Letter From The Dead - a crime thriller (Detective Inspector Declan Walsh Book 1)

by Jack Gatland

  ‘Man is born with sin. I think God will allow us some envy, as long as we confess it.’

  ‘What about Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery?’ I mean, you definitely did that with Victoria Davies. You said so the last time I was here.’

  ‘I think you should leave now,’ Andy was starting to fidget, to twitch. ‘I did that when I was young, and during a time of many vices. I’ve confessed this to the Lord, and the fact that He came to me years later, setting me on this path—'

  ‘What about Thou Shalt Not Kill?’ Declan pressed on.

  ‘I did not kill Sarah Hinksman!’ Andy shot to his feet with fury. ‘I am sick of—’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about Sarah,’ Declan interrupted, rising to face Andy. ‘I was talking about Sebastian Payne.’

  ‘What?’ Andy stopped, his hand trembling as it held the glass.

  ‘He was found this morning in a half-covered grave, not ten miles from here,’ Declan continued. ‘The murderer had tried to hide his prints and his DNA by setting the body on fire.’

  Andy Mac stared silently at Declan, as if too shocked or scared to reply. Declan carried on, warming to the task now.

  ‘He was killed by a sharp blow to the head. Something sharp, narrow and metal. You know what I think?’

  Declan placed his notepad away as he leaned closer.

  ‘I think you honestly didn’t know who he was. And that he joined God’s Will TV to get revenge on you for a believed sin; that of killing his mother. I think he got something to do this with, too, something he had photos of. Maybe drugs. Maybe something worse. We’re looking into that right now. And then I think there was a confrontation in your apartment.’

  ‘This is madness,’ Andy was starting to rock now.

  ‘I think then perhaps you fought. Maybe it was self-defence, maybe it was pre-meditated. I think it was a spur of the moment act, though. Maybe he was the one that cut your hand. Either way, I think you then grabbed your YouTube award and struck him on the head with it.’

  ‘No…’ Andy shook his head wildly. ‘Shut up…’

  ‘But now what do you do? He’s dead and on your floor.’ Declan walked around the table now. ‘So you clean up the blood, and stick him somewhere that can be moved. Where he can’t bleed on your expensive floor anymore. A flight case, for example. With grey fur lining to soak up all the blood. There’s a lot of blood in a body. The same flight case that I saw when I came to see you.’ Declan shook his head.

  ‘I’m a fool. The body was next to me all the time and I didn’t realise it,’ he said. ‘And I believed the ‘blood from your cut hand’ story when I smelt the bleach. I even suggested you clean up the blood. Sebastian’s blood.’

  He leaned in, close to Andy now, so close that he could smell the fear emanating from him.

  ‘If only you’d cleaned up Sebastian’s photo. But maybe you were about to do that when I called.’

  ‘I’d like you to leave now,’ Andy said, backing out of the conservatory. ‘I want you to leave now.’

  ‘But I haven’t finished yet,’ Declan continued. ‘Nobody says a thing when you stick the flight case in your Land Rover because you do it all the time, and then you drive to a known area, but not too known to bury the body. I’m still not sure why you burned it first, or where the flight case is right now, but we’ll find it. And we’ll find your car.’

  Declan was hoping that by constantly pressuring him, he’d convince Andy Mac to let something slip, to break down, but something different happened.

  Andy Mac stopped shaking.

  Instead, he smiled.

  ‘Prove it,’ he said, suddenly calm and collected. ‘My Land Rover was stolen. The flight case filled with lights is in the studio with all the others. My award fell on the floor and I cut my hand.’

  Now it was Andy’s turn to lean in.

  ‘God loves me, Mister Walsh,’ he said. ‘I speak His word. And neither you nor that bitch can stop me.’ And with that Andy turned and walked out of the room.

  ‘Next time you want to talk, we’ll do it at your offices and I’ll bring my solicitor,’ he said from the doorway. ‘Until then, get the hell out of my house.’

  Declan nodded to himself. He knew he was right, but everything was hearsay and circumstantial. At the end Andy had managed to pull himself together. No confession would be coming from Andy Mac any time soon.

  But he had let one thing slip.

  ‘And neither you nor that bitch can stop me.’

  Who the hell was that bitch?

  20

  Run For Your Life

  Shaun Donnal had never been a fan of Kings Cross. It was smelly and busy and filled with people, and the last thing Shaun wanted was to be around people. He’d spent five years doing his best to avoid that.

  If they couldn’t see him, they couldn’t kill him.

  Kings Cross was filled with the afternoon crowd as Shaun picked his way through them, trying not to stand out, while at the same time brutally aware that he was standing out; the bearded homeless man with the rucksack on his shoulder. There was a policeman on duty at the entrance to Kings Cross Underground, and Shaun turned his face away, quickly walking in the other direction. He didn’t know if the older homeless man had told anyone about his attack a couple of days back; if he had, then the police would have no trouble recognising Shaun. He hadn’t seen it in the newspapers that he’d scavenged from bins or stolen from pavement tables over the last couple of days, but then a homeless man claiming that he was attacked by an ex-Welfare Minister with a screwdriver probably didn’t go that far without more corroborating evidence. That didn’t mean that there weren’t journalists out there looking for it, however. Or police.

  All looking for Shaun Donnal.

  Turning down a side road, trying to keep away from Euston Road, Shaun started to walk alongside the red brick wall of the British Library. He’d used to love visiting there when things were normal. He’d even applied for a Readers pass, just so he could find rare books that Vicky liked, and show—

  Holding a broken necklace, Victoria’s necklace in his hands

  Shaun tumbled to the floor at the memory, a small cry escaping from his lips. It had arrived more often now, the memory returning quicker and quicker and staying for longer and longer. He shook his head, as if rattling the brain inside of his head would somehow stop the visions, and cease the tears that followed. Pulling a bottle out of his coat, he sat down on the pavement and drank from it, oblivious of the people walking past, staring down at the drunk as he cried in long, racking gasps at his suddenly remembered loss. After a few swigs, allowing the cheap whisky to flow down his throat, warming it back up, he rose wobbly to his feet and carried on. He needed to get to Camden. He needed to gain space from Soho before he used an ATM machine again. He’d been a fool. Weak. He’d tried to call Sally, to hear her voice, but her voice had answered instead. Somehow they’d intercepted him. They were waiting.

  They were always waiting.

  Shaun had slammed the phone down and run from the phone box. He knew that they could see him, that they could follow him if he got on a train, or a bus. The CCTV cameras were their eyes, and would show them where he went; anywhere they could watch wasn’t safe for him. But the Regent’s Canal towpath was just a little further north, there weren’t as many CCTV cameras on it as there were outside the shops, and once on the towpath he could make his way quicker to his destination for the night.

  There was a black car on the other side of the road, outside the entrance to St Pancras Station, nestled in amongst the black cabs that waited there for fares. It was the only place a car could really park around here, but there was something wrong with it. It felt out of place.

  Like it was waiting for him.

  He stopped on the pavement, bottle still in his hand, watching the driver as he stared ahead, his hands on the wheel. The back windows of the car were tinted black, and this could have simply been a chauffeur waiting for his ride to arrive from the Eurostar.

  Bu
t then the driver turned, and looked directly at Shaun, his rimless glasses glinting from the sunlight. Shaun stepped back in fear. It was a face he recognised too well.

  They’d found him.

  He’d been keeping a low profile in case the police had been looking for him, but now that stopped. He needed to get away, and get away fast. His legs shaking, he turned and started to walk quickly down Dangoor Walk, a small pedestrian street beside the Frances Crick Institute. It was a narrow road, more of a pedestrian path and he knew that the car wouldn’t be able to make its way down there. They would have to chase him on foot, and that gave him the smallest of advantages. Putting his bottle in it, he tossed the rucksack to the side; it was too heavy and he needed speed. As he looked behind he saw that the man and a friend had left the car and were now running after him, crossing Midland Road with stormy expressions on their faces.

  Out onto Ossulston Street now, a tree lined road with cars parked on either side Shaun turned right, sprinting north, taking in deep gasping breaths as he ran, knocking aside people as he did so. He hadn’t run like this in years, but the adrenaline that flowed through his body gave him speed, pumping his legs, and he knew that he had to outrun his pursuers. He needed to make some kind of distance and find a place to hide.

  But the two pursuers were now out onto the street as well, running just as hard and still following him.

  At the end of the street he could see an outdoor gym area, but there was nothing that he could use here as a weapon. There was a small path that ran between the park area and a primary school; Shaun knew that if he could get through there, he’d hit a maze of streets. If he could get into those he had a chance, and—

  He hadn’t seen the car as it drove in from the left, slamming into him and sending him flying across the road, tumbling to the floor. The doors to the car opened and two more suited men clambered out of the front seats, walking over to Shaun as the man with the rimless glasses finally arrived, an extendible baton now in his hand.

  ‘Stay down,’ he hissed as he struck at Shaun. ‘Don’t make me hurt you.’

  Shaun did as the man said. He was surrounded now, and seriously outnumbered.

  ‘I didn’t say anything!’ he cried out. ‘I’ve done what she said!’

  The back doors to the car opened and a woman emerged. Shaun almost whimpered in fear. Slim, in her forties and with a black, 1920’s bob cut to her hair, she wore a burgundy dress under a fur overcoat.

  ‘She didn’t say make a bloody name for yourself,’ the woman said irritably as she walked over, looking to the man with the rimless glasses. ‘For Christ’s sake, get him up. People will call the police.’

  The men helped Shaun up as the woman walked closer, wrinkling her nose.

  ‘Christ, you stink,’ she said. ‘But then you always had a bit of an odour problem, even back then. Do you want to tell us what happened?’

  Shaun knew what she meant. ‘The man knew me,’ he whispered. ‘He was going to out me.’

  ‘So you attacked him with a screwdriver in the middle of Soho,’ the woman sighed. ‘You’re a cretin. For someone who used to amount to so much, you’re a bloody imbecile.’

  ‘Please, don’t hurt my family,’ Shaun begged. ‘I did what you said. I became a ghost.’

  The woman considered this for a moment.

  ‘The police have reopened the case,’ she said. ‘Some bloke named Walsh has been sniffing around. Has he spoken to you yet?’

  ‘How could he?’ Shaun asked. The man with the rimless glasses grabbed his arm, twisting it back, causing Shaun to yelp in pain.

  ‘That’s not what she asked,’ he said into Shaun’s ear.

  ‘No! No he hasn’t! The last thing I want is the police right now!’ Shaun pulled free of the grip, rubbing at his arm as he glared at the man with the rimless glasses, currently smiling, as if amused by the pain he’d caused.

  ‘You need to make sure of that,’ the woman said softly. ‘He’s looking at the wrong people, not going the direction that we want him to. So, if they arrest you for that muppetry you did in Soho, he’ll find you. If he does, you demand a lawyer and you stay silent. If you have to say anything, make sure you aim him at the right target. Because if you say anything…’

  ‘I know, I know,’ tears streamed down Shaun’s face. ‘You’ll hurt Sally. I promise. I won’t do anything.’

  ‘You’d better not,’ the woman said, looking back to the men. ‘Remind him why.’

  The four men started to kick and attack Shaun at this point, but he’d expected it. He slipped through them, running for the car, as if clambering into the driver’s seat and locking the doors would actively help him somehow right now. He’s almost managed it when the men caught him by the leg, dragging him back out of the front seats of the car and onto the floor. Shaun held his arms in close as they kicked at him.

  ‘Francine! Please!’ he cried to the woman. ‘I promise!’

  Francine Pearce nodded to the men to stop.

  ‘I never want to see you again Shaun,’ she said. ‘We’re done here. Just go away somewhere and die.’

  And with that she climbed back into the car, the two men that had emerged from it returning to their seats. The car pulled away, driving west as the man with the rimless glasses gave Shaun one more kick before walking with his colleague back to St Pancras Station.

  There was a moment of silence as Shaun shuffled back to his feet. He looked around at the buildings, at the park, at the people who had seen this happening in front of their eyes and not done a single bloody thing about it.

  And then he started to chuckle.

  His hands, hidden in his jacket now emerged, one of them holding a pistol. He’d taken it when he’d clambered into the car; he remembered from the last time he’d been in the vehicle, the last time they’d given him a beating that there was a backup weapon kept under the passenger seat for emergencies.

  And now Shaun Donnal had it.

  It was time to stop running. It was time to stop hiding.

  It was time to find Walsh and end this.

  By the time Declan had left Avebury it was mid-afternoon, and although he was driving back into London on the M4, he’d already planned a short diversion at Junction 8/9 to visit his father’s house.

  His house. It was still weird to think of it like that.

  Pulling up to the driveway however, his phone rang. Looking at the number as it flashed up, Declan saw that it was Billy.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked, putting the call across to the car system.

  ‘Interesting little thing we’ve found out about Sally Donnal,’ Billy said. ‘You know how she’s been sending her father fifty pounds a shot?’

  ‘The ATM money?’ Declan pulled the handbrake and opened up his notebook, pen already in his hand.

  ‘That’s the one,’ Billy replied. ‘So we managed to get the statements from the bank the debit card is connected to, and there’s about six or seven transactions a month.’

  Declan whistled. ‘His daughter’s funding him three or four hundred pounds a month?’

  ‘That’s the thing,’ Declan could almost hear the smile on Billy’s face. ‘She hasn’t. In fact, she’s not spoken to her father for the last four years and pretty much wishes he was dead.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Apparently some lady turned up a few years ago and suggested that Sally create the account. Said she understood why he had to run, and that she’d fund Shaun due to an old debt. Paid her two hundred pounds to do it.’

  ‘And Sally did it? Just like that?’ Declan was surprised.

  ‘She was seventeen years old and it was two hundred pounds.’

  ‘Yeah, fair point.’ Declan wrote this down. ‘So what happened with the account?’

  ‘That’s the thing. Sally Donnal never heard from this woman again. Never even got her name when they first spoke.’

  Declan leaned back in the driver’s seat, thinking. ‘So Shaun’s been running around for the last four years thinking tha
t his family is funding him, when it’s actually some company. Did you show her a photo of Susan Devington?’

  ‘I did, but she said it wasn’t her. Hair was black and the woman was skinny, apparently.’

  Declan got out of the car now, putting the phone back to his ear as he approached his house.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes,’ Billy was on a roll now. ‘Found a picture from the first week in Parliament back in 1997. One of those shots where all the new MPs and their teams are smiling and laughing for the press.’

  ‘I know the type. What about it?’

  ‘Sarah Hinksman and a Labour MP are in the back of one of them, getting very chummy.’

  ‘I’m guessing because you didn’t say the name of the Labour MP it’s not Shaun?’ Declan opened the door, entering the house.

  ‘No,’ Billy replied, a hint of triumph in his voice. ‘It was Baker. I’ve zoomed in on it. It’s definitely them.’

  ‘Send it to me,’ Declan said. ‘I’ll be back in a few hours, but I’d like to see that right now.’ He picked up some new post that was on the mat. ‘Oh, and do me a favour. Check whether Michael or Victoria Davies ever had any run ins with vice. Primarily ketamine.’

  ‘You think they killed Hinksman?’

  ‘I think they may have had access to it for sure. Something Andy Mac said. Humour me.’

  Billy agreed to send it within the next fifteen minutes and then disconnected. Once more alone in the house, Declan looked around.

  No whisky tonight.

  Before he could enter properly however, the doorbell to the house rang. Turning, Declan opened the door to find Karl Schnitter at his door. A tall, tanned, robust German in his mid-sixties, Karl had lived in the village as long as Declan could remember. He’d embraced the life of the ‘country squire’ ever since moving to the UK after the fall of the Berlin Wall, and was the village’s main mechanic. He was also Patrick’s neighbour, his garden backing onto the rear section of Patrick’s house.