Doppelganger

By Ernest Swain

Doppelganger is a story of murder, espionage, illegal immigrants,intrigue, violence and the shameful treatment of a hard working police officer. From the dreadful makeshift camp of hopeful immigrants at Sangatte, France, to the midlands city of Leicester , then to Glasgow, following the Azerbaijani illegal immigrants who are intent upon revenge against the Russian aggressors who they believe have committed atrocities in their homeland.
Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Allen – ‘Tommo’ to friends and acquaintances alike, begins a murder investigation into the violent death of a mysterious female. In his search of the murder scene he finds a photograph of himself that puzzles him as he hadn’t known the victim. Why should she have his photograph? he's continually plagued by headaches that aren’t helped by the disturbing things happening around him and he begins to doubt his own sanity. His superiors seem to see tommo, the investigating officer, as unfit to carry out his duties and perhaps, even a suspect in her murder, so relieve him of his position.
although separated from his wife, Chris, he remains on friendly terms, and turns to her with his worries. Under increasing pressure from his senior officers he becomes involved with Special Branch and MI5. Adopted as a babe-in-arms he is totally unaware that he has a twin brother which begins to explain the puzzling things that are happening to him. apparently, as orphans, they were adopted by different families and grew up unaware of each other.
The thread running through this story is of the twin brother who has become a CIA agent and who has infiltrated the group of Azerbaijani illegal immigrants who are intent upon bringing down an aircraft carrying Russian officials to a G.20 conference in glasgow.
Unfortunately Chris joins Tommo in glasgow and is kidnapped by the terrorists and it falls to Tommo alone to free her. The fight to overcome the terrorists leads them into incredible danger and ends with a surprising revelation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ernest Swain
• Release date: Aug 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301168330

Ernest Swain

I was born into a mining community in South Derbyshire, UK, the eldest son of a family of six children. Although better known to friends as John, I use my first Christian name, Ernest, as my author name to avoid confusion with another author. On leaving school I joined the National Coal Board but left to join the police service. In later years, as a detective, I spent time in colleges in Yorkshire, Liverpool, and London, finally becoming a Special Branch officer working together with such agencies as MI5 and briefly with the American Secret Service.As a Special Branch officer, and trained firearms expert, I was privileged to provide protection for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth and most members of the royal family. I also provided protection for Ladybird Johnson, wife of Linden Baines Johnson, former President of The United States of America, Chairman Hua Kuo Feng of China and Sir Maurice Oldfield, the ex-Director General of MI6.During my service I received several commendations from Chief Constables and Judges of Assize & Crown Court for diligence and bravery in the face of armed criminals and was recommended for the award of The Queen's Police Medal.Upon retirement I purchased a small hill farm, high in the Pennines of the Peak District National Park.I am a musician, an organist, and I have a lifetime's experience of working horses - from the heavy Shires and Clydesdales to the lighter carriage horses.

Book preview

Chapter 1 - A Classy Corpse

What the devil's wrong, Tommo? You look bloody awful.. Surely you've seen enough bodies not to let this bother you? Are you ill? Andy could chide his boss without causing offence. He probably knew him better than anyone, perhaps with the exception of his wife, Chris, and he could always sense his mood. After all they’d worked together long enough and despite the difference in rank there was no edge between them. Is it all this blood? Tommo shook his head, not so much in denial but more as reaction to the sad scene before them. No. I just think it's such a damned shame. I ask you, who the hell would do something like this? He had to admit, if only to himself, that he still found it hard to be completely detached from something like this despite the number of broken bodies he’d been obliged to deal with over the years. He carried the thought in his head that most coppers would take it in their stride and after a while became immune to these feelings that plagued him now. He didn’t want to give Andy the impression that he was going soft, so he kept it bottled up, but there was something above and beyond the blood and gore that was troubling him. He just couldn’t put his finger on it. It was a strange feeling, perhaps premonition, sixth sense – call it what you will – little did he know it but it was soon going to test his resolve and question his sanity.

Murder was always a foul affair but it seemed so cruel to him that such a beautiful young woman should be lying there, lifeless, beside the settee; the carpet stained with the sticky gore that had not long since coursed through her veins. She was quite cold to the touch. Not that he expected otherwise, but the truth was that he never really got used to that awfully cold, clammy feel of a corpse no matter how many murder scenes he investigated. His inner self was saying, ’People think all coppers get less emotional with every death they deal with but the truth is we just get better at hiding the nausea’. There was hardly a hair of her blonde head out of place. None of her make-up had been smudged and despite the pallor she had the exotic look of a model he’d expect to see on the pages of Vogue magazine. Her fingernails and cuticles showed an expensive manicure. 'Now, that's a puzzle - obvious knife wounds to the chest but no defence wounds to the hands'. Whoever she was, she was certainly a beauty – who took trouble with her appearance. He knew there was a sensitive side to his nature and was constantly forced to examine these inner feelings, consoling himself that perhaps they made him more caring, more sensitive, in dealing with the bereaved. Although he tried hard to hide it, his heart would often break when dealing with the death of a child, but then most coppers he knew got emotional when a child was involved. At least this was an adult - not that it made him feel that much better.

The doctor’s leaving, Tommo. Do you want a word with him before he goes?

"No, Andy. Providing someone gets a brief statement from him – get one of the team to do it. I think we can all see what the cause of death is so he’s only here to pronounce life extinct, but try to get him to commit to an approximate time of death. I want you to get back to the office and set up the incident room, start the log, get in touch with the coroner’s office, fix up for the post mortem - you know the drill, don’t let the big guns from headquarters descend on us and catch us unprepared. I’ll stay here and dig around for a while longer.

He still had the urge to feel for a pulse even though his common sense told him it was a bit pathetic. He knew damned well she was dead – after all the body had lost its warmth. It was unprofessional and he knew it, but his sense of propriety made him sorely tempted to offer her at least a little decorum – some decency – by covering her bra-less exposed upper body. He knew he shouldn't touch anything until all the photographs and forensics were complete. He guessed correctly that the doctor had been obliged to open up her clothing in his examination. There was no dignity in death but she certainly wasn’t going to feel any embarrassment. The two stab wounds near her heart were an obvious indication of the cause of death. It still puzzled him that there were no defence wounds to the hands – most unusual in a knife attack. The natural reaction of most victims is to try to grab at the weapon to defend themselves. This would mean lacerations to the hands, but there were none. 'So, was she restrained? Had her arms been pinioned?', he mused. There were no marks around the wrists or bruising where he’d expect to find it.

The police photographer needed to be taught a few manners, pushing Tommo unceremoniously aside in the endeavour to capture every angle and salient detail. His stinging and quite rude demand of, Will all of you bastards clear off, right out of the way until I’ve finished? could well have brought rebuke. Had Tommo been a bit more sensitive he might easily have been offended by the expletive. The man obviously had no idea to whom he was talking and, frustrated as he was, he had no call to disparage Tommo’s parentage. He had a damned good mind to tear him a strip off, but he let it go because the sooner everyone was finished and out of the way the sooner he’d have the scene to himself. Anyway the fellow had his job to do and in the long term he was working for the greater benefit. Men in white overalls with silky brushes were carefully covering every polished surface with dust to find any latent finger-prints, openly cursing that every man and his dog were being allowed to cross-contaminate the scene.

Tommo went outside to get a bit of fresh air while they worked. His head was banging like a blacksmith’s hammer on his anvil – these headaches seemed to be getting worse. He always carried a packet of Paracetamol with him wherever he went. He just needed a glass of water. Once the photographs were taken and the forensic boys finished he could have the body taken to the mortuary where he would examine it in more detail. In the meantime he wanted a damned good look throughout the house. The forensics play their part; fibres, hairs, dust – anything that might prove useful. There’s always cross contamination no matter how careful the offender thinks he or she has been. These Scenes-of-Crime people were meticulous but Tommo still felt there was nothing like a good old examination of the scene for himself. His mind went back to the days when detectives used to do all that forensic and fingerprint stuff themselves as part of their detective duties, and being of the ‘old school’, he still couldn’t bring himself to entirely rely on others doing their part efficiently. True, they’re professionals too, and maybe he should give them the credit they deserve; of doing a professional job and doing it well, but a deprecating mind in a dinosaur like him found it hard to adapt. The forensic boys gathered the evidence and analysed it too, but it still remained his job to assess it and then maybe to use their expertise to further his enquiries. He still had to weigh up what he saw, what he heard, what he could smell and, yes, what he felt about a situation. Years of hard nosed detective work had honed his senses and instincts to take account of every nuance he perceived; use his intuition. At last, with no-one to hinder him, he could get down to business; examine the scene.

‘No forced entry – that could mean the murderer was known to her or perhaps tricked his way into the house. Maybe he had a key?’ He had in his mind the image of a fairly strong male who overpowered the victim, but suddenly pulled himself up short, realising that the perpetrator could equally well be a woman. He could find no sign to indicate the victim had a husband, partner, lodger or anyone else, living with her at the premises – perhaps the neighbours could help? Quite a loner to all outward appearances; ‘quite mysterious’, he thought. ‘She’s a beautiful but mysterious, young woman. Probably in her early to mid thirties and she appears to be living alone. Good taste in decoration and furnishings; all good quality even though quite minimalist (which must have made the job of the fingerprint boys that much easier) but she’s still a mystery'. An unsavoury thought went through his mind that perhaps he was dealing with a woman who had made her living in the sex industry. That was probably understandable such a thought should enter his head as it would explain the Iuxurious appearance of the place, but he realised there were one or two things that were really strange. The first thing that struck him was that there wasn’t a single photograph adorning the walls or furniture. That posed the question, ‘Has she no friends or relatives or is it that she’s purposely removed from her home anything that might give a clue as to her identity? But if so why? Why would anyone want to hide their identity inside their own home?’ Even the few pictures that did adorn the walls were all modern, even juvenile in style, abstract, and all painted in strident colours in something of a Picasso-esque style that didn’t appeal to him – although he’d freely admit that he was no art connoisseur. He also found it strange that there was no sign of a mobile ‘phone, a handbag or wallet – surely she’d have to carry her cash and plastic in something? Another puzzle; perhaps the murderer had carried them away. His detective’s mind was taking account of everything. Just then the modern long-case clock in the hall began to strike the hour which prompted him to check his watch – two o’clock and his stomach was beginning to rumble. His peptic ulcer was telling him that lunch was well overdue.

The kitchen with its pristine worktops had nothing that seemed to him out of place, apart that is, from the plastic bucket that had been placed to catch the drips where the forensic boys had removed the ‘U’ bend from the drain under the sink. Nobody had mentioned it but maybe there was some residue there – perhaps the killer decided to wash his hands of the blood afterwards or maybe he cut himself? ‘Damn it’, he cursed under his breath, ‘they’ve turned the water off, I’ll have to take the Paracetamol caplets without a drink – ah, well, when needs must’.

The waste bin had gone – ‘I’ll be interested to know what they find in there. It’s surprising what your discarded rubbish says about you’, he thought. The kitchen cabinets contained only a small amount of crockery – ‘she obviously didn’t do much entertaining’ – and there was only a sparse amount of tinned food. Nothing fresh in the refrigerator. He immediately drew a parallel with his own circumstances – his refrigerator was almost bare too. The dining-room was very minimal but very smart with its polished glass table and four modern chairs. Despite his doubts he found them quite comfortable. The broom cupboard, under the staircase, disclosed exactly what he anticipated – just brooms, dustpans, rubber gloves and all the usual cleaning paraphernalia. The thought went through his mind that this lady was hardly likely to soil those delectable hands or risk damaging that costly manicure by cleaning – there was bound to be a ‘Mrs. Mop’ in the background somewhere. He made a mental note to have someone chase that up.

Upstairs, the bathroom divulged nothing more than that the deceased had a penchant for aerosols that had a sweet and lingering smell of the exotic. Matching bathrobe and towels of superb ‘Egyptian Cotton’ were just more features of the obvious bathroom luxury she enjoyed. Once again, a plastic bucket had been placed to catch the drips where the ‘U’bend had been removed at the vanity unit. Everything, even the mirror, carried the dust that the fingerprint boys so enjoy plastering around.

Of the three bedrooms, it was obvious that one was virtually unused. It was furnished with a single bed but no linen covering the mattress. The fitted wardrobe and dressing table were empty. A second bedroom was sparsely furnished but the double bed was made up as though in readiness for use. The duvet had been pulled back exposing the unruffled under-sheet – surely unused. It still had that fresh smell that sheets dried outside in the open air seem to acquire – ‘or is that just my sense of smell?’ he thought. It was obvious to him that the Scenes of Crime boys hadn’t stripped the bed – quite lax of them. He just had to be thorough – it’s surprising the things you find under or inside mattresses; but not this time. Again, the wardrobe and dressing table were empty. The third bedroom, obviously the master bedroom was altogether different. Everything from floor covering to bed linen and even the furniture was white. The word virginal came to mind. Expense had certainly not been a consideration and luxury had been the key factor. He almost felt the room itself had suffered a violation with the amount of dust – which of course was the usual black dust the fingerprint boys use on white surfaces and which is the very devil of a job to clean off.

By the window was a computer desk with a flat screen monitor that stood alone – the computer itself had been removed, undoubtedly the boffins had taken that. ‘I’ll bet my salary its memory has been wiped clean by its owner – or the killer – but it’s surprising what the IT boys can recover from the hard-drive’. Systematically he went through each drawer of the dressing table and cupboards but he was beginning to despair, there seemed nothing of what he was looking for. ‘Surely’, he thought, ‘somewhere in the house there’s got to be paperwork – a diary, bank statements, utility bills, something to indicate who she is and how she derives an income. An address book or directory, clients numbers – just something, please, to show me who her friends and contacts were’. It was almost a plea to some higher being, but no, there was nothing.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the full length mirror doors of the wardrobe that made him turn and take a closer look, saying to himself, 'Damn. This job’s taking its toll on me, I look twice my age. These lines on my brow and the bags under my eyes all tell their own story’. The dresses hanging inside the wardrobe were all quite classy and had that ‘designer’ look about them. Everything about them said, ‘very expensive’. He was just about to close the door on them when some sixth sense made him look at the base of the wardrobe. He’d have bet his salary that no-one else had given it a thought. He prodded and pushed until it suddenly tilted slightly on a sprung hinge. It lifted to reveal a hidden compartment that housed a small safe with the familiar dial of a digital lock. The safe was a fixture and appeared to be bolted through the floor joists below to prevent it being removed. The excitement flooded through him and he grabbed the lamb-skin rug from beside the bed to kneel on whilst he examined the safe. As he folded the rug to make a cushion for his knees, a small glittering object fell from the rug. His curiosity made him pick it up and examine it, but it seemed to be simply a broken ear-ring or something of the sort – of no real significance. He slipped it in a small ‘evidence’ bag which he placed in his pocket and promptly returned to the real excitement of the safe. ‘Now if I’m any judge of human behaviour she’s got a written record of the numbers somewhere nearby because people just don’t trust their memory. Now, where’s it likely to be?’

It was like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. His headache was getting worse instead of better and his stomach was churning. The computer desk drawers seemed a good bet but despite a thorough search he found nothing! He returned to the dressing table and even resorted to removing the drawers one by one, tipping out the contents. His eyes lit up and the headache was quickly forgotten as he tipped out a small drawer of make-up products. As he turned the drawer over, there, pasted to the underside was a slip of paper with numbers. It looked like someone’s birth date 26.09.73. He frantically spun the dial on the safe, biting his bottom lip in concentration but the safe remained secure. He tried again. Twenty-six, zero nine, seventy-three, but still there was no reaction. He sat down on the bed and held his head in his hands, almost in despair, but just at that moment a flash of inspiration came. He tried the number backwards, thinking, ‘Perhaps it’s just an added safety precaution she’s taken’. Click – the lock opened and the door sprung up just a fraction. He lifted and laid it back on its hinge to reveal something of a heart stopping moment. There, staring him in the face, was a photograph – a photograph of him! ‘Hell, that’s me! How and why, in heavens name, has she got a photograph of me and what does that mean?’ It set him back on his heels and he found himself transfixed, staring at this monochrome six by four. He shook himself, trying to snap out of it. ‘What will the chief make of this? I’d better slip this in my pocket and keep quiet about it for the time being – damn, this is going to be embarrassing at the very least’.

Underneath the photograph was a bank paying-in book but the stubs showed no recent transactions, ’Perhaps she’s taken to internet banking. At least there’s an account number’. He began to consider the probabilities of having to obtain a court order. He knew that banks don’t want to be awkward or obstructive, especially in these circumstances, but discretion on behalf of their clients is all important and they need that court order to protect themselves when they divulge personal information.

The headache was getting too much to bear and he seemed to be losing focus – his eyes were itching and he was beginning to sweat. He slipped the bank paying-in book into a plastic ‘evidence’ bag together with the photograph, and with them safely in his pocket he closed the safe, spun the dial and replaced the wardrobe floor. ‘It’s time I got some fresh air’.

Chapter 2 - Ships That Pass in the Night

How’s it gone, Boss? Find anything? came a voice that shook Tommo from his deep contemplations about the photograph. He looked up to see young Jerry Davy, probably the youngest detective on the team at twenty-four and a ‘fast track’ entrant with his university degree. His career would soon take off because he’d got what it takes. Jerry’s straw-blonde hair glistened in the afternoon sun. With his lithe six-foot frame it was an easy matter for him to stride over the garden fence from next door, onto the lawn. Tommo didn’t have much patience with, or confidence in, half of these ‘fast track’ entrants – they didn’t seem to possess the common sense they were born with, the common sense that makes a good copper, and he’d often say to himself, ‘God help the force because these men are the future, they’re going to climb the ladder so fast they’ll soon be running the show. They’re academics with no basic common sense’. He shook himself and turned to answer Jerry.

No, nothing much, just a bank paying-in book that might help to identify her. How about you, neighbours see anything?

Nothing! I get the impression that it’s another case of the three monkeys; hear no evil, see no evil and speak no evil. You’d think everybody goes about with their eyes closed and their ears stuffed with cotton wool. Even her next-door neighbours don’t seem to know anything about her. Everybody keeps themselves to themselves. I doubt they’d even pass the time of day with each other. The only thing I did learn was that the property was on the market for some time and there were workmen refurbishing the whole house before she moved in about four months ago.

"Who were the workmen – what firm was it?

They didn’t know who they were, or who the estate agents were who handled the sale so I suppose we’ll have to trawl around all of them.

What about the woman who called it in? Is she a relative or a neighbour?

No Boss – Jehovah’s Witness. Just a casual caller who found the door wide open, looked inside and saw all the blood. She’s well and truly traumatised and not much of a witness. All she can tell us is that there was no-one else about.

Have you got her statement?

Yes Boss, for what it’s worth. She’s almost hysterical. It might be best to interview her again when she’s slept on it; calmed down a bit.

OK. Are the rest of the team still out?

Yes, as far as I know, doing house to house – I haven’t seen any of them

OK Jerry, I’m not feeling too well – it’s this headache business again. I’m going to slip home and try to do something about it. You’ve got my mobile number – if anything comes up give me a shout.

Right Boss, but don’t you think it’s about time you saw your quack or something?

I will when I’ve got the time, he replied, leaving Jerry standing there, staring after him, ruefully shaking his head as though in disbelief that his boss had let it go on for so long. Tommo ducked under the blue and white barrier tape that stretched across the driveway and walked to his car. Checking his watch again he mumbled to himself; ‘Four o’clock. Where does all the time go?’, and he suddenly felt the pangs of hunger again – the burning sensation in his stomach. Driving into the courtyard of the block of flats where he lived, he parked in the corner beneath his kitchenette window. There was no designated parking space to each flat, but everyone, (except the chap he regarded as the ‘obnoxious prat’ that occupied number six) accepted that that particular spot was his, and he supposed he was lucky it was vacant. ‘There always has to be one objectionable bastard wherever I go; still I suppose things could be worse’. He was feeling irritable. Perhaps it was the headache or the ulcer but more likely, the photograph that was still on his mind.

It was almost a drag to haul himself up the flight of concrete steps to his little pad, and his mind went back to his early days in the Met, first, as a young sprog, living in the section house and then later, a damned expensive flat that only served as somewhere to kip because ninety per cent of the time was spent at work. The majority of his meals were taken in the canteen, and the truth is that if they had allowed him he would probably have slept on a camp bed in the office. He realised then that he was doing too much, working too hard, but he enjoyed it. That, he thought, was what most likely led to his headaches and peptic ulcer, and now he began to long for a quieter, more sedentary existence, that’s what brought him to Leicester but nothing changed. He transferred as a Detective Sergeant but despite all his good intentions it was difficult to get out of that mindset and he continued with the same old work ethic that he’d had forever. Why Leicester you might well ask? The truth is he wasn’t entirely sure, because the only things he associated with Leicester were pork pies and the Quorn hunt but it was the birthplace of his parents who, unfortunately, he’d never known. He’d been left an orphan whilst a babe-in-arms and although he tried hard not to let his feelings surface, he often had the desire to find his real identity – yes, his ancestry, but more than that, there was a yearning to belong. He knew Leicester was a bustling city with a large immigrant population and perhaps there was a correlation with London that made him feel at home. He’d seen the vacancy in the Police Gazette and made his application which was accepted immediately.

He was finding it a lonely existence; perhaps that was another reason for continuing to submerge himself in work. Well, he’d probably argue that he hadn’t actually chosen his lone existence. The plain fact was that he’d enjoyed a happily married life – no, perhaps that’s stretching the truth. It had been five years now since the separation. There were no hard feelings – at least not on his side – he liked to think. He knew that Chris had put up with a lot and they’d gradually drifted apart, mainly because they hardly saw anything of each other. The memory of sitting with his head in his hands, his face streaked with tears, after Chris had left was still etched into his conscience. She'd warned him for long enough that she was no longer prepared to suffer a marriage where her partner just never came home. She’d longed for a child but thought long and hard whether it was fair to bring a child into a failing marriage, or whether a child could possibly save it? ‘Ships that pass in the night’, was her assessment of their marriage, and what benefit was that in bringing up a child? Maybe he’d not been as thoughtful or tactful as he could have been when he’d remarked, Children – you know what they say? They pull on your apron strings when they’re little, and pull just as hard on your heart strings when they grow up.

Loneliness had been Chris's torture during their years together and now he began to feel as though it was rebounding on him. To others he was fairly philosophical in his assessment of his marriage failure and he’d openly say, I know every loser says, 'It was the job that came between us’, but honestly, that’s exactly what happened. The hours any detective works has got to put a strain on even the strongest of marriages, but no-one takes any account of that. I’d take bets that the job has one of the highest divorce rates. It’s an excuse I know, but I’m not looking for sympathy because I’ve enjoyed my work and wouldn’t want to swap for anything else. What’s more, he accepted that he’d made it to a reasonable rank with a pretty good income and a damned good pension to look forward to. He felt he’d not got a lot to moan about but he still wished his marriage had survived. He'd always accepted he was to blame but there had been times when he’d wondered about Buck Ryan, the American professor living next door. It was stupid to think that Chris would be playing around and he knew it. Perhaps it was a touch of jealousy on his part. Buck was engaged in some sort of scientific project for NASA, the space agency, at Leicester University and he was happily married. Why would he mess around? He was just a good neighbour, trying to be friendly.

It’s likely there aren’t many separated men that still think of their other half with the affection he did and he was still on good terms with Chris. He missed her like hell and he knew his jealousy was unreasonable, but he realised they were probably more amiable living apart than ever they were together. One blessing that came out of this had been that he was always mindful now of the hours the younger lads were working, thinking, ‘I don’t want their relationships to go down that same plug-hole’. In his moments of quiet reflection he realised that he could get a bit depressed and lonely and wished that he was still together with her. He didn’t altogether fancy a bachelor life into his retirement.

He asked himself just how long it was since he took the last pain-killers and could he take another dose without doing himself any harm? He was well aware that too much Paracetamol could cause liver damage, and with the pains in his head he was suffering, he knew he was beginning to get a bit reckless. The milk of magnesia tablets were on the table where he’d left them when he left early that morning, and he swallowed a couple to settle the burning in his stomach. The refrigerator was almost empty – just as the one at the murder victim’s home – and he realised he’d neglected to stock up at the supermarket. He’d just have to make do with a sandwich of the last little piece of cheese that still existed. A packet of frozen peas in the freezer section caught his eye and gave him the idea of a cold compress for his forehead and he held the packet to his head whilst he boiled the kettle to make coffee. Resting in an easy chair with the frozen peas balanced on his head would probably seem a little bizarre had anyone witnessed it, but he found it worked – at least he thought it did – or could it be that the ice-pack was just dulling his senses? By the time he came to drink his coffee it was just tepid and he’d lost interest and poured it away. The cheese sandwich hadn’t been that appetizing either, the bread was going stale and if it hadn’t been that his stomach craved for food, he’d have thrown that in the bin too. Tossing the packet of peas back in the freezer compartment, he picked up his keys and headed back to