by Linda Coles
“Stand clear, please.”
Jean, Brian and Melissa stood back as the woman attached wires to a machine, ready to shock Callum’s heart back. Jean crossed her fingers and said a silent prayer. There wasn’t anything else left for her to do.
After a few minutes, the paramedics transferred Callum to a stretcher and rushed him out to the ambulance; the female paramedic was still working on his heart with her hands.
Melissa, Jean and Brian stood in the doorway watching the ambulance pull away, sirens wailing again. They would follow on to the hospital together. It didn’t look good, they knew. Silence filled the hallway until Jean spoke quietly.
“I’ll get my bag. Brian, are you alright to drive us all?”
He nodded, unable to comprehend what had just happened only moments ago.
Callum Parker’s heart never did beat in his chest again. He was pronounced dead on arrival.
Chapter Four
Amanda Lacey hated working Sundays, particularly when the sun was making an appearance and Ruth was pottering in the garden, but such is life. She tossed her phone onto the wooden outdoor table and sighed. The wood needed a coat of preserver before the winter months took their toll on it, or else they’d be buying a new one next year. She filed the task away for another day and thrust her head into work mode, processing her next steps. She glanced over at Ruth, who had turned instinctively to her when the phone had first rung; she knew full well what was coming. Amanda shrugged, frowning.
“Better go and change, then,” Ruth said. “The sooner you go, the sooner you’ll be back.” She smiled.
“I suppose so. Sudden death, though. I may be a while,” Amanda said, standing. “I’ll let you know when I’m on my way back. Sorry!”
“No need to apologise. It comes with the territory; I know that.” Ruth set down her trowel, walked over to Amanda and put her arm around her shoulders. They walked up to the house together. “I can finish that bottle of red off by myself now. No need to share.” She gave her partner a cheeky grin.
“Well, I’m glad you benefit from my working hard,” Amanda said, elbowing her gently as they went into kitchen through the back door. The air was a couple of degrees cooler inside, perfect to help her switch from lazing in the sunshine to work mode.
Ten minutes later, she was in her work clothes and heading out to meet the Parkers. Harry Styles cooed quietly in the background as she navigated through a relatively quiet Croydon and on to Stanstead Road in Caterham. The route was familiar to her; she’d driven it many times when Ruth’s father had lived nearby. He had recently decided to move on after the death of his wife, Madeline Simpson, a couple of years ago.
Amanda had interviewed Madeline during the course of an investigation into a missing landscaper; at first, she hadn’t realised Madeline and Ruth were related, since Ruth had kept her birth mother’s surname, McGregor. Something had always seemed off about that case to Amanda, but the feeling had dissolved and the enquiries had halted when Madeline had died in an accident. The investigation had turned up no evidence of her involvement in the landscaper’s death, and his body had never been found. The police had concluded that he’d gone missing of his own free will, and the case had been officially archived as a misper.
After Madeline’s death, Gordon Simpson had rattled around the five-bedroom family home all on his own; then, a month ago, he’d sold it and moved into a flat closer to his work in town. It made more sense all round, though Amanda and Ruth both knew it hadn’t been an easy decision. He’d enjoyed Madeline’s gardens as much as she had, but he hadn’t the time or the patience for the upkeep. His new place had a small courtyard out back, big enough for a few choice pot plants. The following week, he was having a small flat-warming party for his family and close friends.
Driving past the old house now, Amanda flicked her indicator and turned into the shingle drive of the Parkers’ house.
The big black front door looked stylish but from a different era, not 2019, and so Amanda assumed the Parkers would be in their late 50s or 60s. As she stood by the car, the door was opened by a man wearing knee-length chino shorts and a formal short-sleeved shirt, no doubt his attempt at dressing down on a warm summer’s day. Even a stranger could see his face looked drained, tired, and pale—unsurprising, since he’d lost his son only a few short hours ago.
Amanda knew all too well that, as the man of the house, he’d be bottling his emotions up until he could let them out in private. She’d seen it too many times before: the female open and grieving, the male stoic until later. “Big boys don’t cry; be the man; stay strong for your family”—it was all a load of bollocks, really. She shut the car door and went up to greet Brian Parker, her warrant card at the ready.
“DS Amanda Lacey. Mr Parker?”
“Yes. Please, come through.”
Amanda followed him into the lounge, which looked exactly like Amanda had imagined it would, given the old-fashioned front door. While it was nicely done, it wasn’t to her own taste; she preferred a less formal look and feel when watching the TV.
There wasn’t a TV.
Perhaps it was behind the huge gilt mirror adorning the chimney breast, hidden away so as not to spoil the Tudor-themed room. Or perhaps they had a TV room elsewhere. Either way, it didn’t much matter.
Jean Parker stood now to meet her, and Brian did the introductions. There was another, much younger woman who introduced herself as Melissa Ross, Callum’s fiancée. The words caught in Melissa’s throat as she realised there would be no wedding now he was gone, and another older woman rushed over to comfort her as howls like a tomcat’s pained their way from deep inside. She looked like an older version of Melissa, Amanda thought; there was no need to ask who she was. Melissa’s mother and father introduced themselves anyway. Confirmation complete. Everybody sat now, except for Melissa.
“He killed him!” she screamed at the room. “He hit him!”
Melissa’s mother touched her daughter’s shoulder in comfort, cooing to her like her daughter was a twelve-year-old, as tears made fresh streak marks down her cheeks. Melissa’s father encouraged her to sit down; she did his bidding and quietened somewhat.
When everyone was settled, Amanda suggested they start at the beginning so that she could take everything down in order. She turned to Brian Parker and asked him to start.
“Actually, it might be best to start with Melissa,” he said. “She was with Callum when they had the accident. It could be related.”
“’Could’!” Melissa stood and screeched the word like a banshee. “He’s dead because of that man hitting him!”
“Melissa, please! Try and calm down so we can get this down in some sort of order,” pleaded her mother. The room waited once again for the young woman to compose herself. When Melissa had once again settled into her chair, Amanda prodded gently.
“You were out driving? Where had you been and where were you both going?”
Melissa Ross told the story, in minute detail, of how they’d been out for a quiet drive and Callum had accidentally hit another vehicle. There had been an altercation. The traffic police had come and taken everyone’s details, and then Brian Parker had picked them up and driven them home.
The man who had hit Callum was to blame, she said huffily. Amanda was to arrest him immediately.
“Do you know the man’s name?” Amanda asked. Surely Melissa or Callum would have taken it for the insurance claim, as he was a witness to the accident.
“Yes. He lives along the same road where the accident happened,” she said sullenly, as if she’d finally run out of steam.
Amanda’s pencil was poised on her pad as she waited to jot it down.
“It’s Mr Laurence Dupin.”
Amanda felt her face grow pale. Oh, shit!
Chapter Five
The front door to Laurence Dupin’s house was already wide open when he returned from his walk. A woman filled it, arms crossed. He was late back.
“I was getting worried; thought yo
u’d fallen off a cliff. Where’ve you been all this time? I was about to send a search party out.”
It came out in one long sentence with no real pause for breath. Everything she said came out the same way. How she managed to speak like that all the time he never knew, but after twenty years of marriage, he’d got used to her ways. And to hardly getting a word in edgewise. It was easier to keep quiet, generally, but there was no escaping her enquiry this time. And since she was blocking the doorway, if he ever wanted to see the inside of his house again, he knew he’d better speak up.
“There was an accident. I had to stop and assist.”
She relaxed her arms to her side and let him through, satisfied but needing more information.
Gossip.
“Oh? What happened? Anyone hurt? I thought I heard a siren. Did you see it? Where was it exactly?”
One at a time, please.
“A car travelling too fast hit another coming out of his driveway. The chap who got hit was an old guy; he was pretty shaken up but ended up with just a head wound, nothing too serious, I expect. There was a young couple in the other car, and he was driving. Started throwing punches and I intervened.” Laurence was searching for a glass in the kitchen cupboard while he babbled out what he knew, quenching her need for details. He filled it from the tap and drank it straight down, then refilled it again. He turned back to her. “Fancy lashing out at the old man when he was the one in the wrong. What a prick.”
“Huh. The world’s full of them. And trust you to get involved, on your day off, too.” Her hands were back on her hips, matron-like.
“I couldn’t very well leave them to it, now, could I? I was first on the scene. Anyway, it’s all cleared away now.”
“Yes, but you’ll be pulled in for a statement, won’t you? Wasting your time.”
“That’s hardly a hardship, now, is it?”
“Still.” She grunted disapprovingly. He watched her amble out of the back door and down into the small garden out the back. ‘Her’ chair was placed in the shade of an old plum tree that straddled their property from their neighbour’s garden. It never produced any real quantity of plums, but the green coverage was appreciated on sunny days. She picked up her Woman’s Weekly and resumed reading. Laurence watched her from the window. He wondered when his wife had turned into an old woman. She was 45 going on 65 and had a sour spirit with it. He couldn’t imagine what she’d be like when she did reach 65.
“Heaven help us,” he said to no one in particular, and went in search of his book. His thoughts drifted to the woman in the car—Melissa had been her name. When she’d finally recovered herself, he couldn’t help noticing she was a bit of a looker, though about half his age. In her prime. Even during the melee, he had been rather surprised to realise that his desire for a sweeter woman in his life had been on his mind. It wasn’t the first time he’d contemplated finding someone a bit more appealing, but he’d stayed true to his marriage vows and never acted. Not that an opportunity had ever come his way since Lyn had staked her claim on him. He doubted anyone would want to cross her if she ever found out.
He was making himself comfortable in the lounge when his mobile phone rang. He got to his feet and scrabbled around for it; he found it lying under the pile of newspapers that were still on the sofa from before lunch. He’d yet to finish them, though the Sunday supplement was already wrapping the vegetable peelings in the compost heap at the end of the garden. He’d asked her repeatedly to use a tray for the job until he’d read it but had given up reminding her. Reading the tiny screen, he groaned.
“Some day off this is turning out to be.” He swiped to accept the call.
“DI Dupin,” he said flatly. “What can I do for you, Amanda?” The joys of caller ID. There was no escaping even if you wanted to.
“Sorry to bother you, sir. Are you at home, by chance?”
His left eye twitched involuntarily, something that plagued him when he got wound up. His hopes for a relaxing Sunday were diminishing fast.
“I am, yes. Is there a problem?” He knew there was, or else why would she be calling him at nearly 3 pm?
“Hopefully not, sir, but I need to pop over right away. I’ll tell you more when we get there.”
There was a pause as they both realised what she’d just said.
“We?” Did he detect a groan on the other end of the line? “Who is ‘we’?” A moment passed before Amanda spoke; her annoyance at being caught out was audible now.
“DCI Japp will be meeting me there, sir. It’s a bit of a delicate matter. So as long as you’re home, please stay there and we’ll be right over.” It was obvious Amanda was trying to get off the line and avoid any more stupid mistakes. “See you shortly, sir.”
And then she was gone, leaving Dupin staring at his phone. It was warm; there were traces of grease on the screen from his sweating temple and sticky fingers. He hadn’t realised how hot he’d found himself during the strange conversation.
“What the hell can Amanda and DCI Japp want?”
“I’ve no idea. What does he want? And why is he calling on a Sunday, for heaven’s sake? And don’t tell me he’s coming here? Why?”
He hadn’t realised Lyn had been listening in on the other side of the doorway. He looked up at her as she continued to barrage him with questions, registering the damp, sweaty patch across her top lip. He wiped his own as if that would remove hers. The woman looked like a double-handled tea pot, with a spout to match.
“Well, I’ve no idea either, but he’s on his way round. I guess we’ll both find out soon enough.” He looked down at his T-shirt front. There was a small patch of blood on it, from the old man’s head, he assumed. “I’d better go and change my shirt.”
What did Japp want, indeed? The only possible reason he could think of was the accident he’d just witnessed. Maybe they’d take his statement while he was at home, get it out of the way. That must be it.
But on a Sunday? Was it that important? And the DCI coming to do it?
He hoped the old man was okay.
Chapter Six
DCI Jim Japp had the same moustache as his Agatha Christie namesake, but stopped short of wearing a trilby. Having both Japp and Dupin in the same station had caused a ripple of laughter when the more well-read detectives and staff realised they now worked with famous namesakes in the same profession. Not that their surnames were commonly used, as in Dupin’s case. Dupin was slyly referred to as ‘Dopey’ behind his back.
As for Japp, his nickname was ‘Jim-lad’, after the character in Treasure Island. He’d picked up the name when the movie had first come out and was well used to it now in his 50s. Right now, he, Dupin and DS Amanda Lacey were sat in Dupin’s lounge waiting for Lyn to bring mugs of tea through, though on this warm Sunday, they all would have preferred a cold beer. Japp was attempting small talk until they could talk without fear of interruption, though Dupin would no doubt tell his wife later. Having met Lyn on several occasions, he wanted to avoid the burst dam of questions that would no doubt spew from the woman’s mouth as they always did. He pitied Dupin sometimes.
When the tea finally arrived, and Lyn had got the message to leave and not to linger, DCI Japp cleared his throat and did his best to look Dupin straight in the eye as he spoke. The swirl on the green carpet underfoot was distracting.
“You’re wondering, I’m sure, why we’re both here on a Sunday and interrupting your time, so I’ll get straight to the point,” he said, then paused, choosing his words. “You’ll recall the accident you attended earlier on this afternoon.”
“Yes. Is that what this is about?” Dupin felt relieved, even though he’d figured the visit was likely about that—though why the DCI, he’d still no idea. Yet.
“Can you run me through what happened, exactly? From the beginning?”
Dupin looked at Amanda, then back at his DCI, and then, receiving no clue from either, started his story from the beginning as instructed, from leaving the house to witnessing the collision.
Nobody said anything while he spoke, until he got to the part where he said he’d thumped the male driver because he’d tried to attack the older man. Amanda and Japp exchanged glances silently.
“What?” asked Dupin. “I was protecting the old guy; otherwise, he’d have been in a far worse state than he already was.”
“And what happened after you hit Mr Callum Parker, the younger male?”
“He fell back into the grass, then nursed his ego and scrambled back up. The ambulance arrived shortly after that.”
“Was he talking? Walking about?”
“Yes. Why? What’s this about?”
Japp avoided Dupin’s question and asked another.
“How did he seem to you?”
“Again, fine. Why?”
Japp and Amanda exchanged another glance then DCI Japp turned back to Dupin.
“Because about an hour or so later, Mr Callum Parker was found dead.”
Dupin’s eyes flicked rapidly from side to side as he tried to comprehend what they were telling him. Dead? How could he be dead? He’d scrambled out of the ditch, hadn’t he?
“He was fine! How can the man be dead?”
Nobody spoke, and then it twigged in Dupin’s head what they were getting at. “You think I killed him?” he said incredulously. “I was trying to keep things calm, not kill him! I was protecting the old man!” His voice had risen with his outburst, and Lyn hurried back into the room. Dupin ignored her; his mind was reeling. He was aware of Lyn’s voice asking questions, but there was too much to take in without worrying about her.
“Try and calm down, Laurence,” Japp was instructing him. “We don’t know much at the moment, save for the statement from the woman who was with him.” He looked at his notebook for clarification. “Melissa Ross says you threw a punch and knocked him over. Now, that might be true, but somewhere, somehow, along the way between the accident site and his parents’ house, something happened. We know he went for a nap, and when his fiancée called in on him, he was dead. Now, at the moment, they don’t know who or what you are, but they will find out. And when they do, we have to be whiter than white. Everything in this investigation will need to be by the book. All the way. Because, mark my words, they’ll think it’s mates looking after their mates, a cover-up, and all hell will let loose. Do you understand, DI Dupin?”
