Dead and Gone: A Gripping Thriller With a Shocking Twist

by D. L. Michaels

  Mutated BRCA1 genes.

  The kind that killed our mother. The kind that made Dee and I get tested and screened so regularly we’d begun to think of the visits like routine dental check-ups, ending in a nice white smile.

  Only not this time.

  Now she is immersed in that perpetual nightmare of uncertainty, further medical exploration and clinical ‘choices’ – none of which you want to choose. Lumpectomy followed by whole breast radiation? Or would you prefer mastectomy followed by radiation? Mastectomy with no radiation? Or lumpectomy followed by brachytherapy?

  No, thank you. No, thank you. No, thank you.

  My beautiful, wonderful sister would prefer none of those things. What she’d prefer is to wake up and all this be a bad dream.

  This isn’t fair, I tell myself.

  I’ve had too much death in my family already. Why not give this bucket of crap to some of the bad people in the world? The killers, the rapists, the terrorists. Let cancer be the consequence of their crimes. Not a blight on good people, like Dee. We stayed awake most of the night, me telling her everything would be okay, neither of us believing it, both of us knowing that with cancer there is never okay, there is just a lighter version of awful.

  She’s told me to go to work. Not to fuss. Not to stress. To be as normal as I can.

  So, I am.

  I am going.

  Outside is a new day. Dad always said a new day was a new start. Gave us fresh energy to face whatever life throws at us. Well, Dee is still sleeping, and I’m hoping Life has stopped throwing things at her.

  I hear the uniquely squeaky beep of Nisha’s car horn and do a final check around the house to ensure that I haven’t forgotten anything. A look in the hall mirror as I lift a coat off a hook shows I look grim and worried. I can’t have that. I stand there until I’m sure I have managed a face as brave as the one Dee showed me last night.

  I open the front door and dodge heavy rain on the way to the car, really wanting to stop and turn around and stay at home and somehow magic away my sister’s illness.

  ‘I was beginning to think you’d overslept,’ says Nisha as I climb into the passenger seat.

  ‘Sorry. I was late getting Polly off.’ First lie of the day. I shut the door and buckle up. ‘The public have no idea, do they?’

  ‘Of what?’ she asks, pulling out from the kerb.

  ‘Of what our lives are like. They think we’re just cop machines, waiting at our desks for the moment someone rings 999. They have no idea that we have lives of our own, full of problems, families, sicknesses, debts, worries.’

  Nisha gives me a quizzical glance. ‘Is there something you want to talk about?’

  ‘No,’ I say sharply.

  ‘Sorry. It sounded like you did.’

  ‘Well, there is, but I don’t. Want to talk, I mean. And I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just processing some bad news.’ Normally, I tell Nisha almost everything, but this is just too private.

  The radio plays. A song is finishing and it’s going into the news. We both listen for a moment, then, by means of distraction, she asks me, ‘What do you make of Mr Yummy Yorkie Bar, then?’

  ‘What do you mean, what do I make of him?’

  ‘I don’t know. He seems nice. I just wondered if you two had been friends?’

  ‘Friends,’ I repeat, mockingly, then roll out one of my prepared laughs. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. And for the record, I think you should call him DI York – rank deserves respect.’

  ‘Of course, it does, boss,’ she answers in her most patronisingly sarcastic voice, then she gives me a pointed look. ‘Remember that interrogation course you sent me on? Well, they said laughing at a question and dismissing it out of hand by bringing up something else were often signs of lying.’

  ‘Then it’s a bad course.’

  My mobile rings and saves me further comment or embarrassment. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Annie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Charlie. Where are you?’

  Nisha obviously hears his name because she grins.

  ‘On the way in,’ I answer. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve got an update, wanted you to know as soon as possible.’

  ‘Go ahead, I’m not driving. I’m with Nisha.’

  ‘Ellison is dead,’ he says. ‘Matthews has just left the hospital. The doctors there told her he never regained consciousness.’

  21

  Sarah

  I leave Martin in bed because I have to catch a train to London, where I have some business to attend to. I make porridge before I go, and on the table, I find a postcard-sized paper print-out of a photograph Martin took yesterday of Une Heure de la Passion, the ‘emotional art’ that he and I created. ‘A first roughy for you, my beautiful co-artist xxx’ says a yellow Post-it, stuck to the top, near a red bit, where we put in some extra ‘painting’.

  The print is almost ‘too much’ to take in at breakfast time. The swirls of red, blue, green and white – mainly red – made by our backs, bums, knees and other bits conjure up too many vivid memories given I have to rush out.

  On the back of the paper he’s written, ‘To the love of my life’.

  Yesterday, he swore that, no matter how big an offer (in his dreams!) he gets, he’s never going to sell the original. He says that wherever in the world I am, he’ll always be able to look at this giant canvas and feel closer to me than any Skype session or phone call could manage.

  I admit to feeling very special as I grab my overnight bag, pull on my heavy blue overcoat and open the door to an icy wintry day.

  To my surprise, there’s a blonde woman, a late-twenties Gwyneth Paltrow lookalike, her outstretched hand aimed at my letterbox.

  ‘Shit!’ she shrieks out of shock.

  ‘God! You scared me,’ I blurt out in reply. ‘Can I help you?’

  She looks me over, then says, ‘You must be Martin’s wife, Sally, right?’

  ‘Sarah.’ I notice she’s not wearing a coat, just a grey silk blouse and tight black trousers that reveal the kind of figure I’d once dreamed of having. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Stephanie.’ She stretches out a hand and a smile. ‘Stephanie Hotter. Some pronounce it hotter, but it’s actually ho-ter.’

  ‘I’ll be sure not to make that mistake,’ I say, as I shake her perfectly manicured hand.

  ‘I live next door but one,’ she adds, ‘and was just dropping off this thank you card for Martin.’ She hands it to me.

  ‘I’ll see that he gets it.’ I shut the front door behind me, so it’s obvious the card is going in my bag, not on the front door mat. ‘What exactly are you thanking my husband for, Stephanie?’

  ‘I was burgled the other day. Martin was the only person in and he called the police for me. I was in a terrible state. He let me wait for them at your house because I was scared to go back inside, and the woman on the phone told me not to enter the house until the officers arrived.’

  ‘Sounds like Martin. Always helping damsels in distress. Nice to meet you, Stephanie. I must rush.’

  ‘Bye!’ she calls after me as I head across the road.

  Needless to say, Stephanie Ho-ter, not HOTTER, is on my mind all the way to the railway station. All the way down to London on the train, especially after I open up the card and see it is signed S with a big X.

  The kiss means nothing. People use kisses these days like friendly full stops. But the S means Martin clearly knows her. Otherwise, it would be something like Mrs Hotter (at Number Three), or Steph at Number Three. Anyway, she’s a Ms, not a Mrs. She has to be. Otherwise the card would be from her and her hubby.

  So why hasn’t my passionate, loving, dutiful husband mentioned his moment of kindness in helping out the neighbour? Did it slip his busy mind? Did he think I would jump to the wrong conclusion – as I am doing, right now? And yes, I am suspicious, jealous and cynical. Those are my default settings when it comes to women ten years younger than me turning up on my doorstep before nine in t
he morning.

  I put the thank you card away and make a vow that as soon as I get to London and get my meetings out of the way, I’m going to find out everything I can about my mysteriously beautiful neighbour.

  22

  Annie

  By nine-thirty a.m. we’re in the incident room at the main city centre police station, working through coffee and croissants that Charlie has thoughtfully brought in.

  Nisha wipes pastry crumbs from her mouth. ‘Am I the only one feeling sorry for Ellison?’

  We both give her a questioning look.

  ‘I know he was a crook,’ she continues, ‘and he probably made himself ill from all those drugs, but he was what, mid-forties? That’s no age to die.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk death,’ I say firmly.

  ‘This whole job is death,’ observes Charlie. ‘Anyone want the other chocolate one?’

  Nisha thinks about it. Her denial instincts waver for a second. Finally, she shakes her head. ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘I’ll have it,’ says a woman entering the door behind us.

  Charlie swivels his head to see her. ‘Matthews – you back already?’

  ‘Evidently,’ jokes a stunning brunette in her mid-twenties. She’s all TSGS, as Nisha and I say – Tall, Slim and Glowing Skin. Instantly hateable when you’ve reached my age of near invisibility when it comes to men. I recognise her from the other day. Charlie was at her desk when Nisha and I first met him. No surprise there. Show a dog a bone and all that.

  Matthews slips off a blue wool coat and reveals an iced-grey, oversize cashmere shrug and skin-tight black leather trousers. I stretch out a hand, feeling I’m introducing myself to a model rather than another copper. ‘Annie Parker.’

  She has a handshake like a vice. What a cow. Gorgeous, confident and strong. ‘Jo,’ she says. ‘Jo Matthews. I’ve heard a lot about you, ma’am.’

  ‘Forget the ma’am, unless we’re with brass,’ I tell her. ‘And this is my sergeant, Nisha Patel.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Nisha.’ She stretches her hand out and Nisha winces as her fingers fold in the vice.

  ‘Did they give you a cause of death?’ asks Charlie.

  She shakes her head. ‘They ducked that. “Duty of the pathologist,” they said. Best I could find out was that Ellison suffered some kind of stroke.’

  ‘Poor devil,’ says Nisha, nursing her knuckles.

  ‘I managed to swing by Forensics on the way in,’ continues Miss Handcrusher. ‘They found lots of matching prints inside the Range Rover and the BMW that Richardson took when they ditched the four-by-four. We can put him in both vehicles – and…’ She teases us with a pause.

  ‘And?’ says Charlie, looking like a puppy at a dinner table.

  ‘… and the Range Rover boot – both inside and out – contains the prints of fellow escapee Callum Waters.’

  ‘What was he in for?’ I ask.

  ‘Aiding and abetting,’ answers Charlie. ‘Mainly driving getaway vehicles but if you look at his juvenile record you’ll see he’s also a violent little sod.’

  I’m curious as to whether Waters is the driver who cheeked me in the supermarket car park. ‘Can you show me a mugshot?’

  ‘Certainly can,’ she says, sliding a large iPhone X out of her coat pocket and swiping a finger across the screen. ‘This is Richardson.’ She waits a second for the picture to register with me then swipes again. ‘And this is Waters.’

  I study the mug shots. Both men are the same sort of age, so the Adonis at the Range Rover wheel wasn’t Waters.

  ‘Richardson, I know all too well,’ I say with a shudder, as I remember the gun in his hand and the look on his face. ‘But I don’t know Waters. He wasn’t in the four-by-four I chased.’

  ‘He’ll be one of the break-out gang,’ says Charlie. Then adds, in case we hadn’t read the file properly, ‘Richardson and Waters escaped from Full Sutton in the false floor of a duplicate laundry van. The real service vehicle was found two miles from Full Sutton in an old warehouse, along with two terrified delivery men who’d been tied up and gagged.’

  Matthews takes her phone back from me and continues updating us on her trip to the labs. ‘Forensics also found two different DNA matches on strands of hair recovered from Ellison’s clothing – they came from both Waters and Richardson.’

  ‘You got those profiles done very quickly,’ says Nisha.

  ‘Perks of being NCA,’ boasts Charlie.

  ‘Well,’ I chip in, ‘bully for you! You now have enough evidence to add kidnapping to their escape charges. That is, of course, if you can catch them.’

  He doesn’t bridle. ‘Maybe more than kidnapping. If the PM report shows Ellison suffered trauma as a result of the abduction, then I’ll be pushing the CPS to go for manslaughter.’

  I take this as an opportunity to share one of the things that came across my sleep-starved mind a few hours ago. ‘And what if the pathologist says the stroke was brought on by Ellison going cold turkey while in custody and medical assistance being withheld? What then?’

  ‘He wasn’t under arrest,’ says Charlie, dismissively. ‘He could have walked out and gone to the GP of his own accord. I know what’s going through your mind, Annie. Don’t start sweating about this. There’s no danger of anyone hanging misconduct on us.’

  ‘I’m not concerned with disciplinary charges, Charlie. I’m concerned with living with myself if our actions led to his death.’

  ‘Then don’t be. They didn’t. Thirty years of sticking chemicals in his blood, peddling toxic crap to kids and fearing a beating every day of his life are going to be named as the main contributors to him kicking the bucket, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I’ve some news,’ says Nisha, who has swung her chair round to a computer at a nearby desk. ‘I told you Ashley Crewe went to school in south Manchester. Well it was a place called Lawndale, a mixed-sex secondary. His two brothers had also gone there and his family lived nearby at the time. Anyway, I contacted the old headmaster earlier this morning and he’s just sent me a list of his former classmates and teachers.’

  I head off the question I know she will ask me. ‘That’s good. When we’re done here, I’ll ask Ray Goodwin for some bodies to help you with the list.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I look at Charlie. ‘Don’t suppose you have any people you can throw our way?’

  ‘Not a one,’ he says unsympathetically. ‘In fact, unless something breaks in our favour in the next twenty-four, I don’t see my boss sanctioning us staying up here.’

  ‘Back to London?’ asks Jo, optimistically.

  He pulls his jacket off the back of a chair. ‘Let’s hope so. First, though, I want to see the pathologist and have a word in his shell-like.’

  ‘You mean make sure he doesn’t blame us in any way?’ I say rhetorically.

  ‘As if I would,’ answers Charlie. And with a grin, he’s gone.

  23

  Sarah

  I’ve just been stood up for lunch. The cancellation coming so late, I am actually in the restaurant seated at the table. An apologetic secretary has explained that a family emergency has diverted my client. Never mind. These things happen. I decide to eat anyway. The menu tells me the fish and meat come from the nearby Smithfield Market, where men were once able to sell their wives, and traitors were executed. A factual snippet I guess is aimed at the tourist trade. I order mushroom gnocchi and salad.

  While I wait, I email a contact, a former policeman, who regularly helps me with background checks on people I intend recommending for senior management jobs. I ask him to run the rule over Stephanie Hotter, without of course giving the real reason why. The truth is, I hate being taken for a fool and I have an almost clinical fear of being cheated on. Right now, in Stephanie’s case, there are too many unanswered questions for me to relax.

  Could my marriage survive a stunning interloper like her?

  Could Martin be so easily led astray?

  I hate even thinking these things. My husba
nd is faithful, honest and loving. There’s nothing he hasn’t told me. Nothing about him that I don’t know. No reason to distrust him.

  Almost on cue, I get a text.

  Miss You X

  Miss you too,

  I reply.

  Why no kisses? XXX

  I smile.

  Sorry X

  Just one? XXXXX

  A tired-looking waitress arrives with my meal and half-heartedly asks. ‘Can I get you anything else?’

  I’m resisting having a glass of wine, ‘Just some water please.’

  ‘Bottled or tap?’

  ‘Tap will do, thanks.’

  She drifts away and I try the pasta. It’s better than I hoped. My appetite is awakened by the descent of earthy, mushrooms and smooth, salty sauce. I savour a mouthful and text Martin.

  I have a thank you card for you. From Stephanie.

  Again, I omit the kisses.

  I carry on eating, watching the phone for his reply.

  Instead of a text, he calls.

  I pick it up. ‘Hello,’ I say in a tone of affected surprise. ‘You didn’t have to call me.’

  ‘Are you jealous?’ he asks.

  ‘No. Of course not,’ I reply with all the innocence I can muster. ‘Why would you say that?’

  ‘Because you’re a thinker. An introvert. Whenever I say, “You look lovely,” you say “Oh, no, I don’t, but thank you,” and I can see how you’d look at someone like Stephanie and wonder if I find her attractive and if I’m sleeping with her.’

  From that little outburst, I deduce that she called round again and told him we’d spoken, otherwise he’d have no idea that I know what she looks like. Now I am even more suspicious. Or paranoid. Or both.

  ‘And yes, I do find her attractive,’ adds Martin. ‘She’s very, very attractive. But no, I am not sleeping with her – and furthermore, I have no intention of sleeping with her. I have not and will not ever sleep with anyone else while you and I are together. You are my everything. I need nothing and no one else. Now is your barmy, over-active mind at rest?’

  ‘Yes,’ I splutter, somewhat overwhelmed. ‘Yes. It is. Thank you.’