Silent As The Grave. Paul Gitsham
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Название: Silent As The Grave
Автор: Paul Gitsham
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Приключения: прочее
isbn: 9781474033602
isbn:
“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 the floor as he reaches in to turn off the engine. But he’s too late again. The last thing he sees before he jerks awake, sobbing, is his father’s white, bloodless face…
“Warren, it’s OK. Warren, I’m here.” Susan’s voice is soothing, the warmth of her arms around his chest. Gradually his heart rate slows, calmed by her gentle caresses.
“The dream?”
Nothing more is required. They’ve been together for eight years and she recognises its symptoms—the crying and the tears, the way he cradles his hand as if scalded by hot coffee. The dream comes to him just a few times a year now, usually around the anniversary or his father’s birthday. It doesn’t take a genius to work out why it’s chosen to come back tonight.
Warren nods. Reaches out for the glass of water on the bedside table and takes a long swig.
“I’m OK now. It only ever comes once.” Despite the fluid his voice is croaky.
The bedside clock reads three-thirty.
“Go back to sleep.” He kisses her on the forehead.
It’s true, the dream does only come once in a night and afterwards, Warren sleeps a deep and dreamless sleep and will awake in the morning fully refreshed. It’s as if it’s been purged from his system and won’t need to return again for at least a few more nights.
But tonight is different. In a few minutes, Susan’s breathing changes as she drifts back to sleep. But sleep won’t come to Warren. Try as he might he can’t stop thinking about that night, reliving it again. Why? Why won’t his subconscious let it go?
He starts to obsess about small details. The way the hasp squeaks as he forces it open. The clatter of the whisky bottle as it hits the floor. His father’s pale, bloodless lips.
The hasp. It squeaks as he forces it open.
As he forces it open.
Suddenly Warren sits bolt upright in bed, realising that what Sheehy has told must at least be partly true. If his father was inside the garage, who had closed the rusty hasp on the outside of the door?
Sunday 1 April
Warren finished leafing through the report describing the road traffic collision that had killed the late coroner Dr Anton Liebig and his wife, Rosemary, three months before. Putting it down on his desk he turned to the inquest findings, skimming the legalese before skipping to the narrative verdict. Something wasn’t right; he was sure of it. The deaths and their timing were too coincidental, but to his untrained eye everything seemed normal. Despite his reluctance to involve too many people at this stage, he needed help.
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