Dead and Gone

by D. L. Michaels

  His comment stuns me. Yes, I suppose I should have. In my mind, I’d always done my best for him, supported him, stood by him.

  ‘You only ever made me feel small, Paula.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘It is. Take when I went to prison. You took over the business and ran it, better than I ever did. I come out of the nick and there’s no job for me, but you’ve suddenly got a fuckin’ empire to run.’

  ‘I had to feed us, Danny.’

  ‘I know you did. But then you went beyond all that, didn’t you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, you didn’t fuckin’ stop. Earning enough to feed us is one thing, but you had to borrow money, didn’t you? Invest in things, open shops, work, work, work.’

  ‘That’s what people do, Danny. To get on in the world you have to work hard and keep working hard.’

  ‘There you go, lecturin’ me again. Danny the Idiot has to learn from Paula the Genius. Well, we can’t all be Stephen Bloody Hawking, Paula. Some of us are stuck being idiots, whether we like it or not.’

  ‘You’re not an idiot. You know you’re not. All I’ve ever wanted is for us to grow together as a couple,’ I tell him, ‘to better ourselves and to get on in life. Is that so bad?’

  ‘Did you ever think that maybe I didn’t want to change like you did? That I didn’t want a better you, or better me. I loved “the us” we was.’

  ‘Were. You mean the us we were, not was.’

  ‘See.’ He gives me a scalding look. ‘Even now, you can’t stop correctin’ me. You’ve always been tryin’ to correct me, change me, control me. Make me someone I’m not. Someone you wish I was. Or should I say, wish I were?’

  Oh, God. Have I really done that?

  Have I been such a selfish, self-absorbed bitch that I didn’t see what I was doing to him?

  Or is he just being smart?

  Manipulative?

  Making me feel guilty, as he’s done a thousand times before.

  ‘Cat got your tongue, Paula?’

  ‘I’m thinking about what you just said.’

  ‘That’s because you know it’s true. Just a shame you didn’t think about it before you jumped in bed with Martin Wanker Johnson.’

  ‘I didn’t come here to argue or upset you, Danny.’

  ‘Well, you did – and you are.’

  ‘I came, because - well, I have a proposal for you. I—’

  ‘Hey, Paula – aren’t you done making proposals?’ he says sarcastically. ‘I mean, aren’t two bleedin’ marriages enough for you?’ He laughs at his own pun.

  ‘This baby that I’m carrying—’

  His smile has gone. ‘You’re goin’ to tell me it’s his?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You fuckin’ bitch.’

  For a second, I think he’s going to jump out of bed, pull the drips from his arms and knock over the machines. ‘There’s just as much chance it’s yours. Every bit as much.’ I put a hand on my tummy. ‘This child might well be yours.’

  ‘Oh, you are fuckin’ tricky, you are.’

  ‘Whatever mess you are in – we are in – we can’t let it affect the child. You understand that, don’t you?’

  ‘You mean affect you.’

  ‘No, I don’t. Like you said, if nothing else, the police are going to prosecute me for bigamy, and I’ll probably go to prison for a long time. The baby I’m carrying will be born in jail. And unless provisions are made with the father then it will go into social care.’

  ‘Care?’

  ‘Yes. And you and I both know about social care. Whatever our differences, I don’t think we disagree on the fact that we don’t want a child, my child, probably your child, to go into care.’

  I look at him and see I have his focus, his total attention. ‘So, do you want to listen to my proposal or not? If not, fine, I can just turn around and walk away.’

  He shows me his surrender face. ‘What you offerin’?’

  ‘This – a chance for us to stay together; to turn back the clock and start again – with a child for us to look after.’

  88

  Annie

  ‘I’m just out,’ I tell Nisha on the hands-free, as I drive away from Raurie Crewe’s offices.

  ‘How did he react?’ she asks eagerly.

  ‘Like a guilty-as-hell, no-good, slippery-as-an-eel cheating bag of scum.’

  ‘Sounds like you hit it off,’ she jokes. ‘Just a sec.’

  I hear her tap away on a computer keyboard.

  ‘Crewe’s using his mobile as we speak,’ announces Nisha.

  ‘First call of many, I suspect.’ I feel a tingle of satisfaction. ‘Domestic or international?’

  ‘Domestic.’

  ‘Text me as soon as you have a name for the caller. And go through the payroll, NI records for Crewe and Co Carriers and Logistics; see if you can find someone by the first name of Chomechai. Then I want all her personal phone records, along with those of Raurie Crewe. Oh, and pull her credit and bank details as well.’

  ‘Will do. Goodwin’s given me a couple more detective constables for the next two shifts.’

  ‘Mr Goodwin’s a good man. Work them hard. The clock’s ticking. I’ll catch you later.’

  ‘Oh, I forgot,’ shouts Nisha. ‘Charlie York’s been looking for you – says he wants to say goodbye before he heads back to London.’

  ‘I’m sure he does. Tell him I’ll call as soon as I can.’

  ‘Laters, as our Nadiya says.’

  ‘Laters,’ I echo, thinking how much Tom would cringe if he heard me.

  I switch on the radio and listen to the news while I drive. I’m hoping that after so many years of getting away with the deception, Raurie Crewe is going to be panicked into mistakes. I’ve put Ashley top of his day’s agenda. Who he rings, visits and meets within the next hour or so will prove critical. If I’ve got things right, and there’s no guarantee that I have, then this old case is about to pick up its own new momentum.

  Finally, I get to calling Charlie.

  ‘At last,’ he says, no doubt reading my number on his mobile. ‘I thought you were going to send me back to London, without so much as a tear in your eye.’

  ‘I will certainly miss your cheesy charm, DI York, that’s for sure. Any news on Richardson?’

  ‘I wish. The bugger is still well hidden. But have no fear, he’ll turn up. Bad pennies always do.’

  My satnav beeps a warning of speed cameras ahead, and I take my foot off the accelerator. ‘I’ve a few things to catch you up on, Charlie, but not over the phone. Fancy a swift drink before you head south?’

  ‘Sure,’ he says, ‘but I do have to leave tonight.’

  ‘I know. How about we meet in The Brown Bear – the place where we went the other night – say at four?’

  ‘Yeah, four should be fine. Hey, Annie…’ his voice has softened ‘…do you ever think about it?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘You and me. And that Christmas.’

  I let out a sigh. ‘I told you, Charlie, I’m still getting over Jack. Please don’t ladle your flattery all over me.’

  ‘It’s not flattery. I think about that Christmas. I think about it, and I think about you, a lot.’

  ‘Charlie.’ I try to cut him off.

  ‘I had a bad marriage, and when it finished I made bad decisions on what to do with my life. You could have changed my life, Annie. I just want you to know that.’

  The line goes crackly and the call ends before I can decide whether he’s serious or not.

  89

  Martin

  The police give me sausage and mash for lunch, served late, because a microwave blew a power socket. As I inspect the magnolia mass of instant potato I realise I’ve not had this since I was a kid and, despite the gloomy surroundings of my cell, I can’t help but smile as schoolday memories are triggered.

  I used to shape the mash into a boat, cut the sausage into two and make funnels for wha
t I always imagined was an opulent cruise liner sailing great oceans, narrowly missing icebergs and exploring lands that had never been discovered.

  The recollection is so comforting I find myself doing the same again, only more to pass the time than to recreate a childhood narrative. Once completed, I’ve no real desire to consume the stodge. I bite the top off a sausage and instantly wish I hadn’t. A swig of soapy-tasting tea is needed to swallow the mouthful of gristle and fat.

  Talking to Sarah lifted my spirits. I know I can never forget what she has done. And I suspect I can never forgive it. But maybe I can try. Perhaps trying is the first step to being able to do it.

  The door opens and, respectfully (it must be my middle-class upbringing), I get up from my bunk and stand, with my hands at my side and my shoulders straight.

  A small, slim man in a brown suit is shown in by a uniformed bobby. He has a brown leather briefcase in one hand. The other he extends to me. ‘Martin, my name is Terence Mellenby. Sarah has asked me to come here and represent you.’ He looks pointedly to the PC who showed him in and the bobby takes it as his cue to leave and close the door on us.

  ‘I don’t think I need a lawyer,’ I say lamely.

  ‘I know you do. Please listen to what I have to say. Afterwards, you can still make that decision to be unrepresented, if you wish to.’

  ‘I’ve already told the police everything and made a statement.’

  ‘It can always be retracted.’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s another factor. I don’t have the money to pay for lawyers. I think it best if—’

  ‘Mr Johnson, I am retained by Sarah and instructed to inform you that she will cover any and all costs related to your case, including Queen’s Counsel if required.’

  I’m taken aback. ‘She has the money to do that?’

  He shifts awkwardly. ‘She does.’ He looks to my bunk and the one chair. ‘May we sit, so I can make some notes and we can be slightly more comfortable?’

  ‘Please.’ I wave a hand at the plastic chair. ‘I am afraid I can’t offer you anything else in terms of hospitality.’

  He smiles. ‘I’m more used to these surroundings than my own home.’

  We both sit. He unbuckles his briefcase and takes out a wad of notes attached to a clipboard and a fat but very expensive-looking black ballpoint pen. ‘Before we begin, I’m also briefed to tell you that my company, Mellenby and Critch, have represented Mrs Johnson privately and professionally for more than a decade, though, I confess, we have mainly known her as Paula Smith.’ Those last words sting me like a cat-o’-nine-tails.

  ‘She has given me permission to answer any questions you may have and fully disclose to you any information you may require about her or her affairs.’

  ‘Is there much?’ I ask, feeling overwhelmed and bewildered.

  ‘Much what, Mr Johnson? Much money? Much business?’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. I simply meant, is there much more to disclose? You know, after a secret marriage and a secret pregnancy – there can’t be much else – can there?’

  He dips a hand into his case and produces a manila folder.

  I see the name on it. PAULA SMITH/SARAH JOHNSON.

  ‘You’re free to look at this file. You’ll see from it that she is a very successful businesswoman and has considerable financial assets.’

  I pick it up and pass it back to him. ‘I’ve never cared about businesses or money, Mr Mellenby. Especially now.’ My eyes roam over the small cell. ‘Not very much seems to matter, except maybe getting out of here.’

  ‘Which is the very reason why I am here.’ He puts the file on the small table next to him. ‘I gather from the police that you made a full admission that you shot Danny Smith, an intruder in your home, with a shotgun that you had with you in the lounge at the time of his entry.’

  ‘That’s right. Do you know how he is?’

  ‘I do. He is out of surgery and recovering from his wounds.’

  ‘Were they very bad?’

  ‘He needed minor surgery to remove particles of rock salt and rice. And a small transfusion to replace lost blood. Otherwise, he’s doing fine.’

  I lower my head and feel terrible. ‘At the moment that I pulled the trigger I wanted him to suffer. Maybe even wanted to kill him. Now I simply wish I’d never laid eyes on him.’

  ‘Sarah met with Mr Smith, an hour ago.’

  I look up. ‘She what?’

  ‘She visited him in hospital.’

  I realise now that she must have gone there immediately after we’d spoken.

  ‘And as a result of her conversation with him, Mr Smith is in the process of informing the police that he will not testify against you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He smiles as though he knows something. ‘I don’t think that matters. The point is, Mr Johnson, that if you now withdraw your statement, then the police will have immense difficulty in prosecuting you for the shooting. And given they haven’t yet charged you, I imagine the Crown Prosecution Service wouldn’t wish to waste taxpayer’s money by proceeding with a case where neither the alleged victim nor alleged attacker are willing to offer testimony.’

  ‘You didn’t really answer my question, Mr Mellenby. Why isn’t Smith willing to press charges?’

  He shrugs. ‘That I do not know. Sarah did not take me into her confidence on the matter.’ He pulls a paper off his clipboard. ‘This is a document authorising me to represent you.’

  He hands it over, along with the fat pen.

  ‘If you could kindly sign it, then I can get down to the business of informing the detectives of your decision to retract, and, hopefully, within the hour you can be out of here and back home.’

  90

  Annie

  The Brown Bear is a downtrodden pub that’s fortuitously swerved countless threats of renovation and bistro-isation. You walk through the front door onto a well-worn coir mat, push open a second door and there it is in all its naked glory, like Grandma in a nudist camp.

  Ruddy red tiles beckon you to a five-pump centre bar full of gleaming brass and glass, copper drip trays, chequered beer towels and big wall mirrors that make the room look Tardis-large. Dark wood tables and chairs stand in two dog-legged sitting areas, one with an open fire, the other with a foot-scuffed swing door leading to the toilets. Outside for men. Inside for women. No bar food, just packets of crisps, nuts and pork scratchings stapled to cards hung near the optics. The walls are half panelled and half covered in old nicotine-yellowed wallpaper that the landlord painted clear varnish over, as a memorial to all the smokers now banished to the street.

  The place is actually no more than a physical and emotional shelter, which I guess is why coppers, nurses, doctors and firefighters have always made up most of the clientele. We dealers in death, we who meander amongst the mutilated and the murdered, we sometimes need to drink. Not sip-of-wine-between-posh-food drink. Serious, sit-at-a-table-and-get-hammered drink.

  It’s ten past four and Charlie is a no show. I finish my drink and go to the bar and order another tonic water. I’ve no intention of being smashed today. I take it back to my seat by the crackling fire and settle down. I look around the pub. Most of the faces are familiar to me. Regulars if you like. But there are a few newbies. The old hands watch with a superior sense of amusement as the barman pours scorn on requests for menus or a wine list.

  The door opens.

  It’s not Charlie.

  In comes a building-site worker. A man in a yellow high-vis jacket, filthy black trousers and pristine new boots. He has his hard hat in his hands and he’s staring inside it, as though he’s lost something.

  He looks up and around the room.

  Something’s wrong.

  Our eyes meet.

  Colin Richardson.

  From the hard hat, he produces a Glock.

  The best I can do is shout, ‘Gun!’

  There are screams as he fires. My screams. My out-of-body screams, sounding as if they’re coming from
speakers on the walls.

  One shot.

  Two shots.

  Three.

  He hits my chest with all of them.

  The bullets feel like rapid, pounding punches from a heavyweight boxer. Air turns to fire in my lungs. I can’t breathe. I feel like I’m suffocating.

  As I fall, I see the ceiling of the pub, the swirls on the cracked, filthy Artex. My shoulder cracks against a table. My spine hits a log basket. I thump my elbow as I hit the floor. Glasses crash as others rush from tables.

  More shots.

  Two in rapid succession.

  Both from the other side of the room.

  ‘Officer down!’ a woman officer shouts above my head.

  I’m in shock and I’ve lost perspective. It seems like the whole room has tilted and everything has slid on top of me.

  ‘Stand back. Don’t move her,’ says a commanding male voice. ‘Shift those tables, get everyone away.’

  A clean-shaven face with brown eyes peers down at me. Two minutes ago, he’d been studying the Racing Post on the other side of the bar. He unzips my anorak. His eyes dart around my chest. ‘You’re okay,’ he says. ‘The vest’s intact. It’s done its job.’

  ‘Good grouping,’ says an insensitive female firearms officer from over his shoulder.

  Dr Browneyes puts his hands either side of my face. ‘Do you have any pain in your neck?’

  ‘Not my neck, no. But my elbow and bum hurt like mad.’

  ‘Okay, lie still while I check you over and get you out of your vest.’

  ‘It’s a while since a man told me to do that,’ I joke.

  Alice Ross’s young and excited face pops into view. ‘Richardson’s dead, ma’am. TFU shot him.’

  The slow ripping noise of Velcro fills the room as the doctor opens up my ballistic vest. ‘I want to sit you up, Annie, but tell me straight away if you feel any pain.’

  Several hands support me.

  ‘Slowly,’ shouts the doctor.

  They get me upright, then finish peeling off my anorak and vest. The doc looks intently into my eyes. ‘Okay?’

  I nod.

  ‘Help her stand, please.’

  A mix of male and female plain-clothes officers lift me to my feet. The pub had been filled with them – and them only. I’d asked for the operational back-up because I’d expected to make the arrest of Charlie York, and knew it would need several men to bring him in.