Dead and Gone: A gripping thriller with a shocking twist (DI Annie Parker) Read online

  DEAD AND GONE

  D.L. Michaels

  Start Reading

  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.ariafiction.com

  About Dead and Gone

  Paula Smith could have had it all. Hugely successful in her fashion business, she lives the kind of life she could never have imagined. Her world should have been an idyllic one if it weren’t for her husband Danny who is resentful of her success and increasingly prone to alcoholic rages. Paula knows she should leave him but she if she did, he would pick up the phone to the police and her life would come crashing down around her.

  Sarah has found the kind of happiness with Martin she never thought possible. He is everything she could have wished for in an man. Caring, sensitive and loving, yet he has a secret that could threaten everything they share. But he is not the only one with a secret….

  DI Annie Parker, mother, grandmother and widow, has plenty of baggage of her own, but she’s still determined to be the best police officer she can be. When she and her sergeant Nisha Patel hear about a 20-year-old murder that nobody knew about, nothing will stop them from tracking down the killer, even if it brings them up against one of the most dangerous crime families in the country.

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About Dead and Gone

  Dedication

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part 2

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Part 3

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Chapter 115

  Chapter 116

  Chapter 117

  Chapter 118

  Chapter 119

  Chapter 120

  Chapter 121

  Part 4

  Chapter 122

  Chapter 123

  Chapter 124

  Chapter 125

  Chapter 126

  Chapter 127

  Chapter 128

  Chapter 129

  Chapter 130

  Acknowledgements

  About D.L. Michaels

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  This book is dedicated to Tracy Jayne Redfern, a remarkable sister, mother and daughter who died tragically early and left the world a poorer place.

  Her many years of selfless, ludicrously under-paid work, as a carer of adults with learning difficulties in Derbyshire, was a joy to her and an inspiration to see.

  Her laughter and love are sorely missed.

  Three women.

  Three secrets.

  One hell of a reason to commit murder.

  Part One

  1

  Annie

  North Derbyshire

  I am so not in the mood for this!

  A silver Range Rover has slipped into the parking spot I am reversing into. The last space close enough to the supermarket entrance to avoid a long and slippery trudge over ice and snow.

  ‘You selfish bastard!’ I shout over my shoulder, as I hit the brakes – and the car horn.

  A dark-haired lad in his late teens springs out of the driver’s side of the 4x4. He’s an Adonis. Tall, broad and way beyond handsome. Despite it being minus three, he’s in a skin-tight white T-shirt that shows off muscled arms, bouldered shoulders and a broad chest.

  I roll down my window and shout, ‘Hey, I was going in there! You’ve taken my space.’

  ‘Then you should’ve been quicker, grandma,’ quips Adonis with a cheeky smile. ‘It’s mine now, innit?’

  I want to kill him. And that’s despite the fact that I am a grandma. A very proud one – though I do quickly tell people that I’m only forty-four, which I’m sure is exceptionally young to be a grandparent. And secondly, he’s right, the parking place certainly is his. Possession is nine tenths of the law, as I certainly know, given my particular line of work.

  So, that should be the end of the matter.

  But no bloody way is it going to be.

  I get out and stomp towards him.

  ‘I’d like you to move your vehicle, please. You could see me backing in.’

  He laughs in my reddened face. Not a slight snigger. Nor a cynical smirk. Oh no, this is a full-on chuckle.

  The 4x4’s passenger door opens. An older man, with sandy hair, eases himself out. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Granny ’ere is ’avin a laugh, i’n’t she?’ He nods in my direction. ‘Wants me to shift the motor coz she says she was ’ere first.’

  ‘I’m picking up medicine for my sick granddaughter,’ I announce, defiantly.

  The passenger�
�s blue-grey eyes study me as he tugs on a brown leather jacket. ‘Do as she says,’ he tells his friend. ‘Get it moved.’

  Adonis looks shocked. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘You heard me, thick lad, get it shifted.’

  He thinks better of arguing and instead tells me, ‘Back up, then, or I can’t get out, can I?’

  ‘Thank you!’ I boom sarcastically.

  As I get back in my car and start reversing, I guess the older man knows who I am. Right now, he’s probably telling his young friend my full and awful story. ‘That’s Annie Parker,’ he’ll be saying. ‘A year ago, her husband and daughter-in-law died in a car crash, not far from here. A bus driver fell asleep. Ploughed right into them. It tore the family apart. Her son had a mental breakdown and tried to kill himself. Now that poor bitch is looking after him and his little kiddie.’

  I am getting a parking space out of pity.

  It’s the last thing I want.

  But I’ll take it.

  Maybe it’s because we’ve just had Christmas and it’s close to the anniversary of their deaths, but right now everything seems to remind me of my husband, Jack, and daughter-in-law, Lily. I think the only reasons I don’t fall apart are the need to work for a living and to look after my son, Tom, and granddaughter, Polly.

  The Range Rover reverses out quickly. Adonis slams it into first and sprays icy slush everywhere. A stupid, final gesture of anger.

  And then a thought hits me.

  I might have got this all wrong.

  I hit a speed-dial number on my mobile and switch to hands-free as it connects. ‘Control, this is Detective Inspector Annie Parker. I need a PNC check on a licence plate. Registration Bravo, Mike, Zero, Two, Mike, Alpha, Mike.’

  Before the reply comes, I’m forsaking the newly won space, slaloming around shoppers and heading for the exit.

  ‘DI Parker, the plates belong to a black Audi A6,’ says a male controller. ‘It’s registered to a Mark Andrew Mason and was reported stolen in Westminster.’

  Stolen.

  ‘Then I need back up, please. I’m in my own car, a blue Golf, and in pursuit of a silver Range Rover bearing that registration.’

  Pulling onto the main road, I catch a glimpse of the 4x4. It’s at a set of traffic lights, some five vehicles ahead.

  ‘DI Parker, this is Control. Please state your exact position so we can get officers to you. Over.’

  The lights change and traffic moves. ‘I’m at the crossroads of Vincent Street and Main Street, heading east, towards the A515. Over.’

  There was something about the older man. What was it? Is he on a Wanted List? Have I seen his face on a recent police circular?

  I just can’t place him.

  We pass through another set of lights and turn onto a dual carriageway. The Range Rover shifts into the outside lane and glides away.

  I glance at the speedo. My little car’s doing seventy, meaning their disappearing 4x4 must be clocking ninety, maybe a hundred. ‘Control, this is Annie Parker, I’m on the A515 heading south. Suspects’ vehicle is now doing excessive speed and I am unable to keep up.’

  ‘DI Parker, this is Control. Two traffic vehicles are already dispatched.’

  Colin Ronald Richardson.

  That’s who he is!

  Armed robber.

  It’s all coming back to me.

  The last time I saw Richardson, I was a new PC, and part of an early morning raid that saw him pulled out of the scraggy bed of a very scared young hooker called Sharon Croft. Poor girl made the mistake of running for the bathroom and a police dog bit her ankle and brought her down face first on the landing.

  I call it in. ‘Control, I believe one of the suspects to be Colin Ronald Richardson, a known criminal who has in the past been armed. Please advise local CID and Tactical Firearms.’

  ‘Will do. Over.’

  There’s a roundabout ahead and the traffic is slowing. I have a siren but I don’t want to use it. It would clear a path for me but also blow any chance of a covert follow.

  I switch lanes as we slow to a halt, turn the wheel sharply and take the Golf up onto a grass verge, hoping to skip a good hundred metres of traffic.

  The back end bumps up along the frozen turf and for a second the tyres spin. It’s a long time since I did my skid pan course but I remember not to accelerate too viciously. The car gains traction and I start to make progress. Stranded drivers, amazed and enraged by my manoeuvre, blare their horns.

  Up ahead, I see the end of the backed-up cars. And a problem.

  The banking is cut off by a crash barrier.

  I’m going to have to rejoin the traffic. And you can be absolutely certain no one is going to let me in.

  At the last moment, I spot a gap.

  A fanfare of horns accompanies my certifiably insane manoeuvre. But I get away with it and hit the roundabout traffic flow at about twenty miles an hour.

  There’s no sign of the Range Rover.

  It could have gone left, right or straight on.

  I have no idea which exit to take.

  I circle for the second time. Up on the brow of a hill, I catch a glimpse of a silver roof. I turn off and follow.

  The chase is still on.

  2

  Paula

  London

  ‘Have you got enough space back there, Mrs Smith?’

  ‘Yes, plenty. I’m fine, John. Thank you.’

  And I am. Who wouldn’t be fine, flopped in the rear of a sleek black, chauffeur-driven S Class Mercedes?

  John is semi-retired and he is ferrying me home from Heathrow after my red-eye flight back from New York. Thoughtfully, he pulls the front passenger seat as far forward as it can go, so I can kick off kitten-heel ankle boots, stretch out and warm frozen toes as we crawl through London-bound traffic.

  It’s mid-morning and sleet blurs the windscreen between wiper swipes. I’m reminded of slush puppies and summer days, blue tongues that you couldn’t help but stick out and show off.

  ‘Are you warm enough, Mrs Smith?’ My custodian’s bushy white eyebrows bounce in the rear-view mirror like miniature sheep.

  ‘Toasty, thank you.’

  ‘You have a doze if you like. I’ll wake you when we’re there.’

  I wish sleep would come that easily. There’s too much going on in my mind. Things I don’t want to think about. Dark matters that have been troubling me for some time. Not one single thing. A series of interconnected things. And people. Heavily interconnected things and people. It’s all so complex. Messy. Big problems are, aren’t they? They’re always messy, tearfully layered, like a big red onion.

  There’s a large dress mirror in my bedroom, made of pine, with a straw hat hanging jauntily over one corner and a long, multicoloured silk scarf dangling over the other. When I look at myself in this mirror, I see what other people see. Five feet seven inches of slightly overweight thirty-nine-year-old, with a friendly oval face that has some laughter lines, a fall of well-cut shoulder-length mousy hair, soft brown eyes (probably my saving grace) and a mouth that needs a good lipstick not to look too thin and mean.

  When I dress and twirl and check that all is in place and that I haven’t managed somehow to tuck my skirt into my underwear or forgotten to zip something up, then I see what I want people to see. A smart, modern businesswoman. Strong. Successful. Secure. I make sure I wear sharp business clothes, no tarty make-up and use functional but not flashy accessories. I act decisively at work but always fairly and ethically. I put in long hours, never complain and I’m always grateful for what people do for me.

  But my professional mask and tailored costumes hide a bag of nerves. Personally, I am tense. Unhappy. Stressed. Unsure of how to resolve all kinds of internal conflicts.

  Honestly, I feel as though there are two of me.

  Two Paula Smiths.

  A soft, shaky jelly Paula, stacked Russian Doll style inside a hard-shelled, business-suited, brightly painted Paula.

  Surprisingly, the Paul
as have grown sleepy. They’ve stopped fidgeting and glancing out of the window. They are tired of going over things in their heads.

  So they do doze.

  Not deep and restful. And not for long. But still they snatch at sleep like a novice angler.

  Tough Paula dreams of selling her company, paying off debts, enjoying the freedom to run her own life on her own terms.

  Soft Paula imagines walking in the sun hand-in-hand with her husband, bare feet leaving footsteps in wet sand, a wide blue ocean beckoning them.

  They’re both shaken by a jolt.

  ‘We’re here, Mrs Smith. Home sweet home.’

  John’s kind, crinkly face smiles rear-view at the fusing Paulas. ‘I’ll get your cases for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I find my boots and force travel-fattened feet back into them.

  Through the side window of the Merc, I see my house. A neat, three-bed detached in Chiswick, lit rose-lemon at night by discreet security lights. And I also see my husband’s car.

  He’s home.

  A feeling of dread rises from the pit of my stomach.

  Dread and fear.

  My whole world is about to be tipped upside down.

  3

  Annie

  ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’

  The 4x4 is so far ahead of me that I have no choice but to turn on the police siren and flashing blue lights built into my front grille.

  Traffic shuffles over. Drivers’ heads swivel as I pass by.

  Within half a mile, I’m able to kill the blues and twos and slip, hopefully unnoticed, back into the traffic flow. There’s a comms crackle and then the operator tells me: ‘DI Parker, this is Control. Colin Ronald Richardson is listed as “wanted”, having absconded from Full Sutton prison two days ago, along with another prisoner. Over.’

  ‘Thank you, Control. I am still in pursuit. Over.’

  And I am. I can see the 4x4 slowing because someone in the outside lane isn’t going fast enough. God bless them. I smile to myself, delighted that they’ve probably come across one of those stubborn drivers who has set their cruise control at the speed limit and isn’t going to touch it or move over, no matter how much light flashing and tailgating goes on.

  So, Richardson hasn’t kept his nose clean.

  He must have served his four years, come out of prison and gone straight back to a life of crime. And not a very successful one, given he obviously got nicked again. Mind you, Full Sutton is a Cat A jail, so he must have done something very serious. Only the worst of the killers, armed robbers and serial offenders end up there.