The Necessary Deaths
By David C. Dawson
The Delingpole Mysteries: Book 1
A young journalism student lies unconscious in a hospital bed in Brighton, England. His life hangs in the balance after a drug overdose. But was it attempted suicide or attempted murder? The student’s mother persuades British lawyer Dominic Delingpole to investigate, and Dominic enlists the aid of his outspoken opera singer partner, Jonathan McFadden.
The student’s boyfriend discovers compromising photographs hidden in his lover’s room. The photographs not only feature senior politicians and business chiefs, but the young journalist himself. Is he being blackmailed, or is he the blackmailer?
As Dominic and Jonathan investigate further, their lives are threatened and three people are murdered. They uncover a conspiracy that reaches into the highest levels of government and powerful corporations. The people behind it are ruthless, and no one can be trusted. The bond between Dominic and Jonathan deepens as they struggle not only for answers, but for their very survival.
Table of Contents
Blurb
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
About the Author
By David C. Dawson
Visit DSP Publications
Copyright Page
For Will, who has given me so much support.
Chapter 1
DOMINIC WOKE with a start. Bleary-eyed, he peered at the glowing digits of the alarm clock on his bedside table. It was half past midnight. As he rolled over to try to go back to sleep, he heard scuffling noises down the corridor of his elegant, ground-floor apartment. He sat up and listened intently. There was something going on outside the front door. The scuffling noises were mingled with the muffled murmur of men’s voices. Was someone trying to break in?
After taking a dose of Nyquil to help him fight off a very persistent cold, Dominic had not long fallen asleep. Half-drugged, he stumbled across the bedroom floor. The room was pitch-black, save for the glow of the alarm clock. He gingerly felt his way around the foot of the bed toward the hallway.
The scuffling noise had stopped, but the murmur of the voices continued. The apartment’s hallway was lit by the orange glow of the streetlamp outside. An annoying and protracted battle with the local council had failed to turn off this nightly intrusion to the confines of his apartment. As a result, he had needed to get blackout curtains fitted in the bedroom to have any chance of undisturbed sleep. That night, he had forgotten to close them.
As Dominic approached the front door, he contemplated what weapon he had to hand if he needed to fend off an armed intruder. Nothing, save the umbrella in the black-and-chrome art deco stand in the corner and a pair of Chelsea boots sitting on the mat. Perhaps he could simply wedge the door shut with a chair and call the police, hoping they might arrive quickly.
Dominic’s apartment was one of six in a large converted Georgian house. As he peered through the spy hole in the center of his front door, he could see the oak-paneled communal reception hall and the sweeping staircase up to the apartments on the first floor of the house. He could also see two police officers standing over a motionless woman lying on the parquet floor. It was not what he was expecting to see on this wet, wintry night. He unhooked the door chain, opened his front door, and stepped into the hallway to find out what had happened.
Too late he realized that, in his Nyquil-induced state, he was wearing a pair of Dolce & Gabbana low-cut briefs and nothing else. Dominic decided poise and decorum would carry him through this potentially awkward moment. After all, he was in good shape for his thirty-seven years, thanks to three punishing nights a week at the gym. Before him were two young and very cute police officers, and Dominic was temporarily taken aback. They were far more appealing to look at than the woman lying on the floor. Recovering his poise, Dominic held back his shoulders and stood square in the doorway as he asked, “What’s going on, officers?”
The two policemen were in their midtwenties, tall, with close-cropped hair and solid, athletic frames. One was crouched over the woman, putting her into the recovery position, while the other was standing a short way from Dominic’s open front door about to talk on his radio. If they were surprised by Dominic’s sudden seminaked appearance, their faces did not betray it.
“Good evening, sir,” said the police officer nearest to him. “We’ve just had to deliver some bad news to this lady. She fainted and collapsed against your door—I presume the noise woke you? Do you know Mrs. Gregory? I believe she’s a neighbor of yours.”
“Oh my God!” said Dominic. “Yes, she lives in the apartment above me, number four. What was it you had to tell her?”
“I’m afraid it seems her son tried to kill himself tonight,” replied the young officer. A voice crackled on his radio. “Excuse me a moment, sir. I’m just raising an ambulance to come and attend to Mrs. Gregory. We’re concerned she may have hit her head when she fell.”
The police officer spoke into his radio, giving directions to the converted Georgian house in the small market town in the rural English county of Oxfordshire. From what Dominic could make out, the ambulance had been dispatched from the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford city and was on its way.
He only knew Samantha Gregory to say hello to in the communal hallway. The residents of Ash House kept themselves very much to themselves. He was dimly aware she had a son in his late teens. Dominic seemed to remember her saying he had recently gone away to university in Brighton on the English south coast. She was an attractive, tall woman, probably in her early forties, who was always impeccably dressed. Even as she lay on the polished parquet wood floor, her head turned to one side with the long ringlets of her hair swept back from her closed eyes, Dominic was struck by her good taste in clothes. It was a sobering reminder of his own current state of undress, and he was about to retreat to his apartment to seek out some more appropriate attire when Samantha stirred and groaned.
“Mrs. Gregory? Mrs. Gregory? Can you hear me?” asked the officer at her side. “No, don’t try to sit up. Stay there for a short while. You’ve had a fall and may have hit your head. Don’t try to move just yet.”
Dominic seized the opportunity to be more of a useful spectator and less of an undressed interloper on the scene. “Officer, I’ll go and fetch a glass of water and a pillow to make Mrs. Gregory more comfortable.”
With that he went back into his apartment, put on an old pair of tracksuit bottoms and a sweatshirt that had been hanging on the back of his bedroom chair, and fetched the glass of water from his bedside table. A few moments later, he reemerged into the communal hallway. He bent down beside the young police officer with Mrs. Gregory. Dominic’s eyes lingered for a few moments on the officer’s impressive biceps, which were restrained by his short-sleeved tunic top. Then he looked over to his neighbor. Her eyes were open and staring in confusion at the events around her.
“Mrs. Gregory, would you like a sip of this?�
� he asked. Samantha Gregory raised herself on one elbow and accepted the glass of water Dominic held to her lips. He noticed there was a large bruise growing darker on her forehead.
“Thank you, sir,” said the police officer at his side. “And you are…?”
“Dominic Delingpole. I live at number one,” replied Dominic, somewhat redundantly given he had now twice emerged from that doorway. “What’s happened to Mrs. Gregory’s son?”
“Mr. Gregory is in hospital down south in Brighton. He survived his attempt to kill himself, but he’s unconscious. It looks like he took an overdose, although it’s possible it might have been an accident. Fortunately he was found by a housemate, who called the ambulance.” A siren sounded in the distance. “Ah, that sounds like our ambulance. Would you mind going out to the street to meet them? It’s best that we stay with Mrs. Gregory for the moment.”
Dominic crossed the hallway to the main entrance of the house, opened the outer door, and propped it open with a heavy flatiron, left there for this purpose. As he walked out into the freezing night, he realized, again too late, that he was still not properly dressed. The gravel on the driveway cut into the soles of his bare feet as he walked the short distance to the front gate, which opened onto the High Street. A few seconds later, the ambulance rounded the corner at the end of the road. Dominic waved his arms frantically. Then self-consciousness overwhelmed him as he realized he was clearly the only person in the street at that time of night. He reduced his arm waving to a more discreet single-arm-in-the-air, hailing-a-taxi sort of maneuver. The ambulance drew up, and a green-uniformed paramedic emerged from the passenger door.
“She’s in here. Follow me,” said Dominic in what he hoped was a firm, assertive voice. The paramedic followed him into the hallway of Ash House. Behind him, his colleague carried an array of medical equipment.
Over the next fifteen minutes, the paramedics assessed Samantha Gregory’s condition and announced they would take her to the emergency room at the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford. Dominic turned to his neighbor, who by now had been transferred to a stretcher, and asked, “Is there anything you would like me to do, Mrs. Gregory? Anyone you would like me to call?”
There was a long pause before she responded with a voice that was close to a whisper, “I’m sorry, Mr. Delingpole, this has been a frightful shock to me. I cannot believe Simon would do such a thing. He just doesn’t do drugs.” She looked away as she added, “It’s completely unlike him.” She turned back to Dominic. “You have been very kind. There is no one else to call at the moment. Simon’s father died ten years ago. It’s just the two of us, you see.” Her eyes brimmed with tears, and Dominic instinctively squeezed her hand.
“Let me give you my phone number, Mrs. Gregory. Do please call me if there is anything I can do. I would be happy to help.” He released her hand, went to his apartment, emerged a moment later with one of his business cards, and handed it to her. She glanced at it and said, “Oh yes, I recall you told me you were a lawyer. I have a feeling I might need your services.”
Chapter 2
THE BLACK Mercedes pulled into the makeshift parking lot, created on a waste ground close to a development area in the City of London. In the backseat, a woman wearing a knee-length coat, its collar trimmed with fur, drummed her fingers on the armrest beside her.
“Why do these people always choose such sordid meeting places?” She pulled her handbag onto her lap and searched for a few moments before producing a lipstick. She looked at the driver in the rearview mirror. The soft Irish lilt of her voice hardened momentarily. “It’s not a rhetorical question, you know. Do me the courtesy of a little conversation, please, while we have to wait in this god-awful place.”
The driver slowly passed his hand across his bald head, drawing her attention to the scar above his temple.
“I’ve always meant to ask you about that. Now it seems we have time, as he’s late yet again. In what particular brawl did you win that trophy?”
The driver looked at her for a moment as though deciding whether to answer or not. Then he spoke. “Chechnya. And what is a brawl?”
The woman ignored his question and started to apply her lipstick, holding the mirror of a small compact close to her face.
The inside of the car was lit up for a moment by the headlights of another car entering the waste ground. A Range Rover swept around in a wide arc before drawing up alongside the Mercedes. The woman finished applying her lipstick, took a moment to approve the fruits of her work, and then packed the lipstick and compact back into her handbag.
She set the handbag on the seat beside her. Finally she turned and pushed a button to lower the window.
“You’re late,” she said.
“I’m frightfully sorry, ma’am. I had a meeting at the House of Commons, and it overran. Nothing I could do to get out sooner.”
The woman looked at him contemptuously. “You should reconsider your priorities. We do have others working on the inside there, you know. Now. I’m cold and it’s late. So report. Do you have the data card to give me?”
The man shook his head. “They did a thorough search but were unsuccessful. These things are very small, you know. It’s very easy for them to be concealed. They were interrupted before they could complete—”
“Well, if they failed to retrieve the data card, is the threat at least neutralized?”
Again the man shook his head. “As I said, they were interrupted—”
The woman raised her hand. “Be quiet. I have to consider whether we elevate this to an international alert now. It’s not something I want to happen. Doing that would take it out of my hands. And I’m sure you can appreciate the consequences. Your role would be much diminished. So tell me, can you finish the job?”
The man handed her a thin plastic folder. “I jotted down some notes while I was held up at Westminster. I know how you distrust electronic communications.”
The woman took the file. As she rapidly scanned the two pages contained within it, the man continued, “There are complications. The threat is less accessible as a result of what happened. We will have to adopt a new approach. But I feel confident we can complete the job this time.”
The driver of the Mercedes spoke. “I am not confident.” The woman looked up.
“Really?” she asked. “What do you propose we do instead?”
The driver shrugged. “It is the wrong technique. It is not a reliable method, as what happened today proves. Let me finish the job. I will succeed.”
The woman considered for a moment. Then she looked back at the man seated in the Range Rover. “You’ve not been very impressive today. Viktor’s offer is appealing, but I have other work for him just now. Your man has forty-eight hours to prove himself to us. As do you. Otherwise we will take matters into our hands. Good-bye.”
The window began to rise as the black Mercedes sped off across the waste ground.
DOMINIC WAS in the bathroom, getting ready for whatever the day would throw at him, when his cell phone rang. Naked, he walked into the bedroom, expecting the morning phone call from his partner, Jonathan.
“Good morning, good morning,” he said jauntily.
“Oh, Mr. Delingpole. I’m very sorry to disturb you. It’s Samantha Gregory here.” Instinctively Dominic reached for the bath towel to restore his dignity—a perverse action, he knew, and one that would have brought an immediate affectionate jibe from Jonathan if he had been there.
“Good morning, Mrs. Gregory. Are you feeling any better after last night? I was so sorry to hear you received such terrible news.”
“Yes, it was frightfully embarrassing to faint like that in front of the officers. Fortunately I have only a rather ugly bruise on my forehead and no other lasting effect. I’m just waiting for them to decide whether I can come home today.” Her voice faltered on the line.
“Mr. Delingpole?” She paused. “I’m actually ringing to ask you an enormous favor.”
Dominic’s professional body tensed. A
s a lawyer he could never get used to people who asked for free advice. It annoyed him that they could so casually take him for granted.
“Mr. Delingpole, I have to go to Brighton as soon as possible to see Simon. If they let me out of here today, I will take the train this afternoon. Could you possibly keep an eye on my apartment for me whilst I’m away? I don’t know how long I may be down there, and I’d feel reassured if you would check it occasionally.”
Dominic relaxed. Mrs. Gregory was not after free legal advice. Remembering that her son was at one of the two universities in Brighton, Dominic had an idea. Jonathan lived in the town of Lewes, about seven miles along the coast from Brighton. Here was an opportunity for an impromptu visit. Living separately was necessary by virtue of the work they did. Although sometimes Dominic wondered if they used that fact to avoid making a commitment.
“Of course, Mrs. Gregory, that’s no problem at all. Which of the two universities is he at? Brighton or Sussex?”
“He’s at Brighton University. It’s very good for journalism and media studies. Simon’s very keen on being a journalist. He wants to put the world to rights. God knows, it needs it.” Her voice faltered again.
Dominic tried to inject some cheeriness into his voice. “In fact, Mrs. Gregory, I need to be in Lewes tomorrow anyway. I could drive you down later today if that’s convenient for you.” It was not quite true, but he fancied time away from the office and an evening with Jonathan in Lewes would be perfect.
“Oh, Mr. Delingpole, that’s most kind of you, but you really don’t need to….”
“It’s really no problem, Mrs. Gregory.”
“Samantha. Please call me Samantha; this is all too Home Counties formal, given you saw me lying on the floor outside your door last night. Actually, I’d be grateful for the company and the chance to talk about what I’m going to have to do. I may need your advice at some point.”
Dominic tensed again.
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