Dead and Gone: A Gripping Thriller With a Shocking Twist

by D. L. Michaels

  I offer the packet and a warning, ‘Just one! Two would be impolite. Three or more constitutes an indictable offence.’

  He picks out a single crisp, sits and melodramatically savours it. ‘Hrrm, so filling.’

  ‘And keep your eyes off my butty,’ I warn. ‘There’s a perfectly good canteen downstairs.’

  ‘Not sure perfectly and good should ever be used in connection with the word canteen. How about I trade you half that, for dinner tonight?’

  I put down my sandwich. ‘Charlie, the world loves a trier, but give up, old friend. I’m not going to dinner at your hotel, and I’m not going to sleep with you.’

  ‘What about dinner here, then, in that perfectly good canteen you mentioned?’

  ‘Are you mad?’ I laugh and frown at the same time. ‘Is it because we once had a drunken moment together? Am I an unfinished conquest? Is that what this is?’

  He produces a frown to match my own. ‘Why do you have such a low opinion of yourself?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Then why do you think I would only be interested in you in terms of a sexual conquest?’

  ‘Because you are.’

  ‘Actually, I’m not. Yes, of course I’m attracted to you, I always have been. But I like you as well. You make me laugh. I like your brain, the way you think, the way you work. It’s all attractive to me.’

  I’m stuck for words. Then I splutter with laughter. ‘For a moment, you had me, Charlie. I was actually swallowing all that guff.’ I push him half a sandwich. ‘Here, you can have that, for your silver-tongued, brass-faced cheek—’

  ‘Boss!’ The call comes from an excited Nisha, walking straight in. ‘Alice Ross just got cold-shouldered by Sarah Johnson. Told her she wouldn’t answer any more questions and directed us to her solicitor.’

  ‘Ooh, that’s tasty.’ Once more my sandwich gets abandoned. ‘And what did said solicitor have to say? I’m presuming we rang him?’

  ‘We did. And he just rang us back, after taking instructions, as he put it.’

  ‘Which were?’ asks Charlie.

  Nisha’s face lights up. ‘He and Johnson are coming in to see us.’

  ‘Up here?’ I double check. ‘Or you mean coming in, as in visiting their local nick?’

  ‘No, in here. The brief said his client wants to make a full voluntary statement.’

  Charlie and I exchange looks. People only involve solicitors when they think that we know something that can harm them. And they only make voluntary statements when they want to either cut a deal by making a full and frank confession, or try to shift the blame to someone else.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning. We fixed a time around ten.’

  I grimace.

  ‘Is that a problem?’ asks Nisha.

  ‘Maybe,’ I admit. ‘Tomorrow is the anniversary of Lily and Jack’s death. Tom wants to scatter his wife’s ashes on Thorpe Cloud and he wants me to be there as well.’

  ‘I’ll put her off until the afternoon,’ says Nisha kindly.

  I know I can’t let that happen. ‘Suggesting Johnson comes in later may prompt her to rethink making the voluntary statement,’ I tell Nisha. ‘And given we have no evidence, we can’t insist on the interview – we have no grounds to arrest her.’

  ‘Then I’ll do it,’ says Nisha.

  ‘No, you can’t,’ I say as gently as possible. ‘It’s not that you’re not able. It’s that as SIO I would be negligent in not doing it. If she said something, or didn’t say something, that later caused us problems in court, we’d all be in trouble because I’d taken impromptu leave at a crucial point in the case.’

  ‘Compassionate leave,’ adds Charlie. ‘That puts a different light on things.’

  ‘Let me talk to Tom,’ I say, trying to buy myself time. ‘Maybe something can be worked out.’

  I sit for a while and think, then check something on my computer that I really should have checked earlier. ‘Maybe there is a God after all,’ I announce to the room. I grab my phone, dial Tom’s number on my mobile and walk into the corridor for a little privacy.

  My son picks up on the third ring. ‘Hello, Mum,’ he says brightly.

  ‘Tom…’ I wince at what I’m going to ask him ‘… have you thought any more about what you said earlier?’

  ‘About scattering Lily’s ashes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have,’ he says positively. ‘And I mentioned it to Auntie Dee as well. She thought Thorpe Cloud was a lovely idea. Would you mind if she came too?’

  ‘Have you seen the weather for tomorrow, love?’

  ‘No,’ he says, with a tone of uncertainty.

  ‘I’ve just checked and I’m afraid we’re in for heavy sleet. And fog. It might not be the best time for climbing Thorpe; let alone doing anything as delicate and beautiful as you have in mind.’

  ‘Do you think we should leave it, then?’ he asks pitifully.

  ‘It’s up to you, love. If you want to chance it, I’ll gladly go with you. Otherwise, it might be best to look at the forecast and pick another day.’

  ‘But tomorrow is the anniversary.’

  ‘I know. Then, unless you can think of another date, we’ll do it tomorrow. We can just get wrapped up and go.’

  He thinks for a bit, then says, ‘There’s our first date anniversary.’

  ‘That’s nicer, isn’t it? More of a memorial, a happy memory?’

  There is a brief horrible silence. One in which I swear I can hear the Devil whistling as he paints another coat of blackness on my soul.

  ‘It is, but it’s in the summer. That’s months away,’ he says sombrely.

  ‘I know, but summer means good weather, clear skies, you could even plant some flowers.’ I hate myself as I say these things so I back-pedal instantly. ‘But we can do it tomorrow, if you believe now is the moment when this has to happen.’

  There’s a long thoughtful pause before Tom finally comes to a decision. ‘No, you’re right. June would be a nicer time to mark the memory. Lily would like that it was marked by when we met rather than when we parted. And now I’m thinking about it, it’s nicer for Polly too.’

  ‘Then summer it is,’ I say, hiding my guilt as effortlessly as only a seasoned mother can. ‘Let me know the exact date and I’ll book time off.’

  47

  Paula

  I’ve settled my bill at the St Pancras Hotel and now I am feeling sore and sorry for myself on a noisy old commuter train rattling away from London. I’ve picked up a free newspaper to pass the time but can’t concentrate. The thing about pregnancy is that it fills your mind even quicker than it plumps up your body. There are a million things I should be worrying about, important things, life-changing things – like my divorce – but as soon as I try to focus on any of them, boom, baby thoughts take over.

  What sex will the child be?

  What names should I be thinking of?

  How will it look?

  What if it has a disability?

  Have I eaten well enough, avoided enough booze, been lucky enough in the game of genetic roulette to have a perfect child?

  Or, as an older mum, will there be complications?

  And how will I cope as a single parent?

  l have no brothers or sisters; no parents to call upon for support and advice. What few friends I possess all live in London, near the marital home I shared with Danny. His home now. Or at least it will be, once everything has been settled and my business sold.

  My mobile rings.

  It’s Danny.

  ‘Yes,’ I say with more than a hint of exasperation.

  ‘I’ve been sorting out your things—’ he sounds tired ‘—boxing them up as best I could, so I’m not reminded by them.’

  ‘I’ll send a van as soon as I’m settled somewhere.’

  ‘Very kind of you,’ he says sarcastically. ‘I cleared all the stuff from the study as well – you know, files, invoices, letters, receipts and crap like that.’ More enthusiast
ically, he adds, ‘I even Bubble-Wrapped your photo frames, weird paintings, pointless bloody prints and all that stupidly expensive glass sculpture stuff that—’

  I stop him in mid-flow. ‘Danny, you don’t need to do any of this. We can fix a time when I can come over and—’

  ‘Shut up, Paula!’ he snaps. ‘Just shut up and listen.’

  I take a breath and say nothing.

  ‘Who is he, Paula?’ he asks in a flat tone.

  ‘Who’s who?’

  ‘Don’t try to be bloody clever. You know exactly who I mean.’

  ‘You’re not making sense. Have you been drinking, Danny?’

  ‘Course I’ve been drinking. And it’s helped. Drink has opened my eyes to what’s been going on – right under my nose.’ He laughs sardonically. ‘I could have been good enough, you know? If you’d just given me a chance when I’d come out of jail, I—’

  ‘Danny—’

  ‘I mean – if you hadn’t cut me out of everything – if you’d let me work with you, rather than treat me like some old lag you couldn’t trust, then—’

  ‘Danny! This is all nonsense. I’m hanging up.’

  ‘I love you, Paula. You, me and the baby, we can—’

  I kill the call. Turn off the phone. I can’t listen to him any longer.

  Danny’s shaken me. He’s drunk. He’s angry.

  And he’s right.

  There is someone else.

  Someone I want to spend the rest of my life with.

  48

  Martin

  It’s been a long day. The kind that leaves you so physically tired all your bones ache and all you want to do is climb into bed, sigh deep into the mattress, shut your eyes and sleep. Which is exactly what I will do, once I’ve got these fish and chips inside and devoured them.

  We have no garage, so I park on the street and unwrap my parcel of food as I walk. There’s something sensual about picking hot, salty chips out of greaseproof paper and eating them outside on a cold, snowy night.

  There’s a light on at home. I see it a good four doors away. I never leave lights on.

  Burglars?

  I rewrap the food.

  What should I do? Call the police? I’m no strapping hero, so I don’t fancy running in there and trying any macho fighting nonsense.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket.

  Two missed calls.

  I swipe the screen to see who rang.

  I listen to the first message.

  ‘Hi there. Only me. I’ve decided to come back tonight after all. Not sure of train times. Will call you when I know. Love you.’

  Shit.

  The call came while I was out at the bank. Shifting money. Continuing to hide my dark secret. A fact that makes me feel even more guilty.

  I play the second message.

  ‘Hello, sweetheart, hope your exhibition work is going well. There’s a train just after four, so I’ll catch that one. Let me know if you’re going to be back for dinner and you want me to cook. Sorry to bother you. I won’t call again, because I don’t want to interrupt you while you’re working. See you later.’

  I stop short of the house and lean against the neighbour’s wall. I feel terrible. Poor, injured Sarah has come back home and I wasn’t there to even meet her, let alone lend a helping hand.

  I open the door and walk into the hall. ‘I’m sorry,’ I shout before I even get to the lounge. ‘I’ve been working all day and have only just noticed your messages.’

  Sarah’s lying on the settee, propped up by pillows. No TV on. No book on her lap.

  Something is wrong.

  I just know it is.

  She swivels slowly. Puts her feet on the floor. Stands as I go to meet her.

  ‘Just hold me, Martin. Please just give me a hug.’

  I wrap my arms around her and she winces. ‘Careful,’ she warns, pulling away. ‘I’m still a little sore from my skiing tumble.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was that bad.’

  ‘It’s not,’ she says, dismissively, but I can see the pain. ‘Please sit down, Martin. I have to tell you something.’

  I put my parcel of fish and chips on the floor. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I got a call today, while I was in London. From the police.’

  ‘The police?’

  She nods and looks distraught.

  ‘Whatever it is,’ I tell her, ‘we can sort it out.’

  ‘I don’t think we can, sweetheart. I don’t think we can sort this one out.’

  I take her hand.

  She grabs my arm. Leans against me. ‘The police are investigating the disappearance of a boy I went to school with. A lad called Ashley Crewe. He went missing when I was in my last year.’ She looks shocked, ‘God, it’s almost twenty-five years ago, now.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me now, Sarah. We can talk about things tomorrow, when you’re rested.’

  ‘No, I do. I have to tell you now, because I am going to go to the police in the morning with a solicitor and tell them everything I know.’

  ‘All right,’ I say, both surprised and worried. ‘But whatever this is, whatever’s happened, I want you to know, I’m going to be there for you.’

  ‘You might not feel that way, in a minute.’ She forces a smile. ‘This boy, Ashley, he was in the papers as missing, and then people started saying he might be dead. Well, I know what happened to him. I know where he is.’

  I don’t say anything.

  In truth, I’m still trying to understand where this might be leading.

  ‘He was murdered, Martin. I know he was, because I killed him.’

  49

  Danny

  Being furious cancels out being drunk. No matter how trashed you are, when somethin’ makes your blood boil, you sober up. Okay, it doesn’t last for long, but for a few minutes you get crystal-clear vision.

  I ring Paula back and she doesn’t answer. Big surprise! Soberin’ up even more, I scream a message down the phone for her to pick up later. ‘I know his name, Paula. I found his note to you. And when I find him, then I’m gonna tear his fuckin’ head off.’

  And I might.

  If I got my hands on him this second, there’s every chance I’d do it. Even if he were bigger and stronger and tougher than me, I’d find a way, because for me there’s only ever been Paula. Only ever will be. I’d kill for her. She knows that. And I’d rather go to jail for murder, knowin’ that if I can’t have her, then at least this other cheatin’ bastard can’t either.

  I punch a cupboard in the kitchen. No pain. I hit it again. Again. Again. I don’t stop until I’ve smashed a hole in soppy bastard’s imaginary head. Until my knuckles are cut open and the wood smeared with my blood.

  Now the pain comes. And with it, an excuse to swig more whisky. I gulp it down, like a cowboy, like a hero. Not a LOSER. But I am. I’ve been such a FAILURE that my wife has stopped loving me and has been seeing another man.

  Jesus!

  What if the child is his and not mine?

  Fuck!

  That’s why she left me, isn’t it? She got pregnant with this dope’s child and she’s going to him. Right now. While she’s not taking my calls, she’s heading to him. Into his arms. Into his bed. Tomorrow, they’ll be shoppin’ for fuckin’ prams and baby clothes.

  Only they won’t.

  I’ll see to it that they won’t.

  My whisky and I retire to the study, Paula’s little hidey hole for work. I never bother with the big iMac in there, except to print stuff off. I’m a PlayStation man, racing games and shoot-’em-ups. But tonight, those computer classes that I did in prison are gonna be put to some good use.

  I turn the Mac on. Log in.

  Now what?

  I search the toolbar, see a giant magnifying glass and click it.

  Up comes a search box.

  I type in iCloud.

  It gives me a drop-down menu that says TOP HITS, the iTunes and Finder. Beneath it I see SYSTEM PREFERENCES and be
neath that iCloud.

  I double-click it.

  Go to iCloud. Sign in with my email address and password. I click the box to stay signed in. Once I’m on the Cloud, up comes a screen full of icons. Mail. Contacts. Calendar.

  And the one I want.

  Find my iPhone.

  When I bought her the mobile for Christmas, the one she’s shunned my call on, I registered it on the Cloud, so if it ever got lost or stolen I could find it. I click the find icon and up pops a world map.

  And then, a hazy green circle with a green dot in it, and a brown box saying LOCATING PAULA’S IPHONE.

  Any second now, I’ll know exactly where she is.

  50

  Annie

  For once, the weather has turned out to be exactly what the experts predicted. Sleet. Fog. Ice. Amber warnings all over the news. The full horrors of an English winter. A winter that just a year ago this very day claimed the lives of my husband and daughter-in-law.

  Tom and I hugged at home. Held our tears back and held each other. He looked at me determinedly and said, ‘Mum, I want to get through today without talking about it. I want to neutralise. Make it normal.’

  I hugged him again and promised he wouldn’t hear a word from me.

  On the way to work, I took flowers to Jack’s grave. Ironic really, because throughout his life he suffered badly from hay fever and would moan whenever I brought new blooms into the lounge.

  There’s an inscription on his headstone, a paraphrase of an old Bob Dylan saying: ‘There ain’t no point wondering why!’ It summed up how Jack lived. Whatever setback he suffered, he just picked himself up and got on with things.

  Sitting at work, coffee cup cradled in my hands, I ache for him. Miss him so much it hurts.

  Charlie York has brought his suitcase but no croissants this morning. A sure sign of someone quitting town. I’m praying he doesn’t annoy me with his misplaced flattery today.

  ‘I’m going to leave straight after your interview, if that’s okay?’ he half tells and half asks me. ‘You never know, this Johnson woman might come up with some odd link to my case, and suddenly this whole trip will have been worthwhile.’