Dead and Gone: A Gripping Thriller With a Shocking Twist

by D. L. Michaels

  If I lose the baby it’ll be my fault. I’ll have been responsible for two deaths.

  I’m in the operating theatre of a private hospital in the Cotswolds, sedated but still worried sick, while they carry out this emergency Caesarean. I opted for an epidural but now wish I were unconscious. My nerves are frayed.

  I can hear our heartbeats on monitors in the room. They’re racing each other, the unborn life ahead of me, galloping so fast it will lap me if the medics don’t slow it down, if they don’t stop its wild and frantic race towards death.

  The noises in here are terrible. I hear the constant clattering of steel into steel. Scalpels and clamps dropping into metal trays, the harsh rustling of medical cutlery. Blooded rubber hands drift fleetingly into my view and I close my eyes again. Best not to look. Best not to think of them slicing across my belly. One nick and they could kill the baby.

  A kindly nurse strokes my hair. ‘You’re doing very well, Mrs Johnson,’ she says in a thick Londonderry accent. ‘Very well indeed, so you are.’

  I’m not doing anything. Anything but be scared rigid. My teeth are clamped together. My fists clenched.

  ‘Is the baby okay?’ I ask.

  ‘You relax now, and let us worry about that,’ she says. ‘Baby will be just fine, you’ll see.’

  I am sure I will, but not soon enough. I need this to be over. Aside from the unsettling beeping of monitors, there was the constant, frantic mumbling of medical words and phrases.

  Now there is silence.

  Oh God.

  Something’s wrong.

  I know it is.

  There’s a horrendous sucking sound. The sort you hear in the dentist when they hose water and blood from your mouth.

  ‘We’ve lost the heartbeat,’ says a man.

  I want to look. I need to help. I need to do something.

  ‘Baby’s stopped breathing,’ says a woman.

  124

  Annie

  I’m sitting in the ‘police room’, as the ushers call it, drinking tea with Ray Goodwin, waiting for the jury to come back.

  We’ve passed the last two days going over the highlights and low points of the three-week-long trial. We’ve given critiques on the performances of both Sylvia Oughton and Sir Richard. The one thing we haven’t done is predicted the outcome. No copper with more than half a dozen Crown Court trials under their belt will, with any confidence, tell you what verdict they expect the jury to return. Juries are never the same. They are all full of their own individual personalities, prejudices and views, and are always subject to the sway of peer pressure and group dynamics.

  It’s a lottery.

  A middle-aged usher wearing a floaty black cape flutters into our room and instantly seizes our attention. ‘They’re coming back in,’ she says, a smile underlying the fact that she knows her words have the power to make an entire crowd of seated people immediately jump to their feet.

  We file back in. Wait for the court officials to take their places. Stand as the judge is shown into the room. Mr Justice Barrows is an over-tall man in his early sixties with a permanent stoop from half a century of looking down on people.

  Attention switches to the jury foreman, a forty-five-year old businessman called Darrius Lypton. Smartly dressed, always in tie-less shirts with plain suits or jackets and trousers, he fits the profile of a man who is likely to take his time about things, weigh up all the evidence and if necessary err on the side of caution. Ray Goodwin thinks that’s a good thing. I’m not so sure.

  Barrows looks towards the jury box and reads in an instant that his day is far from done. ‘Mr Foreman, do you have another question for me, or the pleasant surprise of having reached verdicts?’

  Lypton clears his throat. ‘Your Honour, we have a verdict on two counts, but are unable to reach unanimous agreement on the others.’

  ‘How unable? Would your inability be resolved by another half-day, day or week of deliberations? Or do you believe you are at an impasse?’

  ‘We are certainly stuck, Your Honour. And I’m not sure a month let alone a week will change some people’s minds.’

  The judge takes a slow contemplative breath. ‘I dislike majority verdicts. Dislike them intensely. However, given you have unanimity on other charges this seems the only way forward. Mr Foreman, is it possible you could return a majority verdict of eleven to one?’

  ‘I am not sure, Your Honour.’

  ‘Oh, dear. Then how split are you, may I enquire?’

  ‘On one count, seven to five, Your Honour. On two others, nine to three.’

  ‘My goodness. Well, that won’t do. The minimum I can accept is a majority verdict of ten to two, so I am required to ask you to kindly return to the jury room tomorrow morning and try in earnest with your peers to reach this threshold. Thank you.’

  ‘The court is adjourned. All rise,’ proclaims the clerk.

  As the judge leaves and the jury files out, Goodwin asks me, ‘What do you think they are still hung up on?’

  ‘Who knows?’ I reply without hesitation. ‘I gave up guessing jury verdicts when I was a PC.’ And then another thought hits me, ‘Let’s hope Crewe hasn’t nobbled any of them.’

  125

  Paula

  Obstetrician Marcus Christopher looks down and sympathetically smiles at me.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Better now,’ I answer, tightening my hold on the green blanket wrapped around the baby laid across my breasts. ‘I thought for a minute that he was going to die.’

  ‘So did we,’ Christopher says casually. ‘That little fella made it about as difficult as he could for us. Got himself upside down and presented bottom first, then managed to wrap a limb around the umbilical cord.’

  ‘But he’s all right now?’ I ask, more nervously than I’ve ever voiced a question before.

  ‘He’s completely fine. But because he’s a month premature, we need to put him into a special ward where we can monitor him for the next day or so.’

  ‘Why, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing – nothing at all to worry about.’ He smiles reassuringly. ‘He’s just a little frail, so we need to be cautious. Baby is underweight because he’s pre-term, but he’s heavy and strong enough to survive and flourish. We just need to give him the best of starts and make sure there’s no risk of infection.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘We need to take him now,’ says the Irish nurse who was looking after him.

  I don’t want to give him up. His skin against my skin is so heavenly it is beyond description.

  ‘We have to give him fluids,’ she adds. ‘You’ll be able to have him back, very soon.’

  I raise my precious bundle, scared to death that I might in that short distance break him, drop him or somehow injure him. And then I realise something. Something that causes me to cry. ‘I’m not making milk. I have no milk to feed him.’

  ‘You will,’ says Mr Christopher, sympathetically. ‘You’re a new mum, so it will take a few days. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Do you have a name for him?’ asks the nurse.

  And now I’m thrown again. I’ve thought of lots over the past few months. Thought of so many I’ve been unable to pick one.

  ‘You don’t have to say, right now,’ she adds. ‘For the moment, we’ll just put a band on him that says Baby Johnson. There are no other Johnsons on the unit at the moment so it’ll be fine.’

  Johnson.

  The name I checked in under. The name I hope is right for my child.

  I watch her carry him to the other side of the room, where she lays him down on a cold mat and puts the ID on him. Baby Johnson cries.

  My son cries.

  And so do I.

  126

  Annie

  It’s Friday. Friday morning. Friday is a good day in the world of the British judicial process. No other morning of the week possesses the power that Friday morning possesses. Barristers like to get away early, to go to their country homes for the w
eekends. Judges like to tidy things up, to end cases, so they can have a clean break and a mental rest before being allocated a new case to read up on. Jurors in long-running cases like this one, seldom fancy another weekend far away from home and another week of not running their own businesses or missing out on overtime or work bonuses.

  In short, Friday is the day that everyone involved in a court case is most willing to come to a decision.

  My sister, son and granddaughter have been in London for the past two days. The police have special deals with some of the cheaper hotels, so they’ve been down to do touristy things, see Buckingham Palace, ride the London Eye and catch a musical.

  ‘How’s Dee doing?’ asks Nisha, who’s also come down, in the hope of seeing the case end.

  ‘Really good. It’s still early days, but she’s had her follow-up treatments and so far, so good.’

  ‘Does that mean the cancer’s all gone?’

  I cringe a little. ‘She’s in what the oncologist says is “partial remission”. It means she doesn’t need any more chemo – for the moment – because there are no visible signs of the cancer. But I think it’ll be another six months of monitoring before they say she’s in “complete remission”, which is about as close to a clean bill of health as the doctors will ever give you.’

  ‘And did Tom and Polly enjoy Matilda last night?’

  ‘Loved it. Almost as much as I did. He’s thinking of taking her to see Gangsta Granny today.’

  ‘Doesn’t she see a gangster granny every day?’

  We both laugh. Then I share something that’s been preying on my mind. ‘Tomorrow we’re going to Thorpe Cloud to scatter Lily’s ashes. I’m kind of dreading it.’

  Nisha grabs my arm. ‘You’ll be fine when it happens. You’ll go into full matriarchal mode and guide everyone through it.’

  The door opens and our usher appears. ‘They’re coming back in again.’

  We no longer move with the enthusiasm, speed and hope that previous announcements prompted. As I take my place in the pews below the elevated benches, I brace myself for disappointment.

  Darrius Lypton looks physically and emotionally drained. His shoulders droop, his eyes are red and his once smartly combed head of hair is now a finger-scratched mess.

  ‘Have you reached verdicts on all counts?’ asks Judge Barrows.

  ‘We have, Your Honour,’ he replies in a strained voice.

  Barrows optimistically hikes a bushy white eyebrow. ‘And are these all unanimous or majority verdicts of at least ten to two?’

  ‘They are, Your Honour.’

  ‘Very good, then let’s hear them.’

  The court clerk, a red-haired man with a ruddy face, reads the charges and prompts the responses. ‘On the first charge of being concerned in the importation of Category A controlled drugs, how do you find the defendant, Ashley Crewe?’

  Lypton licks his dry lips. ‘We find him - not guilty.’

  An audible gasp erupts from the public gallery. ‘Jesus Christ,’ I whisper in shock to Nisha and Goodwin. ‘I didn’t expect that.’

  Ashley Crewe smiles smugly across the room at me.

  ‘On the second charge,’ continues the clerk, ‘the murder of Detective Inspector Charles York, how do you find the defendant?’

  I hold my breath. Fear the worst.

  ‘Not guilty,’ says Lypton.

  ‘Shit!’ mutters Goodwin. ‘This piece of crap is going to get off.’

  Unemotionally, the clerk plods on. ‘On the third charge, the attempted murder of Detective Inspector Ananya Parker, how do you find the defendant?’

  Nisha grips my arm in support.

  ‘Not guilty.’

  I can’t help but look across the room. Ashley Crewe is now laughing. Not smirking. Not grinning. Full-blown laughter.

  I say nothing. I’m too stunned by the verdicts to be as angry as I should.

  The clerk presses on. ‘On the fourth charge, that of rape, how do you find the defendant?’

  Lypton takes a breath. ‘Guilty.’

  For a second, I am not sure I heard him correctly.

  ‘Guilty,’ echoes Goodwin in a triumphant whisper. ‘We have the bastard.’

  Crewe looks shell-shocked. No laughter now. Not a hint of a smile.

  ‘On the fifth charge, that of the murder of Daniel Smith, how do you find the defendant?’ asks the clerk.

  ‘Guilty,’ replies Lypton.

  ‘Wow!’ says Nisha.

  Wow indeed, I think to myself, as I watch Ashley Crewe reel from the knockout punch.

  Rape and murder. Those convictions should be enough to see him spend the rest of his days in prison. But I wonder whether this judge has the stomach to be as tough as I want him to be? For the rape, he could give as little as eight years, or as much as life. For the murder, he has to give a ‘life’ sentence but that could come with a minimum recommendation of fifteen years. I am not even thinking how lightly he could escape on the fraudulent passport charge.

  ‘Ashley Crewe,’ says Judge Barrows in a solemn tone, ‘you have been found guilty of two of the most serious crimes known to humanity. I intend to sentence you today, but I require a short recess before doing so. After which, I will also deal with the sentencing of the co-defendant, Ronald Croft.’

  ‘The court will rise,’ announces the clerk.

  ‘He’s not smiling now, is he?’ I say to Goodwin as Crewe leans towards the tempered security glass at the front of the dock and gestures angrily to his QC.

  127

  Paula

  Baby Johnson weighs two-point-two kilos.

  He doesn’t yet have a first name, but what he does have is a fluffy head of dark hair and gorgeous bright blue eyes. His wrists and ankles are pitifully thin and I can’t stop looking at him or touching his velvety skin. We both had a night of broken sleep and I’m now so used to his cry that I am sure I could pick it out amongst a hundred other babies.

  My little angel is sleeping in his incubator in a ward next door but I am awake, and, as exhausted as I am, I have to stay awake because, contrary to medical advice, I’ve fixed for a number of people to come to see me.

  The hospital has been very helpful. They’re allowing me, for a small fee of course, to meet my guests in a conference room normally reserved for staff meetings or client presentations. The only condition they have insisted upon is that I am pushed in a wheelchair to and from the room.

  Hospital administrator, Susan Foxton, a smiley redhead in her mid-thirties, opens my door and announces, ‘The last of your visitors has arrived, Mrs Johnson. Shall I have you taken to them?’

  ‘Please.’ My heart skips in anticipation of what is going to unfold.

  Within the minute, a hospital orderly called Samuel appears, while I’m staring in a mirror and thinking how pale I look. I’m wearing a pink flowery maternity dress that already feels ridiculously large but my feet are swollen so it’s incongruously matched with fluffy white slippers.

  Samuel wheels me down a maze of identical corridors before we reach a non-medical and more administrative area. He opens the door and as we enter four men get to their feet.

  First to greet me are Finnian Docherty and Terry Mellenby. Beside Fin is a chubby small man in a grey pinstripe suit. ‘Eric Dale,’ he says in a Yorkshire accent. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ We shake hands politely.

  I turn my attention to the fourth man, the one hanging back awkwardly, his left hand on the conference table as though it were dry land and he a swimmer too nervous to let go.

  ‘Hello, Martin,’ I say gently. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  ‘How are you, Sarah?’ he asks, almost sadly.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I answer, in a more perfunctory tone than intended. We haven’t seen each other since we split up outside the police station in Chipping Norton after Danny had withdrawn his statement. I haven’t spoken to him since Fin told me about his son in Switzerland. I’ve rung, of course. Left messages even, saying I think he’s been honourable a
nd kind in his actions and has nothing to feel ashamed of, but he hasn’t returned my calls.

  ‘I’ve already introduced myself,’ says Dale, blocking my view of anyone but him. ‘Mr Johnson knows exactly why I am here.’

  Fin Docherty eases him aside so he can address me confidentially. ‘Do you think I could have a moment alone with you?’

  ‘Afterwards,’ I tell him, my eyes still on the man who owns my heart.

  ‘It would be better if we could speak, before this all gets under way,’ Fin says insistently.

  ‘Okay,’ I answer reluctantly.

  He turns to the room and raises his voice. ‘Would everyone else mind stepping outside, please?’ he looks to Samuel, ‘You too, I’ll look after her.’

  ’I’ll be fine,’ I tell him and he slopes away.

  There are murmured objections from the others, but slowly they gather papers and coats and leave.

  Fin waits until the door closes, then pulls up a chair so he’s close to me and asks, ‘Your first marriage, to Danny in Gretna. Do you remember the name of the registrar who signed your certificate?’

  I’m thrown by this sudden rewind of my personal history. ‘No. Of course I don’t. I was sixteen. The whole service lasted less than twenty minutes - and I never saw him again.’

  ‘His name was Jonathon McDonald,’ says Fin. ‘He officiated at more than six hundred weddings in Gretna, and it’s definitely his name that’s signed on your certificate.’

  ‘Is this leading somewhere?’ I say almost angrily.

  ‘Yes, it is. McDonald wasn’t your registrar.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I say irritably. ‘You just told me he was.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I said it was his name on your form. A man called Alistair Thornley officiated at your service and pretended to be McDonald.’

  ‘You mean he deputised?’

  ‘No. I mean Thornley wasn’t a real registrar. He was a fraud.’