Silent as the Grave

by Paul Gitsham

  “A lot of things can change in twenty years, Vinny. The whole disliking Rubens thing—it was just a ruse. They’ve been together for years.”

  Delmarno paused in surprise, before lifting the gun again.

  “So if that’s true tell me why was Jocelyn round your flat—” he paused for effect “—and what about that white BMW I asked you to trace for me? The same fucking beamer that was parked in your parking space.”

  If Bixby was shocked by the revelation, he didn’t show it.

  “You’re right, she did come around mine.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Vinny, I’ve been trying to get her to tell you about Rubens for weeks.” He reached out a hand. “She didn’t want to hurt you. But I told her she had to come clean.” He stepped forward. “Vinny, you’re my oldest friend. And Rubens is my second oldest. And I love Jocelyn like a sister. The whole thing’s a fucking mess and I just wanted to try and fix things. To make them the way they used to be. When you saw us together, she was upset. I told her that she needed to tell to you before the wedding, or I’d speak to you myself. She knew I was right and she just needed a hug is all.”

  The look of anguish on Bixby’s face was so convincing that if Warren hadn’t seen the intelligence reports about the couple he might have been fooled also. Of course, given the man’s fragile mental state it was possible that Bixby was fooling himself as much as his audience.

  Delmarno said nothing, the silence stretching between them.

  “So what’s on the sheet of paper?”

  Bixby’s face went momentarily blank, as if he’d forgotten what he was holding in his hand.

  “The last piece of the puzzle.”

  “The person who was responsible for stitching me up. The fucker who gave the orders to his old man.” Delmarno turned, acknowledging Warren’s presence for the first time. His lip twisted cruelly.

  “DCI Warren Jones—or little Warren MacNamara as you were called when you found your old man in that garage.”

  Warren bit his lip, not trusting himself to speak. He was only a small part of the scene that was playing out in front of him and he dared not say anything that would place him in a more central role. Delmarno pointed towards Bixby with his chin. “I guess you figured out who set that one up.”

  He leant forward over Warren. “But you know it’s not enough. Twenty-two years your old man and his buddies stole off me. And I am going to make them suffer. One by one. That fucker Sheehy already got his. Then there was that bloody gardener.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t even remember his name.”

  “So why do you want me?” Warren’s voice was little more than a croak.

  “Good question.” He looked over his shoulder. “Martin, why do we want him? Surely he’s more trouble than he’s worth. I hope you’ve got a foolproof way of hiding his body, the last thing we want is this guy hanging around our necks; you know how the pigs pull out all the stops for one of their own.”

  “Leave that to me. He knows too much to keep alive. As to why—well, don’t they say that the ‘sins of the father shall be visited upon his sons’?”

  Delmarno nodded approvingly. “I always loved a bit of scripture. So before you use that little piece of paper to burn the place down, let me have a look at it. I want the name of the bastard who set me up.”

  Delmarno reached out for the crumpled sheet.

  The gunshot felled him like a tree.

  Bixby stood and stared at the smoking gun in his hand, the shot reverberating around the room. Finally, his gaze shifted to the body of Delmarno—a man he’d known all his life, who now lay at his feet.

  “Right through the kidney—how ironic. You brought it on yourself; you do know that, don’t you?”

  Bixby’s voice was calm, matter-of-fact; he was clearly unaware of the tears trickling down his cheeks. Complete dissociation, Warren saw. The man in front of him had no idea what he was doing; it was as if there were two completely separate personalities occupying the same body and both were in control at the same time. If Warren had been concerned before, now he was out-and-out scared.

  Bixby continued to address the crumpled form in front of him. “You’re poison, you know that, don’t you? Even when we were kids you were no good for me. You pretended to be my friend, but all the time you were using me.” His eyes lost focus again. “Why was it always you on lookout and me nicking stuff? Why did you never get your hands dirty? And what about when I came back from the army? You said you wanted to help me—to give me a job. I could have been in charge of security at one of those pubs you owned or even driving a cab, but no, you wanted me doing your shit again. And then cleaning it all up. And if I didn’t clean it properly, whose fingerprints were all over the place? Who was going to take the blame? Not you.”

  He crossed the room in two strides; ignoring the gun in his hand he laid into the insensate body before him, raining kick after kick for almost a full minute. Finally he paused, his breath shaky, before speaking again as if nothing had happened.

  “You never deserved Jocelyn, you know that? She was pure when she met you—” his face twisted, even as his voice remained flat “—but you corrupted her. I knew what you were doing. You claimed to love her, but you were using her as a cover. You and that slimy little bastard Rubens. If it all went tits up, Jocelyn was the one whose fingers would get burnt.”

  He swung another kick at Delmarno, smashing his boot into his face. “And that’s for hitting her, you cowardly shit.”

  He turned on his heel and paced back towards the fireplace.

  “At least she was an adult. She made her choices and she wasn’t as big a fool as you thought. But then Filipo came along.” Now he was smiling, almost wistful. “In all of the years I’ve known you, that boy is the only positive contribution that you’ve made to this planet. And I will NOT let you drag him down into your squalor and filth.”

  “Was that why you arranged for the gun to be planted?” It was a leap of logic, but Warren had spotted what he hoped was Bixby’s weakness.

  The look of startled surprise on Bixby’s face caused the bound officer to flinch, as the man raised his gun—he’d clearly forgotten that Warren was even in the room.

  “Yeah, it was time for him to go.” He gestured back at Delmarno, lowering the gun again. “I wanted to kill him, but I knew that Jocelyn still loved him and she’d never forgive me. Then the diabetes finally caught up with him and promised to do it for me.” He snorted. “When we was kids we used to steal sweets from the corner shop. He’d shove them down his neck until he was buzzing—I’ve often wondered if that contributed to his illness. ’Course the arrogant bastard ignored all of the advice that they gave him.” He shook his head. “The number of times I saved his life by getting Lucozade down his neck or injecting him with his insulin because he hadn’t been watching his sugar levels. Not even that worked in the end. He was completely resistant. Christ, listen to me, I know more about his treatment than he does.”

  He leant against the fireplace, and again Warren doubted he remembered he was even in the room. “I should have let him die. Would have saved a lot of hassle and we wouldn’t be here in this mess now.”

  “So why didn’t you?” Warren needed him to stay focused, even if the last thing he wanted to do was draw the man’s attention.

  “If he died, I couldn’t protect Jocelyn and Filipo. You see, everything was coming to a head. If he was out of the picture, then they would have started looking further afield. Jocelyn, me, even Rubens—although they can have that fucker. As usual, everyone else would have been left carrying the can.”

  “So you did a deal.”

  “Yeah, seemed like win-win. The pigs got Vinny; we got our lives back. Vinny was fucked anyway. His kidneys were gone. No way was he going to make it to the end of his sentence.”

  “Who did you do the deal with?”

  “You mean whose grubby little fingerprints are on this piece of paper?” He smiled. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  Suddenly h
e clapped his hands and spun on the spot—yet another mood swing. Warren was struggling to keep up.

  “Change of plan. It seems the fugitive Vinny Delmarno shot DCI Jones, who then bravely fought him off before shooting him with his own gun before tragically succumbing to his wounds.”

  “It’ll never work, the angles are wrong. The blood spatter isn’t right. Forensics will figure it out in a heartbeat.” Warren fought to keep his rising voice under control.

  Bixby waved his protestations off. “You let me worry about that.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Warren’s voice was soft as he tried to reason with the man.

  “Weren’t you listening? The sins of the father and all that—your old man stole twenty-two years. He’s not here, so you have to pay.”

  Warren’s mind spun furiously. Bixby had finally snapped. As far as Warren could tell, Bixby was completely out of touch with reality.

  “Pay who?” Warren nodded at Delmarno. “He’s dead. And wasn’t my father doing your bidding? You set it up.” He licked his lips and decided to take a chance. “You were the one who betrayed Vinny. My dad, Reggie Williamson, Gavin Sheehy, Pete Kent, Anton Liebig, even poor, young Zachary Eddleston—all of them paid that price. They’re all on you!”

  “No!” Bixby spun on his heel and Warren flinched—had he pushed the man too far?

  “I never wanted any of this! I just wanted a normal life. For me, Jocelyn and Filipo. No more killing, no more violence.” He wiped his face with the back of his hand, appearing surprised at the dampness. “I wanted to make something good, you know.” Now his voice was quiet.

  “All of my life, I’ve been killing people. First the army, then the regiment. The things we did in Northern Ireland…” His voice cracked. “I know they were terrorists. I know that what we were doing would save lives—but some of those targets were just fucking kids.

  “You know, I couldn’t even tell you who I killed back then?” He laughed bitterly. “Can you believe that? Me and the boys killed those lads—even tortured a couple—and I don’t even have the decency to remember their names.” His voice dropped, barely a whisper. “I’ve never forgotten their faces though.”

  He stood taller and walked over to Delmarno.

  “When I left, I was an animal. I couldn’t handle it any more. When the Falklands finished, me and the boys returned to Hereford. To train up for Northern Ireland again. But it wasn’t enough. I was angry. I needed to kill people, to let it all out. I couldn’t stand being in little rooms, having meetings, taking instructions from spooks who didn’t even know how to remove the safety on a fucking Browning, let alone fire one at another human being. And so I got kicked out. There’s only so many bar fights the regiment can cover up, especially if the poor sod you kick nine shades of shit out is a civilian minding his own and the police are already two doors down, dealing with something else.”

  “So then what happened?” Warren’s voice was low, soothing.

  “Vinny came to the rescue. Or so I thought. He gave me a job, sorted out a flat—he even helped me get a car.” He laughed. “Hell, they teach you how to kill a man ten different ways and how to survive in the jungle for weeks with no food, but nobody ever told me how to sort out car insurance!”

  His voice turned sombre again. “But he was just taking advantage. He was my oldest friend, you know? We met at primary school. Mum and Dad weren’t happy—the old man fought in the Second World War against the fascists and he didn’t like me being friends with a wop. But he was a wanker and when he pissed off with his tart and Mum started letting any bastard she could find who could put food on the table share her bed, Vinny was all I had.” He snorted. “I probably had tea round his more nights a week than round mine and at least his mum could cook properly.”

  He walked back over to Delmarno and Warren expected him to start kicking him again. “There’s something I’ve learnt over the years. There are two types of people in the world. Those who see a hurt, frightened dog and nurse it back to health, and those who see that same dog, take advantage of its fear and anger and train it to kill. Vinny Delmarno is the latter.”

  “So what made you realise this?” The conversation was heading in a direction that Warren felt more comfortable with, but he had to tread carefully.

  “Jocelyn. And then Filipo.” He nodded towards Delmarno again. “Vinny was never short of a tart or two. When he started making his money, they were like flies round shit. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t jealous. I got more than my fair share, and I always preferred the quieter best friends to the upfront slappers that Vinny used to attract, but still Jocelyn was different. Yeah, she liked a bit of a bad boy, but she was intelligent, you know? And funny. Vinny was used to being the centre of attention, making jokes, having everyone laugh at him. He thought he was like one of those Mafia dons you see in the movies, but Jocelyn was genuinely witty and she could have everyone around the table in stitches. That sort of thing would piss him off normally—but it just made him want her more.” Again he seemed to slip away into his own world. “It made us both want her.”

  “What about Filipo?”

  A smile spread across Martin’s face. “I never really wanted kids. But when Jocelyn had Filipo, things changed. Vinny was getting ill and spending a lot of time in the hospital, whilst at the same time the business was getting dirtier. Jocelyn would stay late with him sometimes and they’d leave me to babysit. In the end, I spent more time with him than his own father did. You know, I was looking after him one Saturday afternoon when he took his first step?” He laughed again, but this time it was the fond chuckle of a man reliving happy memories. “I’ve never told anyone that before. He did it again when Vinny and Jocelyn got home and I kept my mouth shut—they were so happy, I figured it would be wrong to tell them that I saw it first.”

  His tone darkened again and Warren held his breath. The man’s mood swings were exhausting as well as terrifying.

  “Thing is, I could see the writing on the wall. The police were closing in and even if they didn’t end it all, did I really want Filipo to grow up with a dad like Vinny? We were already checking under our cars for bombs. Death threats were almost a weekly occurrence. Vinny usually kept his hands clean, but he had a few skeletons in the closet.”

  “So somebody approached you?”

  “Sort of. I’d been a bit careless myself—left a few fingerprints lying around. They knew who I was, so I cut a deal. I put them in touch with Reggie Williamson, who stole the gun and passed it onto your old man. And Gavin Sheehy it turns out.”

  “So my father never contacted you?”

  “Nah, too far down the pecking order. I never even met him until the night I killed him.” His tone was matter-of-fact, as if they were discussing the weather. Warren fought the sudden surge of acid bile.

  “So why did you involve the gardener? Surely that was just adding another person to the mix? One more person who knew the truth.” Warren forced himself to treat the interview as if it was any other interrogation—to pretend that the man in front of him hadn’t murdered his own father.

  Bixby sighed. “Yeah, it wasn’t my idea. Unfortunately, things were beyond our control. The case was stalled and questions were being raised about how much time and resources were being spent on something that wasn’t going anywhere. I was working away in the Midlands, dealing with some suppliers, and Vinny would have been suspicious if I came back—he trusted me implicitly, but he was a paranoid bastard. And despite everything he still saw me as the hired help. I never set foot in his bedroom—Reggie Williamson had the run of the place.

  “Plus, he was becoming sick. He just ignored the symptoms, but like I said, I knew more about his health problems than he did. I could see where it was going and the last thing we needed was for him to drop dead before they made the case against him and the blame was shifted towards me and Jocelyn.”

  Warren sighed. The gardener was a victim of little more than bad luck.

  “So why did you kill him all th
ese years later?”

  A brief flash of pain crossed Bixby’s face, before the mask slid back into place. He nodded towards Delmarno’s body.

  “Him. He wanted revenge. He wanted me to find out who was responsible for the stitch-up and sort them out.”

  “That’s it? Surely you could have just claimed you couldn’t find out? Why couldn’t you just let it go? Claimed that everyone involved was dead—you were in charge of the investigation. Delmarno would never have known.” Warren’s voice started to rise in frustration. “Why did it all have to start again?”

  Bixby said nothing, but his left eyelid started to flutter. Warren pressed harder. “Why Martin? Why couldn’t you let it go?”

  “Gavin Sheehy.” Bixby’s voice was thick.

  Warren said nothing; let Bixby fill the silence.

  “I don’t know if he had a touch of conscience or he was scared that Vinny would track him down and get revenge, but he started asking questions. He was looking for protection and I guess he figured that if he had evidence of who coordinated everything he could use that as leverage.”

  “So he asked DS Kent to help him find that evidence.” The final pieces were coming together.

  “Yeah, the stupid bastard thought that Kent would have the same worries he did, now that Vinny was looking for who stitched him up.” Bixby shook his head. “Kent was furious that Sheehy was going to rock the boat. We’d kept it quiet for twenty-odd years; all we needed to do was keep our nerve. MacNamara’s death was done and dusted—Liebig was never going to implicate himself; the gardener probably never even knew what he’d helped us do. Vinny was decades out of the loop—I was the only one who could help him join the dots and no way was I going to do that.”

  “I still don’t see how this triggered everything. Even if Kent was worried and came to you, surely you could have locked everything down. Why all of the killing?”

  “Kent didn’t come to me. He never knew me until recently. I went to him.” Bixby raised the piece of paper. “Orders from on high. He was livid. He figured that Sheehy was making a fuss about nothing and that it would all blow over.”