Deadly Divorces (8 page)

In the weeks following Sharon’s disappearance, the true picture of the perilous state of the couple’s relationship began to emerge and police suspicions became increasingly focused on Garry himself. But he knew the net was closing on him and that if Sharon’s body was discovered no amount of acting was going to get him off the hook. All around him the world was celebrating the new Millennium. It was a time for fresh starts so Garry Malone decided to have one of his own.

On 21 January 2000 he withdrew
£
30,000 from various bank accounts and loaded some of his prize belongings into a rented Mercedes van. Then, with his two small sons strapped in the back, he set off for Spain to begin a new life. The Costa del Sol has become a magnet for British citizens looking to escape from pressures at home. With its long stretches of beaches and highly developed resorts, all
boasting a massive expat population and all the comforts of home, it’s the perfect place to reinvent yourself.

Britons flee to the Costa del Sol for many reasons: as a last attempt to save a flagging marriage or perhaps a way out of a marriage that’s already dead; to escape debt or high-stress jobs and even because they’re wanted by the police. Not for nothing has the Costa del Sol become known as the Costa del Crime. In 1978, a century-old extradition treaty between Spain and the UK expired and created a loophole whereby crooks could hide out on the Costas without fear of being hauled back home. In 1985, the treaty was replaced, perhaps with a view to Spain joining the EU the following year, so the loophole was closed up. But the image of the Costa Del Sol as a sanctuary for Briton’s criminal classes – a place where they could disappear into anonymity and become just another new British face amid hundreds of thousands more all looking to start a new life in the sun – remained.

Some people arrive totally cold and have to build up a whole social network from scratch. But Garry Malone was lucky. When he arrived on the Costa with his two young sons in late January 2000, he already had a friend to show him the ropes. Her name was Roberta Kirque. Within weeks, he had found somewhere to live in the heavily
built-up
stretch of coast between Malaga and Fuengirola and enrolled the children in local schools. And he had a new identity to go with his new life: he was now Ralph Kirque.

Still he couldn’t bring himself to leave his old life entirely behind. He sent letters from Spain to Paula Fiddes and to Sharon’s heart-broken father Harry, who’d lost his wife to cancer, his daughter had disappeared and now he’d had his two precious grandsons taken away from him as well. The letters were full of justification for leaving: Garry was still sticking to his story about Sharon owing money to the wrong sort of people. ‘I’m scared what would happen if I came back,’ he said.

If you’re forced to flee your home, southern Spain isn’t a bad place to live out your exile. Garry quickly came to appreciate the 300-plus days a year of sunshine and the open disregard for the law endemic in this part of the world. There were weekends on the beach and long evenings sitting outside sea-front bars watching the sun set through the fronds of the palm trees. And finally, he had someone with whom he truly connected to share these experiences – his new girlfriend Marie Idden. Life was pretty good.

Back in the UK, though, things were looking anything but sunny for Garry Malone. On 18 March 2000, after two frustrating months when it seemed as if the investigation into Sharon Malone’s disappearance had all but ground to a halt, a member of the public stumbled across a most unpleasant discovery in North Mymms Park, Hertfordshire. Lying in the bed of a dried-up stream amongst dense woodland was the partially clothed, decomposing body of a
woman: it was Sharon. Finally the case turned from missing person to murder inquiry with just one prime suspect.

When the news about Sharon’s death was out, Garry Malone declared he’d cried bucket loads and maybe he did. But were his tears for his dead wife, or for himself? The discovery of the body opened up whole new evidence to investigating police officers. Garry knew that sooner or later the evidence would lead straight back to him. His carefully spun web of deceit started to unravel when Paula Fiddes was arrested. Her story of seeing Sharon Malone the night she died had now been exposed as a tissue of lies and police had some serious questions for her. Fiddes later claimed in court to have been ‘scared’ by the news of her former friend’s death because she’d realised what her
exlover
was capable of. This time she told the police that she’d actually met Garry Malone on the night of Sharon’s murder. He’d called her to say he’d fallen off his bike and needed bandages and water. She also said Garry had gone on to give her ‘lists of things to say’.

More lies came to light when mobile phone records revealed Garry Malone to have been in the area of North Mymms Park on the night of the murder. Detectives appealed to him to come forward and ‘help clear things up’. But Garry Malone – aka Ralph Kirque – had no intention of giving up his easy life in the sun for what would almost certainly be immediate arrest and incarceration. Through his older son Gareth, the child of his first marriage, he told
the media that he wasn’t prepared to come back and see his two small sons taken into care while he faced a prison sentence for a crime he insisted he hadn’t committed.

‘I don’t think he will be coming back,’ Gareth told reporters on the second anniversary of Sharon’s death. ‘The police have not been helpful to him – if they had, I’m sure he would have returned.’

As Ralph Kirque, Garry had things pretty good. Although at first his kids had found it hard, gradually they’d settled and learned to speak fluent Spanish as small children tend to do when thrown in at the deep end of a different culture. They’d even briefly re-discovered their doting grandfather, Harry Clinch, who’d flown out for a tearful reunion just before Christmas 2001 – although Garry had made sure there wasn’t any contact after that. The last thing he wanted was a constant link to Sharon and the murder inquiry intruding on his brave new world.

But deep inside Garry knew he was living on borrowed time. He might have been enjoying a dream life, but the nightmare of the past was never far from the surface. Even the sunniest days bear a shadow if you’re constantly looking behind you to see who’s coming. The most beautiful of surroundings can look sinister if you’re always wondering why that car is moving so slowly or that group of men are looking in your direction. Was there a sense then in which the end might finally have come as some sort of relief for a man who’d worn his secret for so long? Who knows?

On 31 May 2003 the knock on the door that he had been expecting for years finally came. Garry was arrested and taken to Madrid to appear before magistrates. He was then detained in a high security unit in the Spanish capital while the extradition wrangles began.

Though the extradition laws between Spain and the UK are now back in place following the brief lapse of the late 1970s and early 1980s, the process is complex and time consuming. Anyone with a good lawyer can drag the whole thing out for months. Knowing that he could face the rest of his life in prison if his case went before a British court, Garry Malone wasn’t in any rush to get home. He managed to stretch out the extradition process for the maximum 15 months. In the meantime he married his girlfriend Marie Idden.

It’s hard to see how this by now 50-year-old man with thinning hair and a paunch, who was already behind bars and facing a lifetime in prison for the alleged murder of his wife might have struck anyone as good husband material. But love does funny things to people.

By the beginning of June 2004 Garry’s legal representatives had finally run out of time – and luck. He was back in the UK on 6 June and in Hendon Magistrates Court where he pleaded not guilty to murdering his wife. Beside him was his son Gareth Malone who’d been accused of disposing of bloodstained wallpaper from the Cranborne Crescent house. Also present was Paula Fiddes.
By this stage Paula had little to say to her former lover. The man she’d claimed to find ‘nice’ and ‘gentle’ was proving to be anything but. In fact it occurred to her that she herself had had a very lucky escape.

Nearly a year passed between Garry’s arrival back in the UK and the start of his murder trial. How galling it must have been to be locked up inside a light-starved prison cell, to look back on those languid days in Spain, soaking up the Andalucian sun and to realise that life might now be closed to you for good. How dreary must the English skies have appeared through the prison bars – layer upon layer of grey, each one more soul-destroying than the last.

Finally, on 16 March 2005 Garry Malone stood trial for the murder of his wife Sharon five and a half years before. In court was Harry Clinch, still grieving for his dead daughter and the grandsons he yearned to see. Harry knew the peace of mind he’d enjoyed before 1999 would never return, but at least he might get some answers. That was the most he could hope for.

The court case at London’s Old Bailey dragged on for almost two months. Finally, after 22 hours of deliberation, Garry Malone was found guilty of murder by a majority verdict. Unlike his performance in front of the TV cameras all those years before, Garry showed no emotion as the verdict was read out. He stared impassively ahead of him as if the jury foreman’s voice was just background noise.

Over the next few days Garry’s son Gareth was found
not guilty of disposing of evidence from the Potters Bar house. In Paula Fiddes’ case, the jury failed to reach a verdict on the allegation that she helped Malone, but she was later given a fine and an 8-month suspended sentence for perverting the course of justice by lying to police.

A week after the original verdict was reached, Malone was back in court to receive a life sentence. ‘You are a manipulative, calculating and deceitful man,’ Judge Stephen Kramer told him. For Harry Clinch and the rest of Sharon’s family it was the outcome they’d been hoping for although it did little to fill the jagged hole left in their lives by Sharon’s death. ‘I have got to get some answers,’ Harry pleaded outside the courthouse. ‘I want to know why he did it.’

But the legacy of Garry Malone’s crime extends far beyond his victim’s family. Anyone who saw that original TV appeal, who watched a cold-blooded killer play the part of a desperate husband with such consummate ease will have been left with a bitter aftertaste. If the very person who swore to love and honour could go on to commit murder and then lie about it so well and with so little conscience, what’s the point in getting close to someone? Do you ever really know what the person who shares your life and your bed is capable of?

And that’s the worst thing about crimes such as Garry Malone’s: they force us to ask that most destructive and hurtful of all questions – can we ever really trust anybody?

Y
vette Luffman nervously counted through the stack of money in front of her. She’d already been through it at least twice before but she wanted to make sure it was all there. Plus, she needed to have something to do to take her mind off the enormity of what she was doing. To be honest, there was a big part of her that still didn’t believe she would really go through with it. It was as if she was watching a film – only the lead actress was herself. Things like this just didn’t happen in real life did they? Still, if it was a film then she could just switch it off at any time and walk away, couldn’t she? And everything would go back to how it was.

Once again her shaky fingers sorted out the sheaf of notes into piles. Yes, it was all there. She got out an envelope
and stuffed the money inside. It was amazing how thick the bundle seemed. The envelope was so full, the flap would barely close over the top.

One thousand pounds. It was such a lot of money. Just think of all the things she could do with that amount of cash. She could get the kids the bits and pieces they were constantly asking for and buy some new clothes; she could even put some money down on a holiday somewhere exotic. She wouldn’t care where it was as long as it was well away from the Midlands.

Not that Boston – where she’d lived up until then – wasn’t a decent place to live. With its historic buildings, vast parish church and busy market, the attractive town was a great place to bring up children. Now she’d met new boyfriend Wayne, however, she’d been spending much more time in his hometown of Bulwell, Nottinghamshire, which wasn’t at all as picturesque. Besides, since her marriage break up and all the rows that had followed it, every place seemed to carry some bitter memory. A thousand quid would get her well away from here.

Still, it was no good thinking like that, she told herself sternly, sealing up the envelope and smoothing it down decisively. She knew she couldn’t spend a penny of that money; she just had to bide her time and wait. Before long she’d have loads of money and then she could do all the things she dreamed of – have the holiday of a lifetime if she wanted to. She remembered when she’d got the money
from Simon, her ex-husband. It was supposed to be the first down payment on the
£
4,000 he owed her as part of their divorce settlement. Funny how the other
£
3,000 had never materialised though she lost track of the number of times she’d asked him about it. He’d been going out practically every night so it wasn’t as if he couldn’t afford it. Well, she wasn’t married to him any more and he’d messed her about for the very last time. As she slipped the bulging envelope into her handbag, Yvette wondered what Simon would say had he known just how she planned to spend the money he’d given her.

Making her way through Nottingham City Centre with her boyfriend Wayne Briscoe, Yvette noticed he looked ill at ease with his unhealthy complexion even more
pasty-looking
than normal.

‘You sure he’s going to be there?’ she asked him again.

He nodded curtly.

As they approached Chambers Bar at the corner of Maid Marian Way, the karaoke for which it was famous was already in full swing and someone was belting out the words to an old R&B classic. Chambers was one of Yvette and Wayne’s regular haunts and normally the couple would have gone in for a drink and to have a good giggle at the singers, but tonight they weren’t in any mood for socialising.

‘Is that him?’ whispered Yvette, indicating the bouncer standing outside the entrance to the bar. Once again Wayne nodded.

The man on the door was Thomas Convery. Wayne, who’d also worked as a bouncer, had come across him through work. He didn’t know him that well, but he knew his reputation. If you wanted something doing that wasn’t exactly legal, Thomas Convery was your man – as long as you had the cash to make it worth his while. With her heart hammering hard, Yvette edged towards the
dour-looking
doorman.

‘I’ve heard you’re the sort of person who’ll do, erm, certain things for money,’ she said, agitatedly. Thomas gazed at her coldly. He knew exactly what she was talking about, but he gave nothing away. ‘I assume these things you’re talking about are illegal?’ he asked. Yvette’s nerves made her talk faster than normal as she agreed and then went on to explain what she wanted. ‘I need someone killed,’ she said, the words tumbling out in a rush.

Her request was really quite simple. She wanted Thomas Convery to kill her ex husband. The bouncer listened as Yvette recounted her story. Then he had a question:‘How will I know what he looks like?’ Wayne and Yvette looked at one another. This part was easy. ‘Come here,’ Yvette commanded. She led the way to a window that looked from the street into the bar and then she pointed to a man sitting inside. ‘That’s him,’ she said. ‘That’s Simon.’ Convery
stared in at the man he’d been told to kill. He recognised him as a regular in the bar. He’d always been friendly, jovial even. Still, business was business. ‘OK,’ he assented.

After that there were a few details to thrash out. Thomas Convery’s price tag for murder turned out to be
£
30,000. Yvette arranged that she would put the money she had received for her unofficial divorce settlement as a down payment and would pay the rest when Simon’s house was sold following his death. She had worked out that his house was worth over
£
200,000. Even after the mortgage had been paid off there’d be the best part of
£
100,000 left. In addition, she and Wayne committed to providing Convery with the murder weapon plus a diagram of the layout of Simon’s house and a breakdown of his daily routine.

That was the summer of 2003. The next time Yvette and Wayne met with Thomas Convery – at another bar where he was working – they had with them the envelope stuffed with cash. It was the
£
1,000 Simon Luffman had gave to his ex-wife. In effect, he was bankrolling his own execution.

Yvette wanted the murder carried out before 23 October. On that day she was due to give evidence against her ex-husband in connection with a minor drugs trial and was anxious to avoid the experience. Though her separation from Simon a couple of years before had been largely amicable and they’d continued to see each other socially because of the son they shared, as well as her other children who’d always got on well with him, since then
their relationship had been very volatile. Money was a constant source of tension. Instead of a formal divorce settlement sorted by lawyers, the Luffmans had informally agreed to the
£
4,000 payment. And when Simon had dragged his feet about paying up, it had caused major rows, with both of them making threats against the other. Yvette didn’t at all relish the prospect of standing up in court against her ex-husband.

She and Wayne supplied Thomas Convery with a shotgun and ammunition as well as copies of the keys to the front door of Simon’s house and a description of his car. Their idea was that Convery should kill Simon in his home and make it look like a failed robbery.

What passed through Yvette’s mind as she painstakingly went through the details of her ex-husband’s routine with the man she’d hired to kill him? Did the fact that someone else was carrying out the deed make it seem somehow less real? Did she tell herself that she could pull out at any time and say she’d changed her mind? Or did she just divorce herself from the murder in the same way that she’d divorced herself from the victim himself? It’s unlikely that we will ever know. What is known, however, is that Thomas Convery decided he didn’t like the idea of killing Simon Luffman in his own home in Langley Mill. Instead, on 19 October he invented a drugs deal in an intricate plan designed to lure Yvette’s ex-husband to a disused section of Nottingham Canal, off Coventry Lane in Wollaton.

Now mostly used by walkers and nature lovers as well as the occasional fisherman, this is a scenic spot. If you want an area that’s accessible but where the chances of being spotted are slim, you couldn’t do much better than here, where the barely used towpath is flanked by a screen of trees providing privacy and blocking off any chance of escape. Simon Luffman would have assumed his shady new acquaintance had picked this spot to make sure they could talk well away from prying eyes. It would never have crossed his mind that the seclusion of the towpath at Wollaton was also perfect for disguising the sound of gunfire.

By the time Thomas Convery walked away from the Nottingham Canal, Simon Luffman was lying dead on the ground. He had been shot four times with a sawn-off shotgun: twice in the head and twice in the back. His body was found the next day. The murder of Simon Luffman caused a stir around the Nottingham bars and clubs where he’d been a well-known face. It wasn’t long before attention became focused on Thomas Convery, who was known to have talked to Luffman shortly before he was killed.

‘Yeah, I knew him – he was a regular in the bar,’ Convery told police. ‘Nice bloke, friendly.’ Convery’s story was that Simon Luffman had approached him about a potential business deal he had coming up. Something about it sounded slightly dodgy and he thought he might need a bodyguard. In the end, Convery insisted, he’d got cold feet and had decided not to go along with it. That’s when
Simon Luffman had been killed. But detectives weren’t buying Convery’s story, particularly not after traces of Luffman’s blood were found on his trainers.

In December 2004 Thomas Convery went on trial at Nottingham Crown Court for the murder of Simon Luffman. Though he continued to protest his innocence, he was found guilty of murder and jailed for a minimum of 20 years. In court to see justice done and acting every inch the grieving widow was Yvette Luffman. Sat in the dock, struggling with the knowledge that he’d spend the next two decades of his life in prison, Convery felt a growing sense of rage as he watched Yvette comforting her ex-husband’s grief-stricken mother. The hypocrisy of it took his breath away. How could she act so concerned and upset when she was the one who’d masterminded the whole thing?

Over the next few days and weeks Convery’s sense of injustice grew. At this point he was in his early thirties. He had a girlfriend, a job and a full life. By the time he was released from prison he’d be middle-aged and all that would be lost to him. Yet Wayne Briscoe and Yvette Luffman got to go about their lives as if nothing had happened. It was so unfair. Locked up in his cell, Thomas Convery had plenty of time to brood on what had happened. The more he thought about it, the stronger became his resolve that Luffman and Briscoe should pay for the murder, just as he was doing. He decided to confess.

The police had long since been convinced that the murder of Simon Luffman was a contract killing. Until that point they just hadn’t had the evidence to arrest anyone. Now they set about building a case against his ex-wife and her lover. In January 2007 Yvette Luffman and Wayne Briscoe went on trial for the murder of Simon Luffman. Like Wayne, Yvette protested her innocence throughout the trial, claiming Simon’s murder had devastated herself, their son and his whole family. Her repeated denials fell on stony ears, however.

On 7 February 2007 a jury at Birmingham Crown Court found the pair guilty of murder. They were sentenced to life imprisonment and will also have to serve a minimum of 20 years. ‘They share as much blame for Mr Luffman’s murder as Thomas Convery, who pulled the trigger,’ said the Chief Prosecutor. Yvette never admitted any part in the murder, insisting she’d never ‘paid a single penny’ towards having her ex-husband killed and that she’d been greatly affected by his death.

Is there some part of her mind that actually believes this twisted version of events; that continues, despite the evidence against her, to cling to the image of herself as the wronged widow, the long-suffering mother of a bereaved child? One thing’s for sure, as she starts out on her life sentence Yvette Luffman will have a very long time to reconcile herself to the truth.