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

by Jack Gatland

  ‘Welcome back,’ he smiled, indicating his guest, now sitting straighter and with as fake a smile as Peter had beaming out through the camera. ‘We’re here with Charles Baker, the current Secretary of State for the Government.’

  Charles kept his smile, even though his eyes twitched at Peter’s usage of the term ‘current’.

  ‘Pleasure as always, Peter,’ he replied.

  Peter looked briefly at his notes before the camera turned back to him. ‘So before the commercial break, we were discussing the recent changes that have been happening since the last election—’

  ‘Which we won with a handsome majority,’ Charles interjected, still all smiles. ‘The British people put their faith in us, and we have delivered.’

  ‘But have you though?’ Peter asked, his smile fading. ‘I mean, with all the problems with Europe, the housing crisis, unemployment at its highest in a decade, you seem to constantly U-turn on yourselves.’

  Charles leaned forward, his smile also fading as if he realised that this was a serious question, and this meant that he needed to have a serious face to answer it.

  ‘I know there have been speedbumps along the way,’ he replied, ‘but the Conservative Government made a promise to steer us through these choppy waters; and that’s what we shall do.’

  ‘With a different Captain, perhaps?’ Peter pressed on.

  Charles paused, gathering his thoughts. He’d been waiting for this. Every time a Prime Minister faltered, the media started asking this.

  ‘I have the utmost faith in our leadership,’ he said calmly. ‘As does the rest of the cabinet.’

  Peter looked down at his cards as he responded.

  ‘And the rumours in yesterday’s Daily Mail, that you’re already being spoken of as a contender to the throne?’

  ‘As I said, I have the utmost—’

  ‘Yes, but you said the exact same thing in 2003 about Tony Blair before you jumped ship to the other side of the floor,’ Peter interrupted.

  Charles looked at Peter, his calm demeanour faltering. This wasn’t one of the pre-arranged questions. The bloody fool was going off script.

  ‘You have to take the context into account,’ Charles said calmly, while desperately thinking of an answer. The last thing he wanted was for people to remember that he used to be a Labour MP. ‘We’re not in the middle of an unsanctioned invasion, for a start.’

  There was a long moment of silence as Peter looked to his notes and nodded, ever so slightly. Probably getting a bollocking from his Producer in his earpiece, Charles thought.

  ‘Of course,’ Peter simply replied, looking back up. ‘We do indeed live in different times. Thank you for speaking to us today.’

  He looked to the camera.

  ‘And now, let’s go over to Gail Smith with the weather.’

  The Floor Manager looked up to the Director’s box, listening into his earpiece as the red light on the camera winked out.

  ‘And… We’re off for ninety seconds,’ he said as he turned from the set, walking back to one of the cameramen. Peter unclipped his mic and leaned over the side of the chair, pulling up an expensive water bottle from behind it.

  ‘Thanks for that, Charles,’ he said before taking a sip. Charles Baker tore his own mic off, tossing it onto the couch in anger.

  ‘You’re a prick, Morris,’ he snapped. ‘What the hell was that? We never discussed that! And the nerve of bringing up bloody Blair?’

  Peter smiled. ‘You want to be Prime Minister, you need to expect curveballs,’ he said. ‘And also, you need to gain the hearts and minds of people. My people. Currently, you’re just a miserable elitist who thinks that he’s better than everyone else.’

  Charles smiled, but there was no humour in it. ‘Who’s to say I’m not?’

  Peter leaned in.

  ‘Has the 1922 Committee spoken to you yet?’ he asked. Charles, already rising from the couch stopped.

  ‘Have you heard anything?’ he asked.

  Peter looked over to the crew as the Floor Manager returned. Reclipping his mic onto his shirt, he hid the bottle once more behind the chair.

  ‘Just that you have many skeletons, and your choice of friends and alliances in the past has been questionable,’ he said with a fake smile. ‘Better keep them hidden, eh? Oh, and if you could get off my set that’d be great. We’re about to go to Coventry for a bake sale.’

  Charles Baker stormed off the studio set in absolute fury and embarrassment, making a silent deal with himself; that when he was Prime Minister, he’d do whatever it took to ensure that Peter sodding Morris was blacklisted from all television.

  4

  Homecoming

  It had been about five years since Declan had visited his father in Hurley, but the doorstep he stood in front of was one of the most familiar sights he had ever seen. He’d grown up on this doorstep. He’d thrown up on this doorstep. He’d stormed out across this doorstep and had returned in both humility and triumph, although at separate times, over this doorstep.

  And now, key in hand, Declan was about to cross over it once more; although this time it was technically his doorstep.

  This was the part he couldn’t get his head around yet. The fact that the house he lived in for most of his childhood, that he watched his father grow old in, was now his. That said, as the only child of a widower, unless some kind of long lost brother or sister appeared out of nowhere, he was always going to inherit it.

  Declan paused, looking around briefly, as if expecting one to turn up. Then, key now in the lock, he opened the door and walked in.

  There was a pile of letters on the floor, all addressed to MR PATRICK WALSH, as if none of the companies posting to him even knew that he was dead. Declan had an irrational flash of anger before he realised that of course they wouldn’t know, and that it would now be his job to contact each and every one of these to inform them of this. He’d likely be contacting a lot of people to tell them.

  Thanks, Dad.

  He made his way into the living room now, tossing the envelopes onto a coffee table as he took off his overcoat and loosened his black silk tie, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt, stretching his neck, feeling the little stress clicks in his neck and shoulders as he manipulated them. Looking at a clock on the wall, he realised that no more than an hour had passed since he had said goodbye to his father at the church. In fact, the wake was probably still going on in the village. He had no desire to return, though.

  There was a smell in the house, a familiar one; a smell of old leather and musty books that took Declan back to his childhood. Idly walking over to a cabinet by the wall, Declan examined the photos in silver frames on the top. A photo of Declan’s parents on their wedding day. A family photo from five years earlier of Declan, Lizzie and Jess, ten years old here and with normal coloured hair. He picked it up, staring down at it, wondering how the last five years had turned so bad.

  Shaking himself out of the approaching melancholy, he opened the doors to a cabinet beneath the shelf, one he knew well, revealing a small but well curated selection of whisky bottles. Pulling the first he could see out, he examined it. A twenty year old Balvenie faced him.

  ‘You’ll do,’ he said, grabbing a tumbler and walking back to the coffee table. Placing tumbler and bottle onto the table, he looked around for somewhere to throw his jacket. It was then that he noticed the pile of A4 papers next to an old iMac, the desk that they were both on hidden in the alcove under the staircase. Walking over to it, he picked up the top sheet, staring at the words on it, his expression slowly darkening.

  ‘Oh, you stupid sod,’ he muttered as he picked up the other pages.

  It was a manuscript. A memoir, in matter of fact. His father’s memoir. Even from a cursory glance, he could see enough stories from his father’s time on the force to piss off half of the criminal underworld, not to mention a few top brass at New Scotland Yard. Placing the pile of papers back onto the desk, he returned to the coffee table and poured himself a gene
rous Balvenie, talking a sip of the whisky, letting it slide down his throat, warming it as he looked around the room.

  If anyone knew that this was being written, they’d have a reason to kill my father, he thought to himself. The motive was obvious now. All he needed to do was find the means and opportunity.

  But that would take research; something more than he could do alone in a Starbucks with a laptop and Google.

  With the tumbler in his hand, Declan took a stroll around the house, breathing in the memories from his childhood; the bannister that he would always slide down, until the time he slipped and cracked his head open; the small room that to a young Declan was the biggest bedroom in the world, the racing car wallpaper long covered by a more sensible green pattern; his parents room - more recently just his father’s room - the double bed and wardrobe still giving the impression that Declan’s mother, dead four years now was still living there; and finally the upstairs study, where Patrick Walsh worked when he was at home. This was now a junk room, with boxes strewn around the floor, and a variety of unused exercise equipment balanced against the walls.

  Declan went to leave, but something stopped him.

  Why would his father work in an alcove under the stairs, when he had a study?

  Declan could understand not using the spare bedroom, but Patrick wasn’t the sort of man who would dump things just to keep them out of the way.

  There was something else wrong with the room – Declan remembered it being the longest room in the house, almost running the length of the house itself; but here it seemed to be no longer than the bedroom next door.

  Making his way through the boxes of seeming junk, Declan realised that there was a kind of path that went to the back wall. And against the wall was a ceiling high empty bookcase, one that used to be filled with books and placed against a different wall when Declan was last in here.

  Positioning the tumbler of whisky precariously on one of the boxes, Declan investigated the base of the empty bookcase. To the side of it he could see that the carpet had also been flattened, as if something heavy and bookcase-shaped had been on it. Walking to the other side, Declan placed his hands on the wood and pushed at the bookcase.

  Slowly it slid across the carpet, revealing an opening within the wall.

  Looking at the makeshift entrance, Declan could now see that this wall was a new addition; quickly made, plastered and painted to look like the room, but hiding a small space behind it.

  Walking through the doorway into the secret room, Declan saw his father’s old desk against one wall, a tall filing cabinet next to it and a leather office chair discarded to the side. Piles of papers were on the desk; old case files and mugshots were strewn everywhere.

  But it was the other wall that paused Declan. A giant whiteboard had been screwed into it; the type that detectives just like Patrick would stick photos to when creating a crime board. Currently it held a mish mash of pictures, notes and threads linking faces together. Some of the faces Declan recognised; Johnny Lucas, one of the crime ‘twins’ of the East End stared out at him beside images of car accidents and gunshot victims. However some of the others were unknown to him, random images and faces from years of detective work. There were even photos of Hurley itself mixed in; the Lock across the Thames, a local campsite, the church… it made no sense to anyone except the person who put it together.

  Who was now gone.

  On the desk in the secret room was a single post-it note; all it had written on it was a name and a mobile phone number. Declan recognised both. It was the personal number of Kendis Taylor, currently a political reporter for The Guardian. Declan knew this because twenty years ago Kendis Taylor had been his girlfriend. And in that way that you do, he’d found himself bumping into her several times over the years.

  ‘Ah, Dad,’ he muttered. ‘Why the hell did you contact her of all people?’

  Carefully and reverently Declan exited the room, sliding the bookcase back over the door and picking up the whisky before it fell. He assumed this secret crime room was filled with research for his father’s memoirs, but why Patrick had gone to all this secrecy was beyond him. And as he walked back down the stairs, he decided that this was a mystery for another time. He had another, more time sensitive mystery in his overcoat.

  Returning to the armchair beside the coffee table, he sat for a moment, trying to process what he had just seen before reaching over to his coat and pulling out the manilla envelope. Finally opening it, he pulled out the small white business card, examining it in his hand. Monroe’s Last Chance Saloon.

  A thin envelope slipped out with the card, and Declan picked it up from where it had landed on the floor. It wasn’t postmarked, but the first class stamp was a picture of an eye, wide open with Millennium 2000 / Year of the Artist written up the side. The address was unknown to him, a suburb in Birmingham, but the name was familiar.

  Susan Galloway. The name that the younger sister of Victoria Davies used to be known by, before she had inherited Devington Industries.

  Opening the envelope, Declan pulled out the single sheet of paper. It felt expensive and high quality to the touch. At the top, in green was a small logo; a portcullis, chains either side of it and a crown on top. Declan knew immediately what this was, and the text underneath confirmed this. It was a sheet of headed paper from the Houses of Parliament.

  Looking back to the envelope, Declan saw that he’d missed the tiny portcullis on that too; stationery that could only have come from Westminster. Unfolding the letter again, he started to read. It was dated 24th December, 2000.

  Dear Susan, it started. By the time you read this, I’ll be dead.

  Declan paused, reaching for the whisky. Victoria Davies knew that Michael was going to kill her. She wrote this a week earlier, but somehow it was never sent. Or maybe it was lost on its journey. Finishing off the tumbler, Declan placed it back onto the coffee table and started from the top again.

  24th December, 2000.

  * * *

  Dear Susan. By the time you read this, I’ll be dead. I can’t speak to Michael about this, he doesn’t know about the baby yet and he’ll know it’s not his when he does. We’ve barely slept together since the incident in March, and thanks to you, I know he’s been sleeping with his PA, that bitch Francine.

  * * *

  I was hoping I could keep it from him until at least mid-Jan, but it looks like that won’t happen now.

  The problem is that if he found out the truth, he’d confront the real father, maybe take it higher up the chain, and then they’ll remove him, maybe in an ‘accident’ like that bitch Sarah. They might remove me, too. But I’m rambling.

  * * *

  I’m sorry. I’m so scared right now. I love him so much, and now they’re coming for me. I can’t have him involved; I need to finish this myself.

  The handwriting was written by pen, and near the end it started to waver, as if the person writing was shaking, possibly crying as they finished the letter.

  If I don’t make it, tell Michael that even though he’s a cheating ratbag, I do still love him. And tell him I’m sorry.

  * * *

  Love Vicky xx

  Declan stared at the letter for a good few minutes, half a dozen questions running through his head. If Victoria Davies knew her killer, and if it was Michael, then why would she write this? Was it even her handwriting? And more importantly, who was this mysterious ‘they’, and the bitch Sarah that was spoken of? Was Patrick Walsh wrong to have arrested Michael Davies? Did an innocent man die in prison?

  One thing was certain. Either way, Declan Walsh was going back to work tomorrow.

  It was getting dark when the homeless man made his way back to the street where the soup kitchen had been. As he expected, it had gone for the day. Sighing to himself, he walked over to a Natwest Bank, pausing by one of the ATM machines. He looked around to see if anyone was watching him, but nobody paid him the slightest attention.

  Good.

  Slowly, and w
ithout drawing any further attention, the homeless man reached into his trousers, pulling out a traveller’s wallet; the thin, skin coloured pouch that you wore under your clothing to ensure that when or if you were mugged on holiday, your valuables weren’t taken. Unzipping the pouch, the homeless man reached in and pulled out a debit card, the name on it reading SALLY DONNAL. The homeless man was definitely not a ‘Sally’, but he placed the card into the ATM anyway and tapped in the four number pin with the speed of a man who not only knew the number by heart, but had also tapped it in many times before.

  Checking the balance, he saw there was £50 available. There was always £50 available. She always made sure of that.

  She was a good girl, was Sally.

  Tapping on the screen, the homeless man withdrew the £50, tucking it carefully into the traveller’s wallet with the card. That would get him into a hostel for the night. After that, he could maybe—

  ‘Oi! You!’

  The voice from behind was confrontational and unfortunately familiar. The homeless man turned around to find himself once more facing the older man from earlier that day.

  ‘What you doing with the machine?’ the older man asked. The homeless man stayed silent. Unperturbed, the older man smiled a dark, triumphant smile.

  ‘I knew I’d seen you,’ he said. ‘took me a while but I don’t forget a face. It’s the eyes. I always get the eyes.’

  The homeless man went to move, but the older man stepped in front, blocking his way.

  ‘You’re Shaun Donnal, aren’t you,’ he said as more of a statement than a question. ‘You used to be my MP.’

  ‘You’re mistaken,’ the homeless man replied, trying once more with no success to leave the scene.

  ‘What a joke,’ the older man spat on the floor. ‘The Welfare Minister now on sodding welfare. Good riddance too.’