by Paul Gitsham
It looked as if Alison Carmichael had been correct. He had either done the sums correctly or chanced upon the correct length of rope from the bannister. From the unnatural angle of his neck, Warren could clearly see that the drop had been just sufficient to snap his spinal cord, causing instant death, rather than the slow death by suffocation that had so nearly been Antonio Severino’s fate.
“Well, first of all, I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest unofficially and before the results of the PM or any tests that this wasn’t a suicide — or at least an unassisted suicide.”
Warren and Sutton looked up sharply. “What makes you say that?”
Harrison gestured towards the living room, a mirror image of the room that they had been sitting in a few minutes before, albeit with more modern furniture and a big-screen TV with a games console underneath. On the coffee table sat an empty bottle of Smirnoff Vodka and several empty blister-packs of the type used for pills.
“I believe that the scenario we are supposed to accept is that Mr Crawley set up his hangman’s noose, then consumed a mixture of alcohol and heavy sedatives to numb the pain, before hanging himself.”
Warren nodded. “It looks that way at first glance. What makes you think different?”
“First, do you know if Mr Crawley was a heavy drinker?”
Warren shook his head. “Quite the opposite, I believe. I think Mr and Mrs Turnbull said that he doesn’t drink.”
“Hmm, that just strengthens my theory. We’ll have to confirm this by looking for signs of past alcohol abuse by looking for a history in his hair or by the state of his liver. But the fact is that it looks as though the late doctor drank pretty much this entire bottle of vodka this morning. Everybody’s tolerance of alcohol is different, of course, but frankly George Best would have been struggling to stand up after this amount of alcohol and we all know that he wasn’t a teetotaller. Add to that some of these migraine pills — we’ll have to look at his stomach contents to determine how much vodka and pills he consumed exactly — and we are looking at a potentially lethal state of intoxication, especially for someone who isn’t used to alcohol.”
“What are you saying? That Crawley didn’t die from a hanging?”
“No, not at all. I think that the PM will probably reveal exactly that — instantaneous death from a hangman’s drop. What I’m suggesting, however, is that if he had been left to his own devices he would probably have expired a few minutes later anyway from acute alcohol poisoning and or an overdose of painkillers. What’s more, he would have been so obliterated, I doubt he would even have been conscious, let alone able to get up from the couch, climb the stairs, place his neck in a noose and then clamber over the bannisters before dropping.
“Somebody did this to him.”
* * *
There was a stunned silence after Harrison delivered his prediction.
“This is all preliminary, of course. But I would be willing to bet good money that the post-mortem will show marks on his body consistent with signs of a struggle and restraint.”
“I think that your money is probably safe,” whispered Warren.
“And another thing, although I am probably straying well beyond my professional remit here, that suicide note is decidedly fishy. The wording isn’t right.”
“Crawley had dyslexia.”
“Oh, I could see that clear enough. It’s the bits that aren’t dyslexic that stand out to me. I would have somebody from Documents Analysis take a look at it, and have IT go over the laptop to see if they can find any other versions of the letter.”
Warren nodded absently, his mind now frantically trying to rearrange the pieces of a jigsaw that he thought he had already mostly solved.
“One thing’s for sure,” remarked Tony Sutton ruefully. “I think we can be certain that Antonio Severino didn’t kill him.”
Chapter 47
The two men sat in a bar just around the corner from Crawley’s house. It was past ten p.m. and Warren knew better than to risk the wrath of Susan by turning up late again, smelling of beer. Their interrupted reconciliation notwithstanding, he was well aware of the fact that he was still in the doghouse. Besides which, he was driving.
Nevertheless, the two men needed something to clear their heads, to wash away the memory of what they’d seen and dull the rawness of the emotions that they had witnessed. Warren nursed the gin and tonic in front of him, making a mental note to crunch a few mints on the way home.
Sutton stared into his pint of lager, saying nothing, deep in thought. Eventually he looked up.
“I’m going to request a transfer to Welwyn.”
Warren nearly choked on a mouthful of gin. This was the last thing he had expected. After the previous night’s argument about how much Middlesbury CID meant to him, asking to leave the unit didn’t make any sense. Warren said so.
“You were right last night. It’s become an obsession. I was so desperate to preserve this romantic notion of Middlesbury CID that I had built up in my head, that I refused to accept the facts as they were presented to me.” He took another swig of his drink. “I’m a detective, damn it. I’m supposed to follow the clues, wherever they lead, and leave my own ideas and prejudices at home.”
Warren wasn’t sure what to say.
“I’m amazed that I’m not suspended after the way I spoke to you yesterday. I was so far out of line, I’m surprised you didn’t punch me.”
Warren half smiled. “The thought did occur…”
“Anyway, I think I need to get away from here. Move to Welwyn, where I can work crimes all over the county. I need to be a detective again, digging out clues and following leads, without constantly worrying that if I don’t work fast enough or hard enough, the whole unit could be closed down. I need some distance from Middlesbury CID and the ghost of DCI fucking Sheehy.”
And that was it, Warren realised. That was what it was all about. Sheehy. The corrupt, former detective chief inspector, who’d made hard-working, honest men like Tony Sutton believe that they were doing something more than just their jobs. It was the sign of an inspirational leader, Warren knew. Making those who followed you view their job as more than just a way to pay the mortgage and put food on the table. But that had made his betrayal all that harder.
Warren looked carefully at the man in front of him. He saw the bags under his eyes, the lines on his forehead. He noted the way that he tore the beer mat into tiny little pieces, his powerful hands shredding the thick cardboard. His nails were ragged, bitten to the quick, Warren spotted now.
“Tony, tell me about Gavin Sheehy. Everything.”
Sutton stared into his pint silently. The pause was so long that Warren didn’t think he was going to speak. Finally speaking slowly and without looking up, Sutton started.
“I don’t have much to tell. I didn’t see it coming. The first I heard of it was when I was pulled into the superintendent’s office at eight a.m. by three suits from Professional Standards and told that Sheehy had been arrested that morning on suspicion of corruption. They didn’t say any more as I was part of the investigation. I was removed from active duty pending an inquiry, told to get myself a lawyer and instructed not to speak to anyone about the case.
“It was the most humiliating day of my life.”
He took another mouthful of his beer. “Well, they investigated me every which way from Sunday and found nothing. Apparently Gavin claimed that I knew nothing and that he had acted alone. I suppose I should thank him. But I can’t. Whatever he’s done, I hope they throw the book at him.”
“The papers have been quiet and there is remarkably little on the grapevine. What exactly is he alleged to have done?”
Sutton shrugged, but his eyes betrayed the nonchalance of the gesture. “I still don’t know what the full story is. He doesn’t come to trial until next year, when I guess it’ll all come out.”
“Rumour has it, he’s admitted everything.”
Sutton nodded. “I’ve heard that too. I don’t know wha
t to believe.”
He stared thoughtfully at the small pile of shredded cardboard that he’d made. “That doesn’t seem quite right to me. One thing about Gavin is he’s a fighter. I can’t see him giving in and pleading guilty without a fight. He’d rather stand toe to toe and defend his corner, even if in the long run he loses the opportunity to do a deal. He hated lawyers. I can’t imagine his legal team are having much fun with him.” His face twisted in a half-smile.
“And what about you, Tony?”
“Like I said, I was fully cleared of all involvement.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Warren quietly.
Again, Sutton took his time, destroying yet another beer mat. They’d have to ask the barman for more if he kept this up, thought Warren.
“After my divorce, I had a long hard look at my life. I realised that I had to grow up and do the right thing. I suppose that part of it was to do with my mother-in-law, Betty. She clearly hated me for what I had done to her daughter, but she put that to one side for the sake of her grandchild.” He snorted humourlessly. “Never thought I’d ever see Betty as a model of Christian forgiveness, but there you go.
“Anyway, I started to get my life together, studying, doing what I could for Josh, trying to make myself a better man. I started going to church again, and that helped a lot.” He looked at Warren, amused. “Don’t worry, guv, I’m not some born-again nutter determined to shove my version of God down the throat of everyone I meet. I can’t even remember the words to ‘Kum Ba Yah’. I’m purely a Sunday morning believer.
“Anyway, that’s when I met Gavin Sheehy. He was a DI, I was a newly minted sergeant assigned as part of a large team tasked with bringing down a drugs gang that we believed were using the big warehouses up on the Fowler Estate to redistribute cocaine.
“We raided the warehouse at three in the morning — only to find it empty. The white Transit van that they were using was nowhere to be found. As we were searching the area for clues, I spotted the guard at the next-door warehouse and went over for a chat. He hadn’t seen anything, but he said that one of their security cameras overlapped the edge of the road that the two warehouses shared. I went in and had a look at it and, sure enough, we had the white van leaving the premises at half-past eleven that night. A white Ford Transit, identical to about fifty thousand others throughout the country, too far away and at the wrong angle to see the licence plates.
“I called over Gavin Sheehy, who praised my quick thinking, but reckoned it was probably useless. But then as we replayed the tape again I saw one of the passengers. A white bloke, that was all we could make out, no use at all for an ID — but I spotted that he was on a mobile phone. They were easier to spot then of course, bit of a brick.
“I figured, it’s half-eleven in a lonely industrial estate in the back of beyond — just how many people were making a phone call that time of night? Sheehy liked my idea and so first thing the next morning we got a warrant for the phone companies and traced the only phone making a call using that cell tower at that time to a Darryl Wentworth. Already known as a small-time dealer, trying to climb a few rungs up the ladder, he earned himself a twelve-year stretch at Her Majesty’s pleasure.”
Sutton smiled at the memory. “Anyway, Sheehy was impressed with the way I’d pieced together the clues and my creativity and so he encouraged me to apply to do the detectives’ course. When I graduated, he had made DCI and requested that I join his team.”
“But he became more than a boss to you, didn’t he?”
Sutton nodded. “First he became my mentor, then we became friends. We used to attend the same church.” Sutton swirled the remains of his pint. “I haven’t been back since his arrest. I don’t know if he still goes to the same service. I’m not supposed to have any contact, so I steer clear.
“You know, I thought he was the most honest man I’d ever met. Not once in all the years that I knew him did I ever see him break the rules or even stretch them. And he wouldn’t tolerate anyone else doing that either. Outside of work he raised a fortune for charity and he was always the first to visit officers who were injured or taken ill.
“We even used to play bridge — that’s why I haven’t seen Allie Carmichael for so long. Gavin was my partner. He taught me to play years ago when we did a stakeout together. Said that Judith, his wife, could just about manage snap, and he needed someone to play with.” Sutton spoke quietly, and Warren knew that he wasn’t referring to his card-playing abilities. “We were a bloody good team.”
After a few seconds’ pause, Sutton started again. “You know, I thought he was having an affair.”
Warren blinked at the apparent non sequitur.
“I thought he was cheating on Judith. I didn’t say anything, because how could I? He knew all about my stupid mistake. I didn’t like it. I’ve always been fond of Judith and thought he was better than that, but I didn’t know what their home life was like and I didn’t feel I could pass judgement.
“It seemed so obvious — he was late middle-aged, probably going through a mid-life crisis. Safer to be bonking some bird than killing himself on a motorbike, I figured. So I said nothing. The times he disappeared out of the office unexpectedly, the furtive phone calls. It all seemed to point to an affair.”
Sutton lapsed back into silence.
Warren chose his words carefully. “It’s your decision, Tony, but I don’t want you to leave Middlesbury. If you really decide that you want a fresh start, then I’ll back your transfer request. But from what I’ve seen, you’re a bloody good copper, Tony, and I want you on my team. Think about it.”
Sutton nodded, his face still troubled. Warren looked at his watch; it was nearly closing time.
“Right, I’ve had enough for tonight. Any more and I’ll have to catch a cab again. Are you coming?”
Sutton nodded. “Yeah, probably better make tracks. The missus wasn’t impressed when I didn’t come home last night.”
Warren snorted. “Your missus wasn’t impressed? How do you think mine reacted when she saw what I’d brought home?”
Friday
Chapter 48
The following morning started even more early than usual, with the whole team at their desks by seven a.m. The air crackled with energy; everyone felt that today would be the day. Jones briefed his team, plus a number of additional officers, on the previous night’s events and outlined his plans for the upcoming day. At eight a.m. the preliminary autopsy results for Crawley came through and Jones and Sutton attacked them hungrily. Attached to the report was a Post-it note, signed with Andy Harrison’s scrawl, “This is the second all-nighter we’ve pulled for you in a week, DCI Jones — we’d better be top of your Christmas card list!”
Despite the grimness of the report it was attached to, Warren couldn’t help but smile and made a mental note to find out what tipple Harrison enjoyed. He pushed it towards Tony Sutton, who snorted. “Top bloke, Andy Harrison. Most of the folks who work over there are bloody weird in one way or another — something about working with stiffs all day, I guess. They’re all nice enough, but Andy’s the only one I’d be seen in public with.”
From the report, which was repeatedly annotated with comments in red pen that stressed conclusions were preliminary or simply stated ‘Pending Lab Results’, it looked as if Crawley’s death was definitely murder, not suicide. Furthermore, there was no sign of forced entry, suggesting that Crawley had known his attacker or attackers.
Based on the temperature of the body, the degree of rigor mortis and the state of his stomach contents the coroner suggested a time of death of about midday, plus or minus about two hours. Which fitted in with his wife and children leaving the house about ten a.m.
A further look at the stomach contents had revealed the presence of most of the litre bottle of vodka as well as a large number of semi-digested painkillers. The blood toxicology analysis was still pending, and would be for some time, but it looked as if Harrison’s initial belief that Crawley would have been to
o intoxicated to have successfully hung himself was correct.
Adding weight to his theory that Crawley had been an unwilling imbiber, the coroner had found pressure marks around the hinge of his jaw consistent with Crawley being forced to drink the vodka and swallow the pills. Curiously, there were no obvious bruises that suggested he had been restrained. However a tiny nick in the skin close to his carotid artery was enough for Harrison to speculate that a very sharp implement — possibly another scalpel blade — had been pressed against his neck.
Warren shuddered. He’d seen firsthand what a skilfully wielded scalpel could do to a human throat. Add in a bit of coercion — perhaps a threat against his wife and kids — and Warren could see how Crawley could be forced to drink vodka and swallow pills. However, he doubted that they’d ever really know exactly what went on in that suburban living room.
The PM had also revealed some small bruises under the armpits consistent with an unconscious man the size of Crawley being manhandled up the stairs before having the noose placed around his neck and his being tipped over the bannister. The cause of death was as expected — severed spinal cord from hanging.
The rope used was a climbing rope that belonged to Crawley. He had been a keen member of a local club, along with his eldest son, and the cupboard under the stairs offered a selection of different ropes suitable for the purpose. Warren felt a flash of disappointment — another dead end.
