Clarke tossed and turned; he was sweating, his palms warm and clammy. He felt himself being restrained, sitting upright, but unable to get away. His arms were tied, and his legs were thrashing. He saw a flash of a face in front of him. Feminine. Pretty, but fierce. He opened his mouth to yell for help, but felt something being pushed down into his throat. He spluttered and gagged. He couldn’t breathe.
A cold liquid trickled down his throat. No, not just trickling. It was being poured, rushing down inside him. The taste of it jarring against his taste buds. The vile, pureness of neat alcohol. What was it? Vodka? His stomach clenched in response.
The solid object in his gullet was still blocking the way. He was gagging again, tasting the mixture of the alcohol and his own vomit.
Splutter. Gag. Wretch.
He was choking.
Splutter. Gag. Wretch.
He was dying.
He shot up, gasping for air. He was disoriented, his head whirling around trying to realise his surroundings. Rebecca was standing by the door with a coffee, after having just slammed the door shut behind her.
“Sarge? Were you asleep?”
“Uh, yeah. I must have drifted off …” His mind was haunted by the images of his dream. Where the hell had that come from? His hands traced the pieces of paper from the file in front of him, searching for an answer.
“You all right, Sarge? You look a bit shaken up.” Rebecca sat down next to him, pushing the mug of coffee towards him. “Think you need a bit of caffeine.”
He ignored her, his eyes on the ominously calm statement Suzanne had given after her father’s body had been found. He read back over it, his mind and pulse racing.
Fifty-one year old Michael Walker was found dead at his home in Norwich on the morning of 8 February 2002 by his nineteen-year-old daughter, Suzanne Walker. High levels of strong spirits (mainly vodka, some rum) were found in his system. Michael was a known alcohol abuser. Autopsy showed some scratching to the inside of his oesophagus. The cause is unknown, however medical history showed Michael underwent an endoscopy two months prior to his death (due to suspected hiatus hernia,) which could explain the scratches. Vomit residue was found in his throat. Suspected cause of death: alcohol poisoning/choking on own vomit.
Subconsciously, Clarke’s hand flew to his throat, the memory of the burning pain still fresh from the dream. “Reynolds —” He started speaking before he really knew what he was going to say. “What if those scratches in his throat weren’t from the endoscopy? What if they were from something, an implement of some sort, that was forced down his throat?”
Rebecca shuddered. “Ugh, that’s grim.”
“Think about it, though,” he pushed the papers towards her. “He died because of the alcohol, but maybe it wasn’t self-induced. If you rammed some sort of funnel down someone’s throat–”
“Ew, stop. I hear you, I don’t need the visual.” She studied the papers. “I mean, it’s a pretty gruesome way to die. Do you really think Suzanne is capable of this?”
He pointed to the previous page.
Suzanne Walker, nineteen years old, states she was in the house but upstairs. She advised that she came downstairs to get some water and found her father in his armchair. At first she thought he was just passed out, so she left him alone. She later returned and realised he wasn’t breathing. She called emergency services, but it was too late. Suzanne is currently six months pregnant. She was interviewed by Detective Sergeant C Colliers, who noted odd presentation.
“Odd presentation? That’s a bit vague, isn’t it?” said Rebecca.
“Here.” Clarke shuffled through the pages to find DS Collier’s formal notes. “Look at those.”
Suzanne Walker presents as someone potentially in shock, as she is not as distressed as one would imagine in the situation. Suzanne’s mother, Valerie, died in a car crash when Suzanne was twelve years old. Her little sister, Stephanie, who is now twelve herself, was also present and highly distressed. Children’s Services have been contacted, due to only living relative, a grandparent suffering with dementia, unable to take care of Stephanie. Children’s Services to find suitable foster placement for her. Suzanne remained very calm throughout. An apartment on a supported living scheme has been offered to Suzanne, due to her pregnancy and in acknowledgment that she is only just an adult herself. Suzanne declined, as she has advised she will remain with her boyfriend, Ray Jackson, father of her unborn child.
“Hmm,” Rebecca traced the words with her finger. “Remained very calm throughout … she could have just been in shock, though, like it says.”
A knock at the door made them both jump. It was Fitzpatrick, looking even more pissed off than he had earlier.
“We have another problem,” he said as he walked in, a solemn look on his face.
Clarke and Rebecca both stood up. “What is it?” Clarke asked, unsure if he had the energy for another problem.
Fitzpatrick sighed, the sort of sigh that suggested he knew what he was about to say was only the beginning. “Monty Shepherd’s dead.”