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

by Jack Gatland

  There was one thing that stood out though; a piece of transcript dialogue, an interview between then-DS Monroe and Susan Devington, about three weeks after the murder.

  DS M: And how long were you held in the station?

  SD: They let me out the following day.

  DS M: And why were you arrested?

  SD: I maced a policewoman. By accident of course.

  Declan pulled his notebook out, flicking back through it to his own interview with Susan. It felt so long ago now, but it was only yesterday when he’d spoken to her.

  Kept in 48 hours. Kicking a policeman and stealing his helmet.

  It might have been two decades worth of fake memories, but Susan Devington didn’t seem the type of person to get such a simple fact wrong. Both the reason why she was arrested and the length of her incarceration had been changed.

  Within his father’s notes was the address and telephone number of the station that she’d been held at back then. Dialling it, Declan waited until he was connected, and then bounced from department to department for a few minutes, trying to get through to the desk sergeant. Eventually he was placed through and he began explaining why he was calling. The desk sergeant didn’t recall the case; it was from two decades earlier and wasn’t that exciting, so Declan would have been stunned if the sergeant had remembered it, but the sergeant did explain that all cases since 1996 were now digitised so it shouldn’t be an issue to find. Declan gave his email address and was about to disconnect the call before something else came to mind.

  ‘Before I go,’ he said, ‘Just wanted to check up on something. We had a letter sent to us that you guys found recently from twenty years ago.’

  ‘Ah yes, the Davies murder,’ the sergeant remembered. ‘Is this connected to the road protest?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Declan admitted. ‘But that’s not what I wanted to ask about. How exactly did you find the letter?’

  ‘I’m not rightly sure,’ the sergeant said. ‘I’ll find out and put it in the email.’

  Declan thanked the desk sergeant and disconnected the call, leaning back as he considered the erroneous responses that Susan had given. There was something off there. He just needed to work out what it was.

  Deciding to put this aside for the moment, Declan now flicked through the remainder of the folder’s backmatter, pausing when he found notes taken during an interview between his father and Francine Pearce. Reading through them, he saw a woman scorned, angry even at the betrayal of the man she loved. He felt sorry for her; Francine was a wronged woman who’d made a mistake, but here again was something that he couldn’t believe that his father hadn’t picked up on.

  Declan re-read the notes. For a woman who claimed to have loved Michael so much, Francine seemed very happy to throw him under the bus. Her statement was filled with countless observations on how he was angry about Victoria’s infidelity, how he’d found out about the affair while ignoring his own hypocrisy, how he had explained to Francine one night that he couldn’t have been the father as he’d had a vasectomy; Declan assumed that someone so much in love would have at least given their lover the benefit of the doubt, but reading it a third time, Declan started to see the words of a woman who seemed to be deliberately damning the suspect. And with Shaun’s line on how she was emptying his bank accounts while he was going through this, Declan couldn’t help but wonder if this was deliberate.

  The vasectomy line caught his eye again. Michael was the cuckolded husband, obviously unable to father the bastard in his wife’s belly; of course he would murder her for this unfaithfulness, this embarrassment. But something nagged at him. Things said about this over the last couple of days.

  ‘Michael claimed he had the snip, but I know Charles claimed he’d put the kybosh on that too.’

  ‘Susan Devington should mind her own bloody business.’

  ‘Charles was already working out how to use this to his advantage, like he’d done the snip.’

  Declan flicked through the pages at the back of the folder once more. He’d seen a number on a card as he’d looked earlier; finding it, he held it to the light so he could read it properly.

  The London Andrology Centre

  Dr A. Khai

  There was a telephone number underneath it. Declan looked at the clock on the wall; it was almost ten in the evening now. There was every chance that the clinic would be closed now. Also, this was a business card from over two decades earlier. The clinic and the number might not even exist anymore.

  Declan picked up his phone and dialled the number. At least he could leave a message for them to call him in the morning. Surprisingly, it rang. After a couple of rings however, Declan realised that this was a pointless act. People wouldn’t still be—

  ‘Hello?’ A man’s voice, old and croaking answered the phone.

  Declan sat up.

  ‘Sorry to call so late,’ he said. ‘Is this the London Andrology Centre?’

  ‘It used to be,’ the man’s voice replied. ‘Now it’s the Khai Andrology and Fertility Clinic.’

  Declan grabbed his notebook, cradling the phone at his ear as he wrote the name down.

  ‘Excellent. I’m looking for a Doctor Khai?’ he said.

  ‘Call back in office hours,’ the voice replied, obviously tired.

  ‘No, I understand that, but I was hoping to gain a contact number for him,’ Declan continued. ‘This is Detective Inspector Walsh of the City Police.’

  There was a moment of silence as the voice on the end of the line mentally reassessed the call from enquiry to police.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ The voice seemed concerned.

  ‘I can only really talk about it to Doctor Khai.’

  ‘This is Aston Khai,’ the voice confirmed. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘I’m following up on a cold case you were involved in,’ Declan said quickly. ‘Michael Davies. Would have been over twenty years back.’

  ‘I remember it,’ Doctor Khai replied. ‘Hard to forget when your work hits the evening news. I’d given him a vasectomy several months earlier.’

  Declan decided to go with a hunch. Too many things didn’t add up here. And according to his father’s notes, Doctor Khai was never around to be interviewed.

  ‘But you didn’t, did you.’ A statement more than a question, Declan made his tone as menacing as he could as he continued. ‘Tell me Doctor Khai, how much did Charles Baker pay you to fake the procedural?’

  There was a long pause on the telephone. A too long pause. ‘If you don’t tell the truth now, Doctor Khai, I’ll be forced to make a more public enquiry,’ Declan added for good measure.

  Another pause. Then

  ‘I agreed to do it with Charles Baker, but it wasn’t Baker who paid me.’

  ‘Who was it that paid you?’

  ‘A woman.’

  This was a surprise, but Declan didn’t comment on it. There were only two women he could think of that would gain from this.

  ‘Was her surname Devington? Pearce?’

  ‘Neither.’ Another pause. ‘I only spoke to her once, I think it was Wooton, or Wilson.’

  ‘Frankie Wilson paid you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Fifty thousand pounds.’

  Declan almost punched the air.

  ‘So Michael Davies wasn’t given a vasectomy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But he believed he had?’

  ‘Yes.’ Doctor Khai’s voice was soft, as if the man knew that by saying this, he was signing his career away. ‘And I’ve regretted it for years.’

  ‘I’m sure you have,’ Declan said. ‘One of my colleagues will be visiting you in the morning, so I’d suggest you spend the rest of the evening writing out a full and honest statement for them.’

  With that he disconnected the call, leaning back in the sofa.

  Michael Davies wasn’t sterile. He could have fathered the child Victoria had. For some reason Charles Baker had teamed with Sarah Hinksman’
s old assistant, and had deliberately set out to destabilise the marriage; no matter what happened, the moment Victoria became pregnant, even if she had remained faithful, Michael would believe it was someone else’s child. Granted, he probably didn’t expect a murder to be the outcome, but it was a pretty Machiavellian thing to do, especially to one of their biggest donors. And Frankie Wilson had disappeared when Sarah died. Why did she return a few months later to do this?

  His phone beeped; Declan looked down to see that the Derbyshire police had sent Susan’s arrest report over as an email attachment. Opening it up on the phone, he scrolled through the PDF file. There wasn’t much to it; Susan Galloway nee Devington had been arrested in a road protest scuffle on New Year’s Eve, 2000. From the report given of the affray it looked like Susan had actively started the scuffle, pepper spraying a policewoman in the face while spitting and swearing at others. Easily enough to be arrested on, with both sides spoiling for a fight. She’d been taken to a local Derbyshire police station where she’d been held, screaming and swearing bloody murder until January 2nd, when she was released.

  Everything here fitted her story, but there was one thing that didn’t.

  Declan zoomed in on the photo of Susan, taken the night she was processed. Picking up the folder from the table once more, Declan flipped through the notes, finding a photo in it, taken in 2000 at some gala. Michael and Victoria were obviously the focus of this paparazzi photo but to the side, almost off camera was a mid-twenties Susan Devington. There was only a few months difference between the photos, but whereas Susan was easily recognisable in the one from the party, the Susan that was on the crime report wasn’t.

  She was close, she was similar in looks, but it wasn’t close enough to someone who knew Susan, who had seen Susan up close and personal.

  Because it wasn’t Susan Devington.

  That’s why she’d gotten the facts of the arrest wrong. Someone else had been arrested in her name. Which meant that Susan Devington’s alibi, that of being in a police cell at the time of the murder was a complete and utter lie.

  Which now gave Declan a new line of enquiry. Did Susan Devington kill her sister?

  He went to send a reply back, to thank the desk sergeant, but saw that there was more to the email. The sergeant had been quite detailed in explaining how the letter had come to be in their possession once more.

  Declan read the note twice, before leaning back. He now knew for certain that there was a traitor in the Last Chance Saloon.

  And because of the email, he knew who it was.

  24

  A Quiet Evening

  Billy Fitzwarren didn’t often eat in expensive restaurants anymore. He’d spent his life eating out; as a child he was allowed by his parents to eat wherever he wanted, as long as it wasn’t junk food. This meant that Billy became very creative with his list of locations, and the specialist orders that he would place while there. In fact he’d spent his entire teenage years never stepping foot in a McDonalds, while having the greatest chefs in the world whip him up a Big Mac at five times the cost.

  You could do that when you were wealthy.

  Now of course, Billy didn’t have those luxuries; ever since he’d chosen the police over a life on the family’s Board of Directors, his family had started to distance themselves from him. And when his uncle, Bryan Fitzwarren had started a Ponzi scheme using cryptocurrency as its base, it was simply bad bloody luck that Billy was the one to not only solve the case but also arrest his uncle.

  Yeah, that hadn’t gone down well.

  But tonight was different. Tonight was date night. He’d worried that it would be postponed after he had to drive into Berkshire, but he’d managed to reschedule for eight thirty. And so here he was, dressed in the coolest clothes he could find, sitting in Cecconi’s in The Ned, waiting for his date to show up.

  He knew people were watching him as he sat in the booth. He always knew that people were watching him. The man who obviously hated money; the man who sold out his family. He was used to this. He ignored them.

  Looking up, he saw a young, blond man enter the restaurant. He wore a simple Tom Ford blazer over a Luis Vuitton jumper, his black jeans seemingly labelless, but festooned with jewelled designs down either side.. Billy grinned. They were most likely Roberto Cavallis, and cost more than the rest of his wardrobe put together.

  The young man looked around the restaurant, and Billy waved his hand to catch his attention. The young man looked to Billy; and then his face fell.

  Well that wasn’t the reaction Billy had wanted.

  The man walked over to the booth, but instead of sliding in to face his date for the evening, the man stood, awkwardly, just out of reach.

  ‘Something the matter Simon?’ Billy asked. ‘You look like someone died.’

  Simon looked around, as if expecting to see someone. He looked back to Billy, a tear forming in his right eye.

  ‘Sorry, Will, I have to go,’ he said. ‘I can’t do this anymore.’

  ‘Do what?’ Billy rose from the chair, trying his best not to draw any attention. ‘It’s just dinner.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘We can go somewhere else,’ Billy pleaded. ‘What about Chinatown?’

  ‘My family have said we can’t see each other anymore.’ Simon looked away, as if ashamed to look at Billy.

  ‘Oh, it’s your family, is it?’ Billy’s tone grew angry. ‘And we wouldn’t want to upset family now, would we?’

  He sat back down. ‘Go on then, piss off,’ he said through clenched lips. Simon wavered for a moment, as if changing his mind, and then left the restaurant quickly. Billy bit back the urge to leave the restaurant, run after Simon, tell him that he’d do whatever was needed to make things work. Instead, he waved to a waiter and asked for the wine list. If he was going to eat alone in a fancy restaurant, he’d eat well.

  Writing and sending a quick text on his phone, he sat back, ignoring the hushed words and stolen glances his way.

  The waiter came by with a wine list and, after a few minutes of deciding which one to take, Billy eventually picked an expensive Shiraz and sent her on her way. She was replaced by a smiling businessman.

  He was older than Billy, but not by much. He wore a dark blue Hugo Boss number over a black shirt, and his tan brogues were expensive, but completely wrong. You never wore brown in town. He wore his brown hair shaved at the sides and slicked back, the amount of gel in it making it look like a Lego hair piece and he had a large, recognisable cygnet ring on.

  ‘William Fitzwarren!’ the man breathed. ‘Fancy seeing you here!’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met before,’ Billy couldn’t place the man from anywhere in his past. But the man obviously knew Billy.

  The man slid into the chair, smiling as he did so. ‘Course you do! Rufus Harrington! We went to Harrow together!’

  Billy leaned back in the booth. ‘No offence, Rufus, but if we did, you had to be a few years above me. And if so, we didn’t go to Harrow together, we attended the same school, and visited the same building at the same time. Not quite the same as going together.’

  The smile wavered. ‘No love for the old school tie, then?’

  Billy shrugged. ‘I think they took a pair of scissors to it the moment I joined the police.’ He indicated the ring. ‘You’d have more chance using your lodge membership.’

  The ring that Rufus wore bore the square and compasses emblem of the Freemasons on it, but he wasn’t from the same lodge as Billy was. Rufus hid the ring from view, as if having it announced would suddenly out him or something.

  ‘Look, I’m waiting for my date,’ Billy said. ‘So whatever you want, just say it. But if it’s asking for a referral to my father, you’ve really backed the wrong horse.’

  ‘I thought your date walked out on you,’ Rufus replied, the smile now gone. ‘I thought a lot of people had walked out on you since you walked out on them.’

  Here we go, Billy thought.

  ‘Little
birdy says that you’re digging into Devington Industries,’ Rufus said, lowering his voice.

  ‘And what’s that to you?’ Billy smiled at the waiter as she returned with the Shiraz, offering his glass to be poured. He tasted, nodded and then allowed a small measure to be poured. He looked to Rufus. ‘I’d offer you some, but you’re not staying,’ he said. ‘My date will be here soon.’

  Leaving the bottle on the table, the waiter walked away. Rufus leaned closer.

  ‘Don’t screw around with Devington,’ he said. ‘This is a friendly reminder that no matter what uniform you’re cosplaying in today, you’re not one of them. You’re one of us. And we look out for our own.’

  ‘One question,’ Billy replied, sipping at the wine. ‘Has this come from them, or have they got my family to ask you to do this?’

  ‘Blood calls to blood.’ Rufus leaned back in the seat, watching Billy. ‘One day you’ll get bored of playing policeman, or they’ll get bored of being a rich boy’s toy. You don’t want to be without friends then.’

  ‘I have friends,’ Billy said. ‘In fact I’m waiting—’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Rufus picked up a bread roll from the table, tearing it in half, tossing one half back in the bowl while gnawing on the other. ‘You’ve got a date. But even your date knew that you’re toxic to be around right now, didn’t he?’

  Billy grinned.

  ‘That wasn’t the date I talked about,’ he said as beside Rufus, Anjli Kapoor appeared.

  ‘Excuse me mate, I think you’re in my seat,’ she said, the tone in her voice menacing while her face was open and smiling. Rufus looked at her, noting her off the peg clothing and easy style before rising from the seat, allowing Anjli to sit.

  ‘Great catching up, buddy,’ he said to Billy. ‘Think about what I said.’

  And with that Rufus Harrington left.

  ‘Did I interrupt something?’ Anjli said, picking up the bottle and looking at it. ‘This looks expensive. You sure about this?’