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

by Jack Gatland

‘Firstly, no you didn’t. Secondly, I didn’t want to eat alone and it’s far nicer to do it with friends. And thirdly, yes, it is very expensive.’

  Anjli grinned as she poured out a generous glass. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘He was warning me from digging around Devington Industries,’ Billy said. ‘Which was bloody stupid as that’s just catnip to a copper.’

  ‘And your date?’

  Billy’s face fell. ‘I think they got to him. He bailed on me a few minutes before Rufus turned up.’

  ‘Sorry dude,’ Anjli said. ‘Still, this is nice. I was about to go get some dinner near Temple Inn anyway. What’s good here?’

  ‘Whatever you want,’ Billy grinned as a waiter walked over. ‘Hi, just checking, does your chef know how to make a Big Mac?’

  He looked back to Anjli. It might not be the night he was hoping for, but he’d rather spend it with friends than any of the old school brigade.

  Alexander Monroe parked the car down a side avenue, just off the Mile End Road. He didn’t want to take it into the estate; the chances were that he’d return to find it gone or stacked up on bricks while the alloy wheels were removed. Locking it he started north, walking under the railway arches that divided Mile End with Bethnal Green, entering Globe Town.

  He hadn’t been here for a while, but he still knew the route to the boxing club on Bullard’s Place, walking past tower block estates, feeling the eyes on him as he walked. He was something new. They would be watching before confronting. Also, they would see that he walked with purpose. The watching eyes would wonder why he was so confident.

  Monroe wasn’t confident; he put on a good show. There was every chance that he might not come out of this confrontation, depending on who he met.

  Everyone in the East End, even London itself knew of the Kray Twins who, with their Firm ran the criminal side of East End London during the fifties and sixties. London had a long list of criminal organisations; the Clerkenwell Crime Syndicate, the Richardson Brothers, Billy Hill and Jack Spot, the Sabinis, the list went on. And there, from the nineties, working from a boxing club in the heart of Globe Town, East London were the twins; Jackie and Johnny Lucas.

  Made out in the press to be a modern day version of the Krays, Johnny and Jackie were different. They famously never appeared together, an agreement allegedly planned so that if one was killed, the other could gain revenge for them. When people turned up to speak with them, they never knew which of the twins they’d meet with, as Johnny and Jackie changed around their schedules constantly. They looked identical. They wore almost identical clothing. Their haircuts were the same.

  The problem was that even though this was all well known, it was also well known that Johnny and Jackie weren’t twins. They weren’t even two people. Johnny and Jackie were just one person; a person with a very particular multiple personality disorder. There was ‘Johnny’, the rational, business-like one and then there was ‘Jackie’, the out and out psychopath. And over the years people had learned not to peek behind the curtain. The twins were twins and that was that.

  Monroe knew this. He also knew there was a very strong chance, even more than a coin flip that he could be walking into Jackie Lucas’ fun house right now, rather than the safer option of Johnny Lucas’ club.

  Walking into the boxing club, Monroe took a deep breath, taking in the mixture of sweat and leather. The club had been here for decades; the paint on the walls was cracking, covered over with aged boxing event posters, the boxing ring in the middle had seen better days and the equipment surrounding it was a mixture of leather and duct tape. Glancing about, Monroe saw that only a couple of boxers were training right now, working on the heavy bags to the right. As he walked through the club one of the trainers, a meaty looking man in his forties, tracksuit over a tank top and his hair gelled back walked out.

  ‘Whatever ya selling, we ain’t interested,’ he said. Monroe smiled.

  ‘Hello Petey. Haven’t seen you since you were what, fifteen?’

  The trainer stared at Monroe for a second and then swore softly.

  ‘Boss,’ he said. ‘We got another copper in.’

  There was movement from the back room. A man, well-built and in his early sixties entered the boxing club through a door that probably led to an office. He wore a black suit and shirt, but no tie; his salt and peppered hair blow dried back, giving him a little quiff at the front.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘Back from the dead. Hello, Alex.’

  ‘Mister Lucas,’ Monroe replied. ‘Jackie or Johnny?’

  ‘Johnny,’ Johnny Lucas smiled, walking to a water bottle and pouring himself a cup of water. ‘Jackie’s up north today.’

  ‘Course he is.’ Monroe’s smile never fell.

  ‘What do you want, DCI Monroe?’ Johnny asked.

  ‘You hear about Patrick Walsh?’ Monroe asked. Johnny shrugged.

  ‘Had his son in here a couple of weeks back, if that’s what you mean. Cocky little bastard. Blamed me for a murder in Mile End.’ Johnny smiled. ‘That said, he made sure that I wasn’t out of pocket, so I owe him that.’

  Monroe shook his head. ‘I’m not on about the Mile End issues,’ he said. ‘I’m here because Patrick Walsh died a couple of weeks back.’

  Johnny’s face didn’t change. If any emotion was behind it, he hid it well.

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ he stated.

  ‘I didn’t say you did,’ Monroe replied. ‘I know you’re not that stupid.’

  ‘Jackie is,’ Johnny mused. ‘But we liked Patrick. So why tell us if we’re not involved?’

  ‘Because Declan’s got it in his head that his Dad was murdered,’ Monroe explained. ‘And he’s hunting for the killer.’

  ‘Do you think he was murdered?’ Johnny asked. Monroe shrugged.

  ‘It was an accident,’ he said. ‘Most likely a heart attack, country lane, late at night.’

  ‘You didn’t answer me,’ Johnny tutted, waggling his finger. ‘You did what you always do and changed the subject.’

  ‘What I think doesn’t matter,’ Monroe snapped angrily. ‘What I know is that Declan Walsh will stop at nothing to find the man that killed his Dad. And you’re on that list.’

  ‘And why are we on this list exactly?’

  ‘Patrick was writing a book,’ Monroe said. ‘And you were in it.’

  There was a silence over the boxing club as Johnny considered this. ‘He’s got nothing on anything I did back then. Nobody has.’

  ‘I didn’t say he has,’ Monroe looked around the boxing club, keeping an eye on the other inhabitants in there. This was the make or break moment. ‘But I came to give you a warning.’

  Johnny Lucas raised his eyebrows at this. ‘You’re warning me? That’s a bold statement.’

  ‘I’m serious,’ Monroe snapped back. ‘You tell him anything about his father, you tell him the truth? I will use every resource at my disposal to destroy you.’

  The men around him grumbled at this, but Monroe carried on. ‘I know Declan removed your pet copper, so you’re probably not getting the news on the hour like you used to. So here’s the news,’ Monroe’s voice started to gain a Glaswegian twang as his temper flared. ‘I will tear down this poxy little boxing club and stick you behind bars so fast you won’t even have time to change shirts.’

  Johnny stared at Monroe. The whole room stayed silent.

  ‘All you had to say was please,’ Johnny said. ‘I’m a reasonable man. And I don’t want a grieving son to learn such things about a parental figure.’ He turned and walked back into the office, but stopped at the door to it, still looking away.

  ‘But you come back in here again with this attitude, and I will gut you like a pig and lace you into one of my heavy bags. By the time anyone finds you, they won’t recognise your face. Understand?’

  But Monroe didn’t hear Johnny’s threats, for he had already left the boxing club.

  25

  Last Rites

  Andy Mac couldn’t watch the news.
Today it had been mainly continuing reports of the upcoming Conservative leadership battle; but with nobody actively entering it yet, all that could be discussed by the newsreader and some ‘expert’ that Andy had never heard of before was hearsay and rumours, talks about how the party needed a fresh face while shilling old faces for opinions. And of course, as most of the hearsay and rumours were about Charles Baker, as while Andy watched, Baker was being mentioned constantly. The other candidates in the rumour mill, Kent MP Nigel Dickinson, who was a teeny bit to the left of UKIP and Tamara Banks, who seemed to be the living reincarnation of Margaret Thatcher wearing Prada were mentioned almost as a courtesy, but it was Charles Banks everyone spoke of.

  Charles sodding Banks.

  And then the news had moved to a murder enquiry; a body found in a woods not more than ten miles from here. The identity was unannounced as yet, but Andy knew that it was only a matter of time before the world knew that Sebastian Payne was dead and that Andy Mac was the murderer. Even if it couldn’t be proven, even if the police were swinging in the dark like that damned DI Walsh was, the public would form their own opinions. The news would leap onto it like buzzards on a corpse. Just like Charles Baker was the ‘newsworthy’ candidate for the election, Andy Mac was a target that many people would delight in tearing down. In the face of public opinion YouTube would most likely turn from him, his videos would be de-monetised and God’s Will TV would die.

  His wife had known that something was the matter with him when he’d arrived home the previous night; there was no way that he could have disguised it as he was wet, stressed and sooty, having dumped the Land Rover down a back road on private land three miles west and walked home across the fields so as not to be seen by any late night drivers. He’d only intended to dump the box in there; the land was wild and untamed, out of sight within the woods, and the land was long disused, becoming a bit of a fly tipping ground over the last few months. He thought he could hide the box until he could find a better place to sink it. But when he arrived at the entrance to the land, from just looking at his vehicle he realised that the Land Rover was more of a hindrance than he’d hoped for. It was covered in mud and scratches and the back bumper was way more scuffed and damaged than he had hoped for. If the police found it, they could easily match the paint marks and residue with a flight case. The inside of the Land Rover was also damaged from where he’d used the ratchets to pull it up. In the middle of the night and pumping with fear and adrenaline, Andy had decided that if Walsh returned, if any police returned in fact, there was no way that he’d be able to bluff his way out of the truth. And so he had set fire to it, just like he had done the box earlier that evening. And leaving the Land Rover burning, he’d walked home through the fields.

  He’d told his wife that there were some problems with the channel, that he was being targeted online and needed to change the narrative of his life. It wasn’t the first time that hate groups had targeted him, and he knew that having seen this in the past, his wife would most likely believe him this time also. Explaining that he’d struck someone on the main road – not killed them, but enough to force him to drive from the scene, he said that if the press found out they’d use it to attack him, to take away everything he had. That they had. His wife liked the things that they had and she really didn’t want to go back to any kind of prior, less affluent life, and so she agreed to state that he had driven the Tesla back that night, giving him an alibi for the fictional motoring incident, unaware that she was giving him an out for a far worse crime. And he’d contacted his team at God’s Will TV, asking them to pick up something from the Land Rover, giving them the opportunity to learn for themselves that it was missing and call the police. This way he had at least one degree of separation.

  But then Walsh had returned, and the detective knew, he damn well knew that Andy had killed Sebastian. He’d even told Andy how he believed it had happened, and had been exact on every step of the crime. Andy knew that it was a matter of time before Walsh and others came for him. Maybe even that night.

  He had to get away now.

  There was a number that he had in the back of a book in his study; a number that he hadn’t called, hadn’t needed to call in years. It was her number. The bitch. He didn’t want to dial it, but there was nothing more that he could do. He was one step away from a life in jail. Of losing everything.

  He choked back a sob as he dialled it. It was answered on the third ring.

  ‘Well, you’ve been a little ray of light recently,’ she said as she answered. ‘I’ve been monitoring everything that the police have learned about Sebastian’s murder. What the hell were you thinking?’

  ‘It was an accident,’ Andy whispered, ensuring that nobody else in the house could hear him speak. ‘I gave in to my needs. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘You’re damn right it won’t happen again,’ the woman continued. ‘After all I did to get you going, the money I funded you with…’

  ‘I paid you back!’ Andy snapped. ‘Don’t you dare throw that on me!’

  ‘How about I throw another death on you then?’ The voice was calm. Andy slumped; he knew she was right. She was right ever since she showed him the necklace in the envelope and explained what he had done that night.

  ‘I need you to get me out of here,’ he whispered. ‘Please, I have money.’

  ‘And where would you go? The police will be coming for you anytime now.’

  Andy glanced around his study, looking for inspiration. ‘I could go and be a missionary,’ he said. ‘I could go somewhere remote, Francine.’

  ‘And somewhere extradition free, I’m assuming?’ Francine Pearce chuckled. ‘Face it, Andy. You’ve screwed up. Your base needs have ruined everything. Your wife, your children? They’ll be pulled through the court case. They’ll be hounded for the rest of their lives. How could they not have known? How could they have stayed beside him?’

  Andy started to cry softly. ‘Help them,’ he said. There was a long pause down the line, as if Francie Pearce was coming to a decision.

  ‘I can help them,’ she said. ‘But I can’t help you, Andy. You have to make this right, somehow.’

  ‘And how do I do that?’ Andy snapped, looking around nervously in case he had woken his wife. His eyes widened as he realised what was being insinuated. ‘I can’t commit suicide! That’s a mortal sin!’

  ‘Oh, Andy. As if you haven’t sinned enough,’ Francine replied. ‘You think you’re still going to Heaven after what you’ve done? To Vicky, to Sebastian, to Sarah? How many commandments do you need to break before you realise you’re going straight to Hell?’

  Her tone softened.

  ‘Think of it like this,’ she said. ‘It’ll be quick. Easy. All your fears, all your concerns will melt away. No more secrets. No more being chased. And I’ll personally ensure your family won’t be touched by this. They’ll live the rest of their lives in the manner they’re accustomed to. They’ll be okay, Andrew.’

  Andy Mac wiped the tears from his eyes.

  ‘What do I need to do?’ he said, his voice shaking, but resolute.

  Francine Pearce told him.

  When they’d moved into the house, Andy had demanded that the basement be converted into a home gym; being on TV meant that he was constantly being scrutinised, examined by the masses. He needed to ensure that he looked healthy, that he looked radiant at all times. He would attend virtual spin bike classes, and had three different personal trainers on speed dial in London. And when he was home, he needed to ensure that he carried on with this regime, even if it was in a modified basement.

  The basement itself was painted in an off white colour called Polished Pebble. The floor was covered in those black, rubber mats that came in squares and jigsawed together to make a complete flooring. One of the walls was a full length mirror, while the facing wall had two flat screen televisions screwed onto it; one in front of the treadmill, and the other in front of another spin bike. Both were constantly linked to one of the religi
ous cable channels with the sound off; Andy didn’t watch them for fun when running or cycling; this was more reconnaissance on the enemy.

  There was a weight rack and a pull up tower beside the televisions and resistance bands and water bottles were against the far wall, a rowing machine and an elliptical trainer beside them. Andy was proud of this gym. It was more stocked out than half of the ones he attended while in London.

  Grabbing a resistance band, he reached up, looping it around the very top of the pull up bar, keeping it nice and tight as he tied it down. It was so high that he had to half step onto a Pilates ball to ensure he could reach it. Using his hand to steady himself, he felt one last time the letter in his pocket.

  They would be safe.

  He looped the other end of the resistance band, ensuring it was tight, opening it as wide as he could. It was the hardest one to work with in his gym, as there was barely any give in it. Even his full weight wouldn’t stretch it.

  They would be safe with him gone.

  Pulling at the loop he dragged it over his head, already feeling the tightness at his throat as it retracted, the rubber biting into his neck. He wobbled a moment on the Pilates ball, holding the bar to steady himself.

  He wasn’t ready to go yet.

  ‘Lord,’ he said, looking up to the ceiling. ‘I’m sorry for what I did. I truly am. And I hope that you’ll see the good things in my life before you—’

  He didn’t finish.

  The ball slipped out from under his feet and Andy Mac fell, the noose around his neck snapping tight as he jerked to a stop, his feet no more than an inch from the tower’s floor. He grabbed at the band, his eyes bulging, suddenly scared, worried that God himself had moved the ball, that he was going to Hell… But it was too late. The band was too tight. He couldn’t get purchase. He couldn’t stop this now.

  His dead eyes were now wide and staring, his face contorted in a last expression of pain and terror, seemingly watching himself in the mirror as he rotated slowly, hanged by the neck. And this is how he was found, an hour later when his wife led the police, finally here to arrest him down to the basement.