Bayliss & Calladine Box Set

by Helen H. Durrant

  “I am so sorry.” He felt like weeping. She had been a big part of his life back then. Now he realised that she’d played an even bigger part than he’d known. She’d given him a daughter.

  “I have no one in Bristol; a few friends but no family. So here I am.” She smiled. “Mum finally told me the truth about you, so I thought I’d come and seek you out. I found granny first and was building up the courage to meet you.”

  “You shouldn’t worry about me, Zoe, I’m a pussycat. Where are you staying?”

  “At a pub on Leesdon High Street.”

  “The Wheatsheaf?”

  She nodded.

  “I live just off the High Street.” He took one of his personal cards out of his wallet. “I’ve got two spare bedrooms, so why not come and stay with me?”

  “Well . . . you might be my biological father, but I don’t know you.”

  “I’m OK, believe me,” he said wearily. “I’m a boring old fart of a detective inspector with the local police. I work a lot and I apprehend thieves and murderers. What else is there to know?”

  She smiled. “Okay — perhaps in time, but for now I’ll stay put. I’m going to sit with Granny for a while tonight, anyway. She really isn’t well and the doctor said she wasn’t responding to the medication.”

  Calladine bent over and looked at his aged mother. She was struggling for every breath. That wasn’t good.

  “I’ll meet up with you tomorrow,” Zoe suggested. “We can talk and get to know each other a bit better.”

  “Okay — if that’s what you want.”

  A daughter. He liked the idea very much. She seemed nice, and she looked a lot like Rachael too. If things weren’t so bloody grim he might even crack a smile.

  It was his mother that was going to be the problem now. She looked ghastly — so pale and haggard. He patted her hand. He’d have to go. He had to find out where Ruth was, and see what had happened to their man. God. What was he going to tell the team? How was he going to explain that Dodgy was Handy Man — the murdering bastard they’d been searching for all week?

  Ruth walked towards him along the corridor.

  “He’s sedated, sir. That was some bang on the head Lydia gave him. Anyway, we can’t do anything tonight. If he’s well enough, he’ll be transferred to the cells tomorrow. We can speak to him then.”

  “Which room?”

  “End of the corridor. There’s a uniform with him.”

  Calladine strode down and knocked on the door. A uniformed constable opened it, and the inspector flashed his warrant card. He wanted to see him, to look at him. What for, he couldn’t fathom. But seeing the truth behind the façade that had been Dodgy might help him to make sense of it.

  The young man was hardly moving. He looked so still, so peaceful. He looked like Dodgy; young and vulnerable. Calladine had to remind himself who he really was.

  “Time to go, sir.” Ruth stuck her head around the door.

  “That suits me. I could do with getting home but I’m needed here.”

  “Not coming to the pub for a celebratory drink? End of case, successful collar?”

  “I can’t. There’s Lydia and it appears that I have a daughter.”

  “A daughter?” Ruth’s eyes widened in surprise. “How did that happen — and who with?’

  “With Rachael of course; my ex-wife. All those years ago when she left me, she was pregnant.”

  “Is she here? Your daughter, I mean.”

  “Yes. She’s here tonight, visiting mum. We’re going to talk tomorrow, then she might even agree to come and stay with me for a while.”

  “Well congratulations, Tom. I’m happy for you.”

  “It’s about the only thing I’ve got to smile about right now,” he admitted. “She’s called Zoe, and she’s lovely.”

  “Rocco’s doing okay. He’ll be out in a few days. Lydia?”

  “She’s in a bad way — mentally — I think. The bastard kept her tied up naked. She’s traumatised, but she’s a hard nut and she’ll eventually bounce back.”

  “I’m going to get off then, sir. See you tomorrow at the nick.”

  A quick wave and she was gone. Calladine couldn’t stay at Monika’s now. He retrieved the present from his overcoat pocket — he’d drop it off at the care home and apologise. He had the perfect excuse for his absence. There was no way he could leave Lydia alone while she was still so traumatised. He wouldn’t use that as his excuse to Monika though — he’d use his mother’s condition.

  He needed a quick breather before returning to Lydia. He inhaled the fresh night air and looked up at the sky. It was clear now and the moon was full and bright. Tomorrow would be cold. But then tomorrow was another day.

  THE END

  BOOK 2: DEAD SILENT

  A gripping detective thriller full of suspense

  Helen H. Durrant

  First published 2015

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.

  ©Helen H. Durrant

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  THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.

  Prologue

  In the thick fog of an early morning, a small white van could just be seen, weaving through the pouring rain along a distant country road.

  “You’ve let me down, Vida. We were doing just fine, but that wasn’t good enough for you. Was it?”

  The man driving slammed his fist down on the dashboard. There were hot tears running down his face. He brushed a rough hand over his cheek. He could hardly see a thing — what with the tears, the rain pelting down hard and the fog, he was really up against it. Why did the weather have to be so foul when he had so much to do?

  “You knew I loved you. I never gave you any reason to doubt it. We didn’t need anyone else; we agreed. So why did you do it? You could have had anything — anything at all, but that!” He was screaming now, his eyes darting to the reflection in the rear-view mirror. There was no reply from the shape lying in the back.

  “We talked. You said you felt the same as I did. But you didn’t, did you? You still went and got yourself pregnant. Lying bitch! All along you had no intention of keeping our little bargain. I can’t do it, Vida!” Screaming, shaking his head, as the anger built again. “You can’t blame anyone else for what’s happened — it’s all your own stupid fault!”

  The fog was so thick that the white van was now crawling along the narrow ribbon of a road, one of the country lanes above Hopecross. He’d have been better off on the bypass.

  “You can’t control yourself, that’s your trouble. That’s been the trouble with all of you stupid slags. Ten weeks, Vida, that’s all we had, before you ruined everything,” he sobbed. “After all I said. I poured my heart out, you selfish bitch. Stupid selfish bitch! You deserve what you’ve got coming — and more besides — for putting me through this!”

  Almost blind with tears and rage, he swung onto the slip road that led down to the dual carriageway. It was devoid of traffic. On a normal day it would have been busy, even at this early hour of the morning. But today, in the fog, it was quiet. No need to crawl then, he decided, putting his foot down.

  The van sped along towards Leesdon. He wasn’t sure where he was going, where he was going to drop Vida off. He rubbed his forehead. He hadn’t thought this through. The others had been easier — he’d simply kept them. But he didn’t want to keep this one. Things were changing, and for the worse, so he’d get rid of her. But then all the others wou
ld have to go too. He was beginning to calm down. He had to think. It wouldn’t be so bad; it’d be good to be rid of her. He wouldn’t have to look at her whining face or scrawny body ever again.

  Suddenly he saw a shape looming up in front of him. A dark mass was blocking the road and the occasional flame licked across the blackened sky. What the fuck was this? A car crash? Some sort of pile-up due to the weather? He strained his eyes to see, but in the fog he could make out nothing.

  He skidded to an abrupt halt behind a large saloon car. The lights were out, and the bonnet had sprung up and was all twisted and bent. Spirals of steam rose from the engine. A man was screaming in pain in the front seat.

  “I’m trapped!” he yelled out, seeing the headlights behind him. “I can’t move my legs. Ring for help, please, for God’s sake — do something!”

  The van driver stood and looked at the scene in front of him. Multiple vehicles had ploughed into each other. Apart from the one man, an eerie silence, almost as thick as the fog itself, permeated the scene. No one moved. No one was coming. This was an opportunity he couldn’t afford to miss.

  “Out you get, bitch.” He pulled a woman’s body from the back of the van. He heard her feet thud hard on the tarmac, and he dragged her over to the saloon car. “This is the last time you cross me. I’ll teach you to want what you can’t have.”

  He yanked open one of the rear passenger doors and bundled her inside. She didn’t make it easy for him; right to the end she was a pain in the backside. She was so heavy. A dead weight.

  “Good riddance.”

  He riffled through the back of his van for a few minutes and returned with a petrol can. He casually emptied the contents under the saloon car, to increasing shrieks and screams for help from the trapped man. Surely he’d got it by now. There was no help coming.

  Enough of this noise. He had things to do, places to go. He struck a match, casually flicked it under the car and walked away. Within a split second the vehicle was ablaze.

  Like all the rest, Vida was now history.

  Chapter 1

  Day One

  The weather had done its worst. Two late autumnal storms had brought down the last of the leaves, and underfoot the entire churchyard was a wet, slippery mess. At least the fog had mostly cleared. Some low swirling mist remained, clinging to the bleak hilltops.

  Detective Inspector Tom Calladine stood silent, his daughter at his side, as the undertakers took his mother’s coffin from the hearse. He must pull himself together. He had to get through this somehow. It had arrived; the day he’d pushed to the back of his mind, the event he hadn’t wanted to think about. But now he had no choice. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to get through it, but he had to hold it together for Zoe. She’d no sooner found her grandmother than she’d lost her again. This dying business was so final.

  Zoe Calladine took hold of his hand and tugged it gently. “We should be going in,” she whispered. “They’re waiting for your signal.”

  He was dragging his heels, delaying things. He didn’t want to admit that his mother was finally gone. She had slipped away in the dead of night without so much as a whimper. Why hadn’t she fought? She wasn’t really that old, not by today’s standards. Surely there’d been a good few years still left in her?

  He looked down at the young woman by his side. His daughter. Two months ago he hadn’t been aware that she even existed. She’d come into his life like a bolt from the blue and was already leaving her mark. She planned to stay too, a decision she’d made with no prompting from him, and he was chuffed to bits about it.

  She was still living with him but no doubt that’d change in time. Zoe was a solicitor, so she’d be able to afford a place of her own soon enough. She had studied law, got her degree and gained experience with a firm in Bristol. Now a local practice had taken her on.

  Her help in organising all this had been invaluable. She’d dealt with the undertakers, as well as the wake at the Leesworth Hotel afterwards. In fact she’d done it all. As usual — stupid bugger that he was — he’d used the pressure of work as an excuse for failing to contribute.

  She had made sure that all Freda’s old friends knew. They were all here, too, and transport had been arranged for them. Monika had come, representing the care home his mother had lived in for the past few months. Monika looked drawn and nervous, every bit as upset as he was. She was shuffling about from one foot to another, and kept glancing at him. He caught her eye, but she merely nodded a curt greeting. He should have done things differently. She should have been standing with him. After all she was more than just his mother’s carer, much more. God, he’d messed up there. Despite everything, he missed her.

  But Lydia Holden had been the final straw that broke their relationship. It was true that it had been floundering for a while — not enough input from him — but after Lydia, Monika could barely bring herself to speak to him. He’d been trying to work out how to tell her about the beautiful reporter, but in the end he didn’t have to. Monika had simply read Lydia’s piece in the paper. She’d asked a few salient questions and no doubt quizzed Ruth, his sergeant, and worked out the rest for herself. Tom Calladine didn’t love her, simple as that. How could he if his head could be turned so easily?

  He looked towards the black-suited men who were arranging the flowers over the coffin. White lilies: traditional. His mother would have approved. He’d stood here before, almost on this same spot in fact, when he was twelve or thirteen, after his father died. He didn’t remember feeling anything, really. He recalled hating having to wear a new suit, and that he’d been itching to get home to watch some telly programme or other — daft kid that he’d been back then.

  His reverie was broken as a car on the drive caught his attention. A latecomer? He was about to go and meet whoever it was, but then swore under his breath. The car smoothing its way towards them was a sleek, black Bentley. That could mean only one thing.

  Ray Fallon.

  How the hell had he found out? More to the point, what did he think he was doing here? He hadn’t bothered to visit when she’d been in the care home, so why attend her funeral? Apart from that, Ray Fallon knew damn well he wouldn’t be wanted here.

  “Thomas!”

  Fallon was immaculate in what looked like an Italian designer suit, and a cashmere overcoat with a velvet collar. Last time they’d met, Fallon had been lying in a hospital bed following a major heart attack. Look at him now. The Devil surely did look after his own.

  Calladine stepped forward to meet his cousin. What was the use? He supposed his mother would have wanted him here. She’d practically raised him, after all.

  “Well, Thomas. Sad day.” Fallon held out a hand, which Calladine ignored.

  One of his goons leaned into the boot and handed across to the undertakers a huge arrangement of white roses that spelled out Auntie Freda. Over the top and totally unnecessary.

  “They’re all waiting. We’d better do this, Thomas.” Fallon gestured his men forward. Three more black-suited goons got out of the car and made for the coffin. “You and I will take the front — you on the right, me on the left. Sort of apt, don’t you think?”

  Calladine didn’t laugh. Ray Fallon was one of Manchester’s most infamous villains. The only reason he wasn’t doing life was because the team at Manchester Central weren’t smart enough to nail him. Was he being too harsh on his colleagues? Fallon wasn’t only clever, he was ruthless. He was a past master at ensuring watertight alibis, even if it meant committing murder to keep them that way. So it wasn’t just about catching him. Trapping him and getting people to testify in court — that was the key. But in the meantime he continued to thrive. Not even a heart attack and bypass surgery had stopped him. The man was a menace, a pain in the arse — and, much to the inspector’s embarrassment, his damned cousin!

  The six men took hold of Freda Calladine’s coffin and bore it into Leesworth Parish Church. If Mum was watching this, she’d be thrilled. But from Calladine’s point of view i
t was the stuff of nightmares. His mother was being taken on her final outing, accompanied by Manchester’s most dangerous gangster and his minions.

  All the same, Calladine couldn’t hold back a small chuckle. There was a weird irony in all this. He was just thankful that there was no one from the nick here to witness his embarrassment.

  At the church door, Calladine took a deep breath. This was it. This was the final goodbye.

  * * *

  Everywhere was mad busy. It was only a few weeks until Christmas, and Leesworth appeared to be in panic mode. The shops along Leesdon High Street were enjoying a brief respite from the woes of the recession, and the garden centre was doing a roaring trade in all kinds of festive fare.

  It was lunchtime and Cassie Rigby was playing up. She was hungry, and bored with being dragged around the shops. She was only four years old.

  “You sit there and be a good girl.” Anna was looking warily at the long queue at the self-service counter. “I will get you something — one of those kid’s boxes. Is that okay?”

  The little girl nodded. She liked them; they included a yoghurt plus a carton of juice.

  Anna Bajek looked at the queue again. If she took Cassie with her they’d lose the table. “Look — you must stay here. You mustn’t move. If you’re good, then you can have ice cream afterwards, when we’ve seen Santa.”

  The child nodded and leaned back on the padded seat. Anna piled their shopping beside her and went to join the queue. She looked back and waved. The child would be okay; they were only a few feet apart.

  The woman in front of Anna was arguing with the young man serving food behind the counter, hands on her broad hips. Why was there only ever one person on the job in these places?

  “I ordered cottage pie. He wanted the soup with a roll.”