Dead and Gone: A Gripping Thriller With a Shocking Twist

by D. L. Michaels

  ‘Good, because I’m having a bad day. Crisis of confidence. Head full of my own doubts. You know, if it wasn’t for you bringing in a regular wage, then I think we’d soon end up on the street and starve.’

  ‘We’ll never starve, Martin. Don’t worry about that.’

  ‘Glad to hear it, because I’ve got to run to the bank to pay some bills.’

  He makes me smile. ‘Do it online. This is the twenty-first century, you know.’

  ‘I know. But it’s not my century. I belong to the age of the Romantics. Call you later. Love you.’

  And with that he’s gone. All I am left with is a desire to rush home and a tired waitress, with a glass of tap water in her hand.

  24

  Annie

  I come out of my DCI’s office with something nagging me. Something to do with the fact that criminals are a secretive bunch and tend to have a very small and trusted network. The secretive kind that stretches right back to their first days of offending.

  After telling Nisha that Goodwin’s approved some extra hands to help us out, I do a quick check on the electoral roll and a cross-ref with Records on certain births, deaths and marriages. What I find is encouraging enough for me to borrow a pool car, an old Mondeo, and follow my instinct.

  I follow it back to a place and time twenty-odd years ago, when I was a young PC attending a raid on a neglected council estate on the Derbyshire/Greater Manchester Police border.

  The destination is an old colliery village. The type where the pit has long since shut but coal will still burn in all the local living rooms.

  I park at the bottom of a road I know well and prepare a text message to send if my instincts are proved right. I learned long ago that fat-fingered fumbling on a mobile in the midst of an operation can be every bit as deadly as texting at the wheel.

  Typing done, I take a green plastic bag out of the car boot and fill it with a whole variety of stuff – stuff that makes it look as if I’ve been shopping. I pull up the hood of my old anorak and walk hunched and slow. Hopefully, I look like an arthritic senior citizen and therefore no threat to anyone. My only worry is that I am alone. A solitary pensioner on an estate like this either gets you respected – or robbed.

  Fortunately for me, the day is cold enough to keep the yobs away. They’re most probably in the McDonald’s around the corner, bullying a young manager into giving them free burgers.

  I am back on the street where I saw Colin Richardson arrested. Approaching the house of the hooker he was in bed with when CID put the door in and let a police dog loose on the fleeing woman he’d been sleeping with.

  Decades have passed, but some things never change. Especially the fact that people seldom forget who they were in bed with when the cops came calling. And my hunch is that the only reason Richardson is up in this neck of the woods is that, either Sharon Croft is still a friend with benefits he was dying to drop in on, or, more likely, the gobby Adonis who got out of the Range Rover is his illegitimate son – a nineteen-year-old registered on the electoral roll as Ronnie Croft.

  Sharon’s house stands out on the block. Not just because of its tidy front garden and recently painted windows and doors. But because there’s a burglar alarm box and a security camera fixed to the outside. And beneath those telltale bits of tech, smoking in the cold, stamping his feet to stay warm, is a scraggly lad, no older than fifteen.

  The curtains are drawn downstairs and smoke is pouring out of the chimney. My imagination is running ahead of me. Guys used to a hot and sweaty prison would want a place as warm as possible. They’ve paid a local kid to keep watch because it looks marginally less suspicious than putting a big beefy bloke there. But he’s still a pair of eyes and fifteen-year-olds these days are about as street smart as anyone.

  Of course, I could be wrong. Despite her advanced years, Shazza could still be on the game. The lad outside might be plucking up the courage to go inside and spend his pocket money on a game of Grab-a-Granny.

  I walk by. Don’t look back. Shuffle past a sign that says NO BALL GAMES, past a drive full of house bricks covered by a tarpaulin flapping in the wind, and I turn the corner.

  The estate is one of back-to-back terraces, rear yards-cum-gardens bumping against each other, separated by raggedy hedges, spiky bushes and broken fences. It’s an area of high unemployment, so lots of people will be at home, but chances are they are all inside, still sleeping, playing online games or watching daytime TV. Hopefully, none are watching a middle-aged bag lady climb awkwardly between the brambles and bushes, wishing she’d done more than an occasional Boxercise class in the village hall.

  I fix my eyes on the rising smoke. Keep my body low. Work my way along, until I am in line with the rear of Sharon’s house. Her patch of land is long, maybe twenty metres, but narrow. It’s mainly overgrown grass, a stepping-stone path and high hedges down both sides. Instead of a back fence, there is a tall line of bedraggled leylandii. I am pressed between their springy evergreen branches, squatting low, getting my bearings.

  My reason for coming around here is that I know most of us crave daylight. We’ve got to let it in somewhere, especially if we’ve been locked up for years and seen little of it. So, while the front curtains of the house are shut to nosy neighbours, the ones round the back are most likely open, to let the light in.

  I’m right.

  Upstairs and downstairs, not a single one has been closed.

  Even better, the back door has been propped open. Jailbirds obviously desire open doors and fresh air even more than light.

  And, there’s a baby gate across the open door.

  Well, well, well.

  Is it to keep a toddler in? Or a dog?

  The last thing I fancy is a pit bull bounding my way with dinner in mind.

  I think it’s unlikely Sharon would keep a dog. Not after having been bitten so badly when I last saw her.

  So, it’s a toddler.

  But she’s in her late, late forties, early fifties, so probably not hers.

  It’s her son’s.

  Young Adonis has been a bit careless.

  And Richardson is a granddad.

  I was right, right, right!

  This is the reason he’s come back to his old stomping ground.

  Sharon comes to the sink by the window. Runs a tap and fills a kettle while jabbering away about something. I guess she’s brewing up for her boys.

  Suddenly, a man, not Richardson or Adonis, steps over the baby gate. He looks straight down the garden and I’m not sure, but I think it’s Waters.

  For a second, I’m certain he’s seen me. His head tilts to one side, as though he’s trying to get a better look. Suddenly, his hand goes to the back pocket of his jeans.

  I remember Richardson and the gun. The bullets fired at my car. The terror of wondering if I’d been hit.

  His hand produces cigarettes and a lighter.

  I breathe a slow and hopefully silent sigh of relief.

  As he lights up, I become convinced it’s Callum Waters. He’s leaner and older than the mugshot Matthews showed me. But it’s him.

  Waters leans against the back wall of the house. Inhales. Holds it down. Tilts his head. Exhales pleasurably, into the frosty air.

  Sharon briefly appears and passes him a steaming mug of tea or coffee.

  I’m wondering where Richardson is.

  The baby gate rattles. Hungry robins rise from where they’d been pecking frozen bird seed.

  Another man steps over the gate.

  This is Adonis. Richardson’s son. Ronnie Croft.

  Now, I have two out of three of our targets. But not the main man.

  There’s movement in the shadows in the house. I’m hoping it’s him.

  It’s not.

  Sharon steps into the light. It’s the first time I’ve seen her so clearly. She’s put on a lot of weight. Short white hair has replaced the long blonde cut I remember her having.

  I’m still reflecting on the night we met, when she steps asi
de and at last Richardson comes into view. Slowly, he climbs over the gate.

  Now I’ve got a full set. Colin Richardson, Callum Waters and Ronnie ‘Adonis’ Croft.

  Sharon bends down in the kitchen. She picks up a bundle of clothes and passes it over the gate to Richardson. He hugs it and I’m guessing the bundle is his grandchild, but I can’t see the baby.

  Richardson couldn’t look happier.

  And I suspect neither can I. I reach into my pocket, pull out my phone and send the prepared text to Nisha and Charlie:

  Richardson is with his son and Waters, at 96 Arthur Avenue, Crossmoor Estate, SK22 4DD. Have eyeball on them. Need urgent assistance. Be aware, there is a young child on the premises.

  Part Three

  25

  Paula

  ‘Docherty and Docherty’ are not only lawyers, they’re also security consultants and private investigators, a combination that makes them a perfect one-stop-shop for people like me who sometimes have major problems needing both expertise and discretion.

  Currently, they’re handling the sale of my company.

  And my divorce.

  Their big boss is the founder, Charlie Docherty. He’s a former Commander in the Met, now in his late seventies but, like Rupert Murdoch and Warren Buffett, he’s still bright as a button and very definitely the controlling force in the family firm.

  My regular contact is Charlie’s son, Finnian, who is also ex-police. Fin is a shade shy of forty, with curly dark hair and wandering brown eyes that, if you want to be kind, make him look a little like a chubby Dominic West.

  I am meeting him in a tapas bar in Marylebone, not far from one of D and D’s London offices. I drop my coat and brolly with a very polite young woman at the front door. She’s wearing a simple staff ‘uniform’ of white blouse with a knee-length, tailored black skirt and matching black flats. As she gives me a ticket and calls over a waitress, I see Fin at a table in the far corner. Typically, he’s sat so he can see the entire restaurant.

  The waitress leads me across a peach-coloured Mediterranean-tiled floor illuminated by clusters of multicoloured pendant lights. The walls are warm, bare brick, and the windows framed in cool black metal.

  Fin is dressed in a navy-blue suit, with pale blue shirt and plain navy tie. He always looks as if he’s ready to step into a courtroom and give evidence. A bottle of red stands open, next to an almost empty glass. He’s so immersed in the fine ritual of dipping crusty bread in a side plate shimmering with olive oil that I’m sure he hasn’t spotted me.

  But I’m wrong.

  Once I enter his orbit, he wipes his hands on a napkin and jumps to his feet as though a judge has just entered court. ‘Paula,’ he chimes, ‘so very good to see you.’

  We do the double-cheek kiss that all city lunchers do. He graciously pulls out the chair opposite his and helps me sit with all the expertise of a waiter in a Michelin-starred restaurant.

  Fin takes his seat, smiles and gestures to the breadcrumbs across his placemat and the glass of red. ‘I missed breakfast, so I hope you don’t mind me having started without you?’

  ‘Not at all.’ I nod to the bottle of red. ‘You normally have wine for breakfast?’

  He laughs. ‘Not as often as I’d like.’ He picks up the petite wicker basket and offers it to me.

  The aroma of warm, fresh bread awakens my carb-craving genes and I have to summon up an inordinate amount of willpower to resist. ‘No, thanks.’

  Fin puts the basket down and purloins another piece for himself. ‘They opened this place last week, so they do have some teething problems with staff and speed of service, but the food is excellent.’

  I pick up a menu. ‘What would you suggest?’

  ‘How about we get a mix of tortilla, Padrón peppers, baby monkfish, Manchego salad and cured meats?’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  ‘Wine?’ He reaches for the bottle.

  I put my hand over my glass. ‘No, thanks, I’m on a dry month.’

  ‘Then I’ll get you some mineral water. Still, if I remember rightly?’

  ‘You do.’

  He waves over a waitress and I check my phone while he passes on the order. Once he’s done, I get down to business. ‘What news do you have for me? Good or bad?’

  ‘A little of both.’ He reaches for a black computer case at his feet, unzips the top and lays a brown envelope on the table. ‘Your American report. I’ll send an encrypted version to your secure server.’

  I open it up.

  Fin summarises while I scan. ‘Basically, Morgan, Dillon and Stadler are all financially clean. No bankruptcies, no insider trading, no misdemeanours. No past votes of no confidence, no writs filed, no outstanding lawsuits or Weinsteinian skeletons in the closet. MDS and the principals are good corporate citizens.’

  ‘Pleased to hear it. I’d hate to learn I’m getting into bed with a bunch of rogues.’

  Our conversation pauses while a blonde as thin as dental floss, with a Union Jack tattoo on her ankle, appears and pours water from a bottle of Vichy Catalán.

  ‘Your prospective purchasers are also doing their due diligence on you,’ says Fin.

  ‘I’d expect them to.’ I take a sip of the mineral water.

  ‘Of course, you would. They’ve hired Caitlins in New York.’

  ‘And you know that how?’

  ‘Because they approached us to do local checks on you.’

  ‘And that presented a conflict of interests?’

  ‘Absolutely. I referred them to Redmaynes. Anything untoward comes up, they’ll flag it to me first and I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Thanks. By the way, I’ve already informed Randy Stadler about Danny’s criminal conviction and his time in prison.’

  ‘Very honest of you. How did he take it?’

  ‘Said he appreciated the candour and asked if he was still a director.’

  Fin frowns, wondering if he’s forgotten some vital information. ‘He isn’t, is he?’

  ‘No,’ I say emphatically. ‘As you know, there’s no legal demand to disqualify a person with a criminal record, but I had Danny step down as a director so I could raise funds without his shadow hanging over the business. We missed out on the tax perks of having him as a director but he still got a good wage.’

  ‘Essentially, you reduced him to the role of sleeping partner?’

  ‘You could say that,’ I concede, avoiding his marital pun.

  Our food comes and it turns out to be every bit as good as he promised. The Padrón peppers are fat and luscious, melting into a fiery buttery chew. The monkfish has been cooked to a meaty, garlicky perfection. I skip the platter of meats but steal most of the Manchego salad.

  Once the plates have been cleared, Fin interlocks his fingers and gives me his change-of-mood, serious look. ‘The divorce papers have been served on Danny.’

  ‘I know. He’s sent me a thousand text messages saying what a mistake it is, how he’s sober and different and will never drink again.’

  ‘You’ve heard all that before, right?’

  ‘Many times. And I’m not falling for it again. We’re done. And he knows it.’

  ‘He’s accepted that?’

  ‘Maybe. He’s invited me to a “separation dinner” at the house, so I’ll use the moment to ensure he’s got the message.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have let him stay in the house, Paula. If we go to court, he’s going to claim it as his home.’

  ‘It is his home.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I do. But if the sale of Cloth Eared Kids goes through then I’ll be able to give him that house – and enough cash to start over. I’d like to do that.’

  ‘You’re too soft. Given his alcoholism, his criminality – and you say he’s had affairs as well—’

  ‘Flings rather than affairs; one-night stands and only when he’s been drunk—’

  ‘Still – given that kind of behaviour, you could get away with keeping the property and writing
him an extremely modest settlement cheque.’

  ‘I don’t want to get away with anything. I want him to be happy. Remember, Danny started that business—’

  ‘As a bent market stall.’

  ‘Nevertheless, he started it. And I want him to have enough money to start again and not feel bad towards me. It’s really important to me that we part as friends, not enemies. Do you understand?’

  He throws up his hands. ‘Okay, you have your chummy divorce dinner with your soon-to-be-ex and I’ll try not to say “I told you so” when he announces that he’s going to take you for every penny you’ve got.’

  ‘Enough now. We’re done on this.’ I give him a stern look, take a sip of my water, then ask, ‘Did your investigators manage to vet the other people on the list I sent you?’

  ‘No, not yet, but they will have, by close of play tomorrow. Is that okay?’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine. The checks aren’t urgent. They’re just prospective employees my PA shortlisted. I want to make sure they have nothing to hide.’

  ‘We all have things to hide, Paula.’

  ‘Except me, of course.’

  ‘And me.’

  We both laugh. Because we both know we’re liars. We clink glasses, water against wine, and he adds, ‘One last thing on Danny. Let me put together a Plan B for you. A fall back if he turns nasty. If your Last Supper ends up in him crucifying you financially.’

  I think about it for a second, then nod my consent. But God help me. If Danny does turn nasty, then it’ll take more than Fin’s Plan B to save me.

  26

  Annie

  Sleet is falling. Dropping fast and heavy. The icy white hyphens show against winter-black tree lines and red-tile rooftops. Richardson and the baby have retreated into the warmth and I suspect Waters and Croft will follow once they’ve finished smoking.

  I’m desperate for warmth as well. The skin on my face feels as if it’s been scrubbed with sandpaper and my fingers and toes are painfully frozen.

  Come on, where’s the cavalry?