Dead and Gone: A Gripping Thriller With a Shocking Twist

by D. L. Michaels

  Dee recently turned fifty and has never married. My sister is the archetypal free spirit, content to wander the world, flitting in and out of people’s lives, but ultimately seems happiest on her own.

  She’s just sold a scrubby bedsit in London worth as much as our entire street and is staying with us until she finds somewhere else, which frankly can’t come soon enough, because, while I love the bones off her, we quickly rub each other the wrong way.

  Dee and I are like chalk and cheese, just as our parents were. Dad, a Glasgow-born dockworker, down to earth, full of common sense and practicality – that’s me. Mum, an English teacher and daughter of second-generation Indian-English parents, with a head full of multiculturalism, music and art – that’s Dee. Incidentally, they named me Ananya, and Dee Devavarnini. Our truncated names came courtesy of Glaswegian primary schoolchildren and teachers who really couldn’t be arsed pronouncing all those extra syllables.

  So here I am, Annie Parker, at work, in a freezing old office in England, huddled near a radiator that never gets hotter than warm. I’ve got a vest and top on under a knee-length grey cardigan and tights under my black wide-leg trousers. Fashionistas eat your hearts out.

  ‘Tea to warm us up,’ says my sergeant, Nisha Patel, brandishing mugs of rust-coloured comfort.

  ‘You’re a life-saver.’

  She settles down opposite me. ‘I forgot to ask, after the drama yesterday, was your car driveable?’

  ‘No, they towed it for repairs and forensics.’ I warm my hands on the mug of tea. ‘Two tyres were flat and stuff was dripping underneath it.’

  ‘Stuff?’ she says mockingly.

  Stuff is my go-to word when I don’t know what something is. ‘Yeah – oil, water or some other liquidy thing that cars have.’

  ‘Your grasp of automotive engineering is so impressive, boss. I take it you’d like a lift home tonight?’

  ‘I would, that’d be great. Thanks.’

  Our small talk is interrupted by Detective Chief Inspector Ray Goodwin. The DCI is a twenty-nine-year-old fast-tracked academic, new school not old school, not as wet behind the ears or snotty-nosed as most graduates, but still a little damp. ‘Morning,’ he booms as he breezes in. ‘How are you, Annie?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ I answer stoically, wondering how he’d react if I said, ‘Well, now you mention it, I’m still shitting bricks after being shot at. Oh, and also, I’m worried about a) my poorly granddaughter, b) making ends meet financially, c) how overweight I’m getting, and a dozen other things.’ Instead, I just ask, ‘Have you come for my statement? I’ve done a draft.’ I dip into my handbag and pull out the sheet.

  He frowns at me.

  ‘Yeah, sorry, Polly stuck a jammy hand on it. But it’s still readable.’

  ‘Can you manage a clean digital copy?’ he asks, holding it by the edges. ‘And copy it to Charlie York at the National Crime Agency.’

  ‘Charlie York?’ The name takes me by surprise. ‘I thought DCI Brookes was in charge?’

  ‘No. Brookes is from regional CID. Because Richardson is an A-list criminal and on the run, he’s now NCA’s.’

  ‘Then I’ll send Mr York my draft, straight away,’ I say with a smile.

  ‘And go and see him.’

  ‘See him? Isn’t he in London?’

  ‘Not at the moment. He’s working from central station in Derby – his old patch apparently.’ Goodwin reads my face. ‘Do you know York? Is there a problem, Annie?’

  ‘No, no. No problem at all, sir.’

  There is.

  There’s a big problem.

  But it is certainly not one I want to discuss with my young-enough-to-be-my-son boss.

  11

  Danny

  My head hurts so much I can’t open my eyes.

  Don’t want to open them.

  Darkness is my shelter. In here, I don’t have to face things. Once I separate those sleep-crusted lids and stare bloodshot at the world, bad things happen.

  First off, I find out the time.

  Always earlier or later than I want it to be, or than it should be.

  Secondly, I discover what I’ve done.

  That’s never good. Not once in four decades of living have I been pleasantly amazed at some wondrous achievement I’ve notched up during a session on the lash.

  Then comes the dull realisation of what I probably have to do to put things right. Bang goes the last of my self-respect. Before I know it, a whole new day of pressure is upon me.

  I’m not ready for all that. Not another cycle of fear, depression, drink, euphoria, forget, collapse.

  I might have pissed the bed.

  Might have done it again.

  I jump out.

  Pat the mattress.

  It’s dry.

  Thank fuck for that.

  I sink to my knees. Not to pray. But because my heart is hurtin’ and I need to rest my head on the bed. Need to recover from the shock of jumpin’ up so quick. Blood is pumping through me now. Banging like a drummer on acid in my brain.

  The room is cold. The central heating has gone off. That means it’s late morning. Maybe afternoon. If Paula’s still here, then I’m really in the shit. She hates me lying in bed for so long.

  I get up and go to the bathroom. Listen for noises downstairs before I flush the chain.

  Nothing.

  Give me three or four Nurofen, some black coffee and somethin’ to eat, then maybe I’ll be ready to face her.

  And a drink.

  No.

  I mustn’t even think about drinkin’.

  But I have.

  I’ve thought it and now I can’t unthink it.

  What’s the harm? I mean, I stink of alcohol anyway. It’s oozin’ out of me. One straightener for the day is goin’ to do more good than harm. It’s goin’ to help me pull myself together. Then I can start again. It’ll be my last drink. The last of the day. The last I’ll ever take.

  Will it fuck.

  No, it really could be. I could get my act together. There’s still time to do that.

  Paula will help.

  She won’t.

  Once she’s done shoutin’ and cryin’ and threatenin’ all kinds of crap, she’ll help.

  She always does.

  Not this time.

  The bad feelin’ grows. I pull on a dressin’ gown and go to the top of the stairs. ‘Paula!’

  Shoutin’ was a mistake. I feel like I’ve torn the top of my head off.

  I walk down the stairs.

  She’s gone.

  I can tell.

  Even before I look in the front room, the lounge and the kitchen, I know she’s not there. Somehow the house is different when she’s in it. It’s a nicer place. A safer place. All temptation is gone. It’s like she seals off all the badness.

  There’s a note on the table. A long note, left under a vase of old flowers.

  I pull it out and read it.

  Danny

  I’ve gone to work – and I’ll be away for a few days. I think it best if you try to sort yourself out this time.

  You have to want to get better – not to get drunk.

  And you have to be able to do it yourself, not have me do it for you. You need to ring Stevie, your AA sponsor, and you need to see our GP, Dr Merrick. I’ve written both their numbers below in case you’ve forgotten them.

  This is the end of our marriage, Danny. I can’t clean up any more – physically or mentally. From here, from now, there is only you.

  I love you, Danny. Always have. Always will. But not enough to allow you to destroy me while you destroy yourself. We can’t build a future on memories – or on your threats that we have to stay together.

  Paula x

  I screw the note up.

  Throw it to the floor.

  Sweep my arm viciously over the table and send the vase smashin’ into the fridge and cabinets opposite. The noise. The explosion of glass. The splatter of water. They all release some of my anger. I need to get it out.
It’s like poison. It’s killing’ me. I pick up a stool, swing it in a woodcutter’s arc and smash it on the edge of a worktop. Wood splinters and the impact reverberates up my arm and burns in my elbow and fingers. I crack the remains of the stool against the wall and shatter some poncy picture of flowers that Paula had framed.

  I’m left with a handful of splintered wood.

  I drop it.

  My anger is spent.

  Things sink in. I’m on my own. She’s left me. Fine.

  Perfect.

  I can do what I want.

  Which is have that drink.

  Or not.

  I pour myself a glass of water. Find a packet of headache pills in a kitchen drawer. Press three out of the foil. Two is never enough. Stick them all in my gob and swallow them with a long drink. Of water.

  Water.

  Vodka is what’s really needed.

  Two bottles left in the attic. Up in the dust and the dark, where the spiders are, where Paula never goes.

  Paula who says she’s gone, but will be back. She always comes back.

  Always has.

  Always will.

  Not because Paula loves me.

  But because Paula knows she has to.

  Knows what will happen if she doesn’t.

  12

  Annie

  DI Charlie York, or Yorkie as he inevitably became known, used to be something of a womaniser. A rogue. A good-looking, charming rogue, but still a rogue. One of those men that God probably did make in his own image. He had heavenly brown eyes, thick black hair, a strong square jaw and a frame big enough for most women to at least look twice at him.

  And yes, I did.

  Look that is.

  Nothing more.

  Well, okay, a little more. An impromptu snog at a Christmas party, when I was terribly drunk and tired and thought I was getting away with a friendly peck and a warm hug. Only, when our lips touched, there was a completely unexpected crackle of electricity that almost, and I stress almost, led to something more. But it didn’t. I didn’t let it. And like every girl’s secret almosts, yes, I have thought about it since. Which is why my heart missed a beat when Goodwin said his name. And why it’s been skipping all the time Nisha has been driving us to the office where he is.

  I’ve known Charlie since he was a DS in Homicide and then a DI in Vice before becoming my DCI in Serious Crime. That was when his promotions and personal luck ran out. An off-duty drink-driving offence, the summer after our almostness, got him suspended and demoted to DI. It came the year after he was caught having an affair with a local lawyer, a liaison that led to divorce and him running off to the National Crime Squad in London. Only it wasn’t called that then. It was the National Criminal Intelligence Service, or something like that.

  Through the open door of a multi-purpose incident room, I see him for the first time in half a decade. He’s standing alongside the desk of a pretty female officer, coffee cup in hand, the fall of his white shirt and waist of his grey trousers testifying to the fact that he’s put on a bit of a spread now he’s in his mid-forties. He laughs and I see there’s still a twinkle in his eye.

  Charlie’s so absorbed that he doesn’t notice Nisha and me approaching. Not until the plain clothes female detective looks our way. Now he turns his head.

  ‘Annie Parker!’ His eye lights go full beam. ‘How great to see you again.’

  He throws protocol out of the window and hugs me warmly.

  I get a mistletoe flush and raised eyebrows from Nisha.

  ‘Well, my goodness.’ He breaks from our embrace and steps away. ‘You look so well. Do you fancy letting an old friend into the secret of your youthfulness?’

  ‘Sobriety and faithfulness,’ I quip.

  ‘Ah. Then I am doomed to crinkle and crumble.’ He extends a hand to my colleague and introduces himself. ‘DI York.’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Patel.’ She shakes his hand. ‘Nisha.’

  ‘Very pleased to meet you.’ Another flash of smile, then he walks us across a sparsely furnished room to a small galley kitchen.

  ‘Still builder’s tea with two sugars, Annie?’

  ‘Dark, but no sugar.’

  I know, you’re sweet enough. ‘Nisha?’

  ‘Does that machine do cappuccino?’

  ‘It does.’ He slides a white mug emblazoned with a blue police badge onto the machine’s metal tray and hits the drink button. As it chugs out some froth, he presses a switch on the kettle next to it and tells me, ‘The man in the boot of your Range Rover is called Andrew Ellison. He’s a drug dealer. A very stupid and frightened one. And almost a dead one.’

  ‘Richardson had abducted him to kill him?’

  Charlie shakes his head. ‘No, not his style. But he and the scrote he was with were taking him to someone who might have done.’

  ‘Who?’ asks Nisha.

  ‘Why?’ I ask, at the same time.

  ‘The ‘why’ first – because Andy Pandy has been a naughty little drug puppet. He’s been diluting his supplier’s coke. Doubling volume with talc, bicarb, chalk and anything vaguely white that he could get his mits on.’

  ‘And keeping the extra money from the extra volume for himself,’ I guess.

  ‘Worse, he’s been putting most of it either up his nose or smoking it.’ He passes the newly poured coffee to Nisha. ‘Who? Well, that’s a tougher question. Our boy either doesn’t know the name of his supplier, or isn’t ready to give it up.’

  ‘How can he not know his name?’ Nisha asks, froth on lip.

  Charlie explains, while making my tea. ‘It’s possible he’s never met him. Usually, lower-level dealers like Ellison, who sell into clubs and raves and suchlike, go through middlemen. Professional drugs gangs operate in small cells, so the financiers are separated from the importers, the importers from the main suppliers, the suppliers from the chief dealers, the chief dealers from the mid-level dealers and the mid-levels from the street dealers.’

  ‘So, Ellison is just a couple of rungs from the bottom,’ I observe.

  ‘He is now. But he claims to have been higher up the snorting order.’

  ‘But, why are we here?’ I ask. ‘I mean, I know you want my statement from yesterday’s chase, but why might Ellison be of interest to Historic Crimes?’

  Charlie smiles. It’s a smile I remember all too well. Beguiling and sexy as hell.

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘We’ve driven a long way down filthy country roads for you. Give it up.’

  ‘Murder.’ His eyes twinkle. ‘Ellison is looking for police protection and a way to stay out of jail. In return for which, he’s willing to tell you all about a murder you didn’t even know had happened.’

  Part Two

  13

  Sarah

  The Cotswolds

  Day by day, I find more grey in my hair. Fortunately, I care less and less about it. I’m currently of that age where I am happy with how I look and who I’ve become. Or should I say, who I’ve been allowed to become?

  Thank you, Martin.

  Martin is the sweet man I married five years ago. The man who showed me how to be me. How to literally let my greying hair down (it used to always be pinned up, businesslike, in a no-nonsense bun). He awoke the inner hippie in me. The free spirit that had been trussed tight inside corporate clothes and fixated only on earning money and affording bigger houses and better cars. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not delusional. I know I look closer to fifty than under forty and I still have to work for a living. I’m just happier with my lot. My Martin-blessed lot.

  Before we met, I was a workaholic. Work was a super substitute for a poor personal life. Work liked me spending long hours with it. Work never criticised. Never sat around on its lazy ass while I did everything. It never cheated on me behind my back.

  Then, when I hit burnout, even work betrayed me. It offered no comfort. It was just another guilty party who’d simply fled the scene of the crime and left me to take the blame. Burning out is like crashing into a
wall. It thumps your head. Leaves you scared and drained. My life was in trauma. I was tearful, couldn’t sleep properly, felt that whatever I did, it wasn’t good enough.

  I wasn’t good enough.

  All my confidence had gone. I had lost control of my personal and professional life. I wasn’t treading water – I was sinking.

  Then along came Martin.

  Which was surprising, because he really was not my type. Correction. Not my usual type. I’d generally fancied rough, tough, bad boys. Guys with a bit of naughtiness in their DNA. Alpha males. More muscle than brains. That’s not Martin. No, no, no, not him at all. Martin is arty, studious and funny. More Mr Blobby than Mr Universe.

  The day we met, was the day after I’d been to the GP’s for some sleeping pills and had come away empty-handed. Dr Watson (yes, that really is his name) had told me that what I really needed wasn’t medication but a break from routine, some vigorous exercise and lots of fresh air. An old-fashioned prescription, which, he claimed, was always more successful than a script for Diazepam or Zopiclone.

  On doctor’s orders, I got up early, dressed in comfy walking clothes, threw some hiking boots and an anorak in the car and headed to the Cotswolds.

  I spent the morning trekking a rutted, frozen track across Leckhampton Hill that led to Devil’s Chimney, a beauty spot with a spectacular view of surrounding valleys and villages. I took it all in. Cleansed the toxins from my head. Stayed until the weather turned into an icy white mist that sent me shivering all the way back to the car.

  After putting the heater on and thawing out, I grabbed a sandwich and some fuel from a nearby petrol station and then set the satnav for Chipping Norton. Why Chipping? Well, I’d seen it in magazines and read about it in newspapers but had never been there. And, I was in one of those moods when I needed something new, not something familiar, in my life. You know the feeling, you’re down in the dumps, stuck in a rut, full of self-pity and then you pull yourself together, summon up some positive energy and just go and do new things.

  Dominating the market square was a grand, old town hall, fashioned out of the local Jurassic stone, with fabulous steps and pillars, black iron railings and dormant lavender plants. It was hosting an arts and crafts exhibition, so I paid a small admission fee and wandered inside.