The Death of Me

by Natalie Hames

  Tom’s attention sharpened and his eyes lifted back up to Tony.

  “What do you mean, fitted up?”

  “Listen, just like you, I’ve been accused of murdering my stepdaughter and another girl.”

  Tom’s body tensed. Maybe this man wasn’t as gentle and unassuming as he had initially thought and in the space of a second, his mind had already cast a guilty verdict.

  “I didn’t do it,” Tony continued. “Everyone assumes it’s the stepfather, don’t they? But the whole thing stinks.”

  “What’s this got to do with me?” Tom replied, gathering up his tray in readiness to leave.

  “A witness has come forward. A man who was visiting one of my neighbours. He said he saw a man…a police officer with another man entering the shed where her body was discovered. The man with him was carrying a bag towards the shed the night before she was found.”

  Tom felt increasingly uneasy as the man explained how the witness had not come forward at the time due to him having an affair and not wanting his wife to find out. Unable to pull himself away, he sat half perched on his seat with his hands on each side of the tray waiting for an appropriate pause in the conversation which would allow him to leave. Then, Tony mentioned a familiar name and Tom froze.

  “Just do one thing for me, please?” Tony asked as the bell sounded to signal the end of breakfast. “Give your solicitor this note from me and tell him to give it to the police.”

  He slid the piece of folded paper under Tom’s tray, then stood up to leave the table, his breakfast untouched. Tom paused for a moment, rooted to his seat as he tried to mentally catch up with what Tony had revealed.

  “Hey, you. Shift!”

  Tom snapped out of his trance as a prison officer bellowed at him from a couple of tables away and he recognised him to be the same officer who had witnessed his beating and delayed raising the alarm. The constant intense ache from his fractured ribs reminded him of his vulnerability and he instantly jumped up from the table to be escorted back to his cell.

  Once safely back behind the locked door, he checked through the observation glass for the nearest officer. When he had satisfied himself the coast was clear, he pulled the slip of paper given to him by Tony from up the sleeve of his grey sweatshirt. It wasn’t sealed or even inside an envelope, merely folded in half, and so Tom sat on his bed and opened it up. Inside, Tony had written the name of the witness along with the name of the police officer whom he suspected. He carefully refolded it and slipped it into the waistband of his jogging bottoms, then curled up on his bed to wait for his solicitor to arrive. An overwhelming sense of doom hovered over him as the name on the paper infiltrated his thoughts. If what Tony had told him was true then any hopes of being acquitted and released were being sucked down into a bottomless black hole.

  By the time it came for Tom to see his solicitor, the name on the slip of paper was consuming him. What if Tony’s accusation was right? What if he had indeed been framed? As the prison officer escorted him to the private meeting room, the air in his chest had formed a hard ball from the tension. There were never any guards present when he met with his solicitor but he was aware they still monitored the interviews via CCTV and he wondered if passing the note would cause him any problems.

  James Gillespie sat calm and composed, rising from his seat when Tom entered the room to greet him with a firm handshake.

  “Take a seat, Tom.”

  He gestured to the chair on the opposite side of the Formica table as he leant forward to resume his position. The case file was laid open to three-quarters the way through the documents inside and Tom felt comforted by James’s cool and distinct organisation. He continued to finish the part he had been reading prior to Tom’s arrival, his clean-shaven face and subtle winter tan contrasting against the crisp whiteness of his shirt. The collar held neatly in place with a plain silver collar pin threaded behind a precisely folded navy blue silk tie.

  “Well, you’re looking a lot better than the last time we met,” James said, looking up from the file once he was satisfied he had finished reading. “Has the treatment improved?”

  Tom nodded. James was a legal shark and had already filed criminal charges against the prison for compensation but it was the least of Tom’s concerns.

  “What…what do you think my chances are?”

  James thumbed through the file this time not to read it, more to visually demonstrate he had done his homework and was ready to do battle.

  “I’m not going to lie to you, Tom. They’ve got a good solicitor for the prosecution.”

  Tom felt the colour drain from his face and he braced himself for James to deliver marginal odds.

  “But he’s nothing I can’t handle.”

  James sat back in his seat, a faint smirk twitched on the corners of his thin lips as the prospect of annihilating their legal representative excited his ego. The thrill of courtroom battle sent a shiver up his back, resting in the nape of his neck beneath his dark brown, slicked back hair. The taste of victory was always his main motivation, more so than the money, fine clothes, women and cars – it was always about the power.

  Tom observed every movement for even the slightest doubt but a cruel spark which glinted across James’ crystal blue eyes took him aback. The flicker was almost demonic and for a fleeting moment the man before him, so well-groomed and controlled, appeared devilish. Aware Tom had seen a glimpse of his true, ugly nature, he quickly put his pleasure in check and focused back on the case.

  “I’m going to use the trial by media and the forensic evidence being supposition to blow the case apart. Don’t worry about the jury, they’re my speciality,” he added. “Just sit it out here for a few more days and I’ll soon have you home where you belong.”

  His words should have given Tom some comfort. Small aspects of his everyday life which he had never given a second thought to – his favourite chair, drinking chocolate at bedtime, the warmth of his slippers – now became a major issue. But despite his craving for freedom, he was well aware of public opinion. To them, he was a child killer, a hated man.

  “You don’t seem very pleased?” James asked, noticing the worry on Tom’s expression. “Don’t you think I can pull it off?”

  “Oh, no. Not at all,” Tom replied, careful his underlying worries didn’t insult his ego. “I…I just can’t see my life ever being the same.”

  James looked a little puzzled at his response. His range of emotions didn’t encompass empathy so understanding Tom’s apprehensions were difficult and it was one of the rare occasions he stumbled to find the right words.

  “Anyway, I’ll worry about that when I’m free.”

  Tom lifted the conversation, anything to disperse the awkward extended pause which had invaded their meeting.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Tom said in a hushed tone.

  He leant forward and James mirrored his action.

  “Can you hand this over to the police for me, please? I know it’s a bit cheeky but I promised the man I’d try.”

  He slid the note across the table concealed under the flat of his hand and James picked it up and opened it. His eyes darkened as he read the brief message and Tom felt a slight vibration of anger underneath his calm expression.

  “Who gave you this?”

  “A man called Anthony Fletcher. He put me on the spot really, but I did promise I’d pass it on.”

  James slipped the note into the pocket of his tailored suit and reverted to his usual calm, pleasant professional self.

  “Leave it with me. I’ll see it gets to the right person.”

  Rising from his chair, he stretched out his arm and gave Tom a firm handshake.

  “Get some rest. I want you to be fresh and mentally sharp for Wednesday.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  7am and Phil made his way over to the meeting room ahead of the rest of the team. The briefing was due to start at 7.15am sharp, but to his surprise, DCI Burns was already in the room and preparing the whiteboard wi
th notes.

  “Morning, Sir,” he said, as cheerily as possible.

  The news about Tom Dalton’s acquittal the previous day had already circulated around the office and Mick had placed it first on his agenda.

  “Morning, Phil,” he replied, not breaking off from his writing. “I’m glad you’ve come in before the others. Gives us a chance to have a chat.”

  Phil felt his face flush. Mick’s expression was unreadable and he wasn’t able to gauge whether the ‘chat’ would be something good, or bad. The tracker he had placed on Jason’s car rushed to the forefront of his mind as it always did. Maybe it had been found? A heat spread over his body, covering him entirely apart from his fingertips which remained icy cold, and he was aware of damp patches forming beneath his arms.

  “I need to give you an update on the Fletcher appeal,” he began, and Phil felt the relief release from his lungs.

  Mick placed the cap back on his marker pen and turned to face him as Jason entered the room.

  Oh, for God’s sake. Why has he appeared?

  Phil shot him a look, hoping he would take the hint and leave but instead he sat himself down at one of the seats at the front.

  “I was just about to give Phil an update on the Fletcher case.”

  Jason nodded and Phil noticed the faintest hint of a smirk play around the corners of his lips.

  He knows. The bastard knows what Mick’s about to tell me. They’ve already discussed it.

  Phil inwardly prickled as he felt the update had turned into more of a show for Jason’s benefit.

  “Unfortunately….,” Mick started, and Phil noticed his eyes flick over to Jason. “…the case won’t be proceeding.”

  “What?! Why?” Phil blurted, his eyes wide as he demanded an explanation.

  “I’m afraid Anthony Fletcher was found hanged in his cell at around 4am this morning. One of the prison officers found him while he was doing a patrol of the corridors. He’s dead.”

  A rage burst inside his chest and it took him all his strength not to turn it onto Jason as he sat with his eyes lowered, looking at the file on his knee trying to contain his smug expression. Phil opened his mouth to speak but the shock of the news combined with the anger, rendered him speechless.

  “I know it’s a tough pill to swallow, but we’ve no choice but to close the case,” Mick added, trying to inject a lilt of sympathy to his tone.

  The door swung open, breaking the silence as more of the team filtered in and took their seats. Within minutes the conversation had moved on and Mick was already onto the next topic on his agenda.

  Is that it? We’re just going to carry on as if nothing’s happened?

  Phil’s head was filled with inward conversation which was so loud he struggled to concentrate on what Mick was telling the team about Tom’s release. Only when he heard the words ‘the case has gone cold’ did his attention snap back to the present moment.

  “We simply haven’t got the funding available to investigate this case any further. Grace Dalton has been missing for four months now without any further suspects coming under our radar. Unless fresh evidence is brought to light then we’ve made the decision to keep the file open but take a more reactive approach.”

  Mick reeled off the standard lines he always delivered whenever it was time to move on and Phil knew in time the file on Grace Dalton would be gathering dust deep inside the Met’s archives. Part of him was relieved. Tom was innocent and he had performed his policing duties to the letter without the press unearthing the link between himself and Tom, so there was no shame on his part. Children went missing all the time and three new cases had already landed on the teams’ desks last week, alone. Some were found. Troubled teens kicking back and making statements to their parents but there were many who disappeared without a trace, never to be seen or heard from again.

  “Phil,” Mick caught his attention. “You worked closely on the Dalton case so I’d like you to give them a visit to explain the decision, okay?”

  “Me?”

  Phil looked horrified. Jason had worked on the case just as much as him, if not more and he had mentally accepted he would never have to be in Tom’s company again.

  “Yes, you. Is that a problem?”

  “No. No, Sir.”

  As the team filtered out from the briefing room, Phil noticed Jason watching him from the corner of his eye while he remained seated to be alone with Mick. Paranoia gripped and twisted at his guts as he fought to keep his expression neutral but he knew, somehow, in some way, Jason was engineering events for him to take another fall. His emotions were at boiling point. Knowing he was incapable of returning straight to his desk without them bubbling to the surface, he strode through the open plan office and headed straight for the washroom. Once inside, he made a quick check of the cubicles then let out a huge lung full of breath. The relief of being able to allow the mask of calm to fall from his face was exquisite.

  He kicked a cubicle door open and went inside, sliding the bolt across behind him, then perched on the edge of the toilet seat and pulled out his phone. The tracker had formed an obsession and he was getting to know what went on behind the curtain of Jason’s life. Somewhere in the coordinates lay the answer. He just had to keep a vigilant eye on his movements for any slips or dodgy dealings.

  He checked the coordinates over and over as if he had been afflicted with an acute attack of obsessive compulsive disorder, sometimes checking even when he knew nothing had changed. Agitation filled his body. The desire to simply do something, anything, was overwhelming as palpitations pounded in his eardrums. He knew he had to compose himself and return to his desk, so he left the cubicle and washed his face in cool water in an attempt to flush away the suppressed anger.

  Walking back to the office, he made a conscious effort to retain a calm exterior as the sight of Jason sitting at his desk caught his eye. He had not been back at his cubicle for long when Jason wandered over and took his usual position, perched on the corner of his desk.

  “When are you planning on visiting the Dalton’s?”

  Jason took a sip of his coffee and casually swung his leg.

  “Tomorrow,” Phil replied. “I’ve already got my day organised and have to visit two other parents of missing children.”

  He continued to work, hoping his response would be the end of the conversation and Jason would drift away.

  “You did your best, you know,” Jason continued, a slight undertone of sarcasm and pity in his tone.

  “Uh-huh,” Phil replied, still focusing on one of the new cases which had landed on his desk. “I’d love to chat Sir, but as you can see, I’m trying to make headway in these cases, so if you’ll excuse me?...”

  Jason’s leg slipped down from the corner of his desk and without uttering another word, he slid away back to his own desk.

  Bastard.

  The rage Phil had tried to suppress returned and he gritted his teeth and stared at the computer screen unable to take in any of the details he was trying to read.

  I have to concentrate. Don’t give him any reason to question my detective work.

  His hand explored the back of his drawer until he came across the rosary beads and he ran them through his fingers below the desk. He had neglected his faith since his promotion had been sabotaged and the feel of the wooden beads jerked his memory to the Easter communion in a couple of days’ time. The prospect of visiting Tom Dalton was one of dread and as he tried to stay focused on the work tasks in front of him, he realised there would be yet another night of insomnia ahead. He stuck at it for another hour, then accepting his mind wouldn’t stay on the new case he closed the file and put on his coat.

  “Going out?” Jason called over.

  “Decided to see the Dalton’s after all,” he answered, not giving him any eye contact.

  The air was fresh outside and he filled his lungs to relieve the suffocation from the office. He had no recollection of the journey, only the realisation he had arrived outside Tom’s house
as the pressure in his chest brought him back to reality. This was the part of his job he hated the most. Watching the pain and disappointment in victims’ faces as he bore the bad news, choosing his words as carefully as possible to avoid outbursts of hysteria and anger. The urge to drive away was palpable but as the curtains moved and Tom’s face appeared, he knew it was no longer an option.

  “Come in,” Tom greeted him, opening the door while he was still on the footpath outside.

  Phil managed to muster up a faint smile as Tom opened the door fully and stood aside.

  “Is Julie in?”

  Tom brushed off the question, making an excuse about her going shopping. He knew his lie was obvious but he didn’t want to go into how strained their marriage had been since his time away and how his wife had been having an affair.

  “Take a seat. Would you like a coffee? The kettle’s just boiled.”

  Phil shook his head and politely declined, sitting on the sofa while Tom finished in the kitchen. He looked around the immaculate living room while he waited, mentally rehearsing the conversation which was about to take place, until his eyes settled upon the local paper resting on the coffee table.

  “Terrible thing to happen.”

  Phil jumped as Tom re-entered the room with his drink and noticed him reading the headline about Anthony Fletcher’s suicide.

  “I met him while I was inside. We had a conversation a few days before my trial and he seemed quite a decent chap.”

  “Oh…what did you talk about?” Phil replied, immediately feeling awkward at asking such a probing question.

  “Not much as we didn’t have long but he asked me to pass a note onto my QC for him.”

  “And did you?” Phil’s eyes were wide and he struggled to appear relaxed.

  “Oh, yes. I had a meeting that morning with my QC and asked him to hand it over to the police. I must say, he didn’t come across as being suicidal. Quite the opposite, actually.”

  “What makes you say that?”