Letter From The Dead - a crime thriller (Detective Inspector Declan Walsh Book 1)

by Jack Gatland

  No, not now. Please not now.

  ‘There you are, I’ve been hunting everywhere for you,’ he said as he approached. ‘Needed some air?’

  Nervously, Victoria nodded.

  ‘Felt a little sick,’ she replied. ‘Probably the caviar.’

  Michael nodded slowly, as if considering this. He pulled out a cigarette, lighting it, taking a couple of puffs, allowing the silence to stretch.

  ‘You’ve had that happen to you before, and caviar can be a rich food,’ Michael replied matter-of-factly. ‘But it’s probably more the morning sickness. I mean, I’ve heard that can be a bastard.’

  Victoria’s face paled as she tried to mentally backtrack towards a new conversational path before realising it was too late to bluff this one out, as Michael continued.

  ‘I hope you’re not high again, darling. Playing with benzos and K would be a real bad thing to do in your state.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m clean. Who told you?’ she eventually asked. Michael shrugged.

  ‘Does it matter?’ he replied.

  Victoria forced a smile.

  ‘Well, I’m glad you know our news now,’ she said, moving towards him. ‘I wanted to tell you after the party. You’ve been so busy, and…’

  ‘Is it mine?’ Michael asked, cutting her off.

  ‘Of course it’s yours!’ Victoria replied, the indignance in her voice rising. ‘Who else did you think it could be?’

  ‘With you? I never know.’ Michael looked around the roof, tears now building. Whether they were tears of joy, sadness or anger, Victoria couldn’t make out. ‘But if it was me, it’d be a bloody miracle. Like a Jesus Christ level miracle.’

  ‘Why?’

  Michael looked back to Victoria, holding her gaze for a long moment before he spoke again.

  ‘Because I had the snip eight months ago.’

  Now it was Victoria’s turn to look angry.

  ‘You what?’ she said, her tone as icy as the wind that was building. ‘You did that without telling me?’

  ‘My balls, my rules,’ Michael said. ‘And I’ve never been quiet about not wanting kids.’

  ‘And I’ve never been quiet about my need to have a family,’ Victoria replied harshly.

  ‘Well, it looks like you got your wish,’ Michael snapped. ‘It’s a Christmas miracle.’ He stopped, looking out across the roof, out towards the gardens behind the house and the night that lay beyond.

  ‘Is it… is it his?’ he asked, his voice no more than a whisper.

  Victoria went to reply, but then shook her head sadly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she answered truthfully.

  Michael started to chuckle.

  ‘You don’t know,’ he muttered. ‘Jesus, Vickie. Did you do all three of them before –‘

  He didn’t get a chance to finish before Victoria slapped him hard across the face.

  ‘Don’t you dare play the victim here!’ she cried out. ‘You don’t think I know about you and Francine? I have my own spies you know!’

  She stepped back, staring at Michael now with hatred in her eyes.

  ‘You’d be nothing without me,’ she hissed.

  ‘I’m CEO of one of the largest industrial firms in the UK!’ Michael yelled back. ‘I think I’m doing pretty good so far!’

  ‘My father’s company!’ Victoria replied. ‘Who hired you because of me!’ She waved around, taking in the house, the drive, the guests.

  ‘Without me by your side, you’d be nothing more than a failed estate agent with a degree in Sociology! I should have listened to Susan! She always said you’d bring me down! That you’d bring us down!’

  Michael stood stock still, reining in his anger. He stared at Victoria, standing so close to the edge. It would be so easy right now to push her, to force her over the edge. He could even see the quote he’d give to the press.

  ‘My wife, she was unwell, dizzy… She slipped… And on a day of such joy too…’

  He shook his head as he pulled himself out of this delightful fantasy.

  ‘Screw you,’ he said as he tossed his half-finished cigarette to the floor, stubbing it out, crushing it beneath the heel of his shoe before he turned and walked back to the door to the stairs. ‘You can have the bastard. I’ll be contacting my solicitors tomorrow.’

  ‘And I’ll be contacting mine!’ Victoria shouted as he slammed the door shut behind him.

  Turning back to the night, she wiped the tears from her eyes. Everything would have been fine if he hadn’t had a vasectomy. She could have claimed it was his, and nothing would have changed; they could have continued on until after the election, and then once that was decided they could quietly move on with their lives. Shaun could leave his wife, and she could divorce Michael quietly and be with him finally. If Blair lost, they could even push to become a new power couple…

  The door opened again and Victoria turned to continue her argument, assuming that Michael had returned for round two.

  It wasn’t Michael.

  ‘I was surprised that you’d text me tonight,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t sure if you meant here, or if you meant where we—'

  She stopped speaking; not because she’d run out of words to say, but because a gloved hand had gripped her hard by the throat. The grip was so tight she couldn’t even draw breath. She feebly hit on the arm of the hand, as if trying to knock it away; but suddenly she was moving backwards fast, dragged to the edge of the roof.

  No.

  She tried to say it with her eyes.

  No. Please. I love you. Don’t do this.

  But if the owner of the gloved hand saw the message, they didn’t care as they let go of Victoria’s throat and pushed hard against her chest, hard against the emerald pendant that went so well with her red hair, snapping it off in their hand as they sent her tumbling over the edge of the roof, her arms scrabbling for purchase but finding nothing but air as, screaming, she fell from the roof of Devington House and slammed through the roof of a convertible BMW parked below.

  As the guests ran screaming both from and towards the obviously dead body, the car’s alarm system alerting everyone to the event, the murderer stared down over the edge of the roof for a moment before pocketing the necklace and walking back to the door, pausing only to pick up Victoria’s mobile phone before leaving both the roof and the scene of the crime.

  1

  Day of the Dead

  Declan Walsh hated funerals. He hated them even more when it was someone he loved being buried. When it was someone he sort of knew, he could find reasons to not attend, or to turn up late, hang around near the back, even bypass the whole event and appear at the wake, pretending that he had been there, and that they just hadn’t seen him.

  But when it’s your father that you’re burying, it’s a little harder to do.

  And so Declan stood by the casket as they lowered it into its hole, surrounded by people who he didn’t really know; friends and colleagues from his father’s life who saw him as nothing more than the screw-up copper, or the grieving mourner, with the sympathy and attitude given as such to each.

  Declan wasn’t grieving though. Declan was angry. Patrick Walsh shouldn’t be dead.

  The coroner had claimed that it was an accident, but Declan had managed to get hold of a set of copies of the case notes from a friend in the pathology office. Patrick Walsh had apparently died when his car, caught in terrible weather and en route to Maidenhead had spun out of control down a winding country lane in the middle of the night, flipping over as it clipped the edge of the road and coming to a rest, on its roof, fifteen feet down a slope that led away. Patrick, smashing his head against the steering wheel with enough force to shatter his nose had apparently died instantly as his heart gave way.

  There were those that blamed the slippery roads, or maybe the conditions of the day. There were also those that blamed the brakes on the car for not being at their best that night. And then there were the ones that believed that Patrick had simply suffered a heart atta
ck while driving. The ones that shrugged, held up their hands and said, ‘there’s nothing that could have been done.’

  Declan Walsh knew that something could be done. The truth would come out. His father wasn’t just ‘Patrick Walsh from accounting’, he was the recently retired Chief Superintendent Walsh of the Metropolitan Police. He’d spent several decades putting the worst criminals in the world behind bars, and had a hate list that filled several black books. All Declan had to do was work out which of those dark bastards had managed to get to his father’s car to do something to it, and then put them away for it.

  This was harder to do though when you were under suspension.

  As the crowd started to disperse, the funeral over and the warmth of the wake, held in an upstairs function room of The Olde Bell down the road calling them, Declan stared down at the coffin with a dark, steely determination.

  ‘I’ll get them for you, Dad,’ he muttered to himself.

  He looked around the graveyard of St Mary The Virgin. It was quiet. The whole village of Hurley-Upon-Thames was quiet, to be honest. It always had been. It was one of the reasons he’d run away at eighteen to join the army. Since then he’d only really returned for marriages, birthdays, Christmases and funerals.

  Like this one.

  Across the hole stood two mourners; the first, a woman in her late thirties, her blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail stared into the grave with tears running down her eyes. The other mourner was a teenage girl, no older than fifteen. Her hair was currently cut short and blue, her black glasses chunky and unneeded. She smiled at Declan, a sympathetic smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  He made his way over to them.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said softly.

  Elizabeth Walsh looked up from the grave, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief.

  ‘Of course we came you idiot,’ she replied. ‘I loved the old sod. And I wasn’t going to stop Jess saying goodbye to her grandfather.’

  Jessica Walsh gave her father a hug.

  ‘You doing okay?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve been better,’ Declan replied honestly. ‘You guys going to the wake?’

  Elizabeth shook her head. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said, looking back to the leaving mourners. ‘Most of them are police. Your world. Not mine anymore.’ She looked to her daughter. ‘Besides, Jess has a test tomorrow.’

  She looked back to Declan, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘You should go,’ she finished. ‘It might be good for you.’

  Declan shrugged. ‘I’ll see.’

  Elizabeth nodded and, looking to Jessica the two mourners turned from the grave and started back towards the church.

  ‘Hey,’ Declan called out, pausing them. ‘Maybe I could see Jess on Saturday?’

  Elizabeth frowned at this. ‘It’s not scheduled.’

  ‘I know,’ Declan looked to the grave. ‘I could just… Well, I could really use something right now.’

  Elizabeth looked to her daughter, who nodded eagerly.

  ‘Email me about it,’ she replied, and the two continued on. Declan was about to follow them back to the car park when he saw that he still wasn’t alone. A young man, no more than eighteen or nineteen years old was standing the other side of the hole, as if waiting to speak. He wore his police constable uniform, but couldn’t have been long out of Hendon Training College.

  ‘You okay?’ Declan asked.

  ‘I just wanted to say sir, that I’m sorry,’ the young policeman replied. ‘Your father spoke to us at training school. He was an inspiration.’

  ‘First off, it’s a funeral. I’m just Declan. Secondly, I’m not a Detective Inspector while I’m on suspension.’ As he said the line, Declan felt the twinge of anger rise. He relaxed, letting the anger flow out. He didn’t need that today.

  The young copper shook his head.

  ‘Crying shame what happened,’ he said.

  ‘It’ll be sorted in the end,’ Declan gave a smile. ‘but thanks.’

  ‘I didn’t mean for you,’ the policeman said, his tone changing. ‘I meant for the department. You’re nothing but a grass.’ And with that, he left the grave side, walking off with the stiff gait of someone who had spoken their piece, walked away and was very much aware that they were likely to be punched for it.

  Declan chuckled as he looked back to the hole. This wasn’t the first time he’d had someone say something similar to him. The future career of Declan Walsh seemed to be a polarising debate right now. Picking up a rose from one of the folding stands beside the grave, Declan tossed it into the hole, letting it join the others scattered across his father’s coffin. Then, without another word, he turned and walked towards the village high street with a quickened pace. The last thing he wanted to do right now was attend the wake, especially one filled with police Superintendents who were as pissed at him as the young policeman had been, or village friends who all knew the ‘stories’, usually told to them by his dad in the same pub. Declan Walsh was the black sheep of a long and proud tradition of policemen, and right now he didn’t need any more lectures.

  Best to get in the car and drive home before the dirt was shovelled.

  It seemed however that he was likely to get one final lecture, for as he approached his car in the car park beside Monk’s Barn, he could see there was a man standing beside it.

  In the black suit of a mourner and slim with a runner’s frame, the man straightened as he saw Declan approach. White hair, thinning at the parting framed a face with clear, blue eyes; ones that pierced through when they turned their gaze to you. There was a well-cropped white beard under them.

  That’s new, Declan thought to himself as he approached. The white haired man nodded to him.

  ‘Aye Declan, you look like shite,’ he said, his voice showing the slightest edge of a Glaswegian twang, as if the man had once lived there, but had spent so long away that the accent was barely hanging on. Which was true, because Detective Chief Inspector Alexander Monroe had left Scotland more than thirty years back.

  ‘DCI Monroe,’ Declan replied, nodding politely.

  ‘Oh, so it’s DCI today?’ Monroe said, a small smile on the edge of his lips. ‘Good to know.’ He looked Declan up and down. ‘You’ve put on weight,’ he said. ‘And shaved the beard off.’

  Declan looked down at himself. He wasn’t large, but he was stocky; years of playing Rugby did that to him. But since his suspension, he’d wallowed in self-pity and pizza. As for his beard, he’d shaved it off when Elizabeth left him; although his auburn hair was clear of any white hairs, his beard was a traitor to his looks, the salt and pepper within it coming through since he turned forty last year.

  He smiled at Monroe’s words though. He knew that the DCI already knew all of this.

  ‘I had to,’ he said, pointing at Monroe’s neat white beard. ‘Couldn’t have both of us be bearded at the same time.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Monroe nodded. ‘It would in fact destroy the very fabric of the universe.’ He looked to Declan’s car. ‘You’re not going to drive to the wake, are you? It’s only five minutes’ walk down the road.’

  ‘Wasn’t intending to go, sir.’

  ‘Dec, it was your father.’

  Declan stiffened at the name. He had only ever been called Dec by Monroe and his father.

  ‘Do you have a reason for me to be there?’ he asked slowly. The DCI was usually a straight talking man, and Declan knew that if something was going on, Monroe would tell him rather than delay it. Monroe in turn nodded.

  ‘I do, laddie,’ he said.

  ‘Then say it now,’ Declan continued to his car, opening the driver’s door. ‘Because I’ve had my fill of people telling me I’m a thug, a traitor or a grass for doing what I did.’

  ‘As you should. But I’m not here to say any of those things, unless you wanted me to,’ Monroe smiled. It was one of those smiles that is made to try to give ease; and just like Jessica’s earlier, it was one that didn’t quite reach the
eyes. ‘Trust me, I’m only saying that you should come to the pub and have a drink with me, because you’ll probably bloody well need one when I tell you what I have to say.’

  Well that doesn’t sound ominous at all, Declan thought to himself.

  ‘Fine,’ He sighed as he closed the door and locked the car once more. ‘But you’re buying.’

  ‘You don’t even have money behind the bar at your father’s wake?’ Monroe tutted as he turned and walked down the country lane, away from Declan. ‘Bad form, laddie.’

  Sighing audibly and staring up at the sky, as if looking for the spectre of his father to be staring down from the heavens laughing uproariously at this, Declan swore under his breath and then trotted off to catch up with Monroe.

  Because it seemed that DI Declan Walsh was going to his father’s wake after all.

  2

  A Second Chance

  Although they’d arrived at The Olde Bell around the same time as the mourners, Monroe took Declan to a booth in the downstairs bar rather than joining them upstairs. Placing a pint of Guinness in front of Declan, his own drink a clear liquid with ice and tonic; either a vodka, or more likely one of the many varieties of gin that the bar stocked placed on the other side, he sat down facing Declan.

  There was a moment of silence.

  ‘Good to see Lizzie and Jessie there,’ Monroe eventually said. Declan nodded.

  ‘She’s fifteen now. Can you believe it?’

  Monroe chuckled. ‘You’re getting old,’ he said. ‘Soon you’ll be a grandfather.’

  ‘Christ no,’ Declan laughed. ‘She’s going to a nunnery when she’s sixteen.’

  ‘And Lizzie? You’re still talking?’

  ‘We’re doing okay. But it’s cordial and distanced, you know? not like it used to be.’

  ‘She forgive you yet?’ Monroe sipped at his drink. ‘For picking the force over her?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ Declan replied into his own drink.