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

by Jack Gatland

  ‘I need a drink. Like really need a drink,’ he said honestly. ‘I don’t think I’ve been this long without one for years.’ He looked to the wall where Susan had jumped, shuddering. ‘So what now?’

  ‘Well now we’ll be arresting you,’ Monroe said, ‘but not with cuffs. You still need to be charged with grievous bodily harm in Soho.’ He waved around the roof. ‘But that said, I think all of this, and the fact you’ve been in a state of fear for the last four or five years is enough to get you a little bit of community service there. As long as you let us help you beat the drink and get you on your feet.’

  Shaun nodded as Anjli walked over to take him down the stairs.

  ‘Oh, your wife called again,’ she said. ‘Main office. Didn’t leave a message.’

  ‘Problems?’ Monroe looked concerned. Declan forced a smile.

  ‘I was supposed to see Jess today. But with all this, and the reports—’

  ‘Ach, to hell with the reports,’ Monroe said. ‘We’ll cover that. It’s what teams do. Go and see your bairn. Tell her hi from her Uncle Monroe.’

  Declan grinned. ‘I don’t think you’ve ever been ‘Uncle Monroe’ Guv,’ he said.

  ‘Well now’s as good a time as any to start,’ Monroe replied, already pushing Declan to the door. ‘Go on, get out of here before I change my mind.’

  Declan looked to Anjli and Billy; both officers nodded.

  ‘I’ll repay the favour,’ Declan said.

  ‘You’re damn right you will,’ Anjli muttered. ‘You’re not the one about to scrape an aristocrat off a car roof.’

  And with that, before anyone could change their mind, Declan left the roof and made his way out of the building. As he reached the entrance, he saw Ratcliffe at the door, staring at the body of Susan Devington. He had an ice pack to his head.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Declan asked.

  ‘The mad tramp hit me with his gun,’ Ratcliffe complained. ‘Still, it could have been worse. I could have ended up like her.’

  ‘What will you do now?’ Declan looked around the grounds. Ratcliffe had looked after this land for several decades. It seemed cruel to have him removed now.

  ‘I’ll be staying here,’ Ratcliffe smiled. ‘House will always need a good groundsman.’

  ‘Well, good luck to you,’ Declan said before walking over to his Audi, stunned that in all of the confusion it hadn’t been blocked in by police cars. Pulling out his phone, he dialled Elizabeth.

  ‘Where the hell are you?’ she said. ‘Jess has been waiting for hours!’

  ‘Just caught a murderer,’ Declan said. ‘I’ll be with you within the hour.’

  ‘Well good,’ Elizabeth grudgingly accepted this. ‘Where are you taking her?’

  ‘I thought I’d show her Dad’s house, maybe take a walk around Hurley, if that’s okay?’ Declan said, climbing into the car.

  ‘Most Dads take their kids to the cinema,’ Elizabeth suggested. Declan grinned.

  ‘I’m not like most Dads,’ he said, disconnecting the call. There was an unread text on his phone; the number he’d asked for in the car. The burner that Sebastian had sent his final message to.

  Pressing it, he dialled the number. After three rings, it answered.

  ‘Hi Declan,’ the voice of Kendis Taylor spoke through the car’s system.

  ‘I thought you might answer my call,’ Declan replied. ‘I don’t seem to have this number for you.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘I didn’t mean for him to get killed,’ she eventually said. ‘He came to me through a friend. He wanted to get Andy, wanted to bring him down.’

  ‘And why did you want to bring him down?’

  ‘There’s a few things he did that are good enough reasons. And he insulted you on his show.’ Kendis was angry as she spoke. ‘If it wasn’t me, it would have been someone else. Sebastian called me, said he might have some photos. I said great, send them to me. And then he never replied. I didn’t know how he was doing it.’

  Declan leaned back in the seat. ‘You need to walk away from this,’ he said. ‘Andy Mac’s dead. Susan Devington’s dead. Sebastian Payne too. There’s too many deaths here.’

  ‘I will, Declan,’ Kendis replied. ‘But you need to walk away from this too.’

  ‘Already doing that,’ Declan finished. ‘Throw away this phone.’

  And with that he disconnected the call, started the engine and drove out of the driveway of Devington House.

  Epilogue

  His Protection Officers had brought Charles Baker directly to Whitehall; he knew that it was a matter of time before news of this came out and he wanted to start damage limitation before he was overrun with paparazzi. Walsh was right; Charles was about to be implicated in several things, but the fact of the matter was that both Susan Devington and Andrew MacIntyre were dead, and he could use this to throw a lot of the problems onto them.

  He smiled, a small one of relief. He hadn’t killed Victoria Davies after all. Ever since they’d shown him the necklace all those years ago, he’d wondered how truthful they had been but was too scared to actively investigate it. He had too much running on his political career and with his marriage to Donna, to risk anything coming out.

  Now he had to write the narrative before someone else did.

  As he reached his offices though, he saw Will Harrison standing at the doorway waiting, running his hand nervously through his stupid haircut. As Charles exited the car, Will ran over.

  ‘Th-they’re in your office,’ he stammered.

  ‘Let’s pretend for a moment that I’m not bloody psychic,’ Charles replied, walking through the main door. ‘Who’s in my office?’

  ‘Symonds and Gladwell.’

  Charles almost stumbled to a stop. He wanted to swear loudly, but he knew that they’d hear, even in an office a floor away. There was only one reason why Malcolm bloody Gladwell would be here on a Saturday. And there were definitely a small amount of reasons why Walter Symonds would miss his morning brunch.

  They were about to tell Charles he wasn’t in the running for Prime Minister.

  Damn Susan Devington. Damn Francine Pearce. Damn Shaun and Andy and Damn DI bloody Walsh for kicking the stone over in the first place.

  Stopping at a mirror, Charles used his fingers to tame his hair back into place. He took a deep breath, holding it for a couple of seconds before releasing it.

  ‘Okay then, he said, turning and walking towards his office. ‘Let’s go chat with my executioners.’ It wasn’t all bad. Nigel Dickinson was a terrible bloody choice and Tamara Banks was a toxic Thatcherite. With those two as their choices, the 1922 Committee would probably suggest holding off for a year before ramming the knife in.

  Charles Baker was fine with that.

  A year was a long time in politics.

  Monroe sat in his office, working on his laptop. He was the only one in; Billy and Anjli had left for the day and Doctor Marcos was at an abattoir, smacking pig bodies with some kind of stick to prove Sherlock Holmes wrong about something. He hadn’t bothered to ask what.

  Leaning back, he moved his head around, letting the muscles in his neck crick and crunch as he tried to loosen up his shoulders. Looking to his bookshelf, he spied a small photo on it. Walking over, he picked it up, looking down at it.

  It was a photo of Monroe, around ten years ago, standing beside Patrick Walsh. It was the day that Patrick had been promoted to Chief Superintendent. It was probably the last time Monroe had worn his police uniform, too. It was a photo of happier times.

  ‘Ah, you soft wee bastard,’ he muttered to himself. ‘You would have been proud of the boy. He did good. Fixed your mistake.’

  He looked from the photo, his gaze flitting around the office.

  ‘He’s going to find out,’ he said. ‘He knows something happened. It’ll get him killed.’

  Placing the photo back on the shelf, Monroe returned to the desk, sitting back down. Patrick Walsh was dead, so Alexander Monroe was going
to have to be a father figure now.

  He only hoped that Declan would listen to him before he fell too far into the rabbit hole.

  Billy sat in Cecconi’s, at the same table as he had the previous night watching the door, waiting. After a few minutes it opened and a familiar figure entered, walking over to the table and sitting down opposite him.

  ‘Well, I must admit I didn’t expect this call,’ Rufus Harrington said. Billy shrugged.

  ‘Blood calls to blood,’ he replied. ‘Try the wine. It’s divine.’

  ‘Rather not,’ Rufus looked around. ‘Don’t really want to be seen with the police, you know?’

  ‘Rufus,’ Billy said, leaning in. ‘You know why my family don’t like me?’

  ‘I’ve heard rumours.’

  ‘And you understand that this stops certain avenues being opened for me?’

  Rufus looked around again, as if scared that the conversation was being observed. It wasn’t.

  ‘You want to come in from the cold?’ he asked. Billy shrugged.

  ‘I want a contact, an inside source to my parents,’ he said. ‘I thought we could make a deal.’

  Rufus laughed. ‘And what could you possibly give me?’ he asked. Billy smiled, It wasn’t a happy one.

  ‘You mentioned Devington Industries,’ he said. ‘When we spoke last. Do you hold shares?’

  ‘Quite a few,’ Rufus replied cautiously. ‘All above board.’

  ‘Sell them,’ Billy said. ‘Sell them right now. Devington shares are about to tank.’

  He pulled out his wallet, pulling out enough money to pay for the bill. He felt Rufus staring at him but he didn’t say anything. Billy rose from the seat, walking alongside Rufus.

  ‘Seriously, try the wine. It’s glorious, and it’s paid for.’

  ‘Why would you tell me about Devington?’ Rufus asked. ‘Even if it’s true?’

  ‘Ask around, you’ll see it is.’ Billy patted Rufus on the shoulder. ‘When you’re willing to talk, call me.’

  And with that he left the restaurant as Rufus Harrington desperately tried to call his broker on his phone.

  Anjli sat on the park bench, pulling her collar up against the wind. It was cold, and she’d spent half of the day up on a roof. There was a chill, deep inside her right now that was unlikely to go away for a while. She also hated this place too; Meath Gardens had once been a cemetery. When it was changed into a park in the late nineteenth century, all they did was remove the headstones and landscape over the grass.

  ‘There’s a hundred thousand bodies under us,’ a voice said from behind her. ‘Three quarters of which were children, poor little buggers.’

  Anjli didn’t look away from the ground as Johnny Lucas sat down beside her.

  ‘You got my message then,’ he said.

  ‘What do you want, Mister Lucas?’ Anjli asked. ‘I’m no longer Mile End plod.’

  ‘No, but you’re still plod,’ Johnny smiled. ‘And you’re still Mile End born and bred.’

  ‘I was born and bred in Bradford.’

  ‘Ah, that’s where you were dug out,’ Johnny replied. ‘Mile End is where you were forged in fire.’

  There was a silence as the two of them watched a child play with a ball.

  ‘Do you think he knows?’ Johnny asked. ‘That beneath him are thousands of kiddies the same age?’ He turned to Anjli. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not asking much.’

  ‘That’s what you said to Ford.’

  ‘She owed me gambling money,’ Johnny nodded. ‘her debt was greater. Yours? Minimal.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  Johnny thought for a moment. ‘News,’ he said. ‘That’s all. I want news on Declan Walsh. What he’s doing, where he’s going, who he’s friends with, what he’s working on.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Anjli asked. ‘Just updates on Walsh? Why?’

  ‘He fascinates me,’ Johnny said rising from the bench and walking off. ‘That’s all.’

  And with that Anjli Kapoor stared down at the grass, imagining the thousands of bodied under the ground. How many bodies had the twins put under the same ground?

  Shaking the gruesome thought off, Anjli rose from the bench and started towards Mile End and a hot coffee.

  They’d spent an hour walking along the Thames, doing their usual father and daughter tradition of Declan telling Jessica every detail of the case he’d just finished.

  It may have seemed a little gruesome to the fishermen they passed, but Jessica Walsh was cut from the same cloth as her father, her grandfather and the generations of police before them; Declan knew that by the time she was his age, she’d be DCI at minimum. She was quick, eager to learn and she had also helped him on several cases in the past. All she had to do was dye her hair back to normal, and stop wearing fake glasses because all the cool people on Instagram were doing it.

  Arriving back at his father’s - no, his house, Declan brought Jessica upstairs.

  ‘There’s something I wanted to show you,’ he said.

  ‘Dad, I’ve spent years coming here,’ Jessica replied. ‘I think I know everything there is to know about the place.’

  Declan walked to the bookshelf in the study, pushing it to the side, exposing the secret room.

  ‘Did you know about this?’ he asked.

  ‘No…’ Jessica walked into the small, secret office in wonderment. She examined the pictures on the whiteboard and, when done she opened up the filing cabinet, peering through the cases. ‘Was Granddad a spy?’

  ‘Granddad was a lot of things, but I don’t think he was that,’ Declan turned on the desk lamp,’ but there seems to be a lot about him that neither of us knew about.’ He turned his daughter to face him. ‘Listen Jess, you can’t tell anyone about this. Not even Mum. This is big.’

  Jessica nodded, already realising this as she looked across the room at the wall of string-linked faces. ‘Did one of these people kill Granddad?’ she asked. Declan looked down at her.

  ‘Why would you think something like that?’ he asked.

  ‘Cut the crap, Dad. I know you,’ Jessica said. ‘You don’t think it was an accident.’

  Declan shrugged. ‘I don’t know what to think,’ he admitted. ‘But I’m going to investigate all angles until I know for sure.’

  ‘Good,’ Jessica said, sitting at the desk. ‘So where do we start?’

  Declan picked up a sheaf of papers that he’d brought up from downstairs. Patrick Walsh’s memoirs. ‘Every suspect is in here,’ he said. ‘So first? We read this.’

  Declan Walsh sat on the edge of the desk that his father once worked at and, with his daughter beside him started to read his father’s memoirs, looking for suspects in a murder.

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  Prologue

  The mornings always started with a coughing fit.

  Derek Salmon leaned over the side of his bed, violently coughing into a small Tupperware container that he’d left there for such situations. He’d found out the hard way that coughing blood onto a carpet first thing in the morning destroyed the weave in it, and he’d spent a lot having the entire house re-carpeted a few years back, so this wasn’t on. Now Derek started his mornings leaning to the side and racking up phlegm and blood into a small plastic box; one that used to hold his packed lunch back in the days when he used to have a job.

  Cancer was a bastard.

  Getting to his feet, Derek stretched his arms and opened out his chest, trying to shake away the morning sluggishness.
This was an important day. He needed to be at the top of his game today, although he hadn’t been anywhere near the top of anything in quite a while.

  After a quick shower, Derek stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. Although the chemotherapy had turned his once dark brown hair white, it hadn’t fully fallen out yet, and this now made it nothing more than a collection of random white threads of hair that damply flattened out over his scalp.

  This wouldn’t do.

  Grabbing a cordless shaver, Derek ran it over his head, allowing the shaver to remove the wispy white hair, leaving the scalp with nothing more than a small amount of stubble. This done, he used the shaver on his beard scruff; he needed a full shave for the day ahead.

  Now, with a closely cropped head and a clean jawline, Derek felt that he looked a little more respectable. His face was still drawn and haggard, the skin from his rapid weight loss gathering around his jowls, but there was nothing that he could do there.

  Not even makeup would hide the fact that he was dying.

  Next was dressing. For the last month he’d worn nothing more than jogging bottoms and an old tee shirt, with maybe a hoodie placed over it when cold. He wasn’t going out anywhere, and it seemed churlish and vain to tidy himself up, to wear his better clothes for pottering around the house. But today was a day that he needed to dress up; he needed to be taken seriously. And so it was a shirt, tie, and suit day for Derek Salmon. It was the first time he’d done so in months.

  He didn’t have any breakfast; he didn’t know when he’d eat next, and he also knew that there was a very strong chance that he’d throw it back up anyway, most likely in a holding cell. No, it was better to risk hunger than shame.

  Pulling his scarf on, Derek looked to the sideboard in his living room. On it were photos of two women, both in their own respective frames. The older of the two was his wife, Amanda. They’d been separated for over ten years now and barely spoke these days, but he liked the photo and had kept it up; as far as Derek knew, Amanda didn’t know about his illness and the terminal diagnosis; that was unless the woman in the second photo, his daughter Evie, nineteen years old and starting her second year in University had told her. Derek had decided early on that no matter what happened with Amanda, Evie had to be a part of this, had to be aware of this; if only to be able to cope with the administration that would occur once he died.