Only Death Will Divide

2026

Chapter One

The body lay in an untidy crumpled heap, partly hidden amidst a pile of shiny black plastic bin-liners in the stinking dark alleyway - a twisted and lifeless human form discarded amongst the pizza crusts and rotting kitchen waste casually ejected from Marco’s Restaurant. A shaft of pale yellow light from the lamp on nearby Market Street cut through the gloom of the passage and softly illuminated the ghostly white face of the victim. His expression was one of serenity, of calm. Only the deep and ugly ragged gash gaping open in his throat gave any indication of the horror and viciousness of the attack and of the fear he must have felt before he died.

He was a young man - fresh-faced - with neatly cut, short, fair hair. A good looking boy, solidly built and fit. Clean. Wholesome. The sort of son of whom any mother would have been proud. His suit was expensive and fashionable and his white shirt of equal quality. He had clearly looked after himself - but not well enough on this night. A small patch of blood was seeping through below the collar of his shirt.

At the entrance to the alley, two uniformed police officers were tying a length of striped plastic tape across the narrow passage to seal off the area. A third brusquely ushered away the clutch of ghoulish on-lookers that had gathered to stare at the grisly scene as they made their ways home from the nearby nightclub.

Cameras flashed as Dr. James Carmichael leant over the body to conduct his preliminary inspection of the corpse, carefully trying to avoid resting his knee in the pool of sticky congealed blood that had collected beneath the body. It was two-thirty in the morning and no time to be trying to give scientifically sound judgements. He worked quickly, anxious to get back to the warmth of his bed, begrudging the call out. Why couldn’t it have been at a more reasonable time of day? And why not in more pleasant surroundings, instead of this rat-infested, piss-soaked back street? He hated his work - the ugliness, the violence, the senselessness - but he was good at it and his kick came from being part of the team that brought the bastards to justice.

Carmichael felt tentatively around the victim’s head and up and down the length of the rapidly stiffening limbs. He studied the man’s face under the beam of a small but bright flashlight and gently probed the exposed edges of jagged tissue around the blood-encrusted wound. A blast of icy January wind gusted up the alley. Carmichael shivered and pulled his overcoat more tightly around his shoulders, cursing that he had not taken more time to put on extra warm clothing before he had reluctantly hauled himself out of the house.

‘A bit chilly tonight, Doctor?’

Detective Inspector Donald Crossfield spoke in all seriousness, startling the doctor. Carmichael was in no mood for trivial banter, particularly when he thought that sarcasm had been intended. The pathologist turned and fired a disparaging look at the policeman.

‘It’s all right for you, Inspector - standing there in your sheepskin, woolly scarf and hat. I didn’t have time. Anyway, I’m not going to waste time hanging about here talking with you about the weather!’

‘Nor am I,’ Crossfield retorted sternly, ‘I have a death to investigate. So, let’s skip the social pleasantries shall we and you just tell me what has happened here.’

Crossfield moved forward to peer down onto the body over the doctor’s shoulder.

‘Well, it’s quite simple. One cut to the throat has severed the jugular. He will have died very quickly.’

‘Any other signs of assault?’

‘Not that I’ve found yet. I’m pretty sure that it was just this one cut.’

Carmichael stood up and removed his rubber gloves and stuffed them into his coat pocket. ‘Obviously, I’ll have a better idea once I can do a proper examination, tomorrow.’

‘So how long has he been dead?’

The doctor screwed up his face thoughtfully and sucked air through his teeth.

‘When was he found?’

Crossfield glanced at his watch. ‘About an hour ago - at one-thirty. Luigi, the young kitchen hand from the restaurant there, found him when he was taking out some rubbish.’

‘Well, lucky Luigi. He won’t have missed seeing your killer by much, then. I would say...roughly...that he would have been dead for less than an hour by then.’

‘Lucky for Luigi, perhaps - but unlucky for us. So you think that he was killed at about twelve thirty, then?’

‘Approximately. Say, between midnight and one o’clock.’

‘And the weapon?’

‘A bit odd, this one. The wound is fairly ragged. I would guess that the knife, or blade, had a serrated edge of some kind, perhaps teeth - and that it was not very sharp. I can’t be much more specific than that, I’m afraid. It was used from the front, from right to left, starting just under the left ear.’

Dr. Carmichael demonstrated a quick backhanded slashing motion under the inspector’s jaw line. Crossfield stepped away, taken aback by the unexpected display.

‘So we are looking for someone who is left handed then?’

‘Probably.’

Crossfield nodded appreciatively.

The two men moved away, into the shelter of the wall where some welcome heat drifted into the alley out of a vent from the restaurant’s kitchen. Carmichael - tall, stiff, military-looking, his face dominated by a thick greying moustache, leaned back against the wall. At his side, Crossfield - short, stocky, almost slovenly in appearance by comparison rocked from one foot to the other, his hands stuffed deep into his coat pockets. They watched in bleak silence as the body, the front of the shirt now soaked in crimson, was gently lifted into the waiting PVC body-bag. The assistant pulled at the zip to cover the bloodied face of the victim before lifting the awkward load onto a stretcher. There was silence as the body was carried in dignified silence down the passageway and pushed into the cavernous black void of the waiting vehicle. Carmichael lit a cigarette, the sudden flash of his lighter momentarily illuminating the angular features of his face. He inhaled deeply and blew out a spiral of grey smoke into the air. Crossfield just stood, staring solemnly as the makeshift hearse pulled away.

In spite of the hostility displayed on the surface, there was a deep friendship and mutual respect between the two men. A respect that had grown out of the sordid and evil work they had shared over the years. Respect that had grown out of the depravity of murder.

‘You know, Donald,’ Carmichael began reflectively, ‘this stinks. The job, I mean - it stinks. Why the hell do we still do it?’

‘Why? Because we are the good guys. We believe in what’s right. If we didn’t do what we did then there would be chaos out there. We are needed. Not wanted, maybe - but needed.’

‘But it’s all so bloody pointless, isn’t it? Whatever we do, it still goes on. I mean, take this one - what a way to end up - dumped in a back alley with a cut throat! So...so...bloody...vicious! Nearly forty years I’ve been at this and what progress have we made, eh? Forty years and I’m still staring at bodies in gutters!’

‘Maybe, Jim - but what if we hadn’t done anything over all those years?’

‘I know that, Donald - of course I know that - but when you see a case like this, it just makes you question it all. I mean, for a moment I thought I was looking at my own son! What do you think he was - twenty, twenty one? He was only a kid. What a waste! And Christ, what do I do? I talk about angles of assault and estimated times of death. I don’t even know this poor kid’s name!’

‘Well, I can tell you that he was twenty two, actually.’

‘What? Twenty two? How do you know that?’

DI Crossfield looked away.

‘Donald? Do you know him?’

Crossfield paused.

‘Oh yes, I know him, Jim. His name is - was - Graham. Graham Walker. Police Constable Graham Walker.’

Chapter Two

Gordon sighed breathlessly and gently rolled over so that Donna was on top of him. Resting her hands on his stomach she sat astride his hips, gasping a sharp intake of breath as she slowly lowered herself onto him to feel his full, rigid length inside her and leaning forward so that her long red hair brushed lightly across her lover’s chest. Gordon moaned, delicately tracing his fingertips around the prominent bone of her hips and over the slim concave of her waist. He stretched forward to run his hands across her bare shoulders, savouring the warm smoothness of her skin as he gently probed the vertebrae down her spine. Donna rose and lowered herself in a slow, deliberate rhythm, caressing Gordon’s chest and drawing her nails tantalisingly through the curls of fair hair. Gordon smiled appreciatively, beads of sweat glistening on his flushed face. He arched his back in time with his partner’s undulating movements, bringing his hands to the front to feel the full weight of her heavy breasts and gently running his thumbs across the tips of her firm, bud-like nipples. Donna tossed back her head, flicking her hair onto her shoulders and panting heavily as she writhed in pleasure. The pace quickened as, in perfect harmony, the couple surged towards a peak of ecstasy. Gordon thrust hard upwards, gripping Donna by the buttocks to pull her more firmly onto him as she tightened her muscles and cried out with the first wave of her orgasm coursing like electricity through her body. Simultaneously, she felt Gordon judder, the muscles in his body tensing and his face contorted into a grimace of exhausted satisfaction as he climaxed.

It was at this moment - at the very crescendo of her gratification - that Donna suddenly found the knife in her hand. In an uncontrolled frenzy she lunged forward and slashed viciously at her lover’s throat. With one swift scythe the dull blade ripped through the thin flesh, tearing through sinew and small veins until a fountain of blood spurted onto the clean white pillow from the gashed artery. The draylon headboard and crisp sheets were spattered with scarlet droplets that soaked into the material and spread into spidery patterns like ink on blotting paper. Gordon gagged momentarily, his piercing blue eyes fixed wide and staring upwards in a mixture of agony and disbelief. Blood frothed in tiny bubbles within the gaping wound as his breathing gradually faltered until he finally gasped his last breath and fell silent.

Donna Hartley woke with a jolt, screaming, sweat pouring from her forehead as she clutched the sides of her head in terror and tore at her hair. Her heart hammered inside her chest as she panted for breath, trying to force the horrific images of the dream out of her consciousness.

Gordon Murray stirred at her side and bleary-eyed, sat up beside her. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. ‘Christ, Donna, what on earth is the matter?’

Donna turned and threw her arms around him, clutching him close to her heaving chest, unable to speak. She began to sob and the tears streamed down her face. She clung onto Gordon with a tight grip, her nails clawing into the soft skin of his back in fear.

‘Donna, it’s all right! Hey, you were only dreaming. It’s just a dream. You’re awake now. It’s okay. Shush.’

Gordon stroked the back of Donna’s head and patted her trembling shoulders comfortingly like a mother with an upset child. But the tears continued unabated, soaking through the cotton of his tee shirt and onto his shoulder.

They sat in silence, holding each other tightly, rocking, until the tears eventually subsided. Gordon glanced at the clock on the bedside cabinet. The dim green digital figures flicked to show it was one-thirty.

‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ Gordon asked.

Donna shook her head. ‘No, I can’t. It was too horrible.’

Gordon nodded understandingly and gently lowered his girlfriend onto the bed and lay down beside her, propping himself up on his elbow so that he could continue to smooth her shoulder. ‘Come on then, darling. It’s half past one and I’ve got an early start in the morning. At least it’s Friday and we can have a lie in in the morning. You haven’t forgotten that I’m going across to my mum’s for the night tomorrow though, have you?’

‘Oh, Gordon, I had. Do you have to go?’

‘It’s her birthday, Donna. She’s expecting me. I ought to go. I’ll see you on Sunday evening, I promise. All right?’

‘I suppose it’ll have to be, won’t it?’

‘Come on then, try to forget it. Let’s get back to sleep.’

Donna wiped the last of her tears from her cheek and snuggled down into the warmth of the duvet, still clinging tightly to Gordon’s arm and resting her head low on his chest. For what seemed like an age she lay there, silently staring into the empty darkness of the room and listening to the soft and soothing hum of the central heating until she finally slipped uneasily into fitful and restless sleep.

Neither Gordon nor Donna saw the eerie blur of flashing blue lights seeping through the curtains as the procession of emergency vehicles sped past on the road outside.

Chapter Three

It was a grey day. Heavy grey clouds were heaped low in the sky and the moors above the grey rooftops of Adley were shrouded in a dense grey mist. The mood in the briefing room of the police station was equally grey.

Detective Inspector Crossfield was standing motionless at the window, thoughtfully watching the sleet patter against the pane and trickle down the glass in racing rivulets. Outside, the few pedestrians who dared to brave the inhospitable elements scurried along Market Street with their heads bowed against the driving drizzle and shoulders hunched in protection from the buffeting of the wind. Cars passed by slowly, headlights pushing ahead through the murk. Crossfield squeezed at the thin plastic cup in his hand and took a large mouthful of vending machine coffee, wincing at its bitterness and thinking of what he would give for a shot of decent single malt. He sensed the mounting tension and expectation of the people in the room behind him and turned to face his waiting team.

The three officers facing him were sitting stony-faced in solemn silence - the news of PC Walker’s death had spread quickly through the station.

Detective Sergeant Tom Moody was sitting in his usual position at the front, sprawling in his chair in casual navy cords, open necked shirt and faithful black leather jacket. His eyes, watery and tinged with red in the corners, gave telltale signs of a previous night’s heavy drinking, the stubble on his chin and tousled hair the indications of a rushed departure from his home. Brown, nicotine-stained fingers toyed nervously with a cigarette as he waited.

In contrast, smartly turned out in a sharp suit, striped shirt and club tie, clean-shaven and with hair slickly gelled, Detective Constable Gordon Murray sat patiently at Moody’s side. Murray could have stepped straight from the pages of any fashion catalogue and would not have looked out of place sitting at the board table of any successful blue-chip company. He yawned; Donna’s nightmare and the consequent loss of sleep had taken its toll.

The third officer was seated across the table. Detective Constable Jane Parker - young, enthusiastic and new to Adley CID. Wearing a smart navy trouser suit and contrasting cream blouse, she sat primly with her long legs crossed. A crisp new notepad was resting in her lap and a classy silver pen poised in her hand as she eagerly awaited the start of the briefing.

Inspector Crossfield slowly removed his herringbone jacket with its worn leather patches on the elbows and hung it carefully on the back of his chair. He tugged deliberately at the cuffs of his shirt, straightened his tartan wool tie and sat down at the head of the table. Unusually, he was subdued, the shock of the murder of a colleague temporarily quelling his normal belligerence.

He began softly and matter-of-factly, his voice tinged with the dispassionate tones of a newsreader. ‘I am sorry to call you in on a Saturday but as you probably all know by now, Constable Graham Walker was murdered last night. He was found, not two hundred yards from here, in the alley that joins Market Street to High Street. A kitchen assistant at Marco’s found him whilst putting out some rubbish at about one-thirty a.m. Early indications are that he died from a single cut to the throat from a serrated-edged knife or a blade with teeth of some kind... some time between midnight Friday and one o’clock Saturday morning.’

There was a short period of uncomfortable silence as the stark details filtered into the minds of the officers.

Jane Parker broke the silence. ‘I don’t suppose we have any witnesses do we, sir?’ she asked speculatively, fully anticipating the response.

‘No, Parker, not at this stage. We need to find anyone who was in Marco’s restaurant last night and anyone else who might have been around between those times. There must have been someone - a Friday night - and with the club being just down the road as well.’

‘Yes, and people use that alley quite a lot to cut through to the car park near the market, sir,’ Murray interrupted.

‘And for pissing in,’ Moody added cynically, glancing across to Jane Parker and giving a crude wink.

Crossfield ignored the coarse remark of his Geordie sergeant but recognised the truth in his comment.

‘So then, who was Graham Walker with last night? Where had he been? Why was he in that alley? Any ideas?’

‘He’s pally with the lads in Traffic, sir. They might have some idea,’ Murray volunteered.

‘Good. You start there then will you, Parker,’ Crossfield ordered, firing a glance towards the woman detective.

Jane Parker nodded and etched a note on her pad.

‘I’ll trace the customers from Marco’s as well if you like, sir,’ Murray said.

‘Okay, get to it - Parker will give you a hand later on. Tom, I want you to chase up Forensics and get that pathologist’s report from Jim Carmichael. I’ll go and see Graham Walker’s mother - I gather he still lived at home?’

‘Yes, sir- somewhere in Menton I believe,’ Moody verified.

‘Oh, there’s just one more thing,’ Crossfield said sharply above the noise of scraping chairs as the three officers began to rise from their seats, ‘ I know that we’re talking about an officer - a colleague - but I still want this case to be investigated properly. Just because he was one of us does not mean that we go cutting corners. We need to be as thorough as in any other case. I don’t want any cock-ups. Is that understood?’

The team nodded in agreement and each headed purposefully for the door to begin their separate enquiries.

Crossfield called out after them. ‘Right, I’ll see you back here, same time, tomorrow - but I want to hear the minute you turn up anything useful, understood?’

He watched as Parker closed the door and then he sat back reflectively in the stillness of the empty room. He finished the last dregs of the near-cold coffee and tossed the empty plastic cup into the wastepaper basket at the side of the window.

The six months to his retirement suddenly felt like a lifetime away. This was not how it should be. Not a murder case, not at this point in his career. And especially not the murder of a policeman. The painful memories of Adley’s last murder case came flooding back. Four years it had been. Four years since the spree of senseless killings had left three families shattered in grief through the brutal murders of their loved ones. Four years, yet it seemed like only yesterday that the media had clammered for results - or resignations. They had nearly got his. Only a lucky break had saved his career that time.

And now it was happening again.

Crossfield pushed the uncomfortable thoughts, the thoughts of guilt and of the fear of failure to the back of his mind and rose stiffly from his chair. Pulling on his jacket as he strode towards the door, he began to focus on the next painful task that beckoned - facing the mother of the young - young but dead - PC Walker..

The four mile drive to Menton was slow-going with heavy traffic clogging the narrow main road as it wound its way alongside the river. Fine drizzle continued throughout the journey, the rubbers of the wipers on Crossfield’s Cavalier squeaking annoyingly as they pushed the specks of water from the screen. Crossfield tapped impatiently on the steering wheel as the queue of cars stuttered to a halt at roadworks near the football ground and he leant forward to wipe the condensation from the glass with the back of his glove. He sat, trance-like, gazing ahead into the rain, the ugly image of Graham Walker’s crumpled body lying with his throat slashed amongst the rubbish in the alley burning vividly in his mind.

The temporary traffic lights turned to green. Crossfield forced the car into gear and pulled away, the thunder of the workman’s pneumatic drill shaking him from his painful musings. The inspector was relieved to pull off the main road and to be able to accelerate hard up the straight and empty road that would