Dead and Gone: A Gripping Thriller With a Shocking Twist

by D. L. Michaels

  I stare through the glass. The lawyer is bent close to her, his hand over his mouth so we can’t lip-read, his voice no doubt no more than whisper pitch so it can’t be picked up on microphones.

  To my horror, they both head to the door. The lawyer knocks. They’re going to try to leave.

  Nisha and I race into the corridor. A custody officer has just opened the interview room door. Johnson and her lawyer step out.

  ‘I’m looking for a bathroom,’ she says. ‘Give me five minutes and I’ll be ready to start again.’

  57

  Sarah

  I don’t need the bathroom, except as somewhere to escape to. A place to think things through on my own, without the stress of that policewoman pressing me on things.

  I run cold water on my wrists. Check my hair and make-up. Check my courage and resolve.

  I return to the interview room and as I take my seat it’s clear from the faces of the police officers that they feared I was going to retract what I’d said. And they were right to worry. It certainly crossed my mind.

  But not now.

  That moment alone has given me the resolve to make a clean breast of things. To tell everything. Not just my part in the murder. But the other secrets as well. Crimes almost as shocking and devastating as the taking of a life.

  Parker settles down opposite me, her colleague, the female sergeant, to my left. ‘Are you okay, now?’ asks the DI.

  ‘I’m fine to continue,’ I answer in as professional a tone as I can manage. I’m determined not to become emotional. Not to show the shame and guilt I am feeling.

  Parker presses the record button on a chunky black tape machine and tells me, ‘I must remind you that you are still under caution.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Mrs Johnson, before we took a break, I understood you to admit that another person had been involved in the murder and burial of Ashley Crewe. Am I correct?’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘Can you tell me who that person was?’

  ‘I can. His name at the time was Kenneth Aston. He was my boyfriend. My first love.’ I say the last sentence with an accidental hint of nostalgia. ‘He was the best thing that happened to me during a very bad period of my life.’

  She scribbles in a small notebook then asks, ‘You said Aston was his name?’

  ‘Yes, at the time.’

  ‘What was it – an adoptive surname?’

  ‘That’s right. Danny was an orphan, like me, but he fell out badly with his adoptive parents and was put into care. It’s how we both ended up in the same village, at the same social services home and school.’

  ‘Lawndale?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And this was where your relationship developed?’

  ‘At the home and at school.’ Memories flood me. ‘When I was sixteen we ran away together to Gretna and, as I say, we got married under his birth name.’

  ‘Johnson?’

  ‘No, not Johnson. Smith. His name when we got married was Daniel Kenneth Smith. He had a copy of his birth certificate, so we submitted that to the Scottish authorities when we applied for a marriage licence and I guessed they never checked he’d been adopted. So, of course, I became Mrs Smith.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m confused.’ The DI refers to a paper in her file. ‘I have you down here as married to a Martin Johnson, not a Danny Smith.’ She looks to her colleague. ‘Nisha, why is there no mention of a divorce on this records summary?’

  I answer before she can. ‘I’m not divorced. I am married to two men.’

  The policewomen stare in silence at each other, then look to me for an explanation.

  ‘I’m not yet divorced from Danny,’ I tell them. ‘Papers have been served but the process has only just begun.’

  ‘Okay,’ says the DI, with a hint of a smile on her lips. ‘To be clear, then, Danny Smith – formerly known as Kenneth Aston – is alive, and not missing as we have him on file?’

  ‘That’s right. He is very much alive.’

  ‘And you know his whereabouts and contact details?’

  ‘I do.’

  She pulls over a pad of statement paper that has been lying on the table and passes me her pen. ‘Please write them down for me.’

  I do as she asks.

  ‘You are aware,’ she continues while I am writing, ‘that you have to obtain a divorce first, before you can marry for a second time?’

  ‘Yes, I am aware of that.’

  ‘I have to say,’ she says while writing in her notebook, ‘the registrar at your second wedding should have picked up evidence of your first marriage and stopped the ceremony going ahead.’

  ‘I can explain that. I married Martin Johnson in Italy, under my maiden name of Sarah Paula Makeney, and I just crossed my fingers and hoped it wouldn’t be picked up back in England. I guessed correctly that a wedding in Gretna under Scottish law a quarter of a century ago and one in Italy half a decade ago wouldn’t be connected by some records clerk in England.’

  ‘To be clear,’ she says, ‘You intentionally married the second man, without divorcing your first husband? You wanted to be married to both of them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She gives me a shocked look, like she’s just been slapped, then fires off an obvious question. ‘And do either of your husbands know about the other?’

  ‘Last night, I told Martin about Danny - about my marriage to him and about me coming here today. But I haven’t told Danny about Martin.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Aside from pure jealousy and a temper straight from hell, there’s the little matter that –,’

  I have to take a beat before I say it ‘– that he thinks I’m pregnant. And thinks he’s the father.’

  The two policewomen exchange ‘can you believe it?’ looks.

  ‘And is you?’ says Parker, before correcting herself, ‘I mean, are you – and is he?’

  ‘I am certainly pregnant,’ I tell her. ‘But I don’t know who the father is.’

  Parker nods slowly to herself. She’s weighing everything up. Me. My dilemma. Her case. The two men. What she should do next. I almost feel sorry for her. Finally, she says, ‘How likely is it that your first husband might find Martin?’

  I suddenly feel selfish. My own predicament has been so consuming that I’d forgotten Danny had found that love note. It would be difficult for him to trace it to Martin. But not impossible. ‘Danny called me,’ I tell Parker. ‘He’d found a note in our house. One that said, “to the love of my life”.’

  ‘Not from him?’

  ‘No. It was from Martin. It was actually on the back of a small paper print of a collage of his called Une Heure de la Passion. It didn’t have Martin’s name, or address on it, but it bore his initials. I guess if he went online, he might be able to match the images and if he got lucky, find Martin.’

  ‘And if he did find Mr Johnson,’ asks the DI, ‘just how violent do you think he could be?’

  ‘If he lost his temper, then Danny could kill him,’ I say unhesitatingly. ‘He’s capable of that. I know he is.’

  58

  Danny

  I reach the end of a dual carriageway and have to dodge traffic to get to the roundabout in the middle. It’s overgrown. Full of rose brambles and prickly-as-fuck bushes of some kind. I work my way round to the other side and see a big sign.

  MWAYMOTORS

  I leg it across the other lane and get a beefy blast of air horn from some lorry the size of a cruise liner.

  The garage is a tiny crap-hole, not one of those posh supermarket jobbies with a Costa or M&S on the side. It’s got two pumps, a small wooden pay kiosk and a big brick garage next to it, advertising MOTs and cheap tyres.

  The door is open, so I walk into the shade and get a nose-full of engine oil and an earful of Radio One.

  ‘Hello! Anyone around?’

  There’s a rollin’ sound. Metal on concrete. A dark-haired bloke in blue overalls glides out from beneath a black
Audi. He has an electric grinder in one hand, and is looking up at me from a wheeled backboard. ‘You pay for petrol at the other side, mate. In the little kiosk.’

  ‘I haven’t come for petrol. I’ve broken down and need to hire a car.’

  He gets to his feet. I see now he’s mid-twenties, about my height and build.

  ‘Where’s your motor, mate?’ He grabs a rag up off a workbench and rubs oil from his hands.

  ‘I’m not sure. A few miles south, down this poxy road.’

  ‘Any idea what’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Yeah. I know exactly what’s wrong with it. It’s fucked. I came off the carriageway, down a bankin’ and into some shitty forest.’

  For some reason that makes him smile.

  ‘What happened?’ he asks. ‘Were you pissed?’

  ‘None of your business. You got a car I can rent, or what?’

  ‘Maybe.’ He looks me over and clocks the Rolex on my wrist. The little snot is smelling money; I just know he is.

  He has another rub at his hands. ‘What kind of wheels you driving?’

  ‘Porsche 911.’

  ‘Nice.’ He throws the rag down. ‘If it’s banged up, I can get you spares and a respray cheaper than any dealer could.’

  I finally put things together. This is a chop shop. The Audi he’s workin’ on will be 100 per cent nicked. He was in the process of grindin’ off identification numbers when I came in.

  ‘Dealers are all rip-off merchants,’ he adds. ‘No point lining their pockets. Have you got roadside cover and car hire thrown in?’

  ‘Fuck knows what I’ve got. I don’t care. I just need a car and I need it quick.’

  ‘Five hundred quid.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘A monkey.’

  ‘You’re a monkey – a monkey taking the piss.’

  ‘Please yourself.’ He looks down at his backboard. ‘I’ve got work to do.’

  I put a foot on the board and shove it under the Audi. ‘I’ll tell you what you’ve gotta do. You’ve gotta listen to me. Cos I know exactly what’s goin’ on here. Steal. Chop. Sell. That’s what you’re doin’. Not that I give a shit. Cos, you and me are mates. And you, mate, are gonna lend me – for free – a car. And while I’m away, you will go and dig my Porsche out of its hobbit hole and bring it back here. You do that, and I’ll see you right. A couple of ton at least. You get my car workin’ again and I can drive it, then yeah, you might get your monkey. But you fuck me about, and I swear you’ll be sorry. And I’m not talking cops. If you get my meaning?’

  I think he does, because he walks to a pegboard and takes down some keys. ‘Black Fiesta round the back.’ He throws the fob to me. ‘It needs petrol.’

  I take the keys and find the motor. It’s an ST on a new plate. I pull back the door rubber and see a line of white. Fucker. He’s sprayed this one too. I drive the dodgy motor to the pumps, fill up and hand an old geezer in the kiosk thirty quid. ‘Can you tell me where we are?’

  ‘Where we are?’

  ‘Yes, where we bloody well are.’

  ‘Keep your shirt on, fella. We’re on the A44, just outside Chipping Norton.’

  ‘How outside?’

  ‘Five minutes. Bit more if there’s traffic.’

  ‘Which way?’

  He points straight behind me. ‘Turn right out of ’ere. Road bends left then runs straight on into town.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I go back to the Ford and check my mobile again. Paula’s iPhone is still where it was. In a house, right in the middle of Lamplighter Lane in Chipping Norton. I pull out the note I had found in our bedroom and take one final look at the words that made my blood run cold:

  To the love of my life.

  I’m goin’ to make the bastard eat this paper. Make him choke on it. In putting it away, I notice there’s a funny pattern printed on the other side. Swirls of red, white and blue. Until now, I’d thought it was just the paper itself, posh stuff, you know, like women sometimes buy. Then I see it’s got the initials MJ in the corner, along with numbers 1/100. I’ve seen enough of the art prints Paula has bought to recognise the initials are those of an artist. I search on my phone for Chipping Norton artist M J.

  Up comes the name: Martin Johnson.

  And a photograph.

  A round-faced muppet in his thirties. The picture’s black and white, him posing at an angle, lots of framed crap on a wall behind him.

  I join the traffic flow and feel my anger rising.

  So, the bastard’s an artist.

  Well, so am I.

  And when we meet up, I am goin’ to paint his blood all over the place.

  59

  Annie

  I briefly stop the interview, so I can get Alice Ross chasing up all the marital twists of Sarah Paula Makeney Johnson Smith, or whatever she is actually called. I tell Nisha to track down Martin Johnson and warn him about Danny Smith. I stick my head in my boss’s door and update him, then I head back to the office where I know Charlie will be waiting ‘to have a word.’

  I find him making tea and working his way through a packet of chocolate biscuits.

  ‘You’re going to have trouble believing what I’m about to tell you.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ He holds out the biscuits.

  I take one and frown at him. ‘You’re not?’

  ‘No, I caught a lot of it from the Viewing Room, then had to deal with some calls. Seems your missing person case is turning into a murder, involving a pregnant bigamist and the prospect of one jealous husband likely to kill the other.’

  ‘Yep, that’s about the long and short of it.’ I chomp into the biscuit

  ‘Not much for me and my case, though. You want tea?’

  ‘Please.’

  He grabs another cup from the shelf. ‘Have you checked whether this Sarah-Paula woman has a history of mental illness?’

  ‘Split personality, you mean?’ I say, only half joking. ‘The kind that makes you spend half your week with one husband and the other half with another?’

  ‘That would be madness,’ he says with a grin. ‘No, I meant as in her being a pure fantasist and prone to wasting police time.’

  ‘She’s an HR consultant, Charlie. A professional woman, self-employed. You can’t go running your own business and be nutty as a fruitcake as well.’

  ‘I suspect you can. Has someone actually checked that Paula Smith is a real person and not just a figment of Sarah Johnson’s imagination?’

  ‘Alice is on it.’ I dial her mobile.

  She picks up in an instant. ‘DC Ross.’

  ‘Alice, anything yet on Paula Smith?’

  ‘You’ve only just asked me, ma’am.’

  ‘Anything yet?’ I repeat, putting my phone on loudspeaker.

  There is a Paula Sarah Smith registered on the electoral roll in Chiswick, living with a Daniel Kenneth Smith. They have no children. She’s the CEO of a company called Cloth Eared Kids Ltd, specialising in discounted fashion clothing. I have a note here saying the business started as a stall on Camden Market run by her husband.’

  ‘Turnover?’ asks Charlie.

  ‘Hold on, please. I’m just scrolling,’ she says. ‘Okay, here we are. Last financial year their revenue was £18.5 million, with profits of £4.3 million.’

  ‘Woohoo,’ I say with a hint of admiration.

  We hear keyboard typing, then Ross adds, ‘She has no previous convictions, but Danny Smith served half of a two-year stretch for handling counterfeit and stolen goods.’

  ‘Any more details?’ I ask.

  ‘Just reading the sheet, ma’am. It goes back to when Smith owned the market stall. A joint Trading Standards, Met Police operation caught him selling counterfeit handbags, football shirts, jumpers and trainers.’

  ‘Still sounds steep,’ says Charlie. ‘Most markets up and down the country are knocking out dodgy gear.’

  ‘Total value of the goods was over a hundred grand, sir.’ There’s another clack of computer
keys before she adds, ‘I’m cross-referencing known associates and I can see there were drug connections in the case as well. Two other men, working on the stall, were selling MDMA, spice and crack. Smith was charged with drugs offences as well, but acquitted by the jury.’

  ‘Why didn’t they stick?’ I ask.

  ‘Apparently the jury bought the defence case that Smith didn’t know about the drugs. He presented evidence that he was an alcoholic and, though the stall was his, he had essentially ceded control and supervision of it to his co-accused.’

  ‘Do you have their names, Alice?’

  ‘Hold on, ma’am.' After a pause, she adds, ‘They were Anthony Pilcher and Mark Sismey. They both have previous drugs convictions.’

  ‘Okay, Alice. Check with Nisha, see if she’s found Danny Smith, then both of you start pulling together backgrounds on Sismey and Pilcher. Look for something – anything – that might link Pilcher and Sismey with the brothers Kieran and Ashley Crewe and with our new friend, Danny Smith.’ I remember something else, ‘Oh, and Andrew Ellison. Don’t forget about him. If you find yourself sinking in the workload then shout for help, don’t drown.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, I will.’ She adds quickly, ‘Shout, I mean. Not drown.’

  ‘Thank you, Alice.’

  ‘I can have Matthews and some of my team help,’ offers Charlie, as I hang up. ‘After all, there’s now a chance that all this might actually help me with Richardson. He and the Mr Big who Ellison was reluctant to name are still the prize I’m after.’

  ‘All help gratefully received.’ I write down Alice’s mobile number for him. ‘You already have Nisha’s details – this is Ross’s number. I need to get back to the interview.’

  ‘You do indeed.’ He flips another biscuit to the end of the pack so it flaunts its curves of thick chocolate at me. ‘For luck.’

  60

  Sarah/Paula

  I use the unexpected, second break in interrogation, to catch up on phone calls. It might be the last chance I get. Let’s face it, by the end of today they will have formally arrested and charged me, and then my mobile will be confiscated and most likely I will be remanded in custody.