Letter From The Dead - a crime thriller (Detective Inspector Declan Walsh Book 1)
Page 26
Now ready for the day ahead and walking out into the brisk North London air, Derek smiled to himself. For the first time in a long while he had a purpose, a reason to do something. It might not be something that he wanted or even expected to do, but he could still do it. The doors were closing on him, but this door was still wide open and beckoning.
He didn’t have a car anymore, but the walk to the North Tottenham Crime Unit where he once worked wasn’t that far a stroll. That said, by the time he reached the entrance he was already woefully out of breath, forced to lean against the door to gain his breath before entering.
The reception was almost empty; there was a suited man sitting on a chair by the wall, most likely a solicitor, there to speak to someone in custody. He didn’t look up at Derek, staring down at his phone instead. The Desk Sergeant looked up as Derek entered the Crime Unit, her face paling as she saw the horrific changes to Derek. She hid it well with a fake smile, though. Derek knew it was a fake smile. He’d seen so many of them over the last six months.
‘DCI Salmon!’ she exclaimed. ‘Good to see you up on your feet.’
‘It’s just Derek these days, Maisie.’
‘You’ll always be DCI here, sir.’
Derek smiled back. Unlike the Desk Sergeant’s nervous one, this was genuine. Derek genuinely appreciated the sentiment, even if he was going to destroy everything that he’d built up over the next few minutes.
‘Did you want to go through?’ the Desk Sergeant continued. ‘I can call ahead, let them know?’
‘It’s not really that sort of visit today,’ Derek replied. ‘I need you to call DCI Farrow down. Or, if he’s not about, call down anyone in serious crimes.’
The Desk Sergeant’s face broke into a frown. ‘Are you alright?’ she asked, the concern obvious in her voice.
But it was the concern that finally broke ex-DCI Derek Salmon’s patience.
‘Look, Maisie,’ he started, leaning against the counter. ‘We’ve known each other for years, and you’re a lovely person, but I have terminal pancreatic cancer. I’m absolutely riddled with the bloody thing. I’ve been told I have months, if not weeks, left to live. Every pain-ridden moment is now important to me, and I can’t waste the minimal time I have left.’
He leaned closer to the screen now, his voice rising.
‘So if I say I need to speak to DCI Farrow or the serious crimes unit, I suggest that rather than having a nice little chat about it, you do your bloody job and call them down here!’ The last part of this was shouted, and Derek felt light headed, his legs giving way.
No, goddammit.
Forcing himself to straighten, he looked to the Desk Sergeant, already on the phone. After a moment, she looked back to him, the smile now gone.
‘DCI Farrow will be down in a bit, sir,’ she said, her tone now cold and expressionless. Derek nodded. He understood why she’d feel that way. But at the same time, after he’d said to Farrow what he was there to say, nobody would smile at him again.
A minute later, DCI Farrow opened the door beside the counter, emerging cautiously into the reception area, already aware of Derek’s outburst. With his wire-rimmed glasses and tufty hair sticking out to the sides, Farrow was often likened to a rather irritated owl by the detectives who worked under him. He’d transferred into North Tottenham around six months before Derek had started his treatments, so he hadn’t really worked with Farrow much in the time they’d both been in the Crime Unit, and he hadn’t known much about the man except for Declan Walsh’s occasional updates.
But he’d known enough to know that DCI Farrow was a jobsworth.
‘Derek,’ Farrow said, holding out his hand. Derek didn’t shake it, so Farrow let it fall back to his side. ‘What can we do for you?’
‘I need to speak to DI Walsh,’ Derek replied.
‘You need to keep up a little,’ Farrow smiled. ‘Mister Wash no longer works here. He was transferred—’
‘I know, to Monroe’s team,’ Derek nodded. ‘But I need you to bring him here. He needs to lead this case.’
Farrow frowned at this, as if worried that Derek was having some kind of episode, one where he thought he was still a DCI himself. ‘Case?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Derek said. ‘And yeah, I know you’re thinking ‘what’s the old bugger playing at now,’ but it’s important to me.’ He indicated the Desk Sergeant and the suited man. ‘Promise me, in front of these witnesses, that after I’ve explained, you’ll bring Declan Walsh in to run the case.’
Farrow sighed. ‘You could just go to Temple Inn, find him there and leave us out of whatever this is.’
‘I can’t,’ Derek shook his head. ‘I have to confess here. It’s part of the agreement.’
‘Fine,’ DCI Farrow held up his hands. ‘You do whatever it is, explain what it is you need to explain, I’ll get Walsh and his friends to come here and you can bugger off with them, okay?’
Derek thought about this for a moment. He then looked to the suited man.
‘That good enough?’ he asked. The suited man, now watching, nodded.
‘Noted and witnessed,’ he said as he rose, nodding to DCI Farrow and leaving the reception for the outside air.
‘Who the hell was that?’ Farrow asked. Derek shrugged.
‘I needed a legal witness,’ he explained. ‘You might change your mind. I wanted to ensure you can’t. If you don’t bring Walsh in now, my confession can be taken as under duress. I could call for a mistrial.’
‘What bloody confession?’ Farrow was getting exasperated at the theatrics now.
‘You know I’m terminal, right?’ Derek asked.
‘Of course.’
‘Then you’ll understand that because of this, I’ve gone beyond the British personality disorder of caring what people think about me,’ Derek continued. ‘You’ve always been an obnoxious little shit, Farrow and I’ve hated you since you took my job. And yes, I know, I stepped down because of all this,’ he pointed to his white stubble, ‘but there’s something just wrong with you. I can’t pinpoint it. I know it’s like my cancer, but this time it’s affecting everyone here.’
‘Is this the explanation?’ Farrow asked, bored now. ‘Because I really need to—’
‘For one bloody second just listen!’
The reception area was silent. Stone faced and silent now, Farrow motioned for Derek to continue.
‘You remember the Angela Martin case?’ Derek asked. ‘Was right before I stepped down fully from duties.’
Farrow nodded, all business; as if the mention of actual police work had brought his interest back. ‘Of course. Seventeen years old. Went missing while out with some friends in Walthamstow.’
‘That’s the one,’ Derek said. ‘Never found a body, never found a witness. She could be out there under another name as far as we know.’
‘So what’s this got to do with this little scene you’re making?’ Farrow asked. Derek shrugged.
‘I killed her,’ he replied. ‘I killed her, and I hid the body in Epping Forest.’
Neither Farrow nor the Desk Sergeant spoke for a good few seconds.
‘That’s not funny,’ Farrow’s tone had grown dark now. ‘I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, that your condition has given you a gallows humour…’
‘Do I look like a damned comedian?’ Derek screamed. ‘I killed her! I confess! And when Declan Walsh takes over the case, I’ll take you to where the body’s buried!’ He paused, a smile now on his lips, the anger fading.
‘But until then, how about a cuppa for old times?’ he asked. ‘I’m gasping.’
Acknowledgements
Although I’ve been writing for three decades under various names, this is a first for me; a new name, a new medium and a new lead character…
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There are people I need to thank, and they know who they are. To the ones who started me on this path over a coffee during a pandemic to the ones who zoom-called me and gave me advice, the ones on various Facebook g
roups who encouraged me when I didn’t know if I could even do this, who gave advice on cover design and on book formatting all the way to my friends and family, who saw what I was doing not as mad folly, but as something good. Also, I couldn’t have done this without the amazing Jacqueline Beard MBE, who copyedited this line by line for me.
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But mainly, I tip my hat and thank you. The reader. Who took a chance on an unknown author in a pile of Kindle books, and thought you’d give them a chance.
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I write Declan Walsh for you. He (and his team) solves crimes for you. And with luck, he’ll keep on solving them for a very long time.
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Jack Gatland, London, November 2020
About the Author
Hi, I’m Jack.
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I’ve been an award winning writer several times under other names, and over the years I’ve worked with some of the biggest names in books, film and television.
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This is my first time however writing crime fiction.
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An introvert West Londoner by heart, I live with my family and dog just outside London.
Locations In The Book
The locations that I use in my books are real, if altered slightly for dramatic intent.
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The Boxing Club near Meath Gardens that Johnny Lucas meets Monroe in doesn’t exist, and neither do the Twins - but the location used is the current Globe Town Social Club, within Green Lens Studios, a community centre formerly known as Eastbourne House, that I would pass occasionally in my 20s. In addition, Meath Gardens (where Anjli meets Johnny) is a real location; formerly Victoria Cemetery, it was changed from a burial ground to a park in the 1890s. The 100,000+ bodies buried beneath it are still there.
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Hurley-Upon-Thames is a real village, and one that I visited many times from the age of 8 until 16, as my parents and I would spend our spring and summer weekends at the local campsite. It’s a location that means a lot to me, my second home throughout my childhood, and so I’ve decided that this should be the ‘home base’ for Declan. And by the time book four comes out, I’ll have completely destroyed its reputation!
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Teddington Lock was indeed a television studios, but is now a series of apartments and small business sites. There is no YouTube studio there, but there easily could be…
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The Houses of Parliament are real (obviously) and everything that both Charles and Anjli say about it is real as well. I’ve even attended the Sherlock Holmes Society of London dinners there. In addition, I’ve also attended SHSL meetings at the National Liberal Club; deciding that Anjli was a member of the society wasn’t a decision that I took lightly, and it meant I’d use both locations.
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Savernake Forest is also a real location, although not a place that bodies are buried in (as far as I know!). The first mention of a woodland "Safernoc" was made in AD 934 in the written records of the King Athelstan, but the land passed into Norman ownership soon after the Norman invasion of 1066. The royal forest was established in the 12th Century, and Henry VIII enjoyed deer hunting there. It also homes some of the oldest trees in England, with the ‘Big Belly Oak’ reported to be 1,100 years old.
The 2011 Radiohead album The King of Limbs is named after the ancient King of Limbs tree in the forest near Tottenham House, where the band recorded part of their previous album, In Rainbows.
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On the subject of houses, Devington House doesn’t exist. That said, the basis of it does; Wollaton Hall in Nottingham, designed by Robert Smythson was my inspiration. To my knowledge it doesn’t have any priest holes in it - that was fictional, although Nicholas Owen and his designs are very much factual.
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If you’re interested in seeing what the real locations look like, I intend to post ‘behind the scenes’ location images on my Instagram feed. This will continue through all the books, and I suggest you follow it.
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In fact, feel free to follow me on all my social media, by clicking on the links below. They’re new, as I’m new - but over time it can be a place where we can engage, discuss Declan and put the world to rights.
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Visit my Website
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Subscribe to my Readers List