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

by D. L. Michaels

  From her tone, I sense what is coming is not good news. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m sorry to say that the CPS and my boss have decided they are going to charge you with bigamy. We’ll go through the formalities when you are here.’

  ‘I understand. Thank you for telling me in advance.’ I cut the call and put the phone back in my jacket pocket and zip it up so it doesn’t drop out.

  I find a tissue, wipe my eyes and blow my nose. Then I look around again. Nothing has changed since I stopped here five minutes ago. I am alive. I have a new life inside me. We will grow strong together. There is nothing that we will not be able to overcome.

  106

  Annie

  It’s late evening by the time I leave Police Headquarters. The snow has thawed and turned into that dreadful brown slush that gathers in ridges and flies in icy clumps at pedestrians when you drive through it.

  I ring home, hands-free.

  Tom picks up and sounds tired. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Where have you been?’ I say more crustily than intended. ‘I’ve been ringing you and Dee all day.’

  ‘Don’t go off on one, Mum. Just don’t.’

  I sense he’s stressed. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  I know it’s not nothing. Maybe it’s just his depression. Perhaps Dee has been scaring him by talking about her operation tomorrow. Or something’s wrong with Polly. ‘You can tell me when I get home. Have you all eaten, or do you want me to bring something in?’

  ‘Just come home, Mum. Just hurry home. We need you here.’

  He puts the phone down.

  I’m in shock. Now I’m worried. Worried right off all maternal scales.

  In the past Tom has got confused about his medicines and taken too much. He once forgot to pick Polly up at school. Afterwards, she started wetting the bed because she feared she was going to be without a daddy as well as a mummy.

  The rest of my journey is swallowed up by every parental worry imaginable. Has Tom hurt himself? Hurt someone else? Hurt his daughter? Has she hurt someone? Has there been trouble at school? Was the reason I couldn’t reach him and Dee because they are both in A & E with Polly?

  Fear breeds fear and by the time I have parked, walked to the house and opened the front door, I am almost sick with it.

  Tom is on the settee. The lights are low. The TV off. Polly is asleep on his lap, her snuggle blanket in her hand and cuddled against her face, her head on my son’s chest.

  They’re all right. Thank you, God! They’re both all right.

  His eyes catch mine. Mutual recognition that something is not right. I walk closer and whisper, ‘Tom, what is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Help me with Polly.’ He stretches out his arms and I take her from him while he stands up. My granddaughter barely stirs. I kiss the top of her gorgeous head.

  ‘Put her to bed,’ says my son, ‘then I’ll tell you.’

  I hold her tight while I carry her upstairs. I lay her down as if she’s a fragile egg, pull up her duvet so she doesn’t catch cold, tuck it around her and lightly kiss her again.

  Dee.

  I suddenly realise. She’s not here. I thought I heard her upstairs when I came in, but it must have been the central heating clattering through the pipes and creaking the floorboards.

  I walk back downstairs. Tom is pacing in the kitchen, the kettle coming to the boil; two mugs stand with tea bags and spoons in them.

  ‘Where is she, Tom?’

  ‘Hospital,’ he says, stress creasing his face. ‘The operation was brought forward a day.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus.’

  ‘She was going to tell you last night, but decided not to.’

  ‘Why?’ My heart pounds in fear and anger.

  ‘Why do you think? You’d just told us you’d been shot at and how important your case had become.’

  I feel selfish as I turn and head to the door.

  ‘Mum – she made me promise,’ shouts Tom. ‘She made me promise not to tell you until you got home tonight.’

  107

  Martin

  I loved bonfires when I was a kid.

  Every 5th November, I’d stand in front of my dad and he’d place his hands on my shoulders so I wouldn’t get too close, then he’d sink down low so his bristly face rubbed my cheek and he’d say, ‘Look into the flames and tell me what you see.’

  At first, I answered, ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Look for dragons and snakes,’ he used to say. ‘Look for volcanoes and waves of molten lava.’

  I would. And eventually, I would see them. Rising oaks of firetrees, fearsome giants called Cinnabar and Sindoor fighting for the crown of Fire Kingdom. I saw all kinds of heroes and villains, I even saw the fabled Chimera hatch in ancient Greece and scorch the walls of the temples.

  Now I am standing in the vast yard at the back of the old building where I have my studio and I am watching grey and white smoke rise into a black sky. The bonfire I have made is of my work. Collages I was preparing for London. For an exhibition that Sarah inspired me to put together. With her gone, there is no point. With her gone, I hate every single canvas I created while under her spell. And most of all – I hate me. I loathe myself. I am too much of a coward to cut at my flesh for release, so this self-harming is the best I can manage. My life, my love, is going up in flames.

  On the fire, MY DARK SECRET burns. The matchbox safe is cracked open. In the red glare of the flames, I see the eyes of the young boy I cut from the photograph.

  The child I wronged.

  The glossy paper crackles and is gone.

  Only he isn’t.

  He’ll never be gone from my mind.

  I stare into the fire and ask myself the question my father posed more than thirty years ago. ‘What do you see, Martin?’

  Blackness.

  The face of the teenager.

  Ruination.

  Flames finally burst through the last collage I placed on the pyre.

  Une Heure de la Passion.

  The one Sarah and I created with our bodies.

  It burns from the centre outwards. From its heart. And it is gone so quickly. The flimsy timber frame blackens and crackles before falling apart and drifting into the pile of flaming detritus.

  I’ve seen enough. Seen too much.

  I take a spade and dig into a pile of builder’s sand. Four shovels-full are enough. Now the fire is out. All I’m left with are thoughts of the boy.

  108

  Annie

  My stupid sister.

  My stupid, stupid, lovely, selfless, stupid sister.

  I curse her all the way to the hospital. And I carry on cursing her through most of the night as I sit in her room, surrounded by pipes, tubes, drips and monitors, as if we’re in the centre of some medical Mousetrap board game.

  This chair is killing me.

  It’s got hard wooden arms and useless cushions. I stole it from the general waiting room because it looked big enough to sleep in. It isn’t. This thing has thrown out my spine, popped the sockets of both shoulders and I swear I’ll never walk again without a limp.

  Turns out that Dee is guilty of a truly grand deception. She was admitted into hospital at ten a.m. yesterday, went into Theatre at twelve and was operated on for six hours. All without me knowing. According to her doctors, the operation went perfectly. She was asleep when I arrived just after ten p.m. and didn’t wake until two a.m., when she needed help going to the loo. She then crashed out again, cheating me of any chance of telling her off, and admitting how guilty and awful I feel about not having been with her all day.

  It’s now seven a.m. and she’s snoring. Loudly. The kind of pig-snuffling noise she made when we shared a room as kids, and I had to throw things at her to get her to stop. Polly’s teddy, Mr Furry, is tucked up in bed with her, his head peeping above the sheets, reminding me to sew his much dragged and badly frayed ear.

  My mobile vibrates.

  Patel

  Says the screen.
>
  I glance at my sleeping sibling, then walk out to the corridor and take it. ‘Nisha, I’m at the hospital with my sister. Is this important?’

  ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’

  I don’t want to go into full details. Not now. ‘She has cancer. Has needed an operation.’

  ‘Oh dear. I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I’ll call Goodwin.’

  Now I feel oddly guilty for not having confided in her. ‘No, no. Go on.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Just tell me, Nisha.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll be quick. I’ve been on the phone most of the night to Interpol and the Royal Thai Police. A Major Sirisopa has got Crewe under surveillance. You’ll never guess what name he is using out there.’

  ‘Tell me. I’m too tired to guess.’

  ‘Daniel Smith,’ she says almost incredulously. ‘Can you believe that?’

  ‘I’m at the point in this case, Nisha, where I can believe anything. Best try to get the real Danny Smith interviewed and see how much help he gave Crewe in using this ID.’

  She rustles some papers. ‘I’ve got a big document here from Sirisopa, explaining what has to be done for us to get Crewe extradited. I’ll mail it to you. He’s run some phone traces and it turns out that a mobile on the AIS network, registered to Crewe at his home in Phuket, made an international call two hours before you were shot at in The Brown Bear.’

  That little fact piques my interest. ‘Do we know who to?’

  ‘We do,’ she says with a lightness in her voice. ‘The number he called was Colin Richardson’s.’

  ‘That’s terrific, Nisha.’ I allow myself a celebratory grin. ‘I’m sure Sabrina the CPS Witch will find a problem with it, but I’m delighted. Text me Sirisopa’s number and I’ll see if he’ll put together that arrest team for us.’

  ‘I’m doing it right now.’

  I gaze down the corridor to my sister’s room, as I add, ‘We’re going to need all the bank accounts that Ashley Crewe set up under the name of Daniel Smith. All his business and personal flights for the past few years.’ Another thought occurs to me. ‘Does Sirisopa know what our runaway drug-dealing rapist does for a living – a legit job, I mean?’

  ‘Nothing. Crewe doesn’t have a job. He seems to just leech off Janjira Chaiprasit, the glamorous woman in the photo we saw.’

  ‘And her money comes from where?’ I ask.

  ‘Shipping,’ says Nisha. ‘She owns one of the biggest international shipping companies in Asia.’

  ‘I bet she does. And I’m sure I know precisely what she ships.’ I put together a few more pieces of the puzzle. ‘As a foreigner, it would be difficult for Ashley Crewe to run a big business in Thailand, and nigh on impossible for him to take large amounts of money out of the country. But as a sleeping partner, he can pull Janjira’s strings and reap all the benefits. And I bet the reason this girl Chomechai is in Raurie’s UK office is not just to translate between the two companies, it’s so Ashley can make sure his brother isn’t swindling him.’

  ‘We’ve got a watch on her, so she doesn’t go missing. And I’ve already asked Alice to check with border officials in the Netherlands to see if the seized container that had the yaba in it was owned by Crewe Carriers or Chaiprasit’s company, and whether it came through any of her port handling services.’

  ‘Good. I’m sorry, I have to go, Nisha. Text me Sirisopa’s details and any updates, but please don’t call unless you have to. I want to give Dee some attention.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I put the phone in my pocket and go back to Dee’s room.

  To my amazement, she’s sitting up. Propped against pillows. Eyes wide open. Polly’s teddy under her arm. ‘Morning,’ she says in a husky post-op voice. ‘Did you catch all the bad men?’

  ‘Not yet.’ I go to her side, aware the reference to my work is a deliberate Dee diversion, designed to stop me asking why she didn’t tell me she was coming in early for the op. ‘Can I hug you without hurting?’

  ‘You can try,’ she replies with a smile. ‘Just watch my drains.’

  I wrap my arms around her shoulders and kiss her forehead.

  ‘No squeezing,’ she shouts.

  ‘Sorry.’ I back off a little. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Yeah, honestly.’

  ‘Not great, but a million times better than I thought I’d be.’

  I take a look at the swathe of bandages across her chest. It looks as if she’s wearing a strange bra of striped crepe. In fact, it’s more of a half bra, because it doesn’t go all the way around; it stops under her armpits. ‘Have they shot you full of painkillers?’

  ‘They better not have done. I told them I wanted to see what level the pain was at before they started controlling it with drugs.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ I tell her. ‘If that was me, then I’d say get me high as a kite for a week, and when I come down I’ll start to deal with things.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s because you’ve never taken strong drugs and I have.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’ She puts her hands tenderly to her breasts. ‘Can you guess what they put on your nipples to keep them healthy?’

  The question throws me. ‘No. I’ve never come across that as a Trivial Pursuit question.’

  ‘Nitroglycerine,’ she says proudly. ‘My old nips are slathered in explosives – how about that?’

  I laugh. I laugh and then I cry. Tears of relief. Tears of joy. My mad, brave sister is all right. She’s come through something I saw as scarier than scary, come through as if it had been a trip to the dentist.

  109

  Danny

  Stevie stayed the night. Made sure I didn’t drink any more. We talked into the dawn about drinkin’ and not drinkin’, wives and ex-wives, football and rugby, everythin’ and nothin’ until the urge had gone and exhaustion ruled.

  After a mid-afternoon cook-up of fridge scraps, mainly eggs, tomatoes and mushrooms flopped into thick omelettes and drowned in brown sauce, he gave me a final pep talk and then cast me free to fend for myself on the open waters of alcoholism.

  After he’d gone, I realised exactly why I had picked him as my sponsor. I’d thought at the time that it was just because he seemed approachable and had gone through enough crap and survived it to be worth listening to. Now, I understand that I see him as the father I never had. Him being a teacher and all that. I’m sure he realised it, right from the off, but me being a bit slow, I’ve only just nailed it.

  Stevie’s been sober for six years now. Came off the rails just once, when his ex-wife died of a heart attack in France with her new bloke. Since then, he’s drunk nothin’ stronger than tea ‘with just a dash of milk’.

  I’ve got my phone hooked to a soundbar in the kitchen as I’m washin’ up and tryin’ to stay occupied. Occupied is important. Occupied keeps my hands off the bottles. Songs are playin’ on shuffle. Rap and hard rock. Vicious, high energy stuff, designed to trigger testosterone in your veins, pump you up so you fear no one and no thing. I’m going to take my courage from music today, not from booze.

  In between heavy bass booms, I pick out the shrill whine of the front door bell. I can’t be arsed to get it. Tracks switch and I hear some dickbrain hammer a fist on wood. Then a shout is thrown like a firework through the letterbox. ‘Police, open up!’

  Coppers only holler through your post hole if they plan to arrest you. It’s never to bring good news. Certainly not to go over your statement again, nor to simply clear a few things up. It’s to nick you. Cuff you. Duck your head into the back seat of a Panda and slam the door shut.

  I quickly work out that the bizzies will have heard my music. They’re at the front door, and I’m sure as hell they’re going to be around the back as well. So, I take the stairs two at a time and rush into the bathroom.

  I push open the frosted window near the toilet and lower myself onto the garage roo
f. Ten points to me, none to them. There’s a cop car on the road out front, and I guess whoever’s banging on the front door has their face pressed to a downstairs window. I drop to all fours and like an injured dog scramble awkwardly across the slate roof tiles, until I can see the thick laurels that separate our house from next door’s.

  I cover my face with one hand and my balls with another and I jump. Jump and turn. Twist so I can protect my shotgun-blasted side as I crash into the bushes of the evergreens.

  Branches snap. Twigs snag flesh.

  I hit the soil below, with a thump that knocks the wind out of me.

  I get up and limp away. Breathless. Sore. Frightened.

  At the back of next door’s house, I slip into their garage and look for somewhere to hide. Restin’ against a chest freezer is my neighbour’s treasured bike and, hung on pegs above it, his cyclin’ gear. I take down a yellow wind jacket, black helmet and tinted goggles and put them on.

  Casually, I push the cycle out of the garage and walk it back down the side passage. I can hear officers talkin’ on radios as I near the front garden. Without so much as a glance in their direction, I throw my right leg over the crossbar and cycle straight past them.

  My nerves are janglin’ for a full mile. My heart leapin’ like a frog in a jar.

  They’re not coming after me.

  They’re guessing I’m out.

  And now I’m thinking I could have just hid under the kitchen table and they’d have been none the wiser. That’s what years of boozing does to you. It makes you feel permanently guilty. It blinkers you.

  Predictably, I head towards my local, The Green Man, and jump off as the thin tyres start to slide on the large chunky gravel of the car park. I walk the bike round the back to the fenced off, open-gated area where the bins are kept and as usual a couple of the sous chefs and kitchen hands are having a crafty fag. ‘Hey, lads, can I leave this gear, so it doesn’t get nicked?’ I ask as I push the bike against a big bin and stuff the jacket into the helmet.