in as the interim senior officer in charge of Middlesbury CID after Sheehy’s removal, he’d stayed in post after Warren’s appointment to help him find his feet. That he also provided increased oversight for the largely autonomous unit went without saying, and rightly so. Nobody wanted another Gavin Sheehy.
At first Warren had been dismayed at Grayson’s lack of involvement in the day-to-day running of CID. He probably spent more time at headquarters in Welwyn Garden City than he spent at his desk in Middlesbury; although nominally the senior officer in charge of all cases, in practice he invariably delegated the role of Senior Investigating Officer to Warren. Yet when it was time to speak to the media, either at the press conferences he so loved, or to announce significant breakthroughs from Warren’s team, he would be groomed and polished in front of the cameras, soaking up the publicity.
Yet wasn’t that what Warren wanted? He had made it clear during his interview for the job that he was hungry for experience and that he wanted to learn on his feet, to be prepared for his next rank. Well wasn’t that what he was getting? A baptism of fire it had certainly been—a major murder within a fortnight of taking the role, followed by a serial killer over the new year, plus countless other more humdrum yet equally challenging cases, had been combined with the difficulties associated with his first senior management position.
As for Grayson’s unexpected kindness, it wasn’t unprecedented, Warren recalled. He still remembered how he had bent the rules to grant Warren more personal leave to deal with the death of his grandmother and the man’s insistence that a worn-out and still-grieving Warren take time off at Christmas.
So the question was: what were Grayson’s motives? Was it an apparent act of kindness towards one of his officers, or was it something rather more sinister? The man had connections to the West Midlands Police at the time of Delmarno’s arrest and had held a high-enough rank to have authorised the drugs raid that had allowed the planting of the gun that killed Frankie Cruise. And what about the golf connection? Grayson was an avid golfer. That was well known. But what club did he belong to? The Allingham Golf Club was refusing to release its member list without a warrant and again Warren didn’t want to draw that sort of attention to his investigations. Was Grayson there the night that Liebig and his wife had been killed? Was he the mysterious man who had bribed Zachary Eddleston to spike the unfortunate coroner’s drinks that night? The sparse description given by the young waiter couldn’t exclude him.
Warren’s polite refusal had been immediately dismissed. Grayson’s three children had all grown up and left home. There was plenty of room. What about making Grayson and his wife a target for Bixby? Again the notion was rejected. Grayson’s house was far more secure than any Travelodge and the chief constable had authorised armed officers to mount a protection detail.
Yet the man was potentially involved in the killing of his father all those years ago and more recently the murder of several innocent victims—could Warren take his wife and in-laws to stay with such a person?
In the end, the decision had been taken out of his hands.
“Do it,” Susan had instructed. “We need to end this. If you can find out where Grayson’s loyalties lie, then we know where we stand.”
“But what about your parents? They aren’t involved in this.”
But they were, Bernice had insisted. The shock of the attack had now transformed into a deep rage. As Warren had quietly explained all that happened—about the death of his father all those years ago and the conspiracy that had worked to keep it all hidden—Bernice’s face had grown redder. Beside her Dennis, a man of few words normally, had finally spoken.
“You have lived with this for almost twenty-five years Warren. For the past four years I have called you my son. And if we can help you find peace and end this nightmare then we cannot—we will not—walk away.”
And so it was decided. Tony Sutton had sided with Susan and pointed out even if he was wrong and Warren’s suspicions were true, there was little Grayson could do to them whilst they were under his own roof with
out implicating himself—and this whole affair seemed to be about cover-ups. Furthermore, despite his training, not even Martin Bixby was likely to get past the armed officers sitting outside the detective superintendent’s house.
Thus, with misgivings still weighing heavily on his mind, Warren, Susan, Bernice and Dennis had clambered into the back of an unmarked people carrier, with two firearms officers sitting up front, and set off for John Grayson’s family home.
* * *
Refilwe Grayson was not what Warren was expecting when the people carrier pulled up outside detective superintendent Grayson’s large, five-bedroom home on the outskirts of Middlesbury. Grayson had been correct when he said that his family home would be more secure than a local hotel. Set back from the road, the detached house was surrounded on all sides by a garden, ringed by tall, metal fences. Powerful security lights illuminated the four guests as they crunched up the drive. Behind them a powered metal gate whirred shut. Should Bixby track them down he would probably not even make it that far without being challenged by the two armed officers standing in the street. Another two officers were patrolling the grounds, with a canine unit for back-up. Warren shuddered to think what the bill was for such an operation, but he breathed a little easier. Beside him, Susan’s face relaxed and the tight grip that she had maintained on his right hand eased somewhat.
John Grayson’s wife was a complete contrast to her fussy, bureaucratic husband; she barely waited to be introduced before embracing the foursome in a big hug and welcoming them into the couple’s spacious kitchen. A tall, striking woman of South African descent, within moments she was clucking over her house guests like a mother hen, pressing glasses of brandy into the hands of the four newcomers and announcing that there was plenty of food.
Despite himself, Warren was barely able to suppress a smile when his wife summarily dismissed Grayson’s suggestion that the family might be a bit overwhelmed and he was dispatched to get some spare chairs from the utility room. As his boss meekly left the room, Warren reflected that Grayson and his father-in-law should perhaps compare notes…
Refilwe was a terrific cook it soon transpired and despite the traumas of the day, within an hour the six were enjoying a glass of wine in an atmosphere more akin to a dinner party. No mention had been made of the dramatic events that day and if one looked past the cuts and bruises, it was easy to forget what had happened. Refilwe Grayson was a very shrewd judge of character and a very intelligent woman, Warren was starting to realise.
John Grayson admitted as much later that night. An hour earlier, Tony Sutton had dropped off some clothes for Warren and Susan, and Bernice’s and Dennis’s overnight bags. The older couple had retired to bed, the stresses of the day finally catching up with them. Susan was having a long hot bath and Warren would join her in the guest bedroom later. In the meantime he sat with Grayson in his study, enjoying one last whisky.
“She’s the most intelligent person I have ever known.” Grayson was in a mellow mood, and more verbose than Warren had ever seen him before. At the senior officer’s insistence, Warren was calling him John. After all, it would be strange to have Warren calling him sir, whilst the rest of his guests were on first-name terms with him.
“She’s a barrister, I understand.” Warren knew pretty much nothing about the man and his family. He hadn’t even known how many kids he had until earlier that day. However, there was a picture of Refilwe in silks on the wall, next to various photographs of the couple’s three children.
Grayson nodded. “International human rights. She’s currently representing victims of the Mugabe regime in Zimbabwe.” Well that probably helped explain the high level of security at the couple’s house. A senior detective like Grayson would be careful about securing his home—more than Warren had been, he noted with some shame—but would hardly be considered a high-risk target. His wife on the other hand…
“It’s a tragic reversal, really. When I first met Refilwe, she was involved in the anti-apartheid movement, here in the UK. She was born in South Africa to a white British father and black mother but her family managed to emigrate to the UK when she was young. She advocated on behalf of black political prisoners and Mugabe was still something of a hero to those seeking to overturn white-minority rule in countries like South Africa.”
Grayson shook his head sadly. “She still describes her support of Mugabe as the biggest error of judgement she has ever made.”
“So when did you meet her?”
Despite the relaxed surroundings, Warren hadn’t forgotten that Grayson was still a potential suspect in the conspiracy. He’d held the rank of detective inspector back then and could have authorised a low-level drugs bust such as the one that had resulted in the planting of Delmarno’s handgun.
“Christmas 1986,” Grayson smiled at the memory. “I was working car crime with West Midlands—we had a few joint operations with the WMP back then—and she was in a bar with some friends. She really turned heads in those days, I can tell you. I was in with a few of the lads, getting into the Christmas spirit before I had the week off. Somehow my group ended up sitting with her group and before you knew it I was next to her in a corner of the bar.” He shook his head. “It’s remarkable really, the hand that fate deals you sometimes. I’m ashamed to say that back in those days, I lived up to a fair few of the less attractive stereotypes about the police. We all did. The only reason I ended up talking to Refilwe was because all of her white friends with big breasts had been taken by my rather more pushy colleagues.
“Anyway, I ended up with her phone number. The next day I postponed my train back to Herts for twenty-four hours and took her out for a meal. The rest as they say is history. When my secondment ended and I was recalled to Herts in October 1989, I decided to push my luck a bit further and asked her to come back with me. We were married on the twenty-third of December, the third anniversary of our first date.”
The times and dates matched the limited details that Warren had gleaned from his service record, placing him in the West Midlands Police at the time of the conspiracy, but he claimed to have been working car crime—it seemed unlikely that he could have been in a position to have authorised the drugs raid. Nevertheless, it wasn’t impossible—they could just have needed the signature from any old inspector and hoped that nobody looked too carefully.
“So did you work a lot of car crime, back then?” Warren asked casually.
Grayson nodded. “Yeah, it was a big deal. Car alarms and security systems weren’t very effective back in the eighties.” He snorted. “You could pop the central locking on some models with half a tennis ball.”
“Where were you based? I might have served there myself a few years later.”
“Towards the north and the west mostly—up in the black country, Wolverhampton, Walsall, close to Staffordshire, that sort of area.”
That was about as geographically far from Coventry as one could be and still work in the same police force. How likely was it that a detective inspector working car crime in the north-west of the county would have come into contact with teams working organised crime, such as drugs in the south-east of the area? Unlikely but not impossible—after all car crime was often facilitated by organised gangs. It was possible that there was some overlap.
Warren decided to pursue a different tack. He nodded towards the expensive set of golf clubs in the corner.
“I’ve seen those in your office; do you and Refilwe play together?”
Grayson shook his head. “No, Refilwe tried it a few times when we first met, but it wasn’t really her cup of tea. I go on my own mostly, although Refilwe likes to come along for the charity days and presentation evenings. She’s quite friendly with a few of the other wives and partners.” Grayson smiled. “She doesn’t play herself but she learnt long ago that it pays to sound as if you do if you want to get on in her chosen profession; she can talk about it all day and as long as you don’t ask her to hold a club and prove herself, she’ll fool you into thinking she’s ou
t every Saturday.”
Warren’s mouth was dry.
“So you’re a member of a club, then?”
“Oh yes. Must be over twenty years now.” He looked at Warren conspiratorially. “You should come along one evening; you never know who you might find yourself playing with. The police are quite well represented in the game.”
Warren’s heart was pounding. “I’ll have to look into it. Where do you play?”
“Just locally, Middlesbury Golf and Outdoor Sports. It’s the course that you see when you look west from the common.”
“Do you ever play at the Allingham Golf Club?”
Grayson snorted. “Christ no! I’ve got three kids at university. The green fees alone would pay for a fourth one!”
He shook his head slightly. “Besides which, we played them once in a charity match and comments from a few of the more conservative members of the club suggested that even if I wanted to join, my face—or rather that of my wife’s—wouldn’t fit, if you catch my drift.”
So Grayson claimed he didn’t play at the Allingham Golf Club. And he had said he’d been working in car crime on the opposite side of the county when the earliest days of the conspiracy had taken place. Yet Warren only had his word. Could the man be trusted?
Warren felt more isolated than ever before. At the moment, the people he could rely on could be counted on the fingers of one hand. And with his suspension his options were even more limited. He knew that his team at CID were loyal—and that they would follow his instructions, given via Tony Sutton, up to a point, but he had no idea how far he could push his luck before simple self-preservation would make them start questioning the wisdom of their association with Warren. It was ironic that the scars left from the Gavin Sheehy affair could be standing in the way of Warren getting to the truth behind it.
