Silent As The Grave. Paul Gitsham

face…

      “Warren, it’s OK. Warren, I’m here.” Susan’s voice was soothing, the warmth of her arms around his chest. Gradually his heart rate slowed, calmed by her gentle caresses.

      “The dream?”

      Nothing more was required. They’ve been together for eight years and she recognised its symptoms—the crying and the tears, the way he cradled 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 nodded. Reached out for the glass of water on the bedside table and took a long swig.

      “I’m OK now. It only ever comes once.” Despite the fluid his voice was croaky.

      The bedside clock read three-thirty.

      “Go back to sleep.” He kissed her on the forehead.

      It’s true, the dream does only come once in a night and afterwards, Warren would sleep a deep and dreamless sleep and would 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 was different. In a few minutes, Susan’s breathing changed as she drifted back to sleep. But sleep didn’t come to Warren. Try as he might he couldn’t stop thinking about that night, reliving it again. Why? Why wouldn’t his subconscious let it go?

      He started to obsess about small details. The way the hasp squeaked as he forced it open. The clatter of the whisky bottle as it hit the floor. His father’s pale, bloodless lips.

      The hasp. It squeaked as he forced it open.

      As he forced it open.

      Suddenly Warren sat bolt upright in bed, realising that what Sheehy had told him 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 1st April

       Chapter 14

      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.

      Leaning out of his office door, he summoned DS Margaret Richardson from her desk in the far corner. Richardson was a heavy-set woman in her mid forties. A mother of two, she had worked traffic for a number of years before switching to CID.

      Warren pushed the printouts across the desk to her. “I need your expertise. I want you to read these reports and tell me what you see.”

      Placing her ever-present bottle of mineral water down next to Warren’s laptop, she fished out a pair of small reading glasses, picked up the pile of papers and started reading.

      It took her barely five minutes to finish both of the documents—five minutes that Warren spent trying to appear unconcerned and busy.

      “Well it seems fairly straightforward at first glance. I can see why the inquest drew their conclusions.” She raised a hand, ticking off each point. “Dr Liebig was driving late at night, on a narrow country road in poor weather with a blood alcohol level above the legal limit. The car was in good repair, but he was driving too fast for the conditions around a deceptively sharp bend with a reputation as an accident black spot. Best estimates put the car’s speed at over fifty miles per hour prior to it leaving the road shortly after the bend.”

      “And the conclusion from the inquest?”

      “Pretty much what I’d expect. The car plunged down a steep embankment and impacted a tree, which impaled Dr Liebig through the windshield, killing him instantly. His wife died from massive internal bleeding at the scene as the emergency services attempted to cut her out. Death by dangerous driving, namely excess speed and impairment by alcohol.”

      Warren nodded. “Is there anything in the report that doesn’t fit that explanation?”

      Richardson’s tone was cagey. “Well, sir, you have to realise that RTCs are complex, especially when there are no witnesses or survivors. There are always unanswered questions; the best we can do is come up with a sequence of events that fits the evidence and decide if an offence has been committed. In the case of a fatal accident, it’s up to the coroner presiding over the inquest to determine if there was anyone at fault, or if steps should be taken to reduce the likelihood of a similar accident. In this case she recommended safety barriers to prevent cars leaving the road, and improved signage.”

      Warren leant back in his chair. “OK, I understand that, Mags, but I have reason to suspect that this accident might not be as clear-cut as the report suggests. Are there any inconsistencies here or unanswered questions?”

      “Let me have another look.” Picking up the papers again, she took a pen out of a coffee cup masquerading as a pencil pot and raised an eyebrow. Warren signalled his agreement. The originals were safely locked away.

      This time, she took longer. Warren forced himself to turn back to his bulging inbox, resisting the urge to try and interpret the officer’s upside-down handwriting. However, he was rereading a missive about next year’s budget predictions for the third time, and still not comprehending it, when Richardson finally put down the papers and cleared her throat.

      “Anything?”

      “Well, if you want to turn over every stone, there are a few discrepancies, I suppose.” She sounded a little uncomfortable, clearly concerned that she might be overstating her observations.

      “I’m all ears,” responded Warren, trying not to sound too eager as he picked up his own pen and turned over a new page in the spiral-bound scribble pad next to the phone.

      “First off, his blood alcohol level was 85 milligrams per 100 millilitres. That’s only just above the legal limit. That doesn’t mean he was safe to drive, but he wasn’t pissed. Eyewitness reports state that he drank two small glasses of red wine with a three-course meal, about three hours prior to leaving the golf club. After the wine, witnesses say he switched to soft drinks. An analysis of his stomach contents is consistent with a large meal, traces of red wine and a substantial amount of what appears to be Coca Cola. The pathologist thought there might have been traces of spirits in there, but the blood alcohol results were back so he didn’t pursue it further.”

      “What about his blood-glucose levels? The report noted that he was diabetic, but I don’t know enough to tell if they were too low. Could he have become hypoglycaemic and lost control of the car?”

      Richardson shook her head. “Unlikely. His blood glucose was 14.2 millimoles per litre. If anything that’s too high. It may have contributed to fatigue or confusion, especially if he was tired late at night and under the influence of alcohol.”

      Warren studied her intently. “Your expression tells me you aren’t convinced.”

      Richardson sighed. “It may be nothing, but I’m not happy about the skid marks on the road.” She flicked the folder open to reveal flood-lit photographs of the road surface. Two thick, black tyre marks were clearly visible after the apex of the left-hand bend, heading straight on, before veering sharply to the right and off the road. The rear of the Liebig’s Jaguar was just visible at the edge of the image. Its wheels were hanging well clear of the road, hinting at the sharp downward angle that it had come to rest at. Blue smears across its shiny paintwork advertised the presence of emergency vehicles, their flashing lights just off camera.

      “It looks to me as though he had made it safely around the bend; although he was travelling very fast