Prepared to Die

by Peter Dudgeon

They simultaneously outstretched their ID’s and she nodded, without scrutinising them.

  “We have a few questions, if that’s okay?”

  “Can’t you see me later, when I’m in a better state, and where we won’t be overheard?”

  Daniel made a show of scanning the place, then said, “I don’t think being overheard is really going to be an issue, do you?” She shrugged. “Let’s get you that drink. We can sit down over there.” He gestured towards the quietest end, bar-side of the partition.

  Daniel shouted behind the bar, “Randy. You’re losing custom here.” Randy appeared with a red brow, looking flustered.

  “Sorry, Florence rung in sick, and I had to change the barrel. So sorry Mrs Jackson, same again?”

  “Yes please, but make it a double and put some ice in would you?”

  “Sure thing. You fellas?”

  “No, we’re okay, but let me get this.” Daniel extracted a twenty.

  “Thank you … sorry forgotten already.”

  “Sheppard, Detective Inspector.”

  “Of course. The guitar man, right?”

  Cliff looked at Daniel with amused curiosity and Daniel felt a little heat in his face.

  “That’s right, can we take a seat?” Daniel dragged out a wooden chair for her.

  The shallow, warped table was too intimate for an interview but perhaps the informality would play in their favour. Mrs Jackson placed her whiskey on one of those Heineken beermats.

  “Firstly, can we say how sorry we are for your loss. Both myself and DS Cliff would like to offer our condolences.” Her eyes took on a glassy quality, but she held it together, merely nodding. “I know this is a really sensitive time, but we have a few questions about your husband that I’m afraid can’t wait.”

  “I really don’t see what can be so urgent. My husband’s dead and so is Mr Hewitt. They aren’t going anywhere.” There was a bitterness to her tone. She took a quarter of her drink in one go.

  “There are certain formalities for the coroner, you see. To make sure the verdict is given correctly.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I understand, from speaking with Mrs Hewitt, that your husband and Mr Hewitt had business dealings, is that correct?”

  “Still have. We’re waiting for some of our money back.”

  “Your husband had investments with Mr Hewitt?”

  She nodded and sipped, “Unfortunately my husband was a risk taker. He wouldn’t listen to me when I said it was too good to be true.”

  “What was too good to be true?” asked Cliff and she eyed his face with what looked like suspicion. She answered Cliff’s question, looking at Daniel. “Forty per cent returns, through tax efficient channels. You see my husband was a principled man, until his work fell off a cliff. He’d always talked about how the rich shouldn’t be allowed to avoid tax, that we’re a society, and we look out for one another. Well that went out the window when he couldn’t earn a living the honest way and he looked for a way out.”

  “And Mr Hewitt offered him that, a way out?”

  “I tried to stop him. I knew Mallory Hewitt well. I don’t wish to bad-mouth the dead, but I’ve never trusted him, even as kids he was a grade A liar - always talking about the things his dad had done, the people he’d met. A bullshitter, you know the type. I warned Leon not to trust him, but he was so sure. He was a proud man. The thought of not being able to provide …” her words trailed off and she became distant.

  “May I ask, do you have children Mrs Jackson?”

  She shook her head. “We were trying when he died. My side of the family have kids coming out of their ears. Always telling me what to do, to not leave it too late. Well, I guess they were right, in a sense.”

  Daniel tied together the throng of extended family at Mrs Jackson’s house and their talk of an argument. It all rang true.

  “Did anyone know about these investments and his tax evasion?”

  Her expression changed, tightened and she looked around, presumably to check they were still alone.

  “I don’t think I should say any more.”

  Cliff said, “Mrs Jackson, we’re not in the least interested in your tax affairs. And you’re not under caution here. We’re just trying to establish motive, that’s all.”

  Her shoulders relaxed a little as she breathed more deeply.

  “Did anyone know?” asked Daniel.

  “Not as far as I’m aware. Outside of confessional, my husband wasn’t the type of man to confide in people. As I said, he was ashamed of what he had to do.”

  “Was he a religious man?” She nodded agreeably as she gulped.

  “But he owned a gun?” asked Cliff.

  That last sip made her cough and thud her chest with the heel of her hand.

  “Sorry,” her voice was a croak. “That’s better, sorry. He didn’t own it. He flirted with shooting as a hobby in his early twenties. He had friends at a gun club in Louth. I guessed he got it from them. Their concern since his death has been conspicuous by its absence.”

  “What was his denomination?” asked Daniel.

  “Catholic.”

  “St Hughs?”

  She nodded. “He’d always attended every other Sunday but this last year, since our financial position worsened, he went there every week. Sometimes in the afternoon, too, when he was short of work and at a loose end. I don’t see why any of this is relevant though.”

  Daniel reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a labelled, plastic sample pot. He leant it on its side so she could get a good look of the contents. “This was found at the golf range that night.”

  “A St Christopher?” She examined it.

  “Do you know who it belongs to?” asked Daniel as if about to reveal a famous owner. She shook her head. “Mallory Hewitt.”

  “You are joking, aren’t you?”

  Daniel and Cliff exchanged glances.

  “No, why?” asked Daniel.

  “Mallory Hewitt didn’t believe in God, even remotely. He was the biggest atheist I’ve met. Plus, he’s called at our house plenty of times, usually on his way back from work, his tie loose, his collar open. I’ve never seen him wear a chain.”

  “I take it it didn’t belong to your husband.”

  She studied it, shaking her head slowly with an upturned mouth, then muttered, “You had on your shoulders not only the whole world but He who made it.”

  Daniel and Cliff exchanged glances, “Is that scripture?” asked Cliff.

  “It is.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “That when you serve God, the manner in which you serve Him might be a heavier burden than you expect.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  A pinprick of light at the centre of a void of darkness. It was as though Charlotte was looking through a camera lens, with the shutter open a fraction, slowly widening. She was immobile and unable to comprehend why. She picked up a whooshing in her ears which usually came from that downward facing dog pose she hated doing in Yoga; too much blood to her head. Perhaps she was upside down, she couldn’t tell. Through the noise she heard a rumbling growl.

  That pinprick had expanded, and all around it was no longer black but distorted insipid colours, browns and beiges; the world in a drunken sepia. At the edge of that distortion, was some movement, something thin which reflected light. It swam, and appeared to triplicate. A clicking near her ear sounded like a fingernail flicking a glass pane.

  A few drops of something landed on her blouse, the dampness against her skin light and pleasant. Then the sting came.

  It felt like a tuberculosis jab. She was momentarily grateful for her blindness; not wanting to see the needle penetrating her skin. The world took on a dreamlike quality, as she went along with whatever path the dream would take her.

  Just as that spot of clarity grew enough for her to start detecting her surroundings; the leather straps; the cork board’s pinned pictures; the cages in her peripheral view, whatever had been pumped i
nto her bloodstream took effect and the world transformed into a soft, purple balloon. Sounds came from inside her head, not some external source, and the purple world beyond the balloon’s surface was distant and less important than the omnipotent words which consumed her.

  “The dead, great and small, will stand before the throne, and books will be opened; the books of life. And the dead will be judged by what is written in those books, according to what they had done. Hades shall give up the dead and they will be judged, each one of them, according to what they have done. And if their name is not found written in the book of life, they shall be thrown into the lake of fire. Do you agree?”

  Somehow she did. She understood perfectly and waited for further instruction, craving more words like an addict craves a fix.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  As they left Mrs Jackson in The Crown, Daniel checked his phone for messages from Charlotte. Nothing from her, but Kerry had messaged saying, ‘Just got in from school, do you know where mum is?’

  The Mondeo’s doors simultaneously thudded shut on either side of Daniel’s car. Cliff was keen to talk. “So what do you think about the morality angle now, given what Mrs Jackson’s just said?”

  “Hold on a second.” Daniel propped his iPhone against the steering wheel, tapping it with his index finger. There was a ping as the message sent and Daniel said, “I may have to finish early today. Are you okay to get a lift back to Lincoln with Aitken?”

  “Sure thing boss. Anything the matter?”

  “I hope not.”

  Kerry answered the door to Daniel. She wore the hardened look of a kid trying to be brave. It looked, for a moment, like she wasn’t going to stand aside to let him in.

  “Can I come in Kerry?”

  She hesitated then stepped back to swing the door open. They walked through to the kitchen and stood on opposing sides of the table. Rain spattered the window in long streaks.

  “Is Luke in?”

  “He’s playing in his bedroom.”

  “Have you heard anything from your mum?”

  She shook her head then said, “I’m going to call Dad. He can come round and look after us until she gets back.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise? I’m not sure she’d be that happy about him being here whilst she’s out.”

  “Well somebody’s got to look after us.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause, resentment hanging between them.

  “Your father doesn’t like me very much does he?” She just stared at him. “Sorry, Kerry, that was a stupid question, you don’t have to answer that. Did your mum say anything about what she planned to do today?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing?”

  “She just packed us off to school as normal.”

  “Was she acting … strangely in any way?”

  “She was a little spaced out, but she’s like that pretty much all the time at the minute.”

  “She wasn’t due in work was she?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll check with the pharmacy, just in case.” Kerry fixed herself an orange juice without offering one to Daniel, as he googled the pharmacy’s number. He dialled it.

  Kerry stood, sipping juice and staring at him with questioning intensity. He shook his head, “Nothing, it’s just ringing out.”

  “Should we report her missing?”

  “No, not yet. She’d have to be missing for twenty-four hours before the police will do anything.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Sit and wait here for now. I’ll stay for as long as it takes. Seriously, Kerry, don’t go worrying your dad at this stage.”

  River Dilettantes felt like crap. He was sprawled out on a worn, green fabric sofa, one leg hanging out of his duvet, his right arm straight up as if trying to raise a teacher’s attention. His left hand kneaded his forehead.

  His temple throbbed. He brought his knees to his chest from time to time, curled over, wincing at the cramps. The carpet along the hall to the bathroom was now well trodden. He would complete the trip with the duvet around his shoulders, dropping it just outside the bathroom on the landing floor, ready for the return trip.

  He’d swiped over-the-counter painkillers, anti-diarrhoea drugs, then closed the pharmacy. Well beyond the point of fixing on the right thing to do; he’d needed to be in his upstairs flat, horizontal, near the bathroom, and with no requirement to speak with anyone. If they didn’t like the way he’d closed up shop, well they’d just have to fire him. He finally managed to drift off to sleep at three-thirty p.m., as Kerry was letting Daniel into Charlotte’s place.

  The front door’s buzzer sounded just after eight p.m., bringing him round. It was approaching full dark. His eyes quickly adjusted to the room’s grey sheen. He wasn’t sure what had woken him, but the doorbell rang out and he guessed it might have rung a few times.

  The pounding in his head had lessened a little and the cramps had given way to a hollow sensation in his stomach. Guilt replaced his abating symptoms; he shouldn’t have just left the pharmacy like that. It was probably Charlotte at the door, worried about him.

  He crossed the landing and walked down the stairs, the duvet around his shoulders a cloak of illness. He passed his landlady’s door, half expecting her to emerge. The front door, where the buzzing persisted, had a security chain which he’d begun to use since the murders. In his jaded state, he forgot it today. He opened the Yale latch with his right hand, his left pinching the duvet around his throat.

  Charlotte stood on the doorstep. Her hair, usually forming a neat frame around her face, was dishevelled. Rain had made its strands tether together into twists. Her white blouse's transparent wings clung to her thighs. She appeared not to notice that the rain was still falling on her. Her Barbour jacket was zipped and bulged around her abdomen.

  “Come in out of the cold.” There was little room in the hall and River turned his back on her to ascend the stairs. The climb was a gargantuan effort as though an extra dozen stairs had miraculously appeared. He talked to her through heavy breaths, “Sorry about today, I was just so ill. I should have let you know.”

  There was no reply, just the sound of unzipping, then a blow to his shoulder blades, as though she’d hit him with a mallet. He fell on his face and his ribcage crunched against a riser, five steps from the top, less than ten feet from his flat. He instinctively looked over his shoulder. Charlotte was standing on the stairs with something wooden-handled in her grasp. His duvet, which had been lifted from him, was attached to it. She looked perplexed as she attempted to detangle the duvet from whatever was in her hand.

  It all happened so quickly. River was halfway to his feet when the duvet fell away, revealing the hatchet. Its handle was perhaps thirteen inches long. Its three-inch silver face glinted under the landing’s light. The duvet, humped on the stairs, formed a hurdle and, as Charlotte flattened it with her foot, River caught sight of the gaping tear the hatchet had created. He pictured the duvet as his flesh; the injury he’d have sustained if it hadn’t been there to protect his shoulders. Adrenaline kicked in, overcoming his weakness. He ran for the door to his flat.

  Rapid, heavy steps followed him and the distant voice of Mrs Watson floated up the stairs, “River, what’s with all the noise? I was trying t- Oh my.”

  Just as River was halfway through the door, a searing pain hit him, running from his right shoulder blade to his armpit. He spun round and slammed the door with his good shoulder, attempting to shut it. It refused, the hatchet’s head wedged between the door and its frame. That look on Charlotte's face, the one she’d had when extracting the hatchet from the duvet, flashed in his mind. If she got into the flat, she wouldn’t stop until she’d killed him. She was clearly deranged and, just as clearly, intent on carving him into pieces.

  There was one chance. He opened the door towards him and charged at her chest with his good shoulder. She stumbled back and reached out, grabbing the top of the bannister. Her other hand, the one holding the hatchet,
circled as she attempted to regain balance. He placed his left hand to her chest, his right dangling, with blood dripping from his fingertips, and shoved her. She fell then. With hurt, confusion but no panic in her eyes, she tumbled down the stairs, her side thudding against several steps. He span round and headed straight back to his flat without waiting to assess her condition. As the flat door closed behind him, the thudding ended abruptly.

  His mobile phone was perched on an antique writing desk, which belonged to the late Mr Watson. With his left hand he dialled the emergency services, asking for the ambulance service and the police.

  The emergency responder chatted to him in a clear attempt to keep him conscious, whilst he sat with his back to the door in a rapidly expanding crimson pool. He dropped the phone and reached under his armpit trying to stem the bleeding. It sounded as though a Lilliputian was stuck behind the phone’s screen as a tinny voice cried out, “Mr Dilettantes, are you still there. Can you hear me?”

  By the time the paramedics found him, he’d lost over two pints of blood and was barely conscious.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  With Daniel calling it a day, Aitken and Cliff conspired to interview Paul Evans. Cliff didn’t put up much resistance against Aitken’s ‘no smoke without fire’ argument and neither of them needed to be in Lincoln before six p.m.. No harm in seeing if Evans was home before they headed off.

  Evans lived two roads down from Martin Dalgliesh. Aitken recalled those weird manikins on his overgrown lawn she’d seen on her way to her brief conversation with Mrs Dalgliesh. As Aitken’s car pulled up outside Paul Evans’s place, it was clear the manikins were in a different configuration.

  The party of six sat around a green, plastic, rectangular garden table, on chairs which didn’t match. Their folded out deckchairs were from various sets, some navy, others with white and mid-blue stripes, some with drink holders built into their canvas arms, others without.

  One pair of manikins - looking like a lesbian couple struck by rigor mortis in the midst of a swinger’s party - had chairs leaning against each other’s. One had her arm around her partner’s shoulders, reaching down towards the breast, stopping a couple of inches short. In the middle of the table sat a metallic red cooking pot. Inside was a limp, grubby, stuffed bunny, which looked as though it had been mauled by a dog; one of its button eyes hung from cotton and its once white face was a battle-weary beige.