Silent As The Grave. Paul Gitsham

unusual to say the least.

      With all that in mind, Warren had decided to meet the author of the note and see what they had to say.

      Of course, he had no intention of meeting them alone. Reggie Williamson had been stabbed to death—it was entirely possible that his killer had written the note and Warren was uncomfortably aware that he was potentially placing himself directly in danger.

      At the very least, it would be helpful to identify the person who claimed to know about the attack. So, in the hours preceding the rendezvous, various officers had stationed themselves in and around the pub. By the time Warren arrived a nondescript Transit van, a team of concealed, uniformed officers wearing stab vests and batons had been parked three spaces over for two hours. Small holes drilled in the side panels allowed the video surveillance team a clear view. At both ends of the road unmarked cars sat ready to form roadblocks if needed; more officers were on standby if necessary.

      The clock on the dashboard of Warren’s Ford Mondeo clicked over to two minutes to four. Across the car park, drinkers sat in small groups around wooden trestle tables, enjoying the warm weather. A waitress in her late teens cleared dishes for a young couple who appeared absorbed in one another and oblivious to the world around them. Warren just hoped that Detective Constables Karen Hardwick and Gary Hastings were paying as much attention to their concealed earpieces as they were to one another. You never could be sure with those two.

      Four p.m. came and went. Warren shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His mouth was dry and he wished he was inside the pub, enjoying a pint of something frothy.

      Suddenly a voice crackled in his earpiece, “Possible target approaching, on foot from main road. White IC1 male, average height, wearing a grey, hooded jacket and a baseball cap. His head’s down. We can’t make out his features.”

      Warren tensed, all thoughts of a drink vanishing.

      A few seconds later the man emerged. Keeping his head low, he crossed the car park without glancing in either direction, heading straight for Warren’s car. Warren opened the door and stepped out, ready to greet the man.

      The visitor barely looked up; all Warren could make out was the grey of a beard beneath the shadow of the cap’s brim.

      “It’s not safe to be seen. Get back in the car.”

      The man’s voice was harsh, quiet. An older man, late-middle-aged, Warren surmised. He looked the visitor up and down. In response, the man pulled out the pockets of the hoody, showing them to be empty. He could still be concealing a knife elsewhere on his person, but Warren had to take the chance. Besides which, he already had a suspicion who it was and he was burning with curiosity.

      Nodding, Warren slipped back behind the wheel of the car. The hooded man opened the passenger door and climbed in. Closing the door behind him, he turned in his seat.

      “Hello DCI Jones, my name’s Gavin Sheehy and I need your help.”

       Chapter 9

      Warren stared at the man, taking in his dishevelled appearance; his scruffy grey beard and unkempt hair were both in desperate need of a good trim and the man’s face was lined, with dark smudges beneath his eyes. Eyes that were slightly bloodshot, Warren noted. Up close the man’s cologne was almost overwhelming and he smelled as if he’d just eaten two whole packets of extra-strong mints.

      “I thought you said that you had information about Reggie Williamson?” Warren ignored the man’s proffered hand. He was surprised at the intense feelings of anger he felt towards the man. Police corruption was something that Warren had felt strongly about ever since he’d joined the force; the betrayal of the public trust was a slap in the face to the thousands of dedicated officers who risked their lives day in, day out in an often-thankless job. Since moving to Middlesbury, the feelings had intensified as he saw firsthand the devastating effects that such betrayal had on those officers closest to the traitor.

      Sheehy dropped his hand. It shook slightly, Warren observed. Clearing his throat the older man unzipped his coat slightly, revealing the edge of a manila folder. “I have. But first we need to take a drive.”

      The car park was full of Warren’s colleagues, all of whom were tensed and ready to rush in at the nearest hint of any trouble. To leave with Sheehy would be a breach of protocol and absolute madness, although Warren felt it unlikely that he was in any physical danger.

      “Not a chance. If you have information on the murder then you can share it here.”

      Sheehy shook his head. “No. What I have is for your ears only.”

      “If that’s your attitude, how about I run you down the station and charge you with obstruction and help myself to the information?”

      Sheehy snorted derisively. “Investigation going well, is it? Lots of suspects all lined up?”

      The man was right. They had drawn a complete blank; whatever information Sheehy possessed about the old man’s murder, Warren needed to know it.

      Warren looked at him long and hard.

      “How do I know you didn’t kill Reggie Williamson? That you’re not some deranged killer who’s going to stab me as soon as we move on?”

      “If you thought that, you wouldn’t be sitting here with me, even with a van full of rugby players three spaces along and Gary staring all gooey-eyed at that new detective constable over in the beer garden.”

      Warren’s mind raced through the possibilities, but he’d already made his mind up. He slipped the car into gear.

      “Where are we going?”

      “I’ll point; you drive.” Sheehy wasn’t silly enough to announce their destination to whoever may be listening. He raised his voice.

      “And if that’s you on the other end of DCI Jones’s open radio link, Grayson, tell the officers parked at either end of the road to stay where they are. And it’s a clear day with good visibility. I’ll see the chopper a mile off and you can kiss goodbye any information that I’m going to give him.”

      Sheehy put a hand out. “Remove the earpiece. Save yourself an earbashing.”

      “Do as he says,” instructed Warren to the surveillance team, a small part of him enjoying the sudden silencing of DSI Grayson’s squawking as he pulled his hidden earpiece out and Sheehy tossed it out the window. He’d get it in the neck when he returned to the station, but he’d deal with that then. Hopefully the information Sheehy claimed to have would be worth it.

      * * *

      Sheehy’s directions had been by hand gesture only; he was too experienced to think that Warren’s earpiece was the only open communication channel from the vehicle. After passing the unmarked cars at the top end of the street—the officers glared openly, but made no immediate move to follow them—they were soon heading towards the north end of town. It didn’t take Warren long to work out where they were headed.

      “It’s a lovely evening, Warren. You won’t need your coat.”

      Warren sighed, tossing the heavy jacket with its hidden microphone onto the rear seat. He pointedly didn’t remove the blue stab vest, but as they left the Mondeo in the small car park on the edge of Middlesbury Common he was uncomfortably aware that he was leaving behind his last means of communication with the surveillance team. He was going to have a lot of explaining to do when he got back.

      “Is that where Reggie Williamson was killed?”

      It was a rhetorical question—blue-and-white police tape still fluttered in the breeze.

      Aside from a few young boys kicking a football at a makeshift goal made from rolled-up jumpers at the other end of the open field, the two men were now alone in the middle of the common. Nobody could possibly overhear them and Sheehy would have plenty of warning if anyone tried to approach.

      “Well