Dead and Gone

by D. L. Michaels

  He doesn’t really respond.

  Just stands stiffly.

  I’ve misread the signs. I step away a little and talk straight to my lawyer. ‘Can you give us a minute, please?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve got some calls to make.’ He takes out his phone and walks over to an archway at the side of the police station, presumably where it’s a little less noisy and windy.

  ‘How are you?’ asks Martin. He looks at my stomach, ‘How’s the baby?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I feel myself redden with guilt. ‘I wish I could – you know – have discussed it with you.’

  ‘So do I.’ He looks away from me, as though he wishes he wasn’t here, was anywhere else other than here.

  ‘How did the police treat you?’ I ask

  ‘Decent enough, I suppose.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘What possessed you to shoot him, Martin? I didn’t even know you had a gun.’

  ‘It was my father’s. We used to go hunting together. I have a licence and everything.’

  ‘Not to shoot people.’

  ‘Don’t you even think of lecturing me on rights and wrongs, Sarah.’ Bitterness flashes in his eyes. ‘Or should I call you Paula – or just Mrs Smith?’

  I take his hand. ‘I’d rather you called me Mrs Johnson. That’s all I ever want to be called.’

  He pulls away from me. ‘Life’s not a fairy tale in which we get to be who we want to be. There’s no magic spell of happiness, Sarah. We get shaped by our truth and our lies. And when the days of shaping are done, then so are we.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’ I reach for his hand again and this time he twitches it away before I can even touch him. ‘Were you done? Was all your shaping complete – when you kept from me the fact that you have a secret bank account, stuffed with dirty money?’

  His pupils blow big with shock. Colour burns his cheeks. I can’t help but push for answers.

  He stares daggers at me. Turns. Walks away.

  I follow. ‘Wait!’ I catch his arm and stop him. ‘I don’t care about the money - only us. About trying to fix things.’

  He glares at me. ‘What did you say to Smith to make him not give evidence against me?’

  Now, I’m the one feeling defensive. ‘Let’s go home – I’ll tell you there.’

  ‘Tell me now, Sarah!’

  His forcefulness startles me.

  ‘Tell me what you said to Smith!’

  I calm my breathing. Compose myself as best I can. I look him in the eyes and try to hide the shame I feel. ‘I told Danny that if he refused to testify against you, then I’d delay divorce proceedings until paternal DNA tests have been done.’

  He looks stunned. ‘And what then?’

  Now I stare into the hole I have dug for myself. ‘I promised that if the child is his, then I’d stay married and raise it with him.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Sarah!’ He’s so angry he half turns away from me, then swings back and adds, ‘How do you manage to do this to yourself? Can’t you see that you’ve simply swapped living under one threat, to living under another?’

  I know he’s right. Of course, I know. ‘I wanted you to be free, Martin. I didn’t want your good name damaged by the police, the courts and the press. This way, your reputation is intact.’

  ‘My reputation? You think I give a shit about that?’ He gives me a suspicious look. ‘Oh, I get it. I’m so stupid it took a while for it to sink in, but I get it now. You can’t leave him, can you? You just can’t bring yourself to leave him, so you went and found another way to feel obliged to stay with him.’

  Martin storms off.

  And I watch him go.

  I stare at him as though trying to use some superpower to pull him back and turn him round.

  He’s not right. Is he?

  I couldn’t possibly want to stay with Danny if I had a choice.

  Could I?

  94

  Annie

  Sitting inside the interview room, Raurie Crewe looks a different man from the one I saw in his plush office just a few hours earlier. Same shirt, trousers and thousand-pound suit. But here, in this almost airless, sweaty-palmed interview room, he looks as though he’s been sleeping rough for at least a week.

  By contrast, his solicitor, Jordan Beard, appears youthful, smart and relaxed. He’s mid-thirties, has light brown hair and is wearing the solicitor’s suit of choice, a dark navy pinstripe, with white shirt and blue silk tie.

  Nisha and I play the recording of Crewe’s telephone call to Charlie York, then I hit the stop button. ‘What was the meaning of that conversation between you and Detective Inspector Charles York?’ I ask Crewe.

  He responds predictably, ‘No comment.’

  ‘Inspector,’ Beard chips in, ‘can you even prove the voice on that tape is my client’s?’

  ‘Yes, I can.’

  ‘Then please do so,’ says the solicitor.

  Nisha gives the explanation. ‘It was compared for the purpose of voice analysis identification with a covert recording DI Parker made during her visit to Mr Crewe’s office. The match was perfect. An expert will testify to that extent.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he says casually, and makes a note in a black Moleskine book.

  ‘Let’s save ourselves ten minutes of no comments,’ I say to both men. ‘In legal terms that conversation between you and DI York shows evidence of colluded premeditation to have me killed. You—’ I point a finger directly at Raurie ‘—clearly identify me, by saying “I’ve just been visited by one of yours.” When DI York asked why I had come to see you, you said: “Same as you. Same as the rest of your lot.” I take that to refer to my request for payment in return for me not exposing the fact that you and Kieran had faked Ashley’s death.’

  ‘Inspector,’ interrupts Beard, ‘I think you know that English judges and juries don’t look kindly on police officers acting as agents provocateurs.’

  ‘You’re quite right,’ I reply, ‘but once our forensic auditing of your client’s personal and professional bank accounts show payments made to DI York, no doubt through shell companies or offshore accounts, I am sure they’ll forgive me.’

  I wait for a response.

  It doesn’t come.

  ‘What I am driving at, Raurie,’ I continue, ‘is that this short, but highly damning phone conversation, coupled with my secret recording of our meeting, amount to crucial evidence of you, not only being involved in police corruption, but also of you and DI York conspiring to murder a police officer.’

  ‘With respect,’ says the solicitor, ‘that is purely your interpretation. Should the CPS be misguided enough to bring such charges and this matter proceeded to court, then we are confident that a good barrister would find a different way for a jury to view such evidence – and that is presuming it is even admissible, which, I promise you, will be robustly contested.’

  ‘Of course, it will. It would be improper of you not to,’ I reply, with only the barest hint of sarcasm. I turn to his client. ‘Right now, though, Raurie, search teams are stripping your house, your warehouses, your cars, your computers, your trucks and your containers. They are going through, not only all your files and documents, but everything you ever thought you’d deleted or thrown away as well.’ I allow myself a dramatic hike of an eyebrow. ‘Really, the word “deleted” should be redefined. It used to mean “gone forever”, now it just means a little harder to recover, from an electronic trash account, a computer cloud, a server exchange or a hard disk. So, tell me, Raurie, are you sure – really, really sure – that they’re not going to find anything incriminating? No dodgy payments to serving officers? No residue of drugs in your containers? No offshore banking activity that’s impossible to explain?’

  ‘Is there a point to this monologue?’ interrupts Beard.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, do forgive me; I did go on a bit, you’re right. The point I was coming to is a very simple one.’ I fix my stare on Crewe and Crewe only. ‘You are here, Raurie. You are all suited and booted wi
th your smart lawyer doing a very fine job for you. And DI York isn’t. Meaning, you’re the only one eligible for the one-off leniency deal that comes with being the first to tell the truth. But if you continue with this “no comment” nonsense, then forget it. I’ll have you in the shittiest remand jail in the country and the best you’ll ever be able to look forward to is a reunion with brother Kieran inside Full Sutton.’

  Raurie Crewe puts a hand over his mouth and leans towards his solicitor and whispers in his left ear. I see sweat shine on his forehead, a glisten of guilt.

  The conflab finishes.

  Jordan Beard gives me a thin smile. ‘My client has nothing to say to you. I have further advised him to answer “no comment” to all your questions. And I must go on record as saying we are disturbed by your disclosures of corruption in the police and concerned that innocent parties such as my client and his family, associates or friends will be made scapegoats for crimes committed by police officers.’

  ‘Then we’re done for tonight. Raurie Crewe, you will be held in custody to ensure you do not interfere with any of the searches for evidence against you and you will be re-interviewed tomorrow morning.’ My hand slides over the tape machine. ‘This interview is terminated at nine-twenty-two p.m.’

  95

  Paula

  I book into a hotel in Chipping Norton. Nothing grand, just a pretty room above a bistro pub on the outskirts of town. It overlooks a beer garden, which I guess in summer would be busy and noisy, but tonight is frosted over and empty. I’m a bad sleeper at the best of times, so the quietness is welcomed.

  I eat in my room, instead of the Michelin Bib Gourmand restaurant downstairs. Just a steak with salad and a glass of skimmed milk. Protein, iron and calcium for baby. I’m desperate to add a glass of red wine, but don’t.

  I sit on the bed, aching back propped against pillows, hands resting on my tummy, and, inevitably, I think of the baby growing beneath my fingertips.

  What are you like in there?

  Are you a boy or a girl?

  What name should I choose for you?

  Who will you look most like – me or your father?

  Who is your father?

  Will he love you?

  I’m hoping the child is Martin’s. Praying that this new life heals the rift in our old lives. I called him after he walked away from me outside the police station but, not surprisingly, he hasn’t picked up. I should never have mentioned the bank account. It’s driven a wedge between us. Forced open a gap that was already hard to close.

  His parting words about Danny still ring in my ears – You just can’t bring yourself to leave him. It’s not true, but I can see why he thought it. I suppose I’m like a physically battered wife who struggles to leave her abuser of a husband. Only my abuse has been emotional. I hate admitting that, because I sound like I’m making a victim out of myself and looking for pity. I’m not. I’m looking for answers. Would I have stayed with Danny, if I’d known the truth about Ashley Crewe? No. Not a maybe. An absolute no. Do I still feel anything for Danny? Yes. Is it love? Yes. But it’s not Martin love. It’s not lovers’ love. It’s the kind of love I imagine you’d feel for a brother who you grew up with and turned out to be really mean and selfish. It’s a love of obligation born out of spending a long time together, time enough to be bound by the best and worst of life’s events.

  I’m done with being reflective. The only navel-gazing I want to do is at my growing bump. I call my PA. ‘Liz, it’s Paula. I don’t have a lot of time or energy, so please just listen and help me out with some things. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I need to take some time off. Personal issues, please don’t ask. As of now, and until I’m ready to come back to work, you are the acting CEO of the company. Any and all final decisions are yours to make.’

  ‘Paula,’ she protests, ‘I’m really not sure that I’m the person to—’

  ‘You are. Believe me, you are that person. Trust yourself. Don’t be afraid that you’ll make mistakes. You will. Everyone does. When you get over the shock, please find me somewhere to rent in, or near, Chipping Norton; something comfortable, and have all my correspondence sent there. Any questions?’

  ‘About a hundred. But I guess only one that really matters – are you okay?’

  ‘I’m not ill. I’m not dying. I haven’t suffered any major loss of limb, organ or sight. So, yes, I guess I’m okay. Anything else?’

  ‘No. Except to say good luck with whatever it is that is keeping you from us. And I’ll do my very best to look after things for you.’

  ‘I know you will. Thanks, Liz.’ I cut the call before she gets emotional or tries to wheedle anything else out of me. Next, I dial Finnian Docherty. ‘Fin, it’s Paula Smith – have you spoken to Terry tonight?’

  ‘Yes. About half an hour ago. Why?’

  ‘There’s something major that I need sorting. It’s confidential and quasi-legal but I want you to take the lead on it, not him.’

  ‘Okay. What is it?’

  ‘I need you to fix a pre-natal DNA test on the baby I’m carrying and compare it to the genetic profiles of the two potential fathers – Danny Smith and Martin Johnson.’ I leave no pause for him to ask questions. ‘I need you to organise an independent lawyer to collect all those samples and obtain the results. And then I want you to fix a time and place that Martin, Danny and I can be together to find out the results.’

  ‘I can do all that,’ says Fin, calmly and sensitively. ‘But don’t you want to know the results first?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Why – may I ask?’

  ‘Because I need to deal with the enormity of this in one single moment. If we are all together at one spot at one time, then it’s over and done with. I don’t want to go through it twice. I couldn’t deal with it emotionally.’

  96

  Annie

  Tom and Dee are making a fuss. Bath, bottle of wine, leftovers of lamb curry and endless servings of sympathy.

  I don’t normally talk much about work when I get home, but today I need to.

  I tell them all about Raurie Crewe stewing in a cell overnight and how I am hoping he makes a confession in the morning.

  I tell them (almost everything) about Charlie York and how a man who had once turned my head was now on the run after trying to get me killed.

  And most of all, I tell them that I’ve been shot three times in the chest and survived it.

  Yes, I know I was wearing body armour, but, believe me, when you hear the gunshots and see the weapon kick in the shooter’s hand you still feel wounded. Mentally, if not physically. So, I get the trauma off my chest. No pun intended. Ballistic vests, we are constantly reassured, are not like parachutes; there is no chance of them failing. Nevertheless, when you have one on, you still wonder whether there is a chink in the proverbial armour. And to be honest, I wasn’t expecting to be shot. I was wearing the protection solely because it’s now routine for officers working undercover on gang-related operations in case they’re stabbed or shot.

  Once his sympathy is exhausted, Tom is the first to head to bed. Despite not yet feeling ready to go back to work, he’s always tired, probably a result of the anti-depressants he’s still on. ‘Proud of you, Mum,’ he says as he leaves both Dee and me in our dressing gowns and pyjamas.

  ‘Look at us,’ I say to my sister as he clomps upstairs. ‘It’s like when we were kids and Mum and Dad would let us stay up late for a film, providing we had already been in the bath and got ready for bed.’

  ‘And done our teeth,’ adds Dee, ‘so we wouldn’t ask for toffees or pop.’

  The brief flashback warms me like a shot of brandy. And it also makes me feel guilty about having grabbed so much attention tonight, knowing Dee is just a day away from her daunting double mastectomy.

  ‘I didn’t want to ask with Tom there – how are you feeling about Saturday?’ I slump on the sofa next to her with my third glass of wine.

 
‘I’m okay.’ She presses her lips together and I see a whole volcano of emotions erupt inside my sister. ‘No, I’m not okay. I’m scared shitless.’

  ‘Hey.’ I take her hand. ‘I know it’s a big thing, but this kind of surgery these days is routine. I’ve researched it into oblivion and post-op mortality rates are like less than one per cent.’

  ‘I know. And I know the only major threat is wound infection. But just think how anxious you are tonight, after almost being wounded.’ Her eyes tear up. ‘Well, I’m going to have my breasts eviscerated and then I’m going to look so damned ugly I’ll probably never leave the house.’

  ‘Shut up, that’s stupid.’ I put my glass down and hug her. ‘Breasts or no breasts, you’ll be every bit as beautiful as you’ve always been. And anyway, they are not being eviscerated, the cancer is. Every trace, every suggestion, every hint of it is being destroyed. And when it’s gone, you’re going to live a long and amazing life with me, Polly, Tom and whoever else is lucky enough to share a single bloody moment with you.’

  She gives me a tight squeeze, then wipes away the tears with the cuff of her dressing gown and does her brave smile. ‘Mum used to say, “There’s always someone worse off than you. Remember them when you’re feeling sorry for yourself.”’

  ‘She did, didn’t she? And do you remember what Dad used to say when she said that?’

  Dee laughs. ‘I do. He always said, “I don’t want to be bloody worse off than I am, I want to be better off, so away with you, woman.”’

  We both laugh. Out of relief. Out of nostalgia. Out of sisterly love.

  ‘I still miss them,’ I say, accidentally.

  ‘Every day,’ adds Dee. ‘Every time the daffodils bloom, I think of Mum crying that Mother’s Day when you and I collected a whole park full and took them to her because we’d forgotten to get a present.’

  ‘And I think about Dad every time Celtic play Rangers. He’d always try to get back to Glasgow for their matches.’

  ‘And paid so much for the tickets that Mum always went crazy.’