Dead and Gone: A Gripping Thriller With a Shocking Twist

by D. L. Michaels

I rub my hands to generate some warmth and then plunge them deep into my coat pockets. There’s something odd in the right one. I feel around and then realise it’s Polly’s wool mittens.

  Sharon Croft appears at her back door. Holds up her still bundled grandchild. Points high into the battleship grey sky. I follow their eyes and see the sleet turning to snow.

  Great!

  I’m going to be turned into a snowwoman. Instead of me, Nisha, Charlie and the Tactical Firearms unit are going to find a large white pear drop with a red nose sticking through the mound. That’s if they ever get here.

  With the snow comes an eerie silence. As though the meteorological cotton wool is soundproofing the whole area. I even hear a phone ring. A mobile, I think. The tune is the one from The Sopranos. Alabama Somebodyorother. What was it called now? Get yourself a Gun? No, that’s not it.

  Woke Up This Morning!

  A little warmth comes from my tiny victory.

  But not enough to distract me from the fact that I could do with a wee. Weather like this makes me want to go more. And the more I think of it, the more I want to go.

  The back door shuts.

  Looks like they’ve had enough fresh air.

  Kitchen curtains close.

  I get a bad feeling.

  Bad enough to push myself painfully back through the hedge.

  Someone is upstairs. Peering out of the back bedroom window.

  It’s Sharon. With the toddler.

  She’s probably putting the kid down for a nap.

  Or is she?

  Was the call I heard a tip-off that the house is being watched?

  Has a neighbour spotted me?

  Did the teenage kid from the front of the house sneak around the back, see me and then call it in?

  The back door opens.

  Callum Waters strides over the baby gate, like a lazy hurdler.

  He’s coming straight for me.

  Swinging a baseball bat.

  I know what’s coming.

  The blow will be vertical. Down between the leylandii. Down onto my skull.

  If I’m lucky I’ll be knocked out. If I’m not, I’ll be killed.

  I dive a hand into my bag-lady carrier.

  Waters is only a metre away.

  Close enough.

  I pull out a Taser and fire from waist height.

  He stops and clutches his thigh, as barbed-electrodes rip through his jeans and flush electricity into his flesh. The shock spins him around. Drops him onto the snowy lawn. Leaves him grunting in pain. Legs and arms shaking in spasms.

  I keep the Taser trained on him but ease the voltage. There’s another shot left in the cartridge but I don’t think I’m going to need it. Waters is conscious but completely incapacitated.

  I shut off the Taser. Pull handcuffs from my belt and snag one loop around his wrist. We’re close to a tall, thin garden shed, so I haul him up and snap the other cuff around the metal handle.

  As I free the barb, my phone vibrates. I pull it out and almost drop it because my fingers are so cold. ‘Hello.’

  ‘It’s Charlie. We’re less than two minutes away. Where are you?’

  ‘Round the back of Croft’s house. Waters just rushed me so I had to Taser him.’

  ‘Did he hurt you? Do you need an ambulance?’

  ‘An ambulance, no. Whisky and a warm fire, yes.’

  ‘Soon enough.’ There’s a hint of laughter in his voice. ‘Stay exactly where you are. I’m with TFU and will advise them of your position. You don’t need to engage now, Annie. Just back up and wait. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Hurry up!’

  There’s a slight pause. I hear him issue a muffled instruction, then he continues, ‘Annie, we’re at the bottom of the street, no sirens, hang on, it’s almost over, we’re coming to a stop, here we go.’

  It’s a relief to hear his voice. To know I’m going to get out of this okay. I hurry to the corner of the garden and I’m barely settled when I see armed police, guns in hands, trampling towards me. I hold up my hands, palms open and forward to show I am unarmed.

  I identify myself. ‘Detective Inspector Annie Parker.’

  A masked officer shouts an expected instruction. ‘Turn around, hands behind your head, kneel down.’

  I comply in an instant and watch three sets of legs rush past me. Above my head there’s a crackle of radio talk between whoever is standing over me and someone in a mobile control unit.

  A hand taps my shoulder. ‘Clear to go.’

  ‘There’s a prisoner handcuffed to the shed door—’ I nod in the direction ‘—over there.’

  ‘Understood.’ He helps me to my feet and moves towards Waters, his MP5 raised at kill level. I glance over my shoulder and see his team is already through the back door and inside the house.

  I pick my retreat along the fence-line of downtrodden undergrowth, brambles and hedging and emerge, somewhat scratched, back on the street. Nisha is twenty metres away. She has a police radio to her ear, listening to comms of the raid.

  Now she sees me.

  Her face lights up and she hurries my way. ‘Annie!’

  Nisha’s the tactile kind, so I brace myself for a full-on hug.

  She slams into me like a prop forward. ‘Are you all right?’ she bellows into my left ear.

  ‘I need a wee,’ I announce. ‘I’ve needed one for about an hour.’

  Charlie York emerges from the front garden of Sharon Croft’s house.

  I can tell from his face that something’s gone wrong.

  When he sees me, he raises his hands in despair. ‘They’re gone,’ he says. ‘There’s no one at all inside the house.’

  27

  Danny

  18:45.

  I hate the bedroom clock. Hate all digital clocks. When someone asks you the time, you never say, ‘It’s 18:45, mate.’ Do you? Course not. You say, ‘It’s a quarter to seven.’ Anyways, Paula said she’d be here for seven-thirty (even little Miss Perfect doesn’t say 19:30) so there are only forty-five minutes until she rocks up. Meanin’, if I want to make a good impression, I best get moving.

  Divorce.

  She’s havin’ a laugh, ain’t she?

  Those papers she sent were a joke. A wind-up. Like some traffic warden slappin’ a parkin’ ticket on a car when you’ve broken down.

  We’ve had our problems. Course we have. And I know fallin’ off the wagon – again – weren’t the smartest thing to do, but she’s not goin’ to bin me. Not for real. The legal papers she sent are a yellow card. That’s all. And I get it. I totally do. I consider myself fully warned. That’s why I’m makin’ this dinner. Yeah, I’m makin’ it. Don’t be so shocked. I can cook. Not eggs and toast and crap like that, but blow-your-socks-off dinners. One of the few positive things what’s come from me bein’ at home. Daytime telly. Bake Off. MasterChef. Jamie Oliver. It’s all made me into a proper Gordon F’in’ Ramsay.

  18:50.

  Ten to seven!

  Got to shift me arse now. I’m fresh out the shower and smellin’ sweeter than a peppermint cream. I’m wearing tight grey Prada trousers and, believe me, nothin’ is left to the imagination when I wear these bad boys.

  I check myself in the bedroom mirror. See razor cuts on my neck. I dab the blood with tissues and keep them stuck there while I slip on a new black Boss shirt. I roll up the sleeves to show off my forearms. I’ve got guns like The Rock.

  I splash on some Kouros Silver and ease off the blooded tissue, then check myself again.

  Not bad.

  18:55.

  Five to.

  I hear the sound of a car and look out the window.

  Shit!

  Paula’s taxi is outside.

  She said she’d be later than this. It’s so like her to roll up early. Probably hopes to catch me drinking.

  I run downstairs and into the kitchen. Rush to the wine cooler and pull out the oldest bottle of bubbles we’ve got in there. My ear’s tuned to the front door opening as
I ease out the cork. I know I still have about a minute while John the Geriatric helps with her bags then talks about bugger all for a while. Then she’ll bang the door shut and shout that she’s home. She says she does it in case there are burglars so it’ll frighten them off. I’ve told her a million times, ‘No hairy-arsed burglar’s gonna leg it cos a woman shouts “Hello” from the front door. It just warns them you’re on your own.’

  ‘Hello!’

  There it is. Talk about predictable. I pin a smile on my mug and dollop Cristal into a glass. It fizzes over the top. Instinctively, I raise it to my lips to swallow the froth. Then stop myself. I haven’t had a drink since Paula left. Nothing incredible, I know, but a start. I wipe the glass with a tea towel and carry it through.

  Paula’s still in the hall, kickin’ off her shoes. There’s a suitcase near the stairs. I’m wonderin’ if it’s full of clothes because she’s been somewhere. Or if it’s empty because she intends fillin’ it and takin’ it away.

  ‘Welcome home, babe.’ I smile and hold out the champagne ‘And before you ask, no, not a drop has touched my lips.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She takes it from me and we face each other awkwardly. I get a weird feelin’. Like she’s a guest waitin’ to be asked to come through and take a seat. ‘I er – I need about another twenty minutes before dinner’s ready. Do you want to go and sit down or freshen up or somethin’ while I finish off?’

  ‘Yeah. That would be good.’ She gives me a smile. ‘I could do with a shower and change of clothes.’

  ‘I’ll give you a shout.’

  Another smile. She takes a sip of champagne, picks up the suitcase and walks upstairs. It’s empty. I can tell by how easily she carries it. I head back to the kitchen with my spirit startin’ to flag.

  Maybe I can’t change her mind.

  Maybe she is mad enough to go through with the divorce.

  All my food prep has been completed. The makings of Soufflé Suissesse are ready for a final whip before going into the oven, then I have her favourite veal kidneys in my special mustard sauce and finally apple tarte tatin with Calvados.

  Maybe the food will brighten her mood. Change her mind. Make her stay.

  Doubt starts to outweigh hope. I look at the open bottle of Cristal.

  A mouthful of that would help. Help a lot. A glass or two and I’ll be confident again. Have all the bounce I need to win her back.

  I grab the bottle.

  But I’m not going to drink from it. I’m going to take it upstairs, top up my wife’s glass and leave it there. Out of my reach.

  I head into the hall and up the stairs. It feels good to hear the shower runnin’. To have the noise of someone else in the house. I’ve missed Paula’s sounds. Missed everythin’ about her.

  Dresses and underwear from her wardrobes are spread over the bed. Her iPhone is playing music in the bathroom. Christine and the Queens. Good choice, given the French meal I’m makin’. I wander into the steam and watch Paula through the glass panels. Her hair is down, which I like, and she has her head tilted up to the water jet. Her back is arched and her pert breasts thrust out as she soaps herself. I find myself turned on. Desperate to hold her.

  I walk closer to the cubicle and hear her singin’, totally lost in the music. For a laugh, I squash my nose and lips to the glass and give a good hard slap on it with one hand.

  Paula jumps. Shrieks like a bomb’s exploded beneath her feet.

  I almost piss myself laughing.

  ‘You stupid idiot!’ she shouts at me.

  I double up. No kidding, I have to kneel down and put the champagne bottle on the floor before I spill it.

  ‘Why in God’s name did you do that?’

  I roll into a sittin’ position. ‘It was a joke. That’s all.’

  ‘Ha, bloody, ha.’

  ‘I brought the champagne, in case you fancied a top-up.’

  She turns her back on me.

  I think about leaving. Then I get it. I am an idiot.

  I was so mixed up and nervous that I didn’t understand that takin’ a shower was her way of invitin’ me to be naked with her. Sex has always fixed things between us. And I blew it, with a stupid joke. I behaved like a kid, not like a man.

  I strip off, pull open the shower door and step in.

  Paula turns around. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘I’m making things right.’ I put my arms around her hips. ‘I’m sorry, babe.’ I pull her towards me.

  ‘Cut it out, Danny! I want a shower. A shower. That’s all.’

  ‘Paula, I love you. You know I do. And I know you still love me.’ I press my lips to hers.

  She pushes me away.

  Pushes so hard I fall backwards out of the shower door. So hard, she falls over as well.

  I land on my arse and crack an elbow on the floor. ‘Fuck!’

  I get up and slip again because my feet are wet. ‘Jesus!’

  Paula’s on the shower floor. Ignoring me. Curled up like a wet cat.

  ‘I thought you wanted me,’ I say to her back. ‘I actually thought you fuckin’ wanted me.’

  I’m about to get up and storm around. When I see it.

  Blood.

  A red ooze in the corner of the shower.

  Red, red, blood, runnin’ down the plughole.

  I crawl into the enclosure and look over her. ‘Are you all right?’

  She isn’t moving.

  ‘Paula!’ I put my hands on her shoulder and turn her over.

  She’s unconscious.

  There’s a wound, where her head hit the tiles. It’s seeping blood and she isn’t waking up.

  28

  Annie

  We’re all in The Brown Bear and I’m on a mission to get drunk. Today has been a stinker and I need to forget it as fast as possible.

  My head is full of stress and family worries – of Dee trying to keep her pain from me, of Tom searching for the confidence and courage he lost when his wife died – and, on top of flashbacks of Richardson shooting a gun in my direction, I’m now haunted by images of Callum Waters descending upon me with a baseball bat and a face full of hate.

  I’m at breaking point, and I know it. That’s the good thing. Years of coppering, mothering and being a working woman have taught me to recognise the point when I need to flip up a release valve and blow off steam.

  I’ve phoned Dee and have her blessing to get bladdered. She gave it, along with totally unwarranted remarks about how she was actually pleased because it meant she wouldn’t have to endure a night of me fussing over her, sympathising and asking stupid medical questions.

  So here I am, just me, Charlie, Matthews and Nisha. My esteemed friend and cold-case colleague is not a teetotal Muslim, but her husband is. So, Nisha always limits herself to two small glasses of Sauvignon Blanc. She says chewing a packet of minty gum and walking the dog as soon as she gets home saves her an evening of scathing glances and snide remarks. Jo Matthews is even more of a lightweight. She’s sipped her way through a white wine spritzer and is already on mineral water. I guess that’s why she looks as though she stepped out of Women’s Health magazine and I look like something from Farmers Weekly.

  Charlie is on the phone, his face as miserable as sin, the dregs of his third pint swirling in a glass held in his left hand. He finishes the call, downs the last of the beer and then tells us the result of his conversation. ‘Prison Service has just picked up Waters. Home Office demanded he be returned tonight to Full Sutton so they can make a media announcement about recapturing one of the escaped prisoners.’

  Now we all look as glum as he does. Waters lawyered-up and went ‘No Comment’ as soon as we got him back to the nick, but Charlie had hoped that by keeping him overnight he could have another go at him in the morning and maybe prise something out of him. By that, I mean info on Richardson’s whereabouts and the murder Andy Ellison had started to tell us about.

  ‘Another drink?’ I say chirpily, trying to lift the mood.
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br />   Charlie raises his glass. ‘Same again, please.’

  ‘Not for me, thanks.’ Jo Matthews gets to her feet. ‘I’ve got an Inspector’s Exam coming up so I best go back to the hotel and bone up.’

  Bone up!

  I try not to laugh but it comes out in a splutter.

  Charlie laughs too.

  Matthews doesn’t. She gives me a scalding look then says, ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘’Night,’ we chorus.

  ‘I’m going to call it quits as well,’ says Nisha.

  ‘Just one more?’ I plead.

  ‘I can’t. You know I can’t.’ She gets up and grabs her coat. ‘I have a dog to walk.’

  ‘Bye,’ says Charlie.

  I return Nisha’s wave as she exits, then decide to have a little fun at Charlie’s expense. ‘So Matthews has gone to bone up. Shouldn’t you be helping her?’

  He laughs, then defends himself. ‘There’s nothing going on between us. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Of course not. I meant as a DI; you know, you could show her the ropes. Or isn’t she into ropes?’

  He shakes his head. ‘For the last time, I am not in a relationship with DS Matthews. Anyway, why are you so interested?’

  ‘Because I’m a Nosy Parker, remember?’

  ‘True. You getting those drinks, or what?’

  ‘I am.’ I haul myself to the bar and order a pint of real ale and another large glass of red for me. My fifth. I really should have ordered a bottle at the start, but you don’t, do you? As I wait and pay I watch Charlie through a mirror on a side wall. He’s busy texting and waiting for a reply. No points for guessing who to.

  I carry the drinks back to the table.

  He puts the phone away as soon as I sit down. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Charlie sips foam off the beer. ‘You did well at Croft’s place, but it was crazy to have gone out there on your own and put yourself at risk like that.’

  ‘I know. But I didn’t want to look stupid by lugging everyone out there, only to find I’d got it all wrong.’

  ‘Well, it was far from wrong. Nabbing Waters is a real result. Just a shame Richardson got away. I suspect his son is with him, and that probably remains his weak link.’