September 2010.
The final page contained a list of Delmarno’s known associates. Most were either behind bars themselves or dead, either of natural causes or murdered. It also listed his wife, Jocelyn, and his son, born five years before his father’s incarceration.
If Warren had expected some remarkable insight into the events of the past week or even twenty-four years previously, he was to be disappointed.
“Anything you want me to do before I go home, Boss?”
The question was as much a peace offering as anything else and so Warren felt even more guilty as he dismissed Tony Sutton for the evening. The older man had looked at him for a few, long seconds before nodding and saying good evening. Sutton was no fool; he knew that Warren was hiding something from him. The two men had barely spoken over the last few hours; for want of a better word, Sutton seemed to have been sulking.
That suited Warren fine. He hadn’t yet decided how much to share with Tony Sutton. The man had been investigated immediately after Sheehy’s arrest and cleared of any wrongdoing, but Warren couldn’t dismiss the possibility that he was helping his former DCI and friend to play him, manipulating him to help clear the man’s name. Warren hoped that wasn’t the case. He’d come to value Sutton’s counsel—and friendship, he realised. Until he could be sure, though, he was on his own.
It was late by the time that Warren arrived back home. Susan’s expression suggested that he was in for another earbashing—it was definitely today’s theme.
“You did what?”
“I already knew who he was. I was certain that I wasn’t in any danger. Besides, I had my stab vest on.”
“Covers your neck does it?” Even when angry, his wife could be logical to a fault. “So what did this Gavin Sheehy want? Did he actually have any evidence to help you work out who murdered that poor man?”
“I’m not sure. The folder he gave me was just the write-up of a fatal collision over the New Year. Nothing jumped out at me.”
The two of them had moved into the lounge and the red wine Susan had poured herself seemed to cool her temper somewhat. Nevertheless, Warren was reminded that Susan’s temperament probably owed more to her fiery mother than her decidedly docile father.
Warren had been thinking about what to tell his wife ever since he’d left the office. The fact was, he needed a sounding board; his decision not to tell Tony Sutton the full details of his conversation with Sheehy had left Warren feeling isolated and he valued his wife’s insights. And he needed her support. He closed his eyes.
They had been dating for more than two years before Warren had told Susan the full story of his father’s suicide. They’d been on holiday in Prague, lying in bed after a romantic meal down by the Charles Bridge. Warren had never shared his true feelings about his father’s death and how it had affected him.
He’d been scared that people would see him differently—and he was ashamed. He knew he shouldn’t be—that his father’s sins were not his own, but he couldn’t help it.
Susan had listened without saying anything, her tight embrace easing his halting speech until it was flowing like a tap—years of hurt and resentment finally getting its release. When he was eventually finished, she’d whispered into his ear, “Thank you.”
The next day, standing on top of Petřín Hill, Warren had asked her to marry him.
The touch of Susan’s hand brought Warren back to the present.
“For most of my life, I’ve thought my father abandoned me and my mum and brother, that he was corrupt and a thief. Today I found out that I may have been wrong all of these years.”
Warren felt Susan stiffen. She said nothing. And it was as if he’d been transported back in time to that evening in Prague as he again unburdened himself to the woman he loved so much.
“What are you going to do?” asked Susan when he finally finished.
“I don’t know. Gavin Sheehy has admitted that he and my father helped secure an unsafe conviction all of those years ago, he’s not an honest man. But what if he is telling the truth?”
“You can’t ignore it.”
She was right—he had to check the truth of what Sheehy was saying for himself. But how? Events had been successfully concealed for nearly a quarter of a century.
“Sheehy claimed to have more information. You have to get it from him. Whatever it takes.”
“But how can I know if I can trust him?”
“Does it matter?”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at what Sheehy’s asking you to do. He’s basically asking you to investigate the allegations made against him. Furthermore, he’s given you potential clues that could help you solve one confirmed murder and another possible killing. Treat it like any other case. Take what he’s given you and add it into the mix. As for the allegations against him—surely it can’t hurt to do a bit of digging around, to see if he really is being framed?”
“Grayson has banned me from looking into Sheehy’s case.”
“So when has that stopped you before?” She placed her hand on his chest and kissed him lightly on the forehead. “Follow your gut, Warren. You need to see this through. If there is any truth at all to what Sheehy is saying, then you need to know.”
She kissed him again. “We need to know. You can’t let it lie; you know that.”
Warren nodded, wearily. He was exhausted. Not just from the long hours he’d worked, but also the constant adrenaline.
“You’re right,” he admitted. “I’ll get Mags Richardson to look over the report into Dr Liebig’s accident. She worked Traffic before joining CID. She’ll spot any inconsistencies. If it looks as though there are suspicious circumstances, I’ll go back to Sheehy and see what else he has.”
“What about Tony Sutton?”
“Not yet. He was investigated alongside Sheehy when he was first arrested. I need to satisfy myself that he is completely clean before I bring him in on this.”
Susan squeezed his hand again. “Well do it quickly. You can’t work this alone. You need help.”
Susan was right as usual. The logical science teacher had cut through the confusion and suggested a course of action. Marrying her was still the best decision he had ever made.
He’s walking down the garden path again, the coffee cups balanced in his hands. He tries to stop, the feeling of dread mounting in him, but it’s useless. His legs, ignoring his desperate commands, carry him relentlessly towards the garage door. Towards what he knows lies on the other side.
No, not again, he cries out silently. He knows it’s a dream of course; the same dream that visited him every night for years. Almost a quarter of a century on, the dream comes less often now. But when it does, it’s lost none of its power.
The rusty hasp needs a tug, and the spilled coffee scalds him. As always, he tries to turn back, but try as he might, he’s committed, the same story playing out again and again. His ears are filled with the chugging of the car’s engine. His nose is clogged with exhaust fumes.
And then he’s at the car door, swinging the hammer with all of his strength. Please let it be different this time, he pleads, just this once.
But it’s not. The whisky bottle clatters to