Silent As The Grave

It’s DCI Warren Jones’ coldest case yet…

The body of Reginald Williamson had been well concealed under a bush in Middlesbury Common and the murder had been efficiently carried out – a single stab wound to the chest. Reggie’s dog had been killed just as efficiently. With no clues and no obvious motive, the case is going nowhere.

…and then he gets a break.

DCI Warren Jones’ instincts tell him that the informant is dodgy – a former police officer under investigation. But when the story he tells involves the death of Warren’s father, he can’t help but listen. Suddenly, a wide criminal conspiracy, involving high-level police corruption, a gangster and a trained killer, is blown wide open…and Warren finds that this time, it’s not just his career under threat, but his family – and his life.

Also by Paul Gitsham:

The Last Straw

No Smoke Without Fire

Blood Is Thicker Than Water (A DCI Warren Jones Short Story)

Silent as the Grave

A DCI Warren Jones Novel

Paul Gitsham

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015

Copyright © Paul Gitsham 2015

Paul Gitsham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9781474033602

Version date: 2018-06-27

PAUL GITSHAM

started his career as a biologist, working in such exotic locales as Manchester and Toronto. After stints as the world’s most over-qualified receptionist and a spell making sure that international terrorists and other ne’er do wells hadn’t opened a Junior Savings Account at a major UK bank (a job even less exciting than being a receptionist) he retrained as a science teacher. He now spends his time passing on his bad habits and sloppy lab skills to the next generation of enquiring minds.

Paul has always wanted to be a writer and his final report on leaving primary school predicted he’d be the next Roald Dahl! For the sake of balance it should be pointed out that it also said, “He’ll never get anywhere in life if his handwriting doesn’t improve.” Twenty-five years later and his handwriting is worse than ever but millions of children around the world love him.*

Paul writes the DCI Warren Jones series of novels. Silent as the Grave is the third, with more to come. He was brought up in Coventry and now lives in East Anglia. Remind you of anybody?

You can find out more about Paul at his website, www.paulgitsham.com or follow him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/dcijones or Twitter @dcijoneswriter

*This is a lie—just ask any of the students he has taught.

Acknowledgments

Like all of my novels, Silent as the Grave couldn’t have been written without the help and assistance of a great number of people.

The first thanks must go to my amazing beta readers, Dad and Cheryl, who put up with my foul-mouthed rants at my computer’s steadfast refusal to print out a draft copy for them to read over, then dropped everything to go over the document in record time so I could meet my deadline.

Next is the long line of friends who have listened to extracts of the work during its gestation, giving much appreciated feedback and encouragement. I will never be able to list everyone who helped me, so if I don’t name you, please be assured that I valued each and every suggestion and contribution.

A few who can’t be missed out include my friends at the Hertford Writers’ Circle, who have given me essential feedback on all of my books, supplying thoughtful suggestions where necessary and giving me the strength to persevere when it all seemed a bit overwhelming.

Some chapters of this novel were written as an exercise for a creative writing class and the critical feedback supplied by Danielle Jawando and my friends at Hertford Regional College helped me raise my game enormously. Good luck guys and keep on writing!

As always, I relied on technical advice from many people: Elaine Dockrill helped enormously with medical advice, Caroline and Dan kept me straight on the legal stuff and our close family friend Danny McAree generously shared his experience from decades in the police. As always, Crime Scene Investigator Lee Robson of Essex police was a source of both information and future inspiration.

My colleagues and friends at school have been wonderful, supplying both encouragement and feedback as well as acting as a useful source of interesting surnames and even more interesting character quirks…

Behind the scenes, I will forever be grateful to my publisher, HQ Digital, for taking a chance on me and for their support, from editing and feeding back on my manuscripts to the beautifully designed covers. Cheers, guys!

Finally, I must say a heartfelt thanks to the many kind readers who have taken the time to tell me what they thought of the first two books, either in person or via reviews. Releasing your ‘baby’ into the wild is a nerve-wracking experience and a positive review really makes an author’s day.

DCI Warren Jones will return. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy his latest adventure.

Paul

Dedication

To my number one cheerleaders, Mum, Dad and Cheryl. If you find one of my business cards or flyers in an unexpected place, it was probably them…

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Epilogue

Extract

Endpages

About the Publisher

Prologue

The teenage boy walked carefully, balancing an overfilled mug in each hand. The kettle had boiled only moments before and his mother had called down the garden, asking if his father wanted coffee. There had been no reply, but in twenty years of marriage Aileen MacNamara had never known her husband refuse a hot drink. So, curious to know what his father had been doing all evening, the fourteen-year-old had poured himself one as well and set off down the path.

The garage door was a sturdy, wooden affair, the handle missing for as long as the boy could remember, the hasp for the padlock its replacement. Looping a free finger around the metal bracket, he unhooked it then pulled as hard as he could. The door, warped from years of hot summers and cold winters, resisted before screeching open with a sudden jerk, spilling scalding liquid all over his hands. The teenager swore quietly.

Niall MacNamara had patrolled the streets of Coventry for over twenty-five years and had seen—and heard—it all. Nevertheless he had zero tolerance for foul language in his home and his son wasn’t in the mood for a lecture.

The garage was dark, filled with tools and gardening implements. A spate of recent vandalism had prompted Niall to enlist the help of his two sons to clear enough space for him to park the family car in there overnight, but it was a tight fit.

The boy started to cough at the same moment he saw the hosepipe snaking from the rear of the car and in through the partially open driver’s side window. With an incoherent shout, he dropped both mugs, forcing himself around the car’s bonnet to the driver’s side. After yanking the hosepipe from the window, he pulled the door handle. Locked. Through the clouds of exhaust filling the car, he could see his father, head slumped forward in the driver’s seat. Choking, the boy cast his teary eyes around wildly before spotting a claw hammer hanging from a hook. With so little room to swing it took three desperate attempts before he shattered the window, all the while screaming for his mother. After pulling the door lock button, he opened the door. An empty whisky bottle rolled off his father’s lap and clattered onto the concrete floor. Reaching in, he took the keys from the ignition. But he knew it was too little, too late.

Tuesday 10 May 1988. After tonight, nothing would ever be the same again.

Twenty-Two Years Later

The scrum of press outside the prison gates was more like that awaiting the appearance of a pop star than a convicted murderer. An explosion of flashbulbs greeted the arrival of a black Jaguar. Some of the dozen or so uniformed police officers, who were stopping the pushing reporters from getting too close to the prison gates, broke off to form a similar line around the rear doors of the luxury car.

Parked one hundred metres away, DCI Gavin Sheehy looked on with incredulity at the spectacle. All of the major national broadcasters were present, along with several noted international ones. Reporters earnestly spoke into cameras or radio microphones. Recognising one of the BBC’s most famous radio presenters, Sheehy reached for the car radio, selecting Radio 4. Sure enough, the anchor of World at One was reporting on the release of the prisoner, before handing over live to the presenter.

“The scene outside Wormwood Scrubs prison is unlike anything we’ve ever witnessed before. Vinny Delmarno, the notorious crime lord sentenced in 1988 to life in prison for ordering the killing of a rival drug baron and accused—although acquitted—of dozens of counts of racketeering, money laundering, drug dealing and prostitution, is due to be released any moment on parole.

“Most prisoners slip out of this back door with little more than a carrier bag, the clothes they wore when they came in, the address of a local bail hostel and forty-six pounds to help them start life again. Vinny Delmarno will have no need of any of these. It is alleged that while he one of the most successful crime lords of the seventies and eighties, he also owned—and some claim still owns—a string of apparently legitimate businesses across the Midlands and the East of England. All of these businesses and his palatial Hertfordshire home were signed over to his ex-wife in an entirely uncontested divorce settlement weeks before his successful conviction. Rumour has it that he and his wife have reconciled over the past twenty-two years and that he will be returning to the couple’s former home as soon as he is released.”

The anchorwoman broke in, “This has caused some controversy, hasn’t it, Mark?”

“Indeed it has. Politicians from all sides of the House are questioning if there is any way the state can seize these assets, even though they were legally awarded to his ex-wife. The shadow Home Secretary has claimed that the divorce was clearly a sham and that therefore his assets should be used to repay the millions of pounds of back tax that it is alleged he avoided through money-laundering schemes. It should be noted of course that despite his conviction, he claims to be innocent of all these charges and that he was the victim of a conspiracy.

“When he is released, any moment now, it is expected that he will give a statement repeating those claims.”

Suddenly the press started snapping pictures again and even from his distant vantage point, Sheehy could hear the increase in volume from the waiting press. A moment later it became clear why, as a small side door started to open.

Sheehy’s breath caught in his throat. It had been a long time since he had last set eyes on the man. He wasn’t prepared for the shock. Delmarno was a small, dapper man in his mid fifties. His silver hair had been expertly coiffured and his thin pencil moustache trimmed neatly. The fitted suit that he wore was certainly not the one he’d worn in court; its cut was clearly contemporary. But then he had been a very different man back then.

“In many ways it is a big surprise to see Vinny Delmarno here today. When sentenced back in 1988, he was believed to be within a year of dying from kidney failure. In fact that was put forward in mitigation by his defence team when the judge sentenced him. Six months into his sentence, however, he received a controversial life-saving kidney transplant. Questions were again raised in the House of Commons and the House of Lords as to whether a convicted murderer should be given such treatment free on the NHS. The then Health Secretary acknowledged such concerns but stood alongside the Home Secretary and the Prime Minister in claiming that denying prisoners such a life-saving operation would be a slippery slope.”

The anchorwoman cut back in again, “I believe that Mr Delmarno’s lawyer is about to read a prepared statement.”

A taller man, in an equally expensive suit, was now standing shoulder to shoulder with his client. He paused whilst the various camera crews jostled for the best position and microphones were thrust under his nose. Clearing his throat he began, “I am going to read a short statement on behalf of my client. He will not be answering any questions.

“This day has been a long time coming, but finally my freedom, wrongly taken from me, has been returned. For over twenty-two years I have languished in prison for crimes that I did not commit, the victim of a conspiracy concocted at the highest levels. In that time I have maintained my innocence. During my incarceration I have been comforted by the support of my family and friends, who have stood by me and championed my innocence, and I cannot thank them enough. In a moment I will be driven away to be reunited with loved ones and I look forward to embracing my son and rebuilding my life. I feel only sadness that I could not do the same to my dear parents, both of whom passed away during my imprisonment.

“On the advice of my lawyers, I will not be saying any more other than that I will be turning all of my energy towards overturning my conviction and seeking redress for this appalling miscarriage of justice.” The lawyer paused briefly, before continuing, “Those responsible for this cannot hide for ever. We know who you are and we will have justice. That is all.”

Behind the wheel of his car, Gavin Sheehy’s hands shook. Suddenly and without warning his stomach lurched and he yanked the door open just in time. He was still hanging awkwardly out of the car, dry heaving, as the Jaguar roared past. The rear windows were blackened, but he still felt the man’s eyes burning hatred through the smoked glass.

Present Day

Sunday 25 March

Chapter 1

The body had been concealed well enough for it to remain unnoticed for at least a couple of days, Detective Chief Inspector Warren Jones decided, as he bent his six-foot frame under the branches of the flowering bush. Nevertheless, after a string of warm spring days the smell had finally attracted the attention of a middle-aged couple out for a post-Sunday lunch dog-walk.

The two witnesses were now busy giving their statements to Detective Inspector Tony Sutton on the other side of the line of blue-and-white crime-scene tape. Both walkers were wearing disposable plastic booties, their shoes impounded by the forensic team to check for any trace evidence they might have picked up and to distinguish their footprints from any that may have been left by the killer or killers.

“It looks as though he was initially stabbed over there on the footpath, then dragged through the grass and hidden here at the edge of the forest.”

Crime Scene Manager Andy Harrison used a white-gloved hand to point out the red, bloody smear to the paper-suited detective. A similarly clad CSI squatting carefully amongst the long grass was filling a series of clear plastic evidence bags with bloodstained vegetation.

“And what about the dog? I’m assuming it’s the victim’s?” Warren gestured at the black-and-white furry form lying next to the old man.

“It’s early days and we haven’t moved either body yet, but I can’t see any obvious stab wounds. We’ll get a vet to perform an autopsy to work out how it was killed. The dog’s still wearing its lead, but the victim isn’t holding it. We had a look in the pockets of his windcheater but didn’t find any doggy treats or other evidence that he was walking a dog, so I’m not yet prepared to declare him the owner. If it’s been microchipped that could help us link them. Not to mention help you identify the victim if needs be.”

“And you didn’t see a wallet or phone or other ID?”

“Not unless he keeps them in his back pocket, which he’s lying on. We haven’t even found a set of house keys.”

Warren stared at the body thoughtfully. “No wallet or phone suggests robbery, but why would they take his keys?”

The Yorkshireman shrugged, his protective clothing making a rustling noise. “Not really my place to say, Guv, but if he left the missus at home when he went out to walk the dog he may not have had them on him.”

Warren conceded the point with a small nod of his head. “It’s possible. But something doesn’t seem quite right. He’s an old man, shabbily dressed, not obviously wealthy and he had a dog—not your usual target for some opportunist mugger. And why conceal the body afterwards? If it was a case of ‘stab first, ask nicely for his wallet after’ then we’re dealing with somebody pretty brutal here—especially if they did the dog as well. Would they have taken the trouble to conceal both bodies?

“And if it was a mugging gone wrong, I’d have expected them to flee the scene immediately, not risk exposure by taking the time to hide the victims.”

“Like I said, not really my place to say.”

Warren sighed. “You’re right. I should stop speculating and wait for your findings.”

Harrison picked up on the hint. “We’ll probably finish processing the scene tonight and get the bodies removed before morning. I imagine the post-mortem will be tomorrow afternoon. I’ll get you a preliminary report before close of play tomorrow.”

Warren glanced at his watch—just after six p.m. He sighed and pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket. It was going to be a long night—he’d better phone his wife, Susan, and tell her he wasn’t going to be back in time to go to the pub quiz. It looked as if he’d be sleeping in the spare room again tonight.

Monday 26 March

Chapter 2

The eight a.m. briefing was full, the room crammed with most of Middlesbury CID’s detectives. Standing next to the projector, Warren stifled a yawn and took a swig of his coffee before calling for quiet. Leaning against the wall, looking similarly worn out, was Tony Sutton. However, standing at the back, fiddling with his Blackberry, Detective Superintendent John Grayson was as shiny and well groomed as always. If past form was anything to go by, he’d probably nip out to the barber and get a quick trim and tidy before the upcoming press conference.

The station’s senior detective had appointed Warren lead investigator as usual—where possible Grayson tried to avoid doing any actual detective work, Warren had soon learned—but he would of course be available to talk to the press at any time, skilfully taking any credit for the team’s successes whilst cannily distancing himself from any failures.

This was largely fine by Warren, who hated being in front of the camera, but at times—usually when he’d had less than three hours’ sleep—it did irritate him that his team’s efforts seemed to be mostly laying the groundwork for his superior’s next promotion and the securement of an increased final salary pension.

Warren clicked the handheld presenter and two photographs appeared on the screen behind him. On the left was a greyish, blue-skinned headshot of the old man from the park, his snow-white shock of hair lying limp and greasy, a couple of days’ stubble covering his chin. The skin had a slightly puffy appearance from the early stages of decomposition, the effect being to smooth out the lines and creases that would otherwise bear witness to this individual human’s story.

On the right was a more vibrant picture of the deceased, taken the previous Christmas. In this image the man’s face was a mass of deep wrinkles and smile lines, his skin tanned the dark bronze that comes from a life spent working outdoors. The picture had been cropped, but it was possible to make out decorations in the background. The big grin and slightly unfocused eyes painted a portrait of a happy man, enjoying the festive season with loved ones.

“Reginald Williamson, aged sixty-eight. Found dead, body concealed under a bush next to his dog, just off a path at sixteen-twenty hours yesterday afternoon by two members of the public walking their dog on the western edge of Middlesbury Common.” Another click revealed an aerial photograph from Google Earth, annotated with the position of the body.