Dead and Gone

by D. L. Michaels

  He moves his trembling fingers and I see his chin and left cheek have been caught. But only a little. His eyes, nose and mouth are untouched. Most of the blast hit his left shoulder and arm. Penetrated his jacket and top. Left blood dribbling from his left hand.

  I’m experienced enough to know Danny Smith is in shock. His pupils are huge and he’s purple in the face. His brain is probably telling him it’s worse than it is. He’s not going to die from the shooting.

  Not if I ring an ambulance and help him.

  Not if I pull off his jacket, find the bleed, control it and keep him calm.

  He’ll be fine if I do all that.

  But I’m not sure I want to.

  I touch my cheek. It’s wet. His blood is on me. Spatter blown back from the shotgun blast. It’s on my lips. I taste it by accident. Salty. Metallic. And I see it now, the blood of my enemy, up the walls and ceiling, across the sofa, a cabinet and the floor rug.

  I look down at him.

  He has passed out.

  I kneel quickly and check his breathing.

  Shallow.

  I bend his knees and roll him into the recovery position so he doesn’t block his airway with his tongue or choke on any vomit. Then I go to the phone on a table near the window. It’s just in front of the curtains that I drew when I wanted him to see me, wanted him to come and get shot.

  I pick it up. Dial 999. Turn to face him as I hear the call connect.

  ‘Hello,’ says a woman. Her voice is clear and unhurried. ‘What service do you require: Fire, Ambulance or Police?’

  ‘Ambulance, please.’

  ‘Your name and location, caller.’

  ‘My name is Martin Johnson and I am at number 1, Lamplighter Lane, Chipping Norton in Oxfordshire.’ I pause fractionally, then add, ‘And I need the police as well.’ I look down at Smith. ‘I’ve just shot a man, he’s unconscious and bleeding badly.’

  71

  Paula

  I’m back in the warmth. Back in the now all too familiar interview room at the police station. But everything feels different. Words change things. What I’ve said has changed not only the look on people’s faces, but their behaviour towards me.

  Until my confession, a police station was somewhere to walk into for help. Not anymore. It’s my prison. Although they’ve not charged me yet, they may as well have done. Doors are locked and officers are never more than a few metres away.

  The detectives I’ve been speaking to are still at what everyone in here calls ‘the scene’, the place Danny and I buried Ashley. So, I’m sitting in the same seat at the same table, but for the moment there is only my conscience to interrogate me. The Grand Inquisitor. And I’m not ready for that. Not again.

  A jug of tap water and two dusty glasses stand in the middle of the scratched black table top, along with mugs of undrinkable tea and a plate of inedible cheese and pickle sandwiches that look so dry they must have been made before I was born.

  Bread and water.

  Isn’t this the traditional prisoner’s platter?

  All I want to do is sleep. Sleep and shut off reality. But I know there will be no rest for a while. Not until they’ve exhumed the body and charged me with murder. And then, I suppose, they will move on to the lesser charge of bigamy.

  My lawyer has called DI Parker and asked if we might go to a hotel and return in the morning, but she has said she’d rather we waited here. Terry’s interpretation is that I’ll be arrested if I attempt to leave. He expects me to be charged in the morning and, given my pregnancy, says there’s a good chance I’ll be given bail. Right now, he’s outside somewhere. He said he had calls to make and would be back shortly. I suspect he just needed a break from me. I know I do. Like the regular visitor and the long-term hospital patient, we’ve long passed the point of having nothing more to say to each other.

  Above my head, an air-con unit intermittently clatters then bombs the room with smells of canteen chip fat. It reminds me that I must eat something soon. Not for my sake but for the baby’s.

  Another clatter breaks my carefully cultivated non-concentration and makes me wonder what prison will be like.

  It can’t be worse than this.

  One seat. One view. No bed.

  At least in jail, things will have been decided. The weight of hiding a quarter of a century of lies will have been lifted. And when baby comes, the conditions are bound to be better. Maybe even normal.

  For all the luxuries in my life, I find right now that I don’t need any of them. Peace of mind and uncomplicated love from another person are what I crave. And I will have that. No matter how the guards or other prisoners behave towards me, I will treat myself as someone who is becoming good. Becoming a better person. And I will be proud to make that journey.

  A clunk turns my head to the door.

  It opens.

  This is it.

  The moment they are going to charge me.

  I take a deep breath.

  DS Patel walks in, her face seriously grim.

  Terry is right behind her.

  ‘I have some news,’ says Patel, walking to the table, but not taking a seat. ‘And it’s not good, I am afraid.’

  My heart is in my mouth. I find it hard to swallow.

  ‘Your husband, Danny, has been shot and is on his way to hospital.’

  ‘It seems Martin shot him,’ adds Terry.

  ‘What?’ I struggle to process it.

  ‘Not everything is clear,’ she says. ‘From what we know, there was a confrontation at Mr Johnson’s house. He shot Danny and then called for an ambulance.’

  My mind is in a spin.

  I can’t begin to think this is possible. I didn’t even know Martin had a gun, or would be capable of doing such a thing. ‘How badly is Danny hurt?’

  ‘He’s been taken to hospital and is being operated on. That’s all I know. That and the fact that the weapon used was a shotgun.’

  ‘Dear God. I can’t believe this.’ Now I feel angry as well as confused. ‘I gave you Martin’s address and phone number. I told you he was in danger. How could you let this happen?’

  ‘Thames Valley Police were immediately informed of your concerns and I believe an arrest warrant had been issued for Mr Smith.’

  My mind turns to Martin. He must be in an awful state. Twenty-four hours ago he was happy, now his life is in pieces. ‘Where is he? What’s happening to him now?’

  ‘Where is who?’ asks the DC.

  ‘Sorry. Martin. Where’s Martin now?’

  ‘He’s been arrested and is in police custody, in Chipping Norton.’

  I feel too sick to speak.

  ‘What has he been charged with?’ asks Terry.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know that,’ says Patel. She gets up, pushes the chair back under the table and beats a hasty retreat to the door.

  Terry picks up the water jug. ‘You want some?’

  ‘No.’ I nod to where Patel was. ‘She knows more than she’s saying.’

  ‘Of course, she does.’ He pours a glass for himself. Only now do I notice a smell of dampness and tobacco. He must have stepped outside for a cigarette. ‘I know this is hard,’ he says, ‘but you need to clear your mind of Martin – and of Danny. We need to talk quickly about your case.’

  ‘I have no brain capacity left, Terry. And anyway, haven’t we talked enough about it?’

  ‘A senior partner in my office has spoken to her contact at the Crown Prosecution Service. It seems the CPS is conducive to charging you with manslaughter rather than murder.’

  ‘Manslaughter?’

  ‘Yes. It’s good news in terms of sentencing.’

  ‘Please don’t raise my hopes unnecessarily, Terry. Why wouldn’t they charge me with murder?’

  ‘It’s a legal technicality, relating to “provisions for loss of control as a result of provocation”. Crewe’s sexual assault on you constitutes extreme provocation and the CPS is sympathetic to it. What we may have to do is prove the rape. Did you tel
l anyone else at the time? Anyone other than Danny?’

  I feel a wave of shame submerge me again. I really thought I’d overcome all this unjustifiable self-hatred. ‘No. I didn’t tell anyone else. Not a teacher. Not a doctor. Not another living soul.’

  He senses my anxiety. ‘Okay. Don’t worry about that. We’ll trace other children who attended Lawndale and collect testimonies about Crewe’s character and behaviour. From what you’ve told us there will be no shortage of people attesting to his bullying and groping.’

  A thought hits me. ‘And if you don’t?’

  Terry’s eyes narrow before he answers, ‘Then things get difficult. If there’s no independent corroboration and Danny doesn’t support your story, then we can’t prove the rape. That could result in you facing a murder charge, and, if found guilty, then a mandatory life sentence.’

  72

  Annie

  Professor Isaac Symonds is close to retirement. And the closer he gets, the shorter his temper. He’s small, all but bald, bespectacled and brilliant. There isn’t a detective in the region who hasn’t learnt something from him and the first lesson is don’t waste his time. To that end, I brief him quickly as he gets out of his personal-plated Land Rover and dons full forensic suit, gloves, wellies and coat.

  ‘Sounds quite a case, Annie,’ he says as we step onto walk boards leading to the excavation scene. ‘How much of the corpse has been exposed by the digging?’

  ‘Very little. I called the team off once we saw the outline of a body, boots and clothing that had been described to us by an interviewee.’

  ‘Good decision. You’ll be surprised how many SIO’s allow heavy handed PCs to chop away with spades and trowels until they crunch through bone. Then we end up with a real mess. I’ll examine the body in situ but won’t be able to tell you much, so please don’t go asking me stupid questions.’

  ‘You mean like can you tell how long the body has been there?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean. We’ll need to do carbon dating on both the cadaver and surrounding earth in order to establish that. And before you ask, no, I won’t have answers for you tomorrow. It’ll take days rather than hours.’

  ‘Then I promise not to ask.’

  ‘Such compliance would please me greatly.’

  ‘What will you be able to tell tonight?’

  ‘Sex. The bones will inform us of masculinity or femininity. And, of course, if there are breakages to the skull or other parts of the skeleton then you may be able to begin your hypothesising. I will, however, reserve comment for my report.’

  We stop under the canopy of the white forensic tent. A small ladder has been positioned against the walk boards, so Symonds can step down into the freshly dug area. I watch him as he stands at the top and takes his first look at the body site.

  ‘Has all this been well photographed?’ he asks.

  ‘It has,’ I confirm.

  ‘Where’s the photographer?’ he asks irritably, his left hand above his eyes to shield them from the glare of floodlights.

  ‘Here, sir!’ Rex Watkins, our mid-thirties, CSU snapper, squelches out of the darkness into view. He raises the Canon DSLR strung over his yellow waterproof jacket to demonstrate his readiness to do the professor’s bidding.

  ‘You need to come down with me, young man. You’re not going to record anything useful from over there.’

  Watkins warily makes his way across, while the professor gives me a look that says I should already have introduced him to the snapper and ensured he stayed close to hand.

  Symonds sends Watkins down the ladder, then passes him his metal case and makes his own descent. He groans a little as he leans over the corpse, then gets down on his hands and knees.

  I watch with fascination as he uses a small pump to clear surface water, then forensic trowels, periodically lifting a hand and moving away so Rex can photograph something.

  ‘Detective Inspector Parker!’ bellows the professor.

  I move to the ladder as fast as a scolded schoolgirl being told to hurry to assembly.

  ‘Join me down here, please,’ he adds with some urgency.

  Someone holds the top while I climb down. My stomach thunders again as I brace myself for the grizzly sight of the long dead and buried remains of Ashley Crewe.

  Prof Symonds stands up and looks pained. ‘Swap places with me, Inspector. Tell me what you make of the corpse.’

  Nervously, I try to make my way past him. My left foot slips off the boardwalk and onto the muddy turf. The professor gallantly grabs my arm and steadies me.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say gratefully as I edge around him.

  Soil has been brushed off the skull and face of the body.

  I place the features instantly.

  And when I do, I am horrified.

  73

  Paula

  They’ve brought fresh tea and some less than fresh fruit. The tea is undrinkable, but I force myself to eat a blackened banana.

  Terry toys with a wrinkly apple. ‘I asked for a knife to peel this thing and apparently that’s a no-no.’

  ‘In case I kill you with it?’ I joke.

  He smiles. ‘No, in case you kill yourself.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yes, seriously.’ For a moment, he looks at me and seems embarrassed, then adds, ‘I’ve been told that from now on the police are going to refer to you as Paula Smith, not Sarah Johnson.’

  I shrug. ‘I guess they had to choose one. It’s not a problem.’

  The door opens again and DS Patel enters and shuts it behind her.

  This time she says nothing until she reaches the table and sits down.

  ‘I’ve just spoken to DI Parker—’

  My heart misses a beat.

  ‘There is nobody at the site.’

  ‘What do you mean, nobody?’

  ‘Sorry, I should have been clearer. No body. As in no corpse. No Ashley Crewe.’

  Terry and I look at each other. ‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘How can that be?’

  ‘I was hoping you could tell me.’

  I’m lost for words. A thousand questions spring to mind. Could I have got the wrong spot? Did the police misunderstand where I told them to dig? Could animals have taken the body away?

  ‘How’s your Latin, DS Patel?’ asks Terry, with a hint of a smile. ‘Do you understand the phrase, corpus delicti?’

  ‘I do, sir,’ she answers.

  ‘Body of evidence,’ he says for my benefit. ‘No body, no case to answer.’

  ‘Not quite, sir,’ insists the DS. ‘There have been prosecutions for murder when no body has been found.’

  ‘Not enough to hang your career on.’ He gathers his files. ‘I take it my client is therefore free to leave.’

  ‘We’d rather you waited,’ says Patel. ‘DI Parker wishes to talk to you both; she’s on her way back here.’

  ‘What you’d rather and what you’re able to impose upon us are not the same thing, as we both know.’ He turns to me. ‘If you wish to go to a local hotel, it is within your rights to do so.’

  Patel looks panicked.

  ‘Let’s wait,’ I say to Terry. ‘I can’t leave like this. I need to know things. I need to know I’m not going mad.’

  74

  Annie

  I walk with Professor Symonds back to his Land Rover.

  To my relief, he’s surprisingly understanding and pleasant, given that I’ve made him drive almost a hundred miles to get muddied up unnecessarily and he now has to drive back again.

  ‘As I said when I arrived, you did the right thing, Annie,’ he reassures me. ‘Historic crimes are always made more difficult by inexperienced officers moving the corpse themselves. Just turning a skeleton that’s been years in the ground snaps bones and loses evidence. It’s just unfortunate the critical human features were all below surface and therefore not visible to you.’

  ‘The shape was that of a male adult body and the clothing we found matched descriptions our suspect g
ave us,’ I say defensively. ‘I’m so sorry we wasted your time.’

  ‘It’s not a waste. I have too large a caseload already, so I’m actually grateful not to have added to it.’

  I still can’t help but plead mitigation to my cock-up. ‘I spoke to the radar operator and he says the machine has no way of telling a skeleton from a mannequin. It detects objects, not what they’re made of.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ he says sourly. ‘I’m already fully aware of the geophysical limitations of Ground Penetrating Radar.’

  It’s an effort for Symonds to climb up into the 4x4 and I have to resist the urge not to give his bum a helpful shove, as I might a toddler.

  He slams the door, flashes a sympathetic smile, starts the engine and drives away.

  I make my way back to my colleagues.

  ‘We’ve done a sweep of the wider area,’ says Geoff, the radar man. ‘There’s no chance we missed anything. Come and look at the screen - I’ll talk you through the data.’

  ‘I don’t have time.’ I answer more curtly than intended. ‘Just give me a summary, and make it one you’re prepared to repeat to the ACC when he’s finished kicking my arse.’

  Almost as if standing in court, he reels off his reply. ‘Called to the location due south of the tourist landmark known as Black Rocks, I was shown an area of scrubland by Detective Inspector Parker and subsequently laid down a grid sheet in order to map the designated area. Once pegged and positioned, I carried out two sweeps of an area measuring initially fifty square metres and subsequently two hundred and fifty square metres. The first sweep indicated only one zone of interest, a body-shaped object in the sub soil about a metre and a half below ground. After excavation and discovery of only a mannequin and clothing, I immediately conducted the larger second sweep and found nothing of further significance.’

  ‘Good. That means we can categorically say we missed nothing?’

  ‘Oh, it’s back to we now, is it?’ Geoff smiles.

  ‘It was always we,’ I insist.

  ‘Then you’re right, we missed nothing.’