Dead and Gone: A Gripping Thriller With a Shocking Twist

by D. L. Michaels

‘I did,’ he replies, unconvincingly.

  ‘Okay – then tell me, what I just said.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he blusters. ‘Something about the clients you were seeing taking you to watch Chelsea and you not coming back tonight?’

  ‘That’s close. I said I’d been to a clients’ Away Day, at a dry ski slope called Chel-Ski.’

  ‘Oh, my God, it’s really called that?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I didn’t know you could ski.’

  ‘Apparently, I can’t. At least, not very well. I took a tumble and feel like I’ve been beaten black and blue.’

  ‘Oh, dear. Are you okay? Is it serious?’ he says, sounding wonderfully concerned.

  ‘Would be if I were planning a career as a nude model. No, it’s just a little painful right now. I’ll be okay. Anyway, it seems I made a good impression, or they felt sorry for me, because there’s some more work coming my way, but I need to stay another night.’

  ‘That’s good. The extra work, I mean. Not you being hurt, or being away from me. Being away from me is never good. But to be honest, I’m so far behind with this work for the exhibition, I think I’ll just use the time to focus on getting things done.’

  ‘That’s what I hoped. Hey, I love you.’

  ‘Love you too. You rest up now.’

  ‘Will do.’

  I hang up and think of him slipping back into his art. He has no idea what work I do. How I earn a living and how much I bring in. I asked him once, and he said, ‘You do business things for anyone who’ll pay you,’ which made me sound more like a hooker than anything. I put him right by explaining that I was a self-employed consultant specialising in change and restructuring, but I could see he had glazed over at the mention of the word consultant. Money only interests Martin at the end of the month. If there’s enough there to feed us and pay the rent, he’s happy.

  Right now, I’m tucked away in Starbucks, using their free Wi-Fi, while making a large black coffee and pain aux raisins last an inordinately long time. I have a morning ritual when it comes to starting computer work. As soon as I am online I check mail. Then I quickly browse a round-up of national news headlines and amuse myself with the latest antics of Donald Trump. Then I finally set about my Things To Do list.

  My mobile rings. No doubt Martin again, having remembered something he meant to ask. ‘Hello,’ I say, my eyes more on the laptop screen than my phone.

  ‘Is that Mrs Johnson?’ asks a polite female voice. ‘Mrs Sarah Johnson?’

  I’ve learned not to commit too early on these calls. It’s most likely a PPI claims peddler, a solar panel shyster or life insurance leech. ‘Who is asking?’

  ‘This is Detective Constable Alice Ross.’ Her voice is colder this time, more official. ‘I need to speak to Sarah Johnson, please.’

  ‘This is Sarah Johnson,’ I say apprehensively, my mind buzzing with questions about why the police should contact me out of the blue, and whether the call is genuine.

  ‘Mrs Johnson. Can I just check something, please? Did you used to be Sarah Makeney, before you married?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I did.’

  ‘And did you go to Lawndale School in the High Peak area of Derbyshire?’

  ‘A very, very long time ago, yes. What is this about?’

  ‘Just routine, Mrs Johnson. We’re ringing everyone from your year. We’re trying to trace the whereabouts of two former pupils, boys called Kenneth Aston and Ashley Crewe. Do you remember either of them?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘But you do remember them?’

  ‘Sort of. They were in my class. Along with about another forty of us. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Their names have come up in the course of some inquiries, that’s all. Do you happen to have any idea where either of them might be?’

  My mind slips back to my schooldays. Cold classrooms, uniforms that never fitted, awful school meals. ‘Ashley Crewe went missing, didn’t he? Or am I imagining that?’

  ‘No, you’re quite correct.’

  ‘That’s right. I remember his face being in the newspapers. Has he turned up?’

  Instead of an answer, she poses another question. ‘Kenneth Aston, do you remember him going missing?’

  ‘I’m afraid my recollection of those days is very hazy. Which police force did you say you were from?’

  ‘I didn’t, Mrs Johnson. But I’m happy to tell you. I’m a detective constable on assignment with the East Midlands Historic Crimes Unit.’

  ‘So, this isn’t anything current, then? Nothing new?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t discuss details of the investigation.’

  ‘I understand. I was just interested. Is there anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘Only one thing. Do you remember there being bad blood between Crewe and Aston? A big fight over something?’

  I laugh, as I tell her, ‘The boys at Lawndale were fighting all the time. Girls too. Like I said, I’m afraid I don’t recall much from those days.’

  ‘Well, thanks anyway for talking to me. Is this the best number to get you on if I have any further questions?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Then I won’t take up any more of your time. Thank you.’

  She ends the call.

  I feel the room sway. It’s as if I’m out at sea in a small boat and have just been hit by a giant wave.

  The phone shakes in my fingers. I put it down and take a deep breath.

  I handled that badly. I know I did. But maybe I got away with it. Maybe she couldn’t tell I was lying. Lying as if my life depended on it.

  43

  Annie

  I’ve got my son, Tom, on the phone and, I must confess, I’m not really listening to him. You know how it is sometimes. You say ‘yeah, yeah, absolutely, right’ and try to sound interested, while in fact your attention is on something else, in my case statements from former pupils of Lawndale school.

  ‘Mum,’ he says, ‘I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Well, you’re in your mid-twenties now, Tom, so I guess this is a good time to start.’

  ‘Don’t take the mick. This is something serious.’

  I abandon the screen and pay him attention. ‘Go on.’

  ‘You know it’s the anniversary coming up?’

  Tom doesn’t need to be more specific. ‘Yes, of course, I know.’

  ‘Well, I feel like the time has come. To let go of Lily, I mean.’

  ‘To scatter her ashes?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, that’s what I mean. I just can’t say it. Ashes. It’s not the right word for her, is it?’

  ‘No, it isn’t, love.’

  ‘I should have done it when you buried Dad, but that day was just so awful, I couldn’t bear it. And I’ve been putting it off ever since.’

  ‘You needed time, that’s all. Why now?’

  He lets out a sad laugh. ‘Why do you think?’

  ‘Polly?’

  ‘Who else? She asked where Mummy was buried. Said she heard you and Auntie D talking about taking flowers up to her granddad’s grave and she wanted to do the same for her Mummy.’

  I flinch at the thought of what was going on in her little mind. ‘So, you’re looking for a pretty place?’

  ‘I am.’ He adds, tentatively, ‘I’ve been thinking about at the top of Thorpe Cloud, where I proposed.’

  ‘It’s lovely. That’s really nice, Tom. Did you want me to come as well?’

  ‘Yes, please. I know I won’t fall apart if you’re there.’

  ‘Then I’ll be there.’

  ‘Thanks.’ There’s a poignant pause, then he adds, ‘I love you, Mum. I know I don’t say it often enough, but I’m really grateful for everything. Me and Pol would be lost without you.’

  ‘You certainly would.’ I try to chase him away before he makes me all emotional. ‘Now bugger off and let me do some work. I’m trying to save the world from bad people.’

  Tom puts the phone down and I need a second to
shake off sad and sentimental thoughts, but Nisha and Alice Ross have been lurking, waiting for me to finish.

  ‘Tell the boss,’ says Nisha, as they approach.

  ‘I’ve been making the calls you wanted, ma’am. None of the people I rang had contact details for Ashley Crewe or Kenneth Aston, but I got a strong feeling Sarah Johnson was lying to me.’

  ‘Who is she again?’

  ‘Classmate of Aston. Ex-DCI Palmer had told me that she used to be in a relationship with Aston but, when I talked to her, she tried to give me the impression she barely knew him.’

  ‘Maybe she’d had a lot of relationships at school and had forgotten him?’

  ‘It’s possible, ma’am. But three times she asked me why I was calling and was keen to know if anything new turned up in relation to Ashley Crewe’s disappearance.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘Nothing, ma’am.’

  ‘That’s probably why she kept asking,’ says Nisha.

  ‘What does she do? Job wise?’ I ask.

  ‘She’s a self-employed consultant. Married. Lives with an artist in the Cotswolds. No children. No previous convictions. Nothing jumps out, ma’am, it was just a feeling I had about her.’

  ‘I’m big on feelings, Alice. Were yours strong enough to make you want to see her face-to-face?’

  ‘They were, ma’am.’

  ‘Then do it. Phone her back and tell her you need to meet, and tell her it’s not for coffee.’

  44

  Martin

  I’ve been trying to call Sarah but her phone is engaged. It’s always engaged. She tells me that these days she only works half as hard as she used to; well, that’s scary, because to me she seems to work twice as hard as anyone I know.

  Usually, I have to guilt myself into hard labour. Not today though. And not for the next few weeks. I have an exhibition coming up in Mayfair, a new gallery, all very chic and while I’m way, way behind on deadlines I am working hard.

  Right now, I’m creating a massive installation. It’s a model of a Mediterranean city, made from the oldest Argos catalogues I could find. Argos is a thriving Greek city, one of the oldest settlements in the world, and dates back to something like 700 BC. I’ve used online maps to work out where facilities such as railway stations, restaurants and houses are located and I’ve made little models from the catalogue pages selling goods for those things.

  Sarah doesn’t really get modern art. She looked at my mini Argos and I could see she was more interested in the fragments of goods and their prices than the finished result. Of course she said nice things. Commented on the irony, the clash between history and modernity, even sparked a discussion on whether capitalism had kept Argos alive, or had destroyed it. But I could see her heart and soul were not interested in the piece.

  As well as a sharp intellect, there’s something sexily mysterious about Sarah.

  I love that.

  I leave my work area and go to an old desk in the corner, where I have a phone, computer and some things I don’t want Sarah to find. A drawer full of secrets. All locked and out of her reach.

  The problem with long-term secrets is that you get careless. You live with the deception on a daily basis and the anxiety you felt initially diminishes. Then you stop being diligent. You leave something around and, before you know it, your secret is out and your life is in pieces.

  I can’t let that happen with Sarah. I’ve messed up in the past and she is my last chance of happiness. I know that. I even think she knows that.

  I unlock the drawer and take out a whole pile of papers and photographs, a couple of files and a red steel box stuffed with money. It’s money Sarah doesn’t know about. Cash I need to keep hidden, along with a bank account and cheque book she is also unaware of.

  I look at the photographs. Images from the past. Places and faces from long ago. From another lifetime. From an era when I wasn’t who I am today. Wasn’t the type of man a woman like Sarah would fall in love with.

  A young man’s face stares up at me. His eyes haunt me. Sicken me. What I did to this boy will live with me forever. I am filled with guilt. And I need to be. Guilt is my punishment. My daily penance for my sins. The only way I can atone for what I did.

  I take the photograph and I cut out the boy’s eyes. Trim the print so that it is no bigger than the nail of one of my little fingers. I turn it over and dab it with a glue stick then walk to the easel where my latest work is being fashioned. It is a multicoloured collage made up of schools I went to, parts of the country I’ve lived, homes I’ve rented, cars I’ve driven, clothes I’ve worn, places I’ve holidayed, restaurants I’ve visited, et cetera. In the middle is a black 3D safe as big as a matchbox. Inside it, I place the eyes of the boy who haunts me. And I stand back.

  I stand back and stare at MY DARK SECRET and even now, as I look at the almost finished exhibit, I feel ashamed.

  Ashamed I can’t openly admit to what I did. What I am covering up.

  45

  Sarah

  I knew Lawndale would come back to haunt me.

  I had hoped and hoped and hoped that it wouldn’t. That the blackest time of my life would never be brought to light again. But people from the present are circling my past with high-powered torches. They are shouting to each other in the rough woodland of my memories. They’re closing in. Getting ready to dig. Dig for dirt. Dig for secrets.

  Perhaps I am even ready for them to do that. It would be a relief to be free of the constant worry of discovery.

  Since the policewoman called, I’ve thought about nothing but what happened all those years ago. It’s got me wondering whether now is the time to unburden myself. To throw myself upon the mercy of the law. How terribly dramatic. And pointless. The law has no mercy; the best it can manage is crass horse trading between lawyers and an end-of-sale discount on your sentence if you plead guilty.

  Then there’s Martin.

  Do I tell him everything? Right now? Do I sit him down, this evening, so close to his big day, and tell him what I did? It would destroy him. Destroy our marriage. Ruin his preparations for his exhibition. And then he would leave me. That’s what decent people do. They leave people like me. And Martin is a such a decent man that he’d feel compelled to leave in indecent haste.

  My phone rings.

  I stare at it, as if it is a rodent that has crawled out of the wall.

  Unavailable

  The screen made the same declaration last time. The time when the policewoman rang.

  I pick it up and answer. ‘Sarah Johnson.’

  ‘Mrs Johnson, it’s Alice Ross, again. Detective Constable Ross.’

  There was an inevitability that it would be her. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to my boss and she would like me to come to see you.’

  I picture the scene. The eager Alice Ross and her senior officer, talking about me in some cold police office. My name suddenly inked on a list of people ‘who should be followed up on’.

  ‘I’ve looked at your address on a map,’ she continues, ‘and I think I could be with you by late afternoon – or early morning. Whichever suits you better.’

  ‘Neither suits me. I am not at home in the Cotswolds at the moment. I am in London.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Can you tell me, then, when will you be returning to Chipping Norton?’

  I don’t want this woman turning up on my doorstep. Sitting in my lounge, asking me questions with Martin there, him wondering what kind of woman he married. He doesn’t deserve that.

  ‘Mrs Johnson, did you hear me? I asked when you will be returning to the Cotswolds.’

  ‘I heard you,’ I answer curtly. ‘Why exactly do you wish to see me? I thought I had answered all your questions earlier today.’

  ‘You did. There are just a few other things we need to check with you.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘Mrs Johnson, it would be much better to go through this in person. I am sure I can make it to London if that
is more convenient.’

  ‘I asked you a question, Detective Constable. Please have the courtesy of answering it. What things do you specifically wish to check with me?’

  Now she pauses. I can tell she is thinking about how to couch her reply without giving too much away.

  ‘I’m trying not to be rude, Mrs Johnson. But it seems you either misunderstood some of my questions when we spoke earlier, in which case I need clarity, or else you lied to me. And if you did lie, then I need to know why.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ I try to sound outraged.

  ‘I’m sure you heard me,’ she says officiously. ‘Can you please explain why you pretended to have only vague memories of Ken Aston and Ashley Crewe, when that is not true? I have spoken to several people – former teachers and pupils at Lawndale, plus a police officer involved in investigating Crewe’s disappearance – and they are all one hundred per cent certain that you and Kenneth Aston were boyfriend and girlfriend.’

  Her comment underlines that the nature of this call is now significantly different from the last time we spoke. That was a general enquiry. Now, she is gathering evidence. Building a case. Trying to trip me up.

  ‘Forgive me,’ I say in the friendliest possible way, ‘but I have no further comment to make to you. I’ve really been as helpful and cooperative as possible. My solicitor’s name is Terry Mellenby. You will find him on your legal register under Mellenby and Critch. Goodbye.’

  I put down the phone and this time my hands do not shake.

  The end game has begun. The uncertainty is over.

  Big decisions have to be made and I must keep my nerve.

  46

  Annie

  Jo Matthews says her goodbyes and hits the road just after lunch. By the way, lunch for her was a packaged quinoa salad, while I had a packet of crisps and a cheese and chutney butty. Nisha is off somewhere with Alice, and Charlie has been on the phone for most of the morning. He sees me about to tuck into my Michelin-starred banquet and wanders over like a pickpocket spying easy prey. ‘Salt and vinegar – my favourite!’ His hand hovers. ‘Can I?’