Prepared to Die

by Peter Dudgeon

  Robinson intervened, “‘Didn’t appear as though he was trying to escape?’ We’re not in the head of a dead man, let’s not assume, and just stick to the facts.”

  Aitken sat back and shuffled in her seat, looking as though her confidence had been knocked. She continued, but in a pragmatic way, without energy.

  “We only know - according to Phillips - Jackson wasn’t running. Phillips was going after him, to confront him, when he saw Jackson draw a …” She paused, searching out another note “…thirty eight calibre hand gun from his back pocket. Phillips stopped at that point. He recalled slowly withdrawing, walking backwards across the field. Jackson reached the perimeter of the driving range and, still walking, raised the gun to his chin, before firing off a round.”

  “Where are the bodies?” asked Robinson.

  Daniel replied, “The forensic pathology unit in Leicester.”

  “Who’s dealing with the coroner?” asked Robinson.

  “I’m calling her at two p.m.,” said Daniel.

  “Okay, you’re SIO, what’s the next move?”

  “I want to know what both of you think first,” Daniel replied.

  Robinson shook his head, “Grow a pair Sheppard and man up. You wanted to be in charge of this.”

  “I’m not in charge of anything, I’m leading and there’s a big difference. Aitken, what do you think’s the next step?”

  “Well, we know there’s going to be an inquest, so we’ll need to gather up enough evidence for the coroner to be able to give a verdict … which will likely be murder for Hewitt’s death and suicide for Jackson’s.” Daniel looked to Robinson who nodded.

  Daniel said, “I agree … and I’d like to go a step further. It may be clear as day from Phillip’s description of events, and the evidence the SOCOs have gathered, that we have a clear cut murder-suicide. But I’d like to establish probable cause.”

  Robinson dropped his notepad on the floor, “To what end? Who are we going to prosecute?”

  “Let’s just say I’ll be happy when we have enough for the coroner, and we understand why Jackson did this. I want us to establish if Jackson had a history of mental illness, or if he was a substance abuser. Also, where did he manage to get that gun from?”

  Robinson said, “I still say it’s a waste of resources.”

  “I’ve heard your view, and I’d like you to focus on gathering evidence to present to the coroner. Meanwhile, Aitken and I will do some digging into Jackson’s background. I appreciate that, with the perpetrator in the morgue, we only really need to know the who and the what, but I, personally, won’t be happy until we know why. Also, you should be aware that Edwards has only given us three weeks to complete this, so efficiency is the key.”

  “You’re the boss. Guess we’re done.” said Robinson, who collected his bag and left.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The dinner table - square, white gloss - had gone quiet for a while as everyone tucked into Charlotte’s meatballs and spaghetti, until Luke looked up from his bowl towards Daniel who sat opposite. Luke stared through his severe and overgrown blonde fringe (he always protested when Charlotte insisted on it being trimmed). There was a mischievous sheen to his blue eyes. He spoke whilst using his thumb to push stray ragu from his cheek towards his mouth. “Say, Uncle Dan, have you heard about those new corduroy pillows?”

  Daniel gave him a tight-faced look which said, ‘go on … hit me with it funny man.’

  “They’re making head-lines.”

  Charlotte and Daniel turned to look at each other across the table’s corner then chuckled. No laughter came from Kerry, who put her knife and fork down onto her placemat and regarded them all with disdain. “Please, for the love of … just stop encouraging him.” This made them laugh all the more, and Luke joined in, spraying sauce from his lips, which made him laugh even harder.

  “Come on, it’s not even that funny” said Kerry, making it funnier still. A knock at the door put an end to the hilarity for everyone apart from Luke who whimpered as he tried to contain his amusement.

  Kerry went to answer the door. It was Marcus. “Hi Dad!”

  Marcus was a bear of a man and Kerry’s head scarcely reached his lumberjack shirt’s breast pocket as she hugged him. He kissed her hair's parting - the sharp halogen downlight reflecting off his scalp - then looked up, regarding the dinner table scene. Daniel saw Marcus say something but didn’t hear the words, as though they’d been muttered for Kerry’s ears only. Perhaps he’d said, ‘well this is cosy’ or maybe that was just paranoia on Daniel’s part.

  Charlotte’s pallor had whitened a shade. Maybe it was Daniel’s imagination but had those crow’s feet around her eyes just deepened too? Charlotte got up and walked towards the front door.

  She talked in hushed tones as though she didn’t want Daniel to hear, but he heard just fine. “We’re not due to see you ’til Saturday.”

  Marcus didn’t bother keeping his voice low. “So that’s how it’s going to be, is it?” Kerry was still hugging her father, burying her head in his chest as though trying to hide from the conversation.

  “Kerry, please go back to the table and finish your tea while your father and I have a quick chat outside.”

  Kerry did as she was told and Marcus squeezed her hand as they parted. Charlotte stepped outside and urgently beckoned Marcus to step out with her. He did so, with reluctant poise, and the door shut behind them.

  Despite its double glaze, the door provided inadequate sound proofing and, as loudly as Daniel, Kerry and Luke could clank their knives and forks on their plates, the volume wasn’t sufficient to drown out the burgeoning dispute. The acrimony in Charlotte’s and Marcus’s voices carried, even though they were trying not to shout; bitterness has a volume all of its own. Daniel heard the question from Marcus, ‘What’s he doing here again?’ and Charlotte’s response, ‘None of your damn business.’

  Daniel looked from one kid to the other, Luke and Kerry glanced at each other. Nobody knew what to say until Luke finally said, “Well this is hashtag awkward.”

  Daniel smiled and said, “You’re not wrong.” Kerry looked silently down into her bowl, prodding spaghetti with her fork.

  Charlotte walked back in, avoiding their stares. She took a deep breath and sat back down. She placed a hand on Daniel’s, which rested on the tabletop. There was a distant sound of a diesel truck starting up and Charlotte said, “Let’s get this eaten up.”

  After they’d finished, Kerry said, “I’ve got some homework to do. May I be excused?”

  “Of course sweetie.” Luke, his tongue removing the last traces of a Mini Magnum ice cream from a wooden stick, said, “Uncle Dan, can you tell us about a case, a real life one?”

  “Nice try Luke. Daniel, this one’s a master of distraction.” She grabbed a wet-wipe from the worktop and wiped ice-cream from the corner of Luke’s mouth. “You’ve got homework to do to.”

  He looked glum for a moment, then grinned, “Uncle Dan could help me.”

  “Maybe another time,” said Charlotte, “Dan and I have got a few things to sort out after dinner.” Luke left the table, heading for his bedroom, his limp, defeated gait the precursive shadow of a teenager.

  Daniel and Charlotte rinsed plates and stacked the dishwasher with the proficiency of a couple drifting towards their silver wedding anniversary. When they were done, Charlotte headed towards the fridge. “Wine? I’ve got a chilled Oyster Bay”

  “Yeah, thanks, but just the one. I’ve got an early start tomorrow, I’ll need an early night.”

  Charlotte curled her legs up, behind and to her side, on the sofa. She looked like she needed headspace. Grasping the wide glass by its stem, she took three sips before Daniel finally asked, “Are you okay? He didn’t give you a hard time did he?”

  “No worse than usual. It just really pisses me off … we’ve been through a whole messy divorce, sorted out visitation rights but he keeps pushing. He’s been ringing me during the week, asking if he can take t
he kids out one school night, and I’ve been resisting. When he turns up on my doorstep like that, I don’t know what to do.”

  “The only thing you can do right now is to keep a record, dates, times and durations of phone calls and visits. Record the nature of each. Marcus has always struck me as a hothead, and he’ll make a mistake. You just have to stay as calm as you can and have all the facts to hand. If it escalates, you might - God forbid - have to take out a restraining order. And, if that slim possibility comes to fruition, you’ll need to be well armed.”

  She took another sip and smiled at him, “You’ll never change, will you. I don’t know how …” a brief hum came from her throat and she stopped.

  “Go on … ‘you don’t know how …’”

  “It was nothing, just my mouth running away with me.”

  “Let me hazard a guess, you don’t know how Alison put up with me. It’s okay you know, you said it often enough when she was alive.”

  “You got me. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” Daniel looked at his watch and took the last half of his wine in rapid gulps. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to go. DC Aitken and I have a sizeable list of people to visit tomorrow, and I’ll have to tidy up the guest bedroom.”

  “The guest bedroom?”

  “I’ve said Aitken can stay at mine for the next three weeks; she lives in Lincoln. We can’t afford the commute time and there isn’t a hotel within ten miles. Then there’s the departmental expense to consider, and I’ve got all that room. It just made sense for her to stay with me.”

  “What does her partner say about that?”

  “Her fiancé …” he shrugged, “… I don’t know, but she’s said yes so I guess he’s okay with it. She’s a bright young thing, probably wants to push herself in her career before she settles down to do the family thing, presuming they want kids of course. That’s my guess.”

  “This Aitken woman, what’s her first name?”

  “Anna.”

  “Is she attractive?”

  “I suppose so. Why?”

  Charlotte turned to him, head tilted down a touch, and fixed him with an earnest look. “Be careful Dan. You may not realise it, but you’re still vulnerable.”

  He laughed, “I’m sure the only thing she wants from me is to pick my brains and the last thing on my mind is women right now.”

  She nodded, turned away from him, and downed her wine.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Ten minutes before Aitken was due to pick up Daniel, he was in the spare bedroom, a nine-by-nine foot featureless room with tired pale blue curtains and a single bed. With a cordless Dyson, Daniel made strips in the carpet’s cheap pile, each fibre twisting upwards like polyester mealworms. The Dyson ran out of charge just as he reached the last corner and he sighed. Not exactly the Ritz, but it’ll do.

  He stripped off the duvet cover and pillow case, noticing a faint yellow stain on the white pillow. He swapped it with the cleaner one underneath and shrugged before carrying an armful of washing to the kitchen. As he passed through the hall, he spied the darkness of Aitken’s uniform through the front door’s frosted glass. The doorbell - mimicking Big Ben - rang out. He shouted, “Just a minute,” over the ding-dong-ding-dong and her figure retreated.

  The washing machine had begun trickling and whirring into action as he grabbed his coat from the kitchen chair and headed for the front door. Just before opening it, a left-field instinct told him to remove his wedding photo from the phone table. He dismissed the notion instantly, annoyed it had even occurred to him.

  It was one of those late summer mornings when the outside felt warmer than the house, and Aitken was holding her uniform's jacket over her shoulder, hooking it with her finger. Her hair was held up in a bun, with something wooden poking through it. With her shoulders thrown back, her blouse gaped slightly. Her white bra peaked between mildly strained buttons.

  “Morning.”

  “Morning sir.”

  “Where’s your case?”

  “In the car.”

  “Do you want to bring it in now?”

  “No, let’s do it later.”

  “Case files and consent forms?”

  “On the passenger seat.”

  Daniel hadn’t been assigned a car yet and his habit was not to use his own vehicle on official business. “Where are we going first boss?” asked Aitken as she fired the engine.

  “Please … call me Daniel.”

  “Where are we going first Daniel?”

  “Take the next right. In a mile or so there’ll be a major crossroads, we’ll take a left. We’re going to visit Mallory Hewitt’s wife.”

  It was sunny, but not in the fresh, modest, optimistic way the springtime sunshine greets you. This was a less crisp glow, a tired golden master over the swaying cornfields which flanked their route.

  Three miles east of Blaine, they hit a hamlet of mansions called Granolby le Tow. This was where the medical consultants, chief executives and successful crooks lived. It was deceptive at first, a few white cottages, neat, proud and modest, lined the road. Then as a snaking bend opened up into a wide, dead straight road, ascending towards the sun, the houses imposed, despite being set back from the road. Range Rovers, Porches and Mercedes SUVs adorned their drives. White pillars, flanking each porch, told you that these doors lead you to ‘important’ people.

  “It’s the next one on the right.”

  Aitken turned into the drive. A black Range Rover sport, parked in front of a double garage had cut wide, deep grooves in the gravel. The tyres of Aitken’s Corsa got nowhere near the grooves, cutting a new, much narrower track, the car’s rear end sinking and snaking in the gravel. Aitken let out a gentle, amused snort.

  “What’s funny?”

  “My car’s far too small for this drive. I feel like I’m riding a BMX into Buckingham Palace.”

  “Well, size isn’t everything,” said Daniel. It was one of those stupid thoughts he wished he hadn’t articulated. He made a mental note not to share even harmless innuendos with a woman so much his junior. Aitken ignored the comment and carried on driving with her chest close to the steering wheel, her arms bent. She leant to peer up at the property through the windscreen.

  They pulled up behind the RangeRover. The phrase, ‘David and Goliath’ came to him as Aitken asked, “Who should do the questioning?”

  “I will, but feel free to ask follow up questions. Primary objective is to secure her agreement to a post-mortem. The coroner’s refusing to instruct at the minute - given a clear cause of death. If we can get Mrs Hewitt to consent, there’s a good chance I’ll be able to change her mind.”

  The tarnished brass doorbell was the size of a saucer and let out a shrill drilling ring. The high gloss mock-Georgian door, at least ten feet tall, swung open, creating a space which was filled by a tall slender aquiline woman in an apron who spoke with a faint East European accent. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so. I’m Detective Inspector Sheppard, this is Detective Constable Aitken. We’d like to talk to Mrs Henrietta Hewitt. My colleague left a voicemail to give her notice - we have a few questions for her. May we come in?”

  “I’m afraid this isn’t a convenient time. Mrs Hewitt has an appointment this morning and she’s getting ready to leave.”

  They heard a woman’s voice shouting from the depths of the house, “Alisha, who is it?”

  Alisha turned to address the house, “Police Mrs Hewitt. I was just explaining about your appointment.”

  It was quiet for a while, then the forthright clicking of high heels on oak flooring foretold of Mrs Hewitt’s appearance.

  “Thank you Alisha, that will be all.” Mrs Hewitt, on first appearance, was the antithesis of a grieving widow with her bright hazel eyes, and cheeks tanned with an underlying glow. She wore a deep red lipstick and her eyebrows were attended into a shape which looked to Daniel like inverted ticks, as though assuring the quality of her looks (don’t worry about your age, you’re still the faire
st of them all). Her appearance was marred by one plain nail looking at odds with nine others, all professionally manicured in a lipstick-matching red. Her wedding band was absent, a white indent in her skin where the ring should have been.

  Mrs Hewitt regarded them with a vexed look, “It’s not a good time.”

  Daniel said, “I’m sorry we couldn’t come at a more convenient time, Mrs Hewitt. It’s just that we did leave a voicemail. Perhaps ‘Beauty Inside’ can fit you in a little later?” ‘Beauty Inside’ was a local upper class spa retreat.

  “How did you … never mind. Come in.”

  As they stepped in, Mrs Hewitt instructed Alisha, who loitered in the grand hallway, to rearrange her appointment - stressing that it must be for later today, tomorrow morning at a push - then ushered Daniel and Aitken through to a study.

  The double aspect room had a single mahogany desk. The desk was flanked by drawers either side of its expansive leather writing area. The seat had a rich green leather back with buttons indenting the padding. The leather matched the desktop’s writing surface. Mrs Hewitt chose not to sit, but to perch on the edge of the desk. Aitken and Daniel, in want of seats, stood in front of the window, which overlooked Mrs Hewitt’s Range Rover and a fountain, into which a stone cherub perpetually urinated.