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

  I slip into the inside lane because it’s currently moving faster than the outside one and it gives me a chance to make up more ground. I suspect that any second now the 4x4 is going to do the same thing and then undertake the car in front.

  But it doesn’t.

  There are signs warning of roadworks coming up. Traffic is slowing.

  Suddenly, I’m only two vehicles away from being level with the Range Rover. Something I really don’t want to happen. The car in front of me is still moving faster than the outside lane because people are starting to have problems filtering in. All of which means, unless I think of something clever, then I’m only moments away from being alongside the people I’ve been covertly tracking.

  I do the only thing I can.

  I slow right down.

  Headlights flash in my rear-view mirror. A red sports car is coming up fast. Too fast to be coping with a grandma jabbing her brakes.

  No matter.

  The Range Rover stops tailgating and swerves out of lane, right in front of me. I push back against the head rest and brace myself for front and rear impact.

  The bonnet of the sports car dips viciously in my rear-view mirror.

  But it avoids hitting me.

  And I avoid being shunted into the Range Rover.

  Now I just have to hope Richardson and Adonis haven’t spotted me.

  I flip down my sun visor. Hopefully it will shield my face. Perversely, I drive nearer the 4x4, because I don’t want them to recognize my number plate.

  Overhead, I hear the all too familiar clack-clack-clack of police helicopter blades.

  Through my hands-free speaker, I’m told: ‘DI Parker, this is Control. Helicopter unit has a sighting of your suspect vehicle and we have two traffic cars less than a mile away. You are requested to abandon your pursuit. Can you confirm you have received and understood the instruction? Over.’

  It’s pointless me saying that I already know the copter is there because I’m right under it, and I can’t exactly pull out of ‘the follow’ because I’m boxed in by traffic. ‘Received and understood. Over.’

  Both lanes have now slowed to a stop.

  The helicopter is right above us.

  I see the passenger in the Range Rover turn around and look back at me.

  My heart skips a beat as I stare into his eyes.

  Richardson opens his door and gets out.

  He leaves the vehicle and walks my way.

  Briefly, the sun breaks from a bank of dense grey clouds and I see a glint of steel.

  There’s a gun in his hand.

  The convicted armed robber, on the run from prison, has a weapon. And I have nowhere to run.

  4

  Paula

  I take off my coat and boots, leave them in the hall and walk into the front room. It’s cold and dark. I flick the light on.

  Danny isn’t here.

  I head quickly to the lounge. There are hot ashes in the log burner. A movie is paused on the TV. The coffee table is messed with football magazines, an empty mug, a plate of half-eaten bacon, eggs and beans.

  And – an empty bottle of whisky.

  My heart drops.

  It’s not yet lunchtime and here is the first sign that my husband has come off the wagon.

  I take a slow, calming breath. On and off, Danny’s been going to AA for more than half a decade. He’s been in and out of private rehab. And just as often, I’ve found scenes like this.

  I head to the kitchen.

  My heart sinks further.

  There’s a strong smell of cider. The cans are gone. But the smell is still here. I slap my foot on the black plastic pad of a steel pedal bin. The top flips open and reveals scatterings of waste food, some out-of-date coleslaw and empty containers. I work my fingers through the gunge and lift out a two-litre plastic milk bottle.

  And there they are.

  The empty cans. Stashed only just out of sight by an alcoholic too lazy to go outside and bury them deep in the bin.

  I count them into the sink.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.

  Wait.

  There are more.

  I go shoulder deep into the bin.

  Ten, eleven, twelve.

  Tears sting my eyes.

  Two six packs. Twelve times 440ml, that’s more than five litres of strong cider. If I’d drunk anything like that, I’d be in hospital right now.

  I hurry upstairs. Glance in the bathroom. Push open the bedroom door.

  Danny is sprawled on the bed. Fully dressed. Black trousers, no socks, white shirt, top buttons undone, his broad chest straining the other buttons apart.

  There’s vomit down one side of his shirt.

  I worry for a second and think the worst.

  ‘Danny!’

  He stirs. Groans. Doesn’t wake.

  At least he’s not dead.

  Not choked on his own vomit, like he almost did two years ago. Like I always fear he will.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I walk around the bed and decide I have to handle this gently. His last counsellor told me there’d be further slips, bumps in the road and setbacks. I can accept this situation. Help him through it. I owe him that. If it weren’t for me, Danny probably wouldn’t be like this.

  I put my hand on the bed and lean over to stroke his face.

  The mattress is soaked.

  The first time this happened I thought it was wine. Spilled white wine. Now I know better.

  He’s wet the bed. Wet it through the base sheet. All the way down into the mattress protector. And possibly the one under that as well. You learn to double up. Expect the unexpected.

  I take his hands and try to pull him upright. ‘Danny! Danny, come on! I need to get you cleaned up.’

  He is heavy. Eighty-five kilos and more than six feet of forty-year-old drunken male is heavy. I struggle to move him, let alone sit him up.

  ‘Danny!’ I shout, anger in my voice.

  His eyes flicker.

  ‘Danny, wake up!’

  He suddenly sits up. As if a spring has shot him forward.

  And throws up.

  All over the bedside table. My bedside table, not even his.

  He wobbles to his feet. Lurches upright. Stumbles to the bathroom.

  I hold my head in my hands as I hear him being sick in the toilet. I don’t want to do this again. Don’t want to be caught in this hopeless cycle of him falling into a dangerously drunken binge then clawing his way back to normality for a month or two, before falling again.

  Once the retching has stopped, I get my act together and pull the stained sheets off the bed. I carry my stinking laundry bundle downstairs and cram it into the washing machine. Throw in a gel capsule. Set it going and thank God it’s not even worse than it is.

  I take a glass from a cupboard, fill it with water from the fridge dispenser and gulp it down.

  I need a plastic bowl, washing-up liquid, cloths to clean the carpet, a bucket of clean water to wash the cloths out in, towels to put down, to stand on and soak up the wet and the stink. And an air freshener.

  First though, I need to check on Danny.

  I put down the glass and run back upstairs.

  I can hear the shower running before I even get to the bedroom. I walk into the en suite. It’s all steamed up. Danny is in the cubicle.

  Jesus!

  He’s in there fully clothed. Sitting on the floor. Water pouring over his bowed head.

  I tap on the glass.

  He looks towards me. Wipes water from his reddened face. ‘Sorry, Paula.’

  He means it. I know he does. Problem is, he always means it. And sorry won’t stop him doing it again. And again.

  I pull a towel off the radiator and put it on the handle of the shower for him. ‘I’m going to clean up,’ I say with a mixture of sympathy and dismay. ‘You should get dry then have a lie-down in the guest room. I’ll come and see you when I’ve straig
htened things out.’

  He doesn’t reply. I know he’s too ashamed to answer. Later, when he feels less like death, when he’s shot another dead centre out of our marriage, he’ll thank me for being supportive, for dealing with the mess. Then, he’ll make promises that he can’t keep. He’ll swear blind that this is the last time. The very last time.

  I get carpet cleaner, a sponge, nailbrush, bucket of water and set about fixing the mess. Picking food from the fibres of the carpet.

  As I tiptoe around the wet patches, I see faint outlines of other ‘Danny incidents’, ghosts from his drunken past, messes I thought I had obliterated but are still discernible.

  After blotting the carpet with towels, I take them downstairs and leave them by the washing machine to go in the next load. I’m shattered and really need a glass of wine, but I’m not going to have one. It just doesn’t seem right given Danny’s alcoholism.

  I put the kettle on, pop a tea bag in a mug and wait for the water to boil.

  Danny and I have been together since I was fifteen. He’s the great love of my life. Or at least he was. Now we’re at breaking point. Probably have been for the past six or seven years. But Danny won’t entertain the idea of divorce. And I can’t just leave him.

  He won’t let me.

  You see, there are things Danny and I have been through.

  Things we’ve done.

  Moments shared in the past that now fuse our futures.

  Like I said. It’s complicated.

  5

  Annie

  Colin Ronald Richardson looks different with a gun in his hand.

  Distressingly different.

  No longer the peacemaker I saw at the supermarket car park. More the armed robber who terrified building society staff with the blank-eyed stare and the outstretched unshaking hand that is now pointing at me. He’s shouting at me. His voice is muffled by the windscreen glass, but I can still hear him.

  ‘You stupid, fucking bitch!’ he bawls.

  My seat belt is on and it snags tight as I instinctively try to duck behind the wheel.

  The gun goes off.

  Even behind the windscreen, with the doors closed, the sound of a handgun being fired is still terrifyingly loud.

  Not one shot, but three.

  The belt slackens and I slide flat across the handbrake and passenger side. I’ve never been shot, but I know what happens. A bullet doesn’t blow you off your feet as you see in films. It just rips up your flesh, smashes through your bones and muscles, then it’s down to luck. You live. Or you die.

  I’m so frightened, so full of adrenaline, I’m not sure whether I’ve been shot or not.

  People outside the car are screaming.

  I’m lying flat with my hands over my face. Waiting for the pain.

  Crushed in the cramped darkness of the car well, my mind quickly takes stock.

  There’s no pain. No blood.

  It means I haven’t been shot.

  I haven’t.

  But the car has.

  Now I’m paying better attention, I can feel it tilting forward.

  I can also hear strange hissing and rumbling noises.

  Richardson has put a bullet through the two front tyres. Pros always take out two, so you’re still stranded after using the one spare in your boot. From the noises, I guess the third bullet went through the radiator.

  I’m relieved.

  The car is screwed, but I’m not wounded. What I am, is scared. Too scared to sit up and see what is going on.

  Finally, I find the courage.

  ‘Shit!’ I swear because there are faces pressed to the front and side windows.

  A woman jumps back when I shout in surprise. I’ve clearly spooked her as much as myself.

  Someone pulls the driver’s door open.

  ‘Are you all right?’ The questioning voice belongs to a middle-aged man in painter’s overalls. ‘Have you been shot?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I reply, unfastening my seat belt and getting out of the driver’s seat.

  ‘He shot the car,’ says a terrified woman on the other side of the bonnet. ‘Then he ran off, through the traffic.’

  The helicopter’s gone and I know instantly what’s happened. Richardson and Adonis have abandoned the Range Rover and taken another vehicle. They’ll have driven up the hard shoulder and off at the next exit, no doubt with the copter in pursuit.

  Sirens in the distance. Traffic cars trying to fight their way through the jam. I look around and see thirty, maybe forty people out of their cars. More up and on the banking. These days, the sight of a gun and sound of shooting sparks fears of a terror attack and spreads panic like wildfire.

  Richardson’s going to get exactly what he wanted.

  Chaos.

  Resources are going to be drained sorting out this mess.

  6

  Danny

  I crawl out of the shower, take off my wet clothes, and stay in the bathroom ’til I’m sure Paula’s gone downstairs. I might be drunk, but I’m not stupid. Certainly not daft enough to get a verbal battering before I have to. And fair play to her, she’d be in her rights to have a proper go at me.

  Towel around my waist, I lumber into the bedroom and feel guilty as hell. The bed’s been stripped to the mattress and there are dark patches on the carpet where she’s cleaned up after me.

  Yeah, I’m ashamed. Course I am. Ashamed because I can’t stay sober. Ashamed because I wet the bed like some kid suffering nightmares. Not a manly thing to do, is it? Not something you fancy telling your mates about, or even discussing with your doctor – which is one of the many degrading things Paula has made me do in the past.

  The bedside clock says it’s 1.15p.m. Yeah, p.m. not a.m. So what? Regular time doesn’t mean anything to me anymore. In my world, there are the hours when I think about drinking, hours when I drink, hours when I’m drunk, and the hours when I am sleeping it off. So please don’t tell me this is too early to have a hangover.

  I put on a robe and go to the spare room. The guest room, as Paula calls it. You see, she’s a bit posher than me. All for bettering herself, is our Paula. All for talkin’ proper. You’ll never hear her miss the end of a word, mangle a vowel, not know whether to say were or was. Oh, no. Paula always knows the right thing to say and the right way to say it.

  To meet us, you’d never guess we was (were?) cut from the same cloth. But it’s true. We came from the same northern city, shared the same roots, same schooling (or lack of it) and at one time the same dreams.

  But not now.

  Now she’s all business this and business that. She’s forever dashing up and down the country, opening shops, hiring and firing, buying and selling. And me – well, I’m all sitting on my arse, ordering things online, going down the pub or the bookies and generally forgetting what a useless bastard I’ve become.

  You see, that business, the one she’s so busy with, well, it used to be mine. That’s right. Back in the day, I started it. From nothin’. Then I screwed up. Big time. Went to jail. And while I did my stretch, Paula took over. Credit to her, she made it work. Did a whole lot better than me. Than I could have done if I’d stuck at it.

  So here I am.

  A waster.

  That’s what she calls me. That, and ‘bone idle’. She never calls me what I really am. A drunk. An alcoholic. An addict. That’s what I became after she said the business couldn’t have a convicted criminal as a director and that I should find something else to do. Something legal, of course.

  There’s a blanket box at the end of the bed in the ‘guest room’. It’s filled with sheets and fancy cushions. Weighs as much as a bus. Which is why I know Paula never moves it. Why it’s safe to hide a slim bottle of vodka beneath it.

  I grab an end and lift. My heart goes bonkers as I hold the box up at an angle and fish around with a bare foot. My toes slap against the hard glass. I flick it out of the dusty space and lower the box down.

  I like vodka cold. Nice and icy, straight f
rom the freezer. But right now, I’m ready to settle for warm and dusty. I crack the screw top. Twist it off. Throw down a throat-burning slug.

  It sinks without trace.

  Then, bam!

  A furnace is lit in my gut. Flames of comfort and joy lick all the way through to my head and toes.

  I’d intended on only havin’ one swig. Now, I reckon there’s no harm in another before I put it back.

  Boom.

  The second gulp spreads familiar fire throughout the rest of my body and has me crackling and beaming.

  I’ve got my mojo back.

  Confidence replaces shame. I am the MAN of the house. Without me, Paula would be no one. I deserve the odd drink. I actually owe it to myself to unwind once in a while. It ain’t healthy to feel uptight all the time. So I wet the bed. So what? The sheets can be washed, can’t they? If she hadn’t come home unexpectedly early from her business trip, then I’d have cleaned myself up, done some tidying in the house and she’d have been none the wiser. In a way, it’s her fault. Actually, there’s no ‘in a way’ about it.

  It is her fault.

  All her fault.

  And she knows it.

  That’s why she’s being so nicey-nicey about everything.

  I sit on the bed and cradle the vodka. It’s only a small bottle. Third of a litre. No harm in finishing it. I go to the en suite and lock the door. Sit on the loo and take my time. It doesn’t take more than a few minutes to empty it. Yeah, I know an amateur would struggle all night with that amount, but not a seasoned pro like me.

  I put the top on and feel pleasantly buzzed. Emptying my stomach of all that food means the booze is racing happily through my bloodstream. I don’t care now.

  No worries. No doubts. No insecurities.

  There’s a white plastic panel on the front of the bath. It comes off at one end. I slide the empty bottle in there and click it back into place. Paula’s stocked the bathroom very considerately. Spare toothbrushes, paste, mouthwash, bottles of water, tissues, make-up remover and enough toilet rolls to wipe every bum in London. I open the mouthwash and gargle with some foul peppermint liquid, then I brush my teeth and head downstairs. I can hear Paula in the kitchen, runnin’ water in the sink.