Prepared to Die

by Peter Dudgeon

  “We’ll make the data request first thing this afternoon. Are you hungry?” asked Daniel.

  “I could eat.”

  “I know a place where we can grab a bite. It’s the sort of place where we might be able to pick up more than just our lunch, if we’re lucky.” He tapped the side of his nose with his index finger. Aitken look puzzled. “All will be revealed. Best get out of that uniform, though.”

  Aitken stuck out a hip at a jaunty angle, fanned a hand at her face and said, “Now I don’t think that’ll keep us on the right side of the code of ethics.”

  Heat rapidly spread from his neck to his cheeks and there was a pause; awkward for him but seemingly not for Aitken, who said, “I’m just messing with you.” She walked passed him towards her bedroom, presumably to get changed.

  She returned a few minutes later in a pair of blue Levis and tight cream aran sweater. Its collar hugged her throat. It always slightly irked Daniel how some women could throw on jeans and a jumper and look sexy whilst, in similar attire, he'd resemble an oafish farmhand.

  “Suitably dressed for where we’re going?”

  “Perfect.”

  Marjorie’s tearoom was on the same block of shops as the pharmacy, sharing a pit lane parking area with a hardware store and fish&chip shop.

  They waited to be seated, standing in front of a glass counter which tempted with an assortment of cakes; carrot cake; cheese cake; victoria sponges. Daniel thought they were going to be turned away; the place, housing fifteen tables at the most, was packed. A couple left from a table right in the middle of the main room and an overly smiley waitress in a frilly-rimmed apron asked them to wait just a moment whilst she wiped the table down.

  Daniel and Aitken sat opposite each other, a loud buzz of conversation all around. On the short walk over Daniel had elaborated on the ‘extra’ they might get: this place was gossip-central in Blaine. Most of what they overheard would be irrelevant nonsense - perhaps all - but if there was just the slightest chance of overhearing something pertaining to the case, why not take it? Plus, with the best paninis this side of Lincoln, there was nothing to lose.

  Alison had often met friends there for afternoon tea. That’s what most people had ordered today. Silver platters of multiple layers, rising from savoury to sweet, obstructed peoples’ views of their dining company. But that didn’t stop them talking. Far from it. Most tables had ordered the £19 option, the one with prosecco. Those tables were the loudest.

  They both ordered a bacon brie and cranberry panini and, as the waitress tucked her mini pencil behind her ear, walking off to pass the order through to the kitchen, Daniel looked at Aitken, smiled and tapped his right ear. They sat in silence, sipping their tea and listening; prospectors sifting through the worthless for something that might shine.

  After a few minutes … “I heard that when they searched Sebastian Fallon’s place he had a dungeon in the cellar.”

  “A dungeon? Yeah, you know the type. A red room.”

  “Oooh, makes my skin crawl, he was hardly Christian Grey was he?”

  -

  “ … Jean’s really getting back into Yoga since her husband died. Fifty-five and she can put her foot behind her head. I’m lucky if I can touch my toes.”

  “Awful business that, though.”

  “What, with her husband?”

  “Yep.”

  “What did they call him?”

  “I want to say Anthony … yes Anthony, that’s what they called him.”

  “Still, it wasn’t as bad as what happened to Hen Hewitt’s husband. I heard he was unrecognisable, that they had to identify him by his dental records.”

  “Who told you that crap?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Who was it now … anyway, what do you mean?”

  “They wouldn’t need dental records; he’d have had his wallet with him and his car would have been there. Unless he’d decided to do a six mile hike from his house with golf clubs on his back. Mind you, he probably could have, the size of the man.”

  -

  “It’s just plain fishy, that’s all I’m saying. Nothing, then two murders and both murderers take their lives. It’s beyond creepy. I’m surprised they haven’t pulled in that school caretaker for questioning. How the hell he keeps a job working with primary school kids with those manikins being re-arranged every day on his lawn, God only knows.”

  “Owning manikins isn’t a crime Maude.”

  “No, not a crime, but how weird is it? Shouldn’t be working with kids, that’s all I’m saying. There’s enough without work around here.”

  “You can’t just go round accusing people.”

  “I’m not. All I said was that I’m surprised the police haven’t questioned him.”

  “Questioned him for what?”

  “I don’t know, maybe he’s an accomplice.”

  “I’m not listening to any more of this nonsense. Miss, excuse me Miss. Yes, thanks, can we get another bottle of prosecco please?”

  -

  “So why do you think Martin Dalgliesh was in Fallon’s house after he died?”

  “Not one clue.”

  “Makes you think though, doesn’t it?”

  “Not really. Are you eating that last scone or what?”

  “No, you can have it.”

  “You remember Alison, well her husband found him - the Dalgliesh boy that is - at two in the morning. Now you tell me, what was he doing at Fallon’s place?”

  “Shush.”

  “What? [Whispered]”

  “[even quieter] It’s him, sitting over there with that young pretty woman. ”

  -

  Daniel and Aitken looked at each other and Aitken grinned, presumably at the ‘pretty’ comment. The delivery of their food momentarily distracted them. They munched slowly and quietly at the centre of a tearoom which had become remarkably hushed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Daniel and Aitken spent the afternoon ploughing through a short ‘to do’ list. Aitken made calls requesting crime data, fabricating a justification for expediency. Daniel tied up with Robinson who’d discovered, via Jackson’s bank records, that Jackson had arranged six transfers to Hewitt's account, each for sixty thousand pounds, over a two year period. There was evidence of significant receipts too, until about a year ago when they’d dried up. The Jacksons were nine thousand pounds into a ten thousand overdraft. Unless Mr and Mrs Jackson had money elsewhere, they’d been nearing bankruptcy at the time Leon Jackson took a golf club to Hewitt’s face.

  Just after Daniel had hung up his call to Robinson, his phone buzzed. It was a message from Charlotte: ‘Can you ditch Anna for the evening? I could do with talking to you. Come round for dinner?’ Somewhere in Daniel’s house Aitken was pacing, her voice rising and falling as, for a third time, she described the exact cut of data they were after.

  He texted back: ‘Does it have to be without Aitken?’ Feel bad dragging her out here then leaving her.’

  An hour later, Charlotte's reply: ‘She can come, but we’ll need to talk alone after dinner. Be here for six?” He confirmed he would.

  Dinner was awkward. Daniel hadn’t appreciated that both Kerry and Luke were at sleepovers. Charlotte had finally relented to Kerry’s nagging and agreed to her staying over at her dad’s house one night a week. Luke, perhaps sensing his mother’s apprehension, made no such request. He was staying over with a friend of whom Charlotte semi-approved. Too much X-box and TV in that house for her liking, but there’s only so much control a parent can have. So it was just the three of them for dinner. A crowd, thought Daniel.

  Over sirloin steak with beef mushrooms and rocket salad, Charlotte appeared keen to question Aitken. An unfamiliar dinner guest might have mistaken Charlotte for the DC.

  “So, Anna … tell us about your fiancé.” There was a pause as Aitken struggled to slice her steak. Either she’d been unlucky in the steak-serving lottery or her steak knife was a little blunt. She rested her cutlery.

  “Not m
uch to tell really. His name’s Steve. He’s a store planner.”

  “That sounds interesting,” said Charlotte.

  “Not really, he’s bored of it. He spends most of his time on a computer working out whether to give one or two facings to the latest Pedigree Chum product.”

  “How long have you two been an item?”

  “A little over a year.”

  “That’s quick, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “To get engaged.”

  “I suppose so … do you mind if I take this jumper off, I’m roasting.” Aitken, her cheeks flushed, raised her sweater over her head, its neck clinging to her neck before pinging free. Underneath was a ribbed pink vest top. The sweater’s grip had made the pink material ride up, momentarily exposing her perfectly toned stomach. It fell back into place, clinging tightly to her breasts. She threw her shoulders back, freed hair trapped in her top and picked up her cutlery to recommence battle with her steak. Charlotte’s eyes were on Daniel, and he looked away from Aitken, reaching for a half empty bottle of Marlborough.

  “Anyone want a top up?” asked Daniel as he poured wine into an adequately filled glass. Charlotte jutted out her glass towards him, a little too assertively. He made hers a large.

  Aitken refused dessert, saying that she was watching her figure and that - if it was alright with Daniel - she was going to leave them to tidy up her case notes.

  The subtext known by all was that Charlotte had begrudgingly invited Aitken and was keen to be rid of her. Daniel offered to walk her home, but Aitken laughed it off, “If a Detective Constable isn’t safe walking in a place like Blaine, who is? Thank you for a lovely meal.” There was no sarcasm in the word ‘lovely’ and Daniel admired her for it.

  For dessert they had chocolate fondant. As Daniel cut through the sponge, releasing chocolatey goo from the middle, he thought that Charlotte was a bit like this dessert; soft-centred but some days she was a little overcooked and her exterior took some breaking through. He smiled at the thought.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  She had a speck of fondant on her cheek. “You’ve got a little…” He leant to take it. She flinched, then, responding to his come-on-it’s-only-Daniel eyes, relaxed a little. He wiped the chocolate and, without thinking, sucked it from his thumb.

  “Why do I get the feeling you need to offload,” said Daniel.

  “Always the detective. Let’s grab another glass of wine. I’ll wash up later.”

  They retired to a spot on her sofa that was starting to feel like home.

  “No wonder Aitken was warm,” said Daniel, fanning his shirt. I can’t believe you’ve got the fire burning. Beyond a white rug, flaming logs glowed and cracked like whips.

  “It was chilly earlier. Anyway, she wasn’t warm. That was for show.”

  “Oh come on.”

  “I know women Daniel, I am one, remember. Anyway, forget Aitken, I think we’re in trouble.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re auditing the pharmacy next Tuesday.”

  “Jesus … was that planned?”

  She told him about the email from the General Pharmaceutical Council, about the anonymous complainant.

  "Any idea who could have tipped them off? Could it have been Marcus?"

  "Do you think he'd risk jeopardising my career, with the effect that would have on Kerry and Luke?"

  "Think it through. If you lost your means of supporting him, who'd get custody?" She fell silent and bent at the stomach as though winded. "I'm not saying it's definitely him. But could it have been? Did you tell him about the Marijuana?"

  She nodded and her parlour whitened. There was a long silence and she rocked gently on the sofa, staring at nothing, perhaps conjuring a vision of her bleak future. “They'll find me unfit to practice."

  “Perhaps they’ll be lenient. Do you want me to talk to them, to say that I put pressure on you, to explain about Alison and how much comfort it gave her?”

  “I think you’ll be wasting your breath. I’ve just got to ride it out, and hope they go easy on me.”

  “Listen, Charlotte, whatever happens I’ll see that you and the kids are okay. I’ll cover your mortgage if I have to, or you could all move in with me. Either way, please don’t worry about anything like that.”

  “To be honest, I’d not thought that far ahead.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be, I appreciate the offer.” She hitched closer to him on the sofa, and her navy shift dress touched his jeans. She looked intently at him and lifted her hand to the stubble on his cheek, “I know you’ll always look after me … we’ve always looked out for each other.”

  She kissed him and her lip's earthy sweetness mingled with that of the wine. Intoxication loosened his mouth and he accepted hers. Both hands cupped the back of his head, her fingers parting his hair. She withdrew her lips, placed her mouth next to his ear and whispered, “Tell me it will be all right.”

  She gently nibbled his lobe as he whispered in reply, “Yes, it will be. I’m sure.” She stood up from the sofa, switched off the kitchen light and walked to the centre of the rug, facing him with a serious, demure yet solemn look. She reached back and unzipped her dress, narrowing her shoulders to let it fall to the floor. She stepped out of it and swept it under the coffee table with her foot. A glowing shard of firelight formed between the silhouette of her stocking-clad legs and Daniel's nerve endings danced. His swallowing sounded too loud, but probably only in his mind, drowned out as it was by the crackling flames.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  It was one of those muggy September nights, summer’s final flinch against its imminent demise. Aitken looked upwards at the night sky as Charlotte’s front door closed behind her. The stars never looked this beautiful from their garden in Lincoln. On evenings like this, they would barbecue together - just the two of them - Steve drinking heavily. Year on year it took increasing quantities of lager to quench his summers day thirst. She swore that’s why he was so angry about her staying with Daniel during the week. Perhaps he wanted to make the most of the Indian summer with her.

  She sighed, my Lord that’s beautiful. There appeared to be layer upon layer of near and more distant stars. She longed to be laying on her back, on a beach, doing nothing but staring up at the stars. One day, and soon, they’d get away to somewhere in the Caribbean. Perhaps they would be her and Steve … perhaps. Career came first; Steve needed to get his in order and to cut down on the drinking.

  She walked towards Daniel’s place, gracing along in the semi-dark under intermittent streetlights. With St Hughs's spire in the distance, gently lit from beneath, her thoughts drifted to Daniel, about how much she’d learned from him already, particularly about handling people. She was determined to be his number one choice for subsequent investigations. She envisaged DCI Edwards moving on and Daniel replacing him. If she built up a good relationship with him, who knows how quickly she might make DS. He liked her, she was sure of that. All was well.

  A sound behind her commanded her legs to stop. It was an intermittent dragging sound like a young boy purposefully raking his shoes through deep gavel. She turned around, but nobody was there. The street was lined with set back houses, most marking their front boundary with fences and overhanging conifers. Plenty of driveways for a stalker to hide in if she was being followed.

  “Hello, is someone there?” Nothing, just the faint triple ‘ooooing’ of a wood pigeon.

  She turned back towards her destination and walked more briskly. After thirty yards or so the sound returned, but this time it was continuous and closer. She spun round, and, more loudly than before, said “This is the police and I’m armed. Whoever this is, you need to reveal yourself. Now!” Somewhere, perhaps ten yards away and to her right, from a position hidden from sight, came a low throaty growl. Not as deep as a lion’s but close.

  She backed away slowly, flicking her eyes across the gaps between overlapping bushes, trees and shrubs t
o her right. If it was a loose dog - and don’t forget all those random (fake?) sightings of panthers roaming the fields near here - she mustn’t run. Somewhere beyond the conifers a twig snapped.

  She was naked and vulnerable without her baton, cuffs and radio. She was fighting a desire to run, still backing along the path slowly, when - only a few feet away - a face appeared from the bushes, the head and shoulders of some monstrously cross-bred dog. Its head was the shape of a bull terrier’s but it was taller, much taller. The pupils of its eyes reflected a yellow light, with a milky sheen, like cataracts. It’s upper lip instantly rolled up in folds, exposing inch-long canines which framed a line of jagged broken teeth. White foam shook from its lips as its head quivered in anger or fear, perhaps both. Aitken’s pulse rose rapidly.

  She took a slither of comfort from the dog’s lack of movement. Perhaps the branches are too thick for it to get through.

  “Good dog, good doggie. There, there, I’m not going to hurt you.” She was backing so slowly that her movement was barely discernible.

  Then it came for her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Daniel lay on his back, naked on Charlotte’s rug. She lay beside him, running her fingers through his chest hair, her head propped up with her spare hand. He felt shame at his hair’s greyness, but she didn’t seem to mind. She wore a contented smile.

  “What now?” asked Daniel.

  “Do we have to plan?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Can I get you your wine?”

  “Please.”

  She reached over to the coffee table. He admired the curve of her hip and back in the fading firelight. A beauty spot just below her hip reminded him that, after all this time, there were hidden things he was still learning about Charlotte.