Dead and Gone: A gripping thriller with a shocking twist (DI Annie Parker)

by D. L. Michaels

  I stop there, otherwise I’ll be making connections that will take a lifetime to check out.

  Prison records show that Brodie Appleton, the family kingpin, did a stretch in Belfast thirty-five years ago for wounding a police officer but hasn’t offended since then. Or maybe it’s that he hasn’t been caught. I remember Charlie mentioning that Andy Ellison intimated his Mr Big was a clean-handed businessman who’d previously been dirty, so I write BRODIE APPLETON’s name in caps in a notebook at my side.

  Brodie’s sons are a different story.

  Forty-year-old Michael and his younger brother Sean both have convictions for drug and gun offences. They’re currently in Strangeways Prison in Manchester. Neither spent time in Full Sutton. I suspect the Home Office had been informed of potential gang warfare and kept both families apart.

  Next, I look for my baseball-bat-wielding friend, Callum Waters, who is now thankfully back in Full Sutton. Unsurprisingly, he has several previous convictions relating to drugs, violence and stolen cars. Turns out he’s done two terms at Dovegate Prison in Staffordshire, which is interesting because Charlie thought Waters might have been part of the Appleton gang, but that now looks highly unlikely, given he shared cell time with Kieran Crewe.

  I open Colin Richardson’s files. Four years for armed robbery – the case I worked as a young constable. Two years for GBH. Ten for Manslaughter. I dig a bit deeper. The last offence was while he was at Full Sutton, and the GBH was served partly at Dovegate, during the time Callum Waters was there. All these spiders are on the same web.

  I turn down the fire and finish my chocolate. Sitting back and looking at the notes, it’s clear that Andy Ellison, Colin Richardson, Callum Waters and Kieran Crewe were all connected to each other by overlapping prison sentences at Dovegate and Full Sutton jails. This surely is the senior hierarchy of the Crewe gang and has nothing to do with the Appletons.

  Finally, I look at Anthony Pilcher and Mark Sismey. These were the men who went to jail for dealing drugs from Danny Smith’s stall in Camden. I type in Sismey’s details and he comes up clean, prior to the market offences. Pilcher, on the other hand, served a short sentence at Dovegate, while Andy Ellison was there.

  Ellison’s kidnapping would have made more sense had he been in prison with the Appletons. Then maybe I could have chalked it down to a Crewe v Appleton turf war, and perhaps Ellison had been taken because he’d been about to finger one of the Appletons as Ashley’s killer.

  But then I see it.

  Just as I’m on the verge of going mad, I realise that I’ve been looking at the wrong people in the wrong way.

  The clock on the mantelpiece reads five thirty a.m. There’s no way I’m going to sleep now. I head upstairs to shower and change. I’m desperate to get to work. To find out if I’m right.

  79

  Martin

  The police cell where I’m being held is little larger than a coffin. It contains a single metal bunk, paper-thin mattress, hairy blue blanket, an ugly steel toilet. There is no window. Not even one with bars. Just a big metal door.

  Worst of all, the place smells uniquely of urine, vomit and disinfectant. A cocktail of criminality that the artist in me wants to create as a collage. I’d rip up a rap sheet, a mugshot, a set of fingerprints, a written confession and I’d paste them together with the microwaved lasagne they gave me last night.

  So here I am, a criminal and an artist. I have joined the elite company of Caravaggio and Cellini who killed people, Picasso who handled stolen goods and Wharry the arsonist. Perhaps it is in our genes to cross civilisation’s borders.

  I’ve been told that I’m being held here until mid-morning, then I am likely to be charged with illegal possession of a firearm and assault causing grievous bodily harm. Or was it assault, with intent to cause grievous bodily harm? I can’t remember and I don’t suppose the exact wording makes any difference. Once charges have been laid, I believe I will be bailed and allowed to go about the task of picking up the pieces of my shattered life.

  The police have been exceptionally pleasant with me. Almost understanding. Certainly, no rough stuff. Just a gentle easing into the judicial system. All quite impressive really. The act of whisking you from home to cell is done with polite alacrity. A hand on the shoulder. ‘Mind your head getting into the car, sir.’ A subtle settling into the interview room. ‘Would you like tea or coffee? Water, maybe?’ And a slick salesman’s patter at the crucial moments. ‘We can get you a lawyer, if you really think you need one, but, honestly, you’ll be fine if you just give us your own, honest version of events.’

  So, I did.

  I told them everything. Said I’d been alerted by the police that my bigamous wife’s husband might find and attack me, so I armed myself out of self-defence.

  My bigamous wife.

  How that phrase sticks and chokes.

  I explained that I was a physical coward, incapable of punching myself out of the proverbial paper bag, so the shotgun was necessary to enable me to talk to him and ward him off. Unfortunately, he rushed me, I panicked, and I accidentally shot him.

  No, I hadn’t been lying in wait, preparing to blow his head off.

  Yes, it had been pure coincidence that I happened to be taking my father’s gun with me down to my parents’ house, when he broke in.

  No, I had no idea it was loaded. It was remiss of me not to have checked.

  Yes, I have fired a gun before, but only at grouse, rabbits and clay pigeons.

  No, I had not deliberately tried to kill him.

  Replaying all their questions, I must admit my half-truths were not as strong as they might have been. I should have asked for that lawyer after all. And, if I’m as honest as the police would have me be, I have some questions of my own:

  Did I really need to shoot him?

  Or did I pull the trigger just because I wanted to?

  I could have killed him.

  Wanted to kill him when he mentioned the pregnancy.

  Is he right?

  Is Sarah really expecting?

  Despite choosing the weakest pellets I had in the house, I still could have killed him. And in choosing them, I have to admit to myself that I must have coldly planned to fire the gun.

  Premeditation – that’s what the police would probably call it.

  I loaded it and wanted an excuse to fire at him. Hurt him. Vent my anger. I feel sickened at what I have let myself become. Heart ruling head. But that’s so me. My heart has always had control.

  I plump up the thin cell pillow and lie back. The main lights are out but there is a small night light overhead so custody staff can see inside. I know I’m not going to sleep.

  Funny, isn’t it? You worry about things like paying the rent, staying healthy, doing a good job, but the real problems, the ones that can wipe you out, well, you can’t plan for those and never see those coming. Like your wife already being married to someone else. Like her being pregnant and there being only a 50 per cent chance it’s yours. Like you thinking it a good idea to sit in wait with a shotgun for a crazed love rival to come knocking on your door.

  Someone’s outside the cell. Heavy footsteps. Slap, slap. Slap, slap. I see part of a face at the viewing panel on my door. I look away. When I look again, it’s gone.

  And now I feel the loneliness. The isolation. The fear.

  Is Sarah feeling the same?

  She must be locked up in a similar cell. Given her condition, even more afraid than I am. No doubt already charged and further along this dreadful pathway that leads to court and then prison.

  I close my eyes and think of her. Wish I could hold her. Kiss her. Comfort her. Ask her about the baby. Despite everything she’s done, I still want and need her. Still miss her. Still crave her closeness.

  But can I forgive her?

  Can I visit her in jail?

  If the child is mine, can I bring it up?

  Do I want to?

  After everything that I’ve done, do I deserve to?

 
My mind is tortured by all these thoughts. I almost wish I had turned that shotgun on myself. Who knows, maybe that is still the answer.

  80

  Annie

  I set off at six-fifteen and cover the hundred miles from north Derbyshire to the Horton General Hospital in Oxfordshire in just over three hours. I’d have been quicker but for patchy winter fog and rush-hour traffic.

  En route, I call Nisha and tell her I am on my way to interview Danny Smith, who is out of surgery and has a shattered collarbone, multiple pellet wounds and more good luck than he probably deserves.

  A woman on an information desk directs me to the private room he’s recovering in, near the emergency ward. I follow the signs that say A & E, ICU and Trauma & Orthopaedics. Nisha had fixed for Thames Valley to have a plain clothes DC on watch since Smith’s admission, and as I approach the room, a man in his mid-twenties in a crumpled black suit quickly puts down his copy of The Sun and stands up. ‘Can I help you?’

  I flip out my badge. ‘DI Parker. I’ve come to interview Smith.’

  ‘DC Stones.’ He nods politely. ‘Pleased to meet you, ma’am.’

  ‘Have you been on all night?’

  ‘No, ma’am. I came on at seven.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to be a good hour, so get yourself some breakfast if you like.’

  His eyes light up. ‘Thank you, ma’am. My DI, Adrian Fellowes, asked that you call him and say how long you’d like the watch on Smith to continue. And whether you need any assistance bringing him into custody.’

  ‘I’ll do that straight afterwards, thank you.’

  ‘He said to also tell you he hasn’t yet had time to formally interview Smith in connection with the shooting yesterday.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  As he takes his paper and heads to the canteen, I open the door to the private room.

  Danny Smith is sitting up, bare-chested and heavily bandaged on his left side. He’s youthfully handsome. It’s easy to see how a teenage girl would have fallen for a younger version. He turns on hearing me enter. I’m immediately struck by his Wedgwood-blue eyes.

  ‘Good morning. I’m Detective Inspector Parker.’ I show my ID. ‘I need to talk to you about your wife – and about Ashley Crewe.’

  ‘I’m too ill to talk, so leave me the fuck alone.’

  ‘The doctors say you’re fine.’ I take a seat.

  ‘Make yourself at home, won’t you?’

  I say nothing as I open my bag and take out a pocket book. Silence is a heavy and useful weight, so I lay it on Danny Smith’s shoulders as I take a good look at him and work out if he could have murdered Ashley Crewe. His early response to me demonstrates innate aggression. He has the natural frame of a powerful, strong man and doesn’t strike me as someone who would easily back down from physical confrontation.

  Smith gives me a look I’ve seen many times. A man holding in his anger. A man annoyed at being in a situation he can’t escape from.

  ‘Go on, then,’ he says, challengingly. ‘Ask what you’ve come to ask.’

  ‘Your wife came to see us and confessed that you and she murdered a boy called Ashley Crewe when you were at Lawndale together.’

  He puts on a dismissive smile. ‘I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.’

  ‘She claimed she’d been raped by Crewe and she told you about it. Said she wished him dead, and you duly obliged.’

  Smith’s eyes narrow and I see him struggle to stay calm. His breathing alters. He finds it necessary to swallow. His hands suddenly want to do anything other than stay still. He says nothing because he realises I’m telling the truth and knows I’m not finished.

  ‘She said she helped you bury his body in a forest in Derbyshire.’

  He shifts against his pillows. Inhales slowly. Tries to calm himself. He’s in trouble. The body’s natural ‘flight or fight’ biology is confused, because it can do neither. He’s trapped.

  ‘You need to start talking, Danny, or I’m going to arrest you and charge you with murder.’

  ‘Get the fuck out of here,’ he says venomously. ‘You’re full of shit.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I allow myself a satisfactory grin. ‘I wasn’t entirely sure I was right until you said that. Until that very moment you spat out your ugly, abusive sentence. But I am now.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the fact that you know there was no body in that forest grave.’

  Now he smiles. ‘I never said nothin’ about a body, did I?’

  ‘No, but you’re too cocky for your own good. And I’m sure that’s because you think without a body you can’t be charged. Problem is, you can. And your wife, well, she said she saw you kill Ashley Crewe and she helped you bury him.’

  ‘Well, she’s mad in the head, ’n’t she?’ He taps his temple. ‘All that work, that pressure, it’s sent her a bit mental.’

  ‘You’re probably right. Work can do that to you.’ I say sarcastically. ‘Only, what I don’t understand is, how was it possible for her to describe stitch-perfectly the clothes Ashley was dressed in on the night she saw him killed? And, how come those clothes turned up on a shop mannequin in the hole we excavated?’

  ‘No fuckin’ comment.’

  ‘You’re not being formally interviewed, Danny. We’re not at that stage yet. Smarten up. We’re still at the “Danny can help himself if he’s open and honest” stage.’

  ‘I’m saying nothing.’

  ‘That’s not a smart option.’ I lean forward, study his pillow and pick two stray hairs off the white cotton. ‘What’s the betting that we don’t find hairs like this on the clothes we discovered in that grave? That our labs don’t match DNA from these hairs to some you left on Ashley Crewe’s jacket, trousers or that mannequin? Can you take that risk, Danny? Can you?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘If we find so much as a hair of your thick head, or a speck of your dumb DNA in that grave, I promise you, I will charge you with murder and leave it to some judge and jury to work out what weird thing you did with the body.’

  Veins throb in his neck. All kinds of doubts are churning inside him. I just need to press a few more buttons.

  ‘Maybe you’re a necrophile? You know, a pervert who digs up dead bodies and has sex with them. Is that what you are, Danny? The jury would love to hear the prosecution pose that as a theory as to why Ashley Crewe’s body wasn’t where your wife saw it buried.’

  ‘I’m no fuckin’ pervert!’ he snaps.

  I say nothing. My eyes do all the talking. They accuse. They humiliate. They ratchet up the pressure.

  ‘All right,’ he says wearily. ‘I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everythin’.’

  81

  Paula

  I wake thick-headed. The stress of everything has given me a hangover-sized headache. I’d hoped going to the police would resolve matters and allow everyone involved to have a clear view of their futures, but a hundred unanswered questions remain.

  And I feel sick. Pregnancy sick. Hormones going crazy sick.

  The thought of coffee makes me sick. Food makes me sick. Anything but water seems to make me feel sick.

  I’d like to spend the morning in bed feeling sorry for myself and nurturing my way through this inevitable side effect of impending motherhood. But I know I don’t deserve that. I’m also aware that I’m fortunate to have woken in a hotel bed not a prison cell. And I’m lucky Martin shot Danny and not me.

  The problem with being a bigamist is that when you screw up, it’s doubly bad. My admissions to the police landed Martin in prison and Danny in hospital. If I had kept quiet, if I’d carried on seeing both of them, then Danny would be free to fight his alcoholism and Martin would be happily completing the work for his first London exhibition. Whoever said honesty is the best policy must have been wearing a whole garden of rose-tinted spectacles.

  I skip breakfast, gather my belongings and check out. Reception books me a taxi to the railway station
and ten minutes later I slide gingerly into a filthy Toyota that smells of curry and beer.

  Since getting up, I’ve made numerous phone calls. Some to Liz, my PA, and Fin, my Mr Fixit. Others have been to Danny and Martin. Neither of the latter picked up. Neither returned my calls.

  I’m about to call Terry, when he rings me.

  ‘Good morning,’ he says in a voice deepened from lack of sleep. ‘How are you today?’

  ‘Morning. I’m fine. Well, you know, fine, given everything that’s happened in the last few days.’

  ‘Then maybe I can make you feel a little better. It seems your erstwhile husband Danny is not as badly injured as we first thought. He’s at Horton General, not far from your Chipping Norton home, and after some fairly routine surgery yesterday is what they call “stable and comfortable”.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it. Any news on Martin?’

  ‘Thames Valley Police held him overnight but haven’t yet charged him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They want to take a statement from Danny first. They’ve got a bobby outside his ward and later today CID will send someone over to interview him. Once they have Danny’s testimony they’re sure to put the version to Martin and then charge him.’

  ‘What a mess.’

  ‘Messes are usually not as bad as they first look,’ says Terry, reassuringly. ‘Danny was trespassing, so that’ll mitigate in any case brought against Martin. And from what I was told, he’s been very cooperative and forthcoming. Probably more than he should have been.’

  I can’t help but smile. ‘That sounds like Martin. He’s a decent guy. He shouldn’t be caught up in all this.’

  ‘Nor should you.’ Terry takes a breath, then adds, ‘You do know they could still charge you with Crewe’s murder, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I got that impression last night.’

  ‘In law, they only have to prove there was a crime – they don’t have to produce the corpse.’

  ‘I know that. And I know Crewe is dead, Terry.’