The Final Throw: A Theo Stern Mystery, #8

By A. W. Lambert

Theo Stern's dreams of retirement are shattered when a threat from his past suddenly rears its head and he's forced to face its life threatening consequences.

With a history of over forty years' hard front line detective work, a weary Theo Stern is convinced it's time to call it a day. He dreams of a carefree retirement by the sea. But when a woman asks for help to find a missing boy, Stern is persuaded by Cherry, his devoted assistant, to take the case. Just this one, he warns, then it's over. But when this last throw of the dice becomes one of the most threatening of Stern's whole career, all thoughts of retirement are pushed to one side. And there's no turning back.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613094099

Book preview

Prologue

Gritting his teeth , he stood completely still, determined not to look back. He was familiar with the sound...the harsh, heavy clang of the metal door closing behind him. This time, though, after a tortuous fifteen years, that door was shutting him out instead of in.

That was it. No ‘good luck Denis,’ ‘look after yourself, Denis.’ Nothing. Just the harsh, ominous reverberation of finality. The end of an era. An era of mind-numbing relentless bitterness and hate. Finally he did turn, slowly, his eyes scanning the harsh granite edifice. He steadied himself deliberately, legs akimbo, facing the closed door before raising a hand, two fingers forming a defiant V. That to the lot of ya, he murmured.

IT WAS JUST ONE ROOM. A single bed, a chair and a cupboard with a couple of drawers. They called it a bed-sit. Sounded about right; there was a bed, and there was just about room to sit on it.

Denis slumped on the edge of the bed, his eyes scanning the small space. He purposely averted his eyes from the young parole officer standing just inside the door, watching him closely.

Consider yourself lucky, Denis. It’s all we have and it’s only just become available. Previous occupant moved on yesterday. Got himself a proper job, a new life.

Denis finally made eye contact with the snotty nosed, self-righteous dickhead who looked half his own age. Good for him.

The kid pulled back his skinny shoulders and put on the supercilious expression he used when he thought he was making a point. A new life, Denis. I would like to think that’s what you want, too.

A new life, Denis thought. No chance...I’m not done with the old one yet, sonny. Mustn’t show it, though. He nodded passively, but said nothing.

Okay, so we’ve already covered the rules and you have a copy of the sentence plan, the young official went on. You have a mobile phone and it has my number on it. I will keep regular contact with you and any problems at all you call me directly. You’ve got the schedule of our future meetings and I will be updating you on any further appointments, such as training courses, I think may suit you. Particularly job interviews, of course. Happy with that?

Another submissive nod of the head.

Remember, you must inform me in advance if you find somewhere else to live or if you can’t make any meetings. In fact, I should be told of any changes you intend to make. Is that clear?

For Christ’s sake, why don’t you just bugger off and leave me alone. Don’t worry, Mr Oliver, I won’t let you down. You jumped up little prick.

Finally, and gratefully, Denis was alone. He concentrated on the deep breathing exercises taught him by the councillor inside. A life saver when the anger attacks came on. Which still happened. Like when having to face up to the Olivers of this world. When self-control was more important than ever. He’d waited more than fifteen long years. Fifteen years and hardly a day passing without his head filled with the retribution demanding to be carried out. At last the wait was over. The time was here. He was out and they were ready. They knew who...now all they had to do was find him.

One

Theo Stern padded along the beach toward the metal steps leading up to the promenade. With the tide way out this morning, he’d run for an hour. But slower than usual. He’d needed to think and he thought best when he was running. He climbed the steps and headed across the green to his flat, his mind clear...today would finally be the day.

He took his time, letting the shower run hot then cold before vigorously drying himself. As he dressed, his mind automatically recounted the decision. It would be difficult, he was sure, but he would just have to make it work. There had to be a life after Stern Investigations. Just had to be.

He settled himself on the little balcony with his breakfast. It was a favourite time. He’d purchased the second floor flat overlooking the promenade when he moved from London to Norfolk more than thirteen years before, never once regretting the move or the purchase. The little balcony with its uninterrupted view out across the North Sea was a bonus. Particularly on a warm early June morning.

It was just before nine when he left the flat and made his way back down to the promenade and along toward the town. Leaving the promenade, he made his way up the incline past the crab fishing boat ramp and through the narrow alleyway leading to the High Street.

Sheringham is a tiny seaside town on the North Norfolk coast of England, its lineage going back to 1086 when it was first mentioned in the Doomsday book. It boasts a population of a little more than 3500 residents. But as a holiday resort, Sheringham is extremely popular and its numbers swell considerably during the summer season. With May now past, that time was fast approaching. Indeed, a good many early visitors were already there. As was obvious when Stern emerged into a bustling high street. Truth was, Sheringham High Street always seemed to be bustling and Stern loved living there. Whatever else he decided for the future, moving away from Sheringham would not be on the agenda.

He strolled along the street to the baker’s, already busy with a waiting queue, a dozen early customers bent on getting the first loaves and cakes fresh from the ovens. Dave, the baker and Stern’s landlord, was busy behind his counter. He looked up and acknowledged Stern with a brief smile. Stern gave him a wave and manoeuvred himself between the customers to the back of the shop and the single stairway leading up to the second floor. At the top of the stairs, he pushed open the half-glassed door emblazoned ‘Stern Investigations.’

As always, Cherry was at her desk, her fingers creeping expertly across the keyboard of her laptop. She looked up as he entered. Morning, boss.

Morning. He crossed the office and stood alongside her. What’re you up to?

Just finishing the report for the Philips case. I’ll post it off today with the invoice.

Stern nodded. It was their most recent case. Rachel Philips had hired them to check on her husband who she suspected of playing away. A bread and butter case. Easy to solve, and lucrative. It had taken less than a week to confirm the woman’s suspicions were correct. Some photographs and a written report. Job done.

Okay, finish that and we’ll have a coffee. He held her questioning gaze. We need to talk.

Stern made his way into his office and dropped down in the creaking old ancient chair behind the equally ancient desk, both purchased from a second-hand furniture store when they’d first kicked off Stern Investigations. After more than thirteen years, they felt like two old friends. He’d miss them.

He stroked worryingly at the beard he’d been forced to grow after the case, a year ago, when they’d uncovered an Eastern European gang trafficking people and drugs into the UK. Lucky to come out of a tight situation alive, Stern had been badly beaten. As well as several broken ribs, he’d received a vicious kick to the face. A severely lacerated cheek meant that for some time shaving was a not an option, the beard inevitable. Then he’d grown to appreciate not having to shave every morning. He hadn’t shaved since, telling himself the beard served to remind him of the dangers of his business. At sixty three, those dangers had to be taken seriously. He sighed heavily. This was not going to be easy, but it was something he should have done long since.

Two years earlier, Stern had closed the office and left for Australia in an attempt to rekindle a relationship with his estranged wife Annie. But Annie had settled into a new life and in less than a year it became apparent, however hard they both tried, any chance of reconciliation was little more than a pipe dream. Stern had returned to England despondent and at his lowest ebb. He saw only a bleak, uncertain future ahead. But he was sure of one thing: at his age, reviving Stern Investigations was a no go.

But Cherry had other ideas. Colluding with David O’Connor, a local police inspector who Stern had assisted so many times in the past, she had relentlessly badgered Stern into reconsidering. Finally he had succumbed, but agreeing only to a twelve month trial. During those twelve months, Stern had faced several dangerous situations, the worst being the severe beating for which, below the beard, he still bore the livid scar. Nevertheless, he had kept his side of the bargain...he’d seen out the twelve months. Now, more than ever, he was convinced he was too bloody old for this game. This time it was over and no mistake.

Cherry came into the office carrying two steaming mugs. Coffee up. Want a biscuit?

Shaking his head, he accepted a mug. She took up her usual position in the chair opposite. What do we need to talk about?

He studied her across the desk, remembering back to when the then-Detective Inspector Theodore Stern of the London Metropolitan Police had rescued the badly beaten, teenage drug-addicted prostitute from the filthy East end of London flat. In a long career, Stern had seen many such cases, but for some unaccountable reason, this one particular damaged young woman had reflected the depths of evil running through the back streets of the capital, the very evil he had enlisted in the police force to battle against. For that reason, he helped her through recovery and supported her during her struggle to throw off her addictions. At that time, he hadn’t dreamed that many years later she would seek him out and become a major part of his life for so many years.

How old was she now? Thirty eight? Thirty nine? Whatever, she seemed to have changed little over the years. No more than five-four and fifty kilos at most, she would never grace the cover of a fashion magazine; even without the help of Botox, her lips were too full and her jaw too aggressive. But there was something about her that caught the eye, drew the attention. Maybe it was the intelligent, startlingly clear blue, challenging eyes, or maybe the soft, naturally fair hair she wore short, framing her pale features. Then maybe it was none of those things; maybe it was just the confident, very female way she held herself.

Shit, this was going to be so bloody difficult.

He drank some coffee, slid the mug down on his desk and took a breath. Look, it’s like this...

The opening of the door in the outer office stopped him mid-sentence.

Cherry eased herself out of the chair and left the office. Stern retrieved his coffee and sipped reflectively. That went well.

A few minutes later, Cherry returned and closed the door quietly behind her. She lowered her voice a tad. Young guy out there would like to speak to you.

About what?

Cherry gave a shrug. Dunno. Says it’s personal. He’ll only speak to you.

Okay, wheel him in. You stay too, okay?

Cherry smiled. Okay.

Stern guessed the fellow was probably in his early thirties. Maybe, if he pulled himself up to his full height, he would just about manage five eight. He was thin with narrow shoulders and pinched features showing under hair cut too long. He was dressed casually but smart, a light grey sports jacket over jeans that were not stressed and a blue checked shirt open at the neck. He carried a rucksack over his shoulder.

Stern stood and they shook hands across the desk. The grip was dry and surprisingly firm. He waved the man to chair vacated earlier by Cherry. Cherry drew up another chair and sat to one side, notebook at the ready.

The man pulled an identification card from his pocket and handed it across the desk. Mr Stern, my name is Richard Oliver and I am a parole officer with the National Probation and Parole Service.

Two

Stern felt an unexplainable tingle down his spine. Why would someone from the LPS come all this way to see him? From the corner of his eye, he clocked Cherry watching him curiously. He asked, You travel up this morning?

Yes. I caught the early train out of Liverpool Street. Got a taxi over from Norwich.

Mmmm, didn’t call ahead then? Took a chance I’d be here. Must be important. So what can we do for you?

Oliver slid the rucksack off his shoulder and rested it on his lap. No, I didn’t call for an appointment. Must admit it was a spur of the moment decision. If I’m honest, an opportunity to get out of the smoke for a few hours. Don’t happen very often. But, you’re right, I think it is important. And it’s not so much what you can do for me as what I can do for you, Mr Stern. He opened the bag and pulled out a manila file Maybe I should explain.

I’d appreciate it.

Yes, I’m sure you would. But before I do, can you confirm you are the Theodore Stern, late of the London Metropolitan Police Force, your career spanning between 1972 and 2003 when you retired on medical grounds with the rank of detective inspector? He paused, noting the doubting frown creasing Stern’s forehead. I’m sorry, Mr Stern, this is not an interrogation. I just need to be sure I have the right person before I give out sensitive information.

Okay, Stern said, relaxing. Can’t be too many Theodore Sterns around, but yes, you have the right person.

Smiling, Oliver slid a sheet from the file and turned it to face Stern. The picture had to be twenty years old and, in it, Stern was clean shaven. I was pretty sure, but the beard threw me. Just needed your confirmation. The smile left his face. I also took the liberty of reading your bio. You had one hell of a career. Couldn’t help being impressed.

Stern waved the compliment away. Yeah, well you shouldn’t believe everything you read. Besides, that’s all in the past. So let’s get to it, shall we?

Yes, of course. Oliver quickly lowered his eyes to the file. Withdrawing a sheaf of papers stapled together in the corner, he flipped over the first page. On the twenty eighth of May this year, a life term prisoner was released into my charge after serving more than fifteen years for armed robbery and attempted murder. His record shows the early years of his incarceration as being difficult because he brought an innate violence into prison with him. As a result, parole was regularly refused and, on one occasion, his conduct carried an extension to his sentence. But it seems after that episode, when he was persuaded to accept counselling, he changed. He became a model prisoner and there were no further problems up to his release on the twenty-eighth when parole was granted. He paused and glanced across at Stern. I relate that piece of information only to indicate that his background gave me no reason to believe he intended anything other than to integrate back into society. He turned a page and carried on. I managed to find the man a pretty decent bedsit to get him started and I was also arranging for him to attend a rehabilitation course and several interviews for work. He seemed to appreciate what I was doing for him and was outwardly compliant.

Stern couldn’t help the ironic smile. Even after all these years, his scepticism of the career criminal was as strong as ever.

Oliver recognised the cynicism on Stern’s face. Yes, I know, Mr Stern. But we can only do our best.

Stern shook his head. No criticism intended, I can assure you. You’re just looking at a grisly old bugger who’s been there many times. In fact, I applaud you for the work you guys do. It can’t be easy.

Oliver gave a wan smile. No, it isn’t. I spent three years at Cambridge studying sociology. I graduated with a first and end up doing this. I’ve asked myself more than once since how that happened. He gave a tight-lipped resigned shake of the head. I often wonder why I didn’t study bricklaying or plumbing instead. Both earn a damn sight more than I do and have half the worry. He took a deep breath. That’s my story, now the reason why I am here. He turned another page and studied it for a moment before continuing. Mr Stern, the man I’m talking about is one Denis Stringer?

Stern’s face instantly clouded, but he didn’t respond, his mind trolling back, bad times. Finally he nodded. Yes, I remember Stringer.

I thought you would. I also studied records relating to the Stringer case. It was a pretty testing time for you.

You could say that.

Recognising the tension in Stern’s words, Oliver went on quickly. Well, as you are probably aware, as a result of the case history and your involvement, you would probably have been informed of Stringer’s release. But I’m afraid there’s more to it than that.

Oh?

Yes. You see, as I told you, I found Stringer a bedsit when he was released. As normal, it was meant as temporary accommodation until he settled into a job and found himself a more permanent accommodation. As a lifer, Stringer was bound by the usual parole restrictions, which included regular contact with me. He looked up at Stern. I’m sure I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.

Many things have changed since I was involved, Stern conceded, but I get the gist.

I’m sure you do. So, as I’ve already told you, Stringer was released on the twenty-eighth. I saw him settled in the bedsit on that day and arranged for an interview with a local builder on the fourth of June.

Just last week, Cherry said.

Oliver turned to her. Yes, last Monday.

There was no mirth in the smile touching Stern’s lips. Let me guess...he didn’t attend the interview,

Oliver’s eyes darkened. No, he didn’t. Not only that, I haven’t been able to contact him since. You know the rules; any misdemeanour and he could end up back inside.

Stern studied the troubled young man for a beat then said, That is true, but why am I thinking it’s not only Stringer’s absence that’s brought you all this way today?

Oliver gave a shake of his head. No, you’re right, of course, it isn’t. You see, when Stringer didn’t turn up for the interview, I called his mobile. It was dead, switched off. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and plenty of time to call me back before I called again. The same thing happened so I headed straight for his bedsit. The landlord there told me he hadn’t seen Stringer for several days.

Instinctively the detective in Stern kicked in. You did check the room?

Yes, of course. The landlord let me in with his master key. It was as if the place had never been occupied. It had been cleaned and everything was neat and tidy. Even the bed was made up. There was no evidence Stringer had been anywhere near the place. But you’re right, that’s not why I’m here today. Again he reached into the file, this time withdrawing a single sheet of paper. It looked as if at some time it had been crumpled, then an attempt made to smooth it out. Oliver handed it across to Stern. While checking the room I looked under the bed just to be sure Stringer hadn’t stowed his stuff there. There was nothing, of course. Except that. He indicated to the piece of paper in Stern’s hand. It was tucked behind the leg of the bed and Stringer must have missed it when cleaning the room.

Stern studied the sheet for a long moment, his eyes darkening as he did so.

Finally it was Oliver who broke the silence. You can understand why I thought it important to bring it to you, make you aware.

Stern gave a sober nod of his head. Yes, I can and I thank you for that. He scanned the sheet of paper once more before looking up. Can I keep this?

Indeed you can. I have a copy on Stringer’s file. Oliver pulled a card from his pocket and handed it across. The Met know about this, of course. They’ll be doing all they can to locate him. You may even be hearing from them. In the meantime, my advice is to be vigilant and if there is anything at all I can do to help, please don’t hesitate to call me.

Three

Cherry escorted Oliver down to the taxi rank on the high street and sent him on his way back to Norwich. When she returned to the office, Stern was again scanning the wrinkled sheet of paper in front of him, his brow creased in thought.

She slid onto the chair opposite, purposefully averting her eyes from the sheet on his desk. If he wanted her to see it, he would show it to her in his own time. So what was that all about?

Stern raised his eyes and looked at her thoughtfully for a long moment. Then taking a breath, he said, History.

An old case?

Uh-huh.

Over the years, since the launch of Stern Investigations, Cherry had learned much of Stern’s previous history with the Met. Indeed she had been a part of it. But she was well aware there was still much she didn’t know and frequently he surprised her. She suspected this would be one of those times. Something I should know about? she asked cautiously.

Depends.

On what?

Stern stretched and linked his hands behind his head. On how I decide to deal with it.

You said I, not we.

S’right.

Irritated at his pithiness, Cherry wrinkled her nose. Tell you what, if we’re into riddles why don’t I go and get a newspaper? We can do the crossword.

Stern gave her a soft smile and lowered his arms, resting his elbows on the desk, chin in hands. You can be one stroppy madam, d’you know that?

Well, are you surprised? A guy comes all the way from London to give you some news that has obviously thrown you and all I can get out of you is single syllable mumbles. I am part of this outfit, you know.

You are, but this is personal. I’m not sure I should involve you.

Cherry waved a dismissive hand. Aw, come on, boss, we’ve worked together for thirteen or more years and never once have you excluded me from a case. Not once.

Yes, but this is different. This is not a case. This is my past, nothing to do with Stern Investigations.

But whatever it is, it’s affecting us now, right? She lowered her eyes despondently. Even if you are excluding me, you might at least have the decency to tell me why.

Stern held up his hands, capitulating. Okay, okay, I’ll fill you in, but how I handle this is my decision, got it?

Cherry kept a straight face, despite the satisfied smile struggling to break out. Got it.

He pulled thoughtfully at his beard before going on. Where to start? Okay, he said finally. You already know the details of my retirement from the force.

Yes, you retired on medical grounds: 2003, the stabbing.

Yes, that was the official reason. Truth was a couple of the brass had wanted to dump me for some time. I was heading for my thirty years and was considered a bit of a loose cannon. Old school, gung-ho, didn’t fit the modern force. Looking back, I guess they weren’t far wrong. Things were changing fast, young up-and-coming stars on the fast track, university grads heading for the top spots. He gave a sharp shrug of his shoulders. Not much room left for us street coppers. Oh, I got results, it was true, but I also took risks to get those results.

You mean like not wearing a stab vest when you went into a darkened house after a crazy, drug saturated knife man?

Stern looked defiant. Yes, but don’t forget the situation. We’d been after him for some time and at last we had him. He was in there and I was at the scene. There certainly wasn’t time for me to head back to the station and get kitted up. He would have been away on his toes long since. And let’s not forget, I did get him.

Cherry’s eyes saddened. I know, boss, but you paid a pretty heavy price for the collar. He very nearly got you. Permanently.

Yeah, well. Better that than have him still running the streets.

Can’t argue with that, I suppose, but what’s that got to do with this lot? She pointed toward the scruffy piece of paper on the desk.

Nothing at all. Other than to let you know that even before the knifing, I was probably on a slippery slope out of the force. What I’m about to tell you just contributed toward it. He eased back in the chair and was silent for a while, his mind coordinating uncomfortable past events. It was 2001, he began. April, if I remember. It was late, around midnight, when the call came in. A guy out walking his dog saw two men climb a wall into the grounds of a big house. The house was owned by a well-off banker and his wife. We learned afterwards, as well as holding cash in the house, the wife had a tidy stash of expensive jewellery. Somehow, the two thugs had picked up on this. Thing was, the man who called it in said he was sure one of the men was carrying a short-barrelled shotgun.

A sawn off, Cherry came in.

Yeah, easier to carry and conceal than a full-size weapon and the shot spreads much wider. Inaccurate, but at close range, lethal. He collected his thoughts back to the events of the night. So it was just my luck to be on duty that night. I drew a handgun for myself and called out an armed response unit. We arrived at the scene almost at the same time. As the senior person, I was the coordinator. I positioned armed men both front and back. Then, using a loud haler, I instructed the two men to come out and surrender themselves to us. Stern took a breath, memories flooding back. At first there was nothing, just silence. So I called again, stating the place was surrounded and they had nowhere to go. They should surrender. Stern scratched agitatedly at the beard. What we didn’t know then was, though we had the front and back covered, there was a side door. It led from what was originally a scullery, but was then being used by the couple as a store room. It led out into a narrow sideway adjacent to a thick hedge bordering the property. Somehow, the two men had exited through this door and into the hedge without at first being seen. I was standing alongside one of the armed officers holding the loud haler in one hand and the pistol in the other. It was this officer who first saw movement in the hedge and realised what was happening. He shouted out a warning, ordering them to stop... Stern paused for a long moment, tight lipped, staring ahead.

Cherry waited patiently for a while before prompting, Did they give themselves up?

Her voice dragged Stern away from a mental re-enactment of the scene back to the present. He lowered his eyes and shook his head. No. One of them, the one with the shotgun, broke cover and let fly. He took the legs out from under the armed response guy alongside me and put several pellets into one of my legs.

Oh my God.

Yeah, it was surreal. It happened so quickly. One moment you feel in complete control, then... Again he paused then muttered, almost to himself, It was as if time stood still.

What did you do?

Well, you have to remember there are strict rules governing when and how our official armed response units are allowed to use their weapons. They are highly trained people and, unlike Dirty Harry, they don’t strut around blasting everything that moves. As a result, on that night, just for a second, everyone froze.

I can understand. I’d have been petrified.

Stern shook his head. Not so much petrified as stunned. When something as unexpected as this happens, it takes the brain valuable seconds to assimilate the situation and react. At the time, I felt no pain. Didn’t even know I’d been hit. I just saw the officer go down alongside me and realised, just for a moment, the man with the shotgun was exposed. He ran his fingers agitatedly through his hair.

You could see him?

Yes, we had floodlights on the front and back, but not on that particular area. So he was just a dark shadow, but he was visible and I could see him. Stern thought some more before carrying on. The rule book instructs that when you do fire, you aim at the largest part of the body, the torso. Like I said, I was holding the loud haler in one hand and the pistol in the other. I don’t remember making a conscious decision. I just reacted instinctively. I fired two shots, both times hitting the man in the chest. He collapsed on the spot.

Cherry’s mouth dropped open. Was he...?

Stern didn’t let her finish before going on. Next thing I knew, the other man called out from the bushes. He said he was unarmed and was coming out. That was it.

How awful.

Stern held her wide, shocked gaze. Yes, but the point is, the man surrendering himself that night was Denis Stringer. And I had just killed his brother, Keith. He slumped back in the chair as if just telling the story had been a physical effort.

Four

They had taken a break , and Cherry had made fresh coffee. She sat cradling a steaming mug between her hands waiting for Stern to finish the story, to complete the picture.

Stern took a grateful sip before going on. "I don’t know what they call it now, but