We are all guilty of making assumptions, and most of the time we're don't even realise we're doing it, because that's the way things work, or that's what always happens. Until it doesn't. The next Meredith & Hodge novel is based on one such assumption, and that proved to be fatal. The Hawker family assumed it was just another day. Breakfast, work and school, home, bed. They couldn't have been more wrong. Here's the opening chapter of A Fatal Assumption.
Chapter One
“Christine Hawker had been preparing her children’s breakfast when she vanished. There were no clues as to what happened to her, except perhaps the smear of blood on the door which led to the back garden. Her handbag had gone, but her keys were still on the hook. Her slippers were on the stand in the hall, and her work shoes had gone but not her coat.
“The children’s packed lunches were made, and the boxes stacked with their water bottles on the corner of the breakfast bar next to her phone. Glasses of orange juice stood next to the bowls and spoons, laid out ready for the porridge, which slowly burned in the saucepan on the hob.
“When husband Mike Hawker got up that morning, everything had been normal. When he came out of the bathroom, the kids were arguing. Christine was shouting at them to come and have breakfast, and he didn’t have a shirt ironed for work. Normal. Silently cursing, he’d gone to the spare bedroom, pulled out the ironing board from the side of the wardrobe, and plugged in the iron.
“A piercing scream had him running into Oscar’s bedroom, only to find out that Charlotte had broken Oscar’s latest creation. He spent a few minutes calming the situation and told them to get dressed, giving the warning that anyone not ready by the time he was wouldn’t be going to the circus that weekend. Then he spent another five minutes helping Oscar find his socks, as Oscar argued that it wouldn’t be his fault if he wasn’t ready on time. Mike ended up getting them both dressed, which took, he guessed, another ten minutes. He was tying Charlotte’s laces when the fire alarm went off.
“Assuming it was the iron, he ran back to the spare room telling the kids to go downstairs. They didn’t. The iron was standing in the holder on the end of the board. He licked his fingers and tapped it lightly. The sizzle told him it was on, but it wasn’t the cause of the alarm. Calling the kids again, he leaned over the banister and shouted down to Christine, telling her to flap the tea towel at the alarm, and asking what she’d burnt.
Christine ignored him, or so he thought, and he went to iron his shirt.
“The alarm continued, and losing his temper, he banged the iron down and ran downstairs. Christine wasn’t in the kitchen, so he opened the back door, cursing as he burnt his hand lifting the now blackened remains off the gas, before grabbing a tea towel to flap at the sensor on the ceiling in the hall.
“Oscar was sitting on the stairs with his hands over his ears. Charlotte was nowhere to be seen. Mike went in search of Christine. Quickly establishing she wasn’t in the house, he gave the kids some cereal in front of the television and went next door to Mr Short, their elderly neighbour. At eighty, and recently widowed, Mr Short often came to them for help with things he couldn’t manage, and Mike assumed Christine had popped in there and forgotten the porridge, which he’d dropped into the dustbin on his way to find her. She wasn’t there.
“Back in the house, the kids remained glued to their latest favourite cartoon, and Mike ironed his shirt. He was becoming increasingly irritated with Christine. She was cutting it fine. He had to leave in five minutes. As he came down the stairs, he noticed her slippers on the shoe stand. Christine always changed those as she was leaving the house. He glanced at the key hook. Her keys were there. After a further ten minutes, he called a workmate, explaining the situation, and that he’d have to drop the kids to school so would be late.
“At a little before nine, Mike drove past the frontage of Jacques & Tower, the estate agents where he worked, waving to Simon Clark, who was putting out the swing board. He parked in the carpark at the rear of the building.
“At nine fifteen, Simon went to get Mike, as a client had called and was holding to speak to him. Mike’s car was in the carpark, the driver’s door was open a little, and his phone, which sat in a holder on the dash, was ringing. Mike was nowhere to be seen. Worried about the phone being stolen, Simon took the phone but couldn’t lock the car as the keys weren’t there.
“At nine thirty-five, another call came in on Mike’s phone. The screen showed it to be Chris Work, so Simon answered it, believing it to be Christine. It wasn’t. It was her manager. Christine hadn’t shown up for work and wasn’t answering her phone. Simon explained Mike had disappeared, and he didn’t know where either of them was. He suggested the possibility of a family emergency, as Mike had called that morning with problems at home. They promised to keep in touch with each other but didn’t.
“At four fifteen, the phone rang again. It was the children’s school, asking for Mike as the children hadn’t been picked up. Simon called the police.
“That was March 2012, and despite extensive enquiries, neither has been seen since. The case remained open but hasn’t been worked on since 2020. Mike Hawker’s body was discovered three weeks ago, buried on what was then wasteland, and is shortly to be a new supermarket, near Cribbs Causeway. The digger removed the arm of the corpse, and the work stopped while the remains were recovered. Mike Hawker’s remains were found with a length of rope, which may or may not have been a murder weapon. The hyoid bone was intact, but I’m told that it only breaks in a third of victims. At the moment, we have no cause of death. Pathologists had little to work with but are awaiting some results. Given the burial of the body, and the missing wife, it’s assumed he was murdered, probably strangled. His wallet and car keys were in his trouser pockets.”
*****
DS Louie Trump clicked the remote, and a photograph appeared of a happy family group.
“This was taken at Christmas, three months before they disappeared. Mike Hawker, thirty-five, Christine Hawker, thirty-three, seven-year-old Charlotte, and Oscar, five. This was the last photograph of them all together. As of today, it’s our job to find out what happened to destroy this little family. Yes, Will?”
DC Will Kent dropped his hand. “Are you OIC on this one? I take it we don’t know when the guv will be back?”
“On paper, yes. However, Tom and I will work closely, if he requests action you take it. As to DCI Meredith, he has requested extended leave and been granted it. He will be back. We just don’t know when. So, I’m sure you’ll join me in making certain that we get this right, so everything will be shipshape and Bristol fashion if he returns. That includes finishing up the paperwork on the Brandon Farm case.”
DS Tom Seaton got to his feet and distributed folders.
“The headline stuff. You’ll have the detailed files available by tomorrow morning. As Louie said, we’re hoping the video stuff will follow shortly, but—”
“Sorry to interrupt, Tom, but I need to backtrack. Louie, I just realised that despite the ‘he will be back’ opening, you ended on IF he returns. Is there a chance they won’t be back?” Kent grimaced. “What would happen to the CCRT then?”
The Bristol Cold Case Review Team was still a fledgling department. Hastily pulled together following a restructure, it had so far been a success due to the drive and leadership of DCI John Meredith. He’d handpicked his team, one of whom was Patsy Hodge, his wife. Gerry Deacon, a serial killer they had been hunting, had attacked and almost killed Patsy. Suffering from PTSD, she had left Meredith. After several months, Meredith had gone to New Zealand, where she was staying with her brother, to bring her home.
Seaton dropped the file in front of Will. “I’m going to say, yes, there is that chance. For the record, I hope he does return, I hope both of them do. But we all know he was threatening retirement when Patsy was ill. I don’t know how she is now, or even if he’s found her, it might take a while. In the meantime, we have a job to do. I like this job; I’d like to keep it. So, rather than worry about the guv, let’s worry about finding out what happened to the Hawkers. We will be stretched, but we can do it. We’ll prove that this department is viable, with or without them.”
“Well said, Tom. Now, take the files home, have a read through, and let’s hit the ground running tomorrow. Just as we would if DCI Meredith were here. Agreed?”
Trump exchanged a look with Seaton at the half-hearted agreement from the team. Both Trump and Seaton had received the same brief message from Meredith. He’d arrived, he’d yet to make contact with Patsy, and his extended leave had been approved. He had no idea when or even if he’d be back, but they were to carry on as usual, proving the CCRT was both viable and necessary.
With the constant reshuffles, and increasing pressure on police budgets, the department had been given two years to prove its worth, before a review of its value to the public and the police force. They had another eleven months and were now lacking two vital members.
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