by Linda Coles
She descended on them, full of anxiety, as soon as they got out of the car. “Why don’t you go and get checked out?” she asked again.
“Because it’s Sunday and I don’t fancy sitting in an A&E department for the next six hours,” Callum moaned. “Plus, the fact, we’re both fine—a couple of scratches each, nothing more. So, stop fussing, Mother!” He carried on past her and into the coolness of the hallway. Melissa followed suit, not wishing to rile her man up any further, even though his words had sounded downright rude. His mother was concerned; she could understand that.
“I don’t like it,” Jean Parker said, turning to her husband.
“His choice. He’s a grown man. And he’s not hurt.”
“But still.”
They both fell in behind Callum and Melissa and headed through to the lounge, where Callum was helping himself to another gin and tonic. Ice clinked in the tumbler as he sat back in one of the wing chairs, the wing itself almost hiding his face as he closed his eyes, savouring his drink in silence. Everyone else took a seat and collected their own thoughts after what had just happened. Mrs Parker quietly made sure that their future daughter-in-law, Melissa, was truly alright, then changed the subject to lighten the mood, breezily enquiring about where they’d ended up for lunch. She cooed her approval at their choice, a local hotel and a longstanding favourite of her own.
Callum hadn’t said another word. He’d finished his drink and had dropped off to sleep, so Brian and Jean Parker, along with Melissa, left him be.
“It must be the shock. Best to let him sleep it off,” Mrs Parker said, taking Callum’s drink from his hand and putting it on a nearby table. They headed outside, where a huge umbrella shaded a table and chairs on the patio. A retired greyhound slept peacefully in the shade of a bush hanging over the far corner. His ears pricked up as they settled in, indicating he wasn’t actually asleep at all, but his eyes stayed closed. Familiar voices were nothing to get bothered by.
“So how are the wedding plans going?’ Jean Parker said brightly, happy for something else to chat about while her grumpy son had forty winks inside. She hated rudeness.
“Terrible!” Melissa complained. “The hotel is being super silly over the menu and letting us have the whole of the gardens for our party because there’s another wedding on! Can you believe it? Why they can’t simply tell the others to find another venue, I’ve no idea. It’s causing Mummy and me a lot of stress. As if we haven’t enough to worry about!”
“Oh dear. How annoying for you. What will you do?”
“Mummy is going to go and tell the other people they can’t have the gardens. She’s found out who they are, so once she’s told them, it’ll be fine, I’m sure. They’ll just have to find another venue, and we’ll have the gardens to ourselves!”
Jean watched as Melissa helped herself to the jug of lemonade that stood in the centre of the table. She didn’t offer anyone else a glass. Rather than say anything, Jean filled a glass for herself anyway, and then poured another one for Brian, who had tuned out of the wedding arrangement conversation and was watching the dog sleep. Melissa was turning out to be a proper Bridezilla of gigantic proportions. At least she looked the part, though, Jean thought, and would fit into their lifestyle on looks alone. And as for their future grandchildren, with Callum and Melissa’s natural good looks, they would produce a couple of beautiful children between them. That would be nice to share with the bridge club ladies.
She was conscious Melissa was talking to her; she’d tuned out herself.
“Sorry, Melissa. I was elsewhere.”
Melissa scowled and repeated herself. “I said one of the bridesmaids has put so much weight on, the seamstress has had to make a whole new top half of the dress because she couldn’t squeeze in! I’m telling you, if she gets much fatter, I’ll tell her she can’t be a bridesmaid. I don’t want her ruining the photos because she can’t keep control of her food.”
“Oh dear,” said Jean again. It was all she could think of saying. She glanced over at Brian, who was still intently watching the dog and showed no signs of rescuing his wife from the conversation. It was all right for him; he could simply turn the TV on or potter in his tool shed and avoid the drama. Even if Jean went inside, Melissa would almost definitely follow her, yammering away as usual about some other self-created drama. She sipped her lemonade and, needing some reprieve from Melissa’s whining, asked, “Why don’t you see if Callum is awake, take him some cold lemonade?” Her smile was as sweet as the saccharine she’d made the drinks with.
Melissa pulled her bag onto her lap and reapplied her lipstick, then ran her fingers through her hair like a wide-toothed comb. Jean wondered if she did the same things before Callum woke up in the mornings, so she could be ready before he saw her bed-head. When Melissa was happy with her lips, she ran her tongue over her teeth, shook her head like a long-haired dog and went in search of Callum.
Jean breathed out a deep sigh of relief.
“Thank goodness for that,” Brian said in a near whisper. “Nice girl, but heaven give me strength,” he added, tilting his chin to the sky. Jean smiled and was about to add that the wedding would be done and over with soon when a woman’s shrill scream shattered the quiet.
Even the dog looked up in alarm.
“What the blazes has happened now?” Brian said, standing.
Chapter Three
Melissa was almost hysterical when Jean and Brian rounded the lounge door. It wasn’t obvious at first what they were looking at. Melissa stood with her hands covering her face, fingers splayed, screaming and crying all at the same time. Callum was as they’d left him when they’d gone out to the shade of the patio. But Jean knew her boy, and Callum didn’t look right. His eyes were still closed, despite the noise that was emanating from Melissa’s lungs. Jean rushed to her son and held the back of her hand to his forehead like she’d done so many times when he was a young boy. He didn’t feel hot this time; no, he felt cool, and cooler than she would have expected given the warm day. She patted his face, and called out to him.
“Callum, Callum—wake up, Callum,” she said urgently, but there was no response. Something was dreadfully wrong. “Call an ambulance, will you, Brian?” she directed. He reached for his phone and punched in 999 as Jean carried on trying to wake their son.
Crying now, she felt for a pulse on her son’s neck. Nothing. She moved her fingers slightly higher up; nothing registered. She tried his wrist but got the same result: nothing. She turned to Melissa, panic written on her face.
“Melissa! Help me lay him on the floor!” she demanded, but Melissa, still in shock and crying uncontrollably, stood rooted to the spot behind her future mother-in-law.
Realising Melissa was not going to be much use and that Brian was on the phone with the emergency services, Jean heaved Callum down to the floor and on to his back and started CPR. Somebody had to take charge, she thought, pushing down rhythmically in the centre of her son’s chest.
Brian rang off with the emergency services, shoved his phone back in his pocket and knelt beside his wife.
“Ambulance is on its way. Move over, love. I’m a bit stronger.”
Jean sat back on her haunches, her shoulders aching, and let her own tears flow in earnest now that her husband had taken charge. She watched as he pressed overlapping palms to the spot where Callum’s St. Christopher usually hung; it now rested in the creases of his neck. She could hear Brian counting to thirty, over and over again, his compressions regular and evenly spaced. Each time he reached thirty, he released his hands, pinched Callum’s nostrils shut and administered two deep breaths.
Then back to his chest.
Counting.
Thirty.
Two deep breaths.
Still no response.
Jean and Melissa sobbed as Brian persevered, not willing to give up yet, not willing to give up hope. Now they could hear a siren in the distance.
“Go to the front, Melissa. Show them where to come! Hurry!”
Brian said, panting, not breaking his rhythm.
Melissa didn’t move.
“Melissa! Go! Now!” he shouted. That did the trick; she fled towards the front entrance as the siren groaned to a stop outside. There was the sound of the door being flung open, then heavy footsteps, and then the paramedics were there, a man and a woman. Brian was still straddling his son, still pushing at his chest. One of the crew gently placed his hand on Brian’s shoulder for him to move over and let them get to work. Quickly and on auto pilot, the two made basic checks and took stock of what they were dealing with. The female directed questions to Jean, sensing she was a little more coherent than the younger woman.
“How long has he been unresponsive?”
“We’ve just found him like this. We were all outside and he was having a sleep.”
“When did he go to sleep?”
“About half an hour ago, maybe.”
The look on the woman’s face told Jean it wasn’t a good sign. CPR was generally futile at this stage.
“Stand clear, please.”
Jean, Brian and Melissa stood back as the woman attached wires to a machine, ready to shock Callum’s heart back. Jean crossed her fingers and said a silent prayer. There wasn’t anything else left for her to do.
After a few minutes, the paramedics transferred Callum to a stretcher and rushed him out to the ambulance; the female paramedic was still working on his heart with her hands.
Melissa, Jean and Brian stood in the doorway watching the ambulance pull away, sirens wailing again. They would follow on to the hospital together. It didn’t look good, they knew. Silence filled the hallway until Jean spoke quietly.
“I’ll get my bag. Brian, are you alright to drive us all?”
He nodded, unable to comprehend what had just happened only moments ago.
Callum Parker’s heart never did beat in his chest again. He was pronounced dead on arrival.
Chapter Four
Amanda Lacey hated working Sundays, particularly when the sun was making an appearance and Ruth was pottering in the garden, but such is life. She tossed her phone onto the wooden outdoor table and sighed. The wood needed a coat of preserver before the winter months took their toll on it, or else they’d be buying a new one next year. She filed the task away for another day and thrust her head into work mode, processing her next steps. She glanced over at Ruth, who had turned instinctively to her when the phone had first rung; she knew full well what was coming. Amanda shrugged, frowning.
“Better go and change, then,” Ruth said. “The sooner you go, the sooner you’ll be back.” She smiled.
“I suppose so. Sudden death, though. I may be a while,” Amanda said, standing. “I’ll let you know when I’m on my way back. Sorry!”
“No need to apologise. It comes with the territory; I know that.” Ruth set down her trowel, walked over to Amanda and put her arm around her shoulders. They walked up to the house together. “I can finish that bottle of red off by myself now. No need to share.” She gave her partner a cheeky grin.
“Well, I’m glad you benefit from my working hard,” Amanda said, elbowing her gently as they went into kitchen through the back door. The air was a couple of degrees cooler inside, perfect to help her switch from lazing in the sunshine to work mode.
Ten minutes later, she was in her work clothes and heading out to meet the Parkers. Harry Styles cooed quietly in the background as she navigated through a relatively quiet Croydon and on to Stanstead Road in Caterham. The route was familiar to her; she’d driven it many times when Ruth’s father had lived nearby. He had recently decided to move on after the death of his wife, Madeline Simpson, a couple of years ago.
Amanda had interviewed Madeline during the course of an investigation into a missing landscaper; at first, she hadn’t realised Madeline and Ruth were related, since Ruth had kept her birth mother’s surname, McGregor. Something had always seemed off about that case to Amanda, but the feeling had dissolved and the enquiries had halted when Madeline had died in an accident. The investigation had turned up no evidence of her involvement in the landscaper’s death, and his body had never been found. The police had concluded that he’d gone missing of his own free will, and the case had been officially archived as a misper.
After Madeline’s death, Gordon Simpson had rattled around the five-bedroom family home all on his own; then, a month ago, he’d sold it and moved into a flat closer to his work in town. It made more sense all round, though Amanda and Ruth both knew it hadn’t been an easy decision. He’d enjoyed Madeline’s gardens as much as she had, but he hadn’t the time or the patience for the upkeep. His new place had a small courtyard out back, big enough for a few choice pot plants. The following week, he was having a small flat-warming party for his family and close friends.
Driving past the old house now, Amanda flicked her indicator and turned into the shingle drive of the Parkers’ house.
The big black front door looked stylish but from a different era, not 2019, and so Amanda assumed the Parkers would be in their late 50s or 60s. As she stood by the car, the door was opened by a man wearing knee-length chino shorts and a formal short-sleeved shirt, no doubt his attempt at dressing down on a warm summer’s day. Even a stranger could see his face looked drained, tired, and pale—unsurprising, since he’d lost his son only a few short hours ago.
Amanda knew all too well that, as the man of the house, he’d be bottling his emotions up until he could let them out in private. She’d seen it too many times before: the female open and grieving, the male stoic until later. “Big boys don’t cry; be the man; stay strong for your family”—it was all a load of bollocks, really. She shut the car door and went up to greet Brian Parker, her warrant card at the ready.
“DS Amanda Lacey. Mr Parker?”
“Yes. Please, come through.”
Amanda followed him into the lounge, which looked exactly like Amanda had imagined it would, given the old-fashioned front door. While it was nicely done, it wasn’t to her own taste; she preferred a less formal look and feel when watching the TV.
There wasn’t a TV.
Perhaps it was behind the huge gilt mirror adorning the chimney breast, hidden away so as not to spoil the Tudor-themed room. Or perhaps they had a TV room elsewhere. Either way, it didn’t much matter.
Jean Parker stood now to meet her, and Brian did the introductions. There was another, much younger woman who introduced herself as Melissa Ross, Callum’s fiancée. The words caught in Melissa’s throat as she realised there would be no wedding now he was gone, and another older woman rushed over to comfort her as howls like a tomcat’s pained their way from deep inside. She looked like an older version of Melissa, Amanda thought; there was no need to ask who she was. Melissa’s mother and father introduced themselves anyway. Confirmation complete. Everybody sat now, except for Melissa.
“He killed him!” she screamed at the room. “He hit him!”
Melissa’s mother touched her daughter’s shoulder in comfort, cooing to her like her daughter was a twelve-year-old, as tears made fresh streak marks down her cheeks. Melissa’s father encouraged her to sit down; she did his bidding and quietened somewhat.
When everyone was settled, Amanda suggested they start at the beginning so that she could take everything down in order. She turned to Brian Parker and asked him to start.
“Actually, it might be best to start with Melissa,” he said. “She was with Callum when they had the accident. It could be related.”
“’Could’!” Melissa stood and screeched the word like a banshee. “He’s dead because of that man hitting him!”
“Melissa, please! Try and calm down so we can get this down in some sort of order,” pleaded her mother. The room waited once again for the young woman to compose herself. When Melissa had once again settled into her chair, Amanda prodded gently.
“You were out driving? Where had you been and where were you both going?”
Melissa Ross told the story, in minute detail, of h
ow they’d been out for a quiet drive and Callum had accidentally hit another vehicle. There had been an altercation. The traffic police had come and taken everyone’s details, and then Brian Parker had picked them up and driven them home.
The man who had hit Callum was to blame, she said huffily. Amanda was to arrest him immediately.
“Do you know the man’s name?” Amanda asked. Surely Melissa or Callum would have taken it for the insurance claim, as he was a witness to the accident.
“Yes. He lives along the same road where the accident happened,” she said sullenly, as if she’d finally run out of steam.
Amanda’s pencil was poised on her pad as she waited to jot it down.
“It’s Mr Laurence Dupin.”
Amanda felt her face grow pale. Oh, shit!
Chapter Five
The front door to Laurence Dupin’s house was already wide open when he returned from his walk. A woman filled it, arms crossed. He was late back.
“I was getting worried; thought you’d fallen off a cliff. Where’ve you been all this time? I was about to send a search party out.”
It came out in one long sentence with no real pause for breath. Everything she said came out the same way. How she managed to speak like that all the time he never knew, but after twenty years of marriage, he’d got used to her ways. And to hardly getting a word in edgeways. It was easier to keep quiet, generally, but there was no escaping her enquiry this time. And since she was blocking the doorway, if he ever wanted to see the inside of his house again, he knew he’d better speak up.