azombiewrites (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
azombiewrites) wrote2020-01-29 04:12 pm
azombiewrites) wrote2020-01-29 04:12 pm
Midsomer Murders - 'The Collected Hurts of DS Jones' - 7/?
Title: The Collected Hurts of DS Jones
Fandom: Midsomer Murders
Genre: Hurt/Comfort.
Rating: PG
Summary: 6 times DS Jones was whumped and 1 time he wasn't.
Main Characters: DS Ben Jones, DCI John Barnaby, Sarah Barnaby and Kate Wilding.
Disclaimer: Created and based on the characters and books by Caroline Graham. A Bentley production for ITV.
Spoilers: Set during season 14.
Word Count:3,319
Status: Each chapter can be read as a stand-alone story.
7. The Compulsory Drowning
Summary: With Death approaching, DS Jones can’t understand or remember how he ended up in such a predicament.
His body hurt, muscles aching, his head spinning with vertigo. Chest tight, he struggled to breathe. Short, rapid breaths. He felt exhausted. Tired, as though he hadn’t slept for days. A feeling of anxiety, of confusion. He tried to move, shifting his body, weak limbs twitching with effort before his body returned to an unnatural stillness.
Confusion growing, detective sergeant Jones opened his eyes.
Surrounded by darkness, he didn’t know where he was. Couldn’t remember where he’d been. Could barely breathe and he didn’t know why. He felt warm, too warm, sweat soaking his skin, hair, sticking his shirt to his back. Couldn’t understand or remember how he had ended up in such a predicament.
Flat on his back, a solid floor beneath him, Jones struggled to remember. He couldn’t. His memory as dark as his surroundings. Tried to come up with a scenario that would make sense, an explanation for his current situation.
Quite possible he was suffering from a hangover, too much alcohol erasing his memory of the night before. Too drunk to find his bed, he’d slept on the floor; it was possible, he’d done it before.
He could have fallen, stumbling over clumsy feet, hitting his head when he landed.
Mugged? It wasn’t beyond the stupidity of Midsomer’s criminal elite, dumb enough to assault and rob a man they recognised as the local bill.
Injured in the line of duty? It was the most plausible conclusion. He didn’t know how or who. Didn’t know if he was correct with his assumption, an attempt to save his embarrassment. Better for him if they found him beaten and bloody rather than still-too-drunk-the-morning-after to get up from the damn floor.
Could only imagine what Barnaby would say.
Closed his eyes. Tried to encourage his memory to return as his mind drifted . . .
.
.
.
Where the hell was Jones when he needed him. Beneath a calm exterior, Barnaby was seething, his anger simmering. He smiled, taking another sip of trepid tea, too much milk and too little sugar. Placed the cup back on the saucer and the saucer back on the coffee table in front of him. The table too close, his shins pressed against its edge.
He didn’t know what to say, too embarrassed, too angry to think. For something to do, he reached for the cup and saucer. Another sip of tea. Hid his grimace of distaste as he set it back down on the table.
‘You look uncomfortable, Inspector,’ said Mrs. Hammersmith.
He was.
Very uncomfortable.
‘Um, no . . . not uncomfortable,’ said Barnaby. ‘More concerned as to the whereabouts of my detective sergeant.’
‘Your detective sergeant?’ Mrs. Hammersmith laughed, a dry sound. ‘You make it sound like you own him, Inspector.’
Barnaby smiled and said, ‘If I owned him, Mrs. Hammersmith, I would return him and get my money back.’
‘Surely, Inspector, he can’t be that bad?’
‘May I remind you, he’s thirty minutes late.’
‘Then, perhaps you should call him,’ said Mrs. Hammersmith.
With a nod of agreement and an insincere smile, Barnaby stood up, stumbled around the low coffee table, and walked out of the front living room into the hallway. He turned right, the front door the closest means of escape and stepped out into the daylight.
Grateful to be out of the cottage, he decided to ignore Jones’s absence and check on the more reliable officers who were now searching the grounds for any evidence that would help them locate the missing Hamish Evans.
The last location of Hamish Evans’s phone had brought them here, to the small lake set in the grounds of the stately home belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Hammersmith. It had been a long day of searching, nothing found but Barnaby was determined, certain they would find Hamish. Also, certain Hamish Evans was dead.
Barnaby had taken up a kind offer of refreshments, Jones politely declining. A subtle suggestion as Jones turned away, telling Barnaby his sergeant was suspicious of the offer. His exact words, ‘She’s a little creepy if you ask me, sir.’
He hadn’t asked, telling Jones to check on the search and to meet him in the home of Mrs. Hammersmith at three o’clock. Thirty . . . thirty-five minutes ago.
Barnaby had been surprised to discover Jones had been correct in his assumption of Mrs. Hammersmith. Not only was there something ‘creepy’ about the woman, the atmosphere in the front living room of her home had been tense, Barnaby quickly becoming suspicious of an interest in the case. He’d been blunt, telling her he couldn’t discuss an ongoing case with a civilian. She hadn’t liked his response, remaining quiet, Barnaby becoming uncomfortable under her silent gaze. Brief curiosity wondered if Mrs. Hammersmith had anything to do with the disappearance of Hamish Evans.
It didn’t take long for Barnaby to get an update, nothing found, the search still ongoing. Standing in the sculptured gardens, Barnaby decided to turn his attention to the missing Jones. Pulling his phone from his jacket pocket, he called his detective sergeant.
.
.
.
Jones flinched, his eyes snapping open.
His phone vibrated against his thigh, the sound of its ring tone causing him to focus, to wake up. He blinked . . . his surroundings still dark, still unknown. A flicker of fear, the emotion growing.
His phone fell silent.
His mind becoming clear, more focused, instinct told him something wasn’t right, his situation . . . it was wrong. This wasn’t a drunken stumble in the dark. He hadn’t fallen over clumsy feet.
Something had happened, something sinister. Jones wondered if he’d fallen foul of the same person responsible for the disappearance of Hamish Evans. A flash of memory, his breath catching in his throat, his mind no longer confused.
Someone had put him here.
But where was here?
He’d been walking around the edge of the lake . . . someone had whacked him over the back of the head. A loss of consciousness, Jones could only presume what had happened next; his body dragged, or carried away to another location, his body hidden, locked away in . . . it didn’t matter, not to him, not now. He couldn’t see a damn thing. He couldn’t establish his location.
What he needed now was a way out, a means of escape . . .
Wait.
His phone.
His damn phone. Someone had called him.
Jones lifted his arm . . . his elbow smacked against something solid. He swore, more in surprise than pain. Closed his eyes and took a long breath, a moment to calm his fear, his imagination. Opened his eyes and reached out with both hands. He didn’t get far, fingers touching a solid surface on both sides. He reached upward; his limbs hesitant, afraid of what he would find . . .
A fourth solid surface.
Jones panicked, imagination telling him someone had buried him alive. A small area, fresh oxygen lacking; it explained his shortness of breath. He slammed the edges of his palms against the solid surface above him. Nothing more than pain snapping through his hands, his arms. He hit it again and again, panic controlling his movements until he was out of breath and in pain. He could feel the damp warmth of blood on his skin, trickling down his wrists . . .
His phone started to ring, Jones swearing in surprise and fear a second time. It took too long to reach his phone in the small space, the ring tone falling silent as he removed the phone from his trouser pocket. He froze with uncertainty. Switching on his phone; its pale light would reveal his prison . . .
Holding his breath, hoping he was wrong, Jones switched on his phone.
He wasn’t wrong.
Turned his phone to face his surroundings. His worst fear realised; he was in a coffin. Crudely made of wood, it served its purpose. He needed to call Barnaby, to inform his boss . . . not much to tell Barnaby, Jones still didn’t know where he was.
Except he did. He knew his location, stuffed into a coffin. What he didn’t know was the location of his coffin. Breathing through his nose, he couldn’t smell damp soil . . . that was something at least, one thing in his favour. If he were still above ground, it would be easier for Barnaby to find him.
A sound of footsteps, twigs snapping beneath a heavy step. Movement above him, light began to filter in through the coffin. Jones could now see the thin gaps between the planks of wood. The coffin hidden beneath something that had blocked out the sunlight, hindering the fresh air.
Jones took a deep breath.
A sudden movement, the coffin shifted, Jones dropped his phone. With fingers trembling with anxiety, Jones searched for his phone. He wanted to call out, to ask for help but he knew without doubt the person he could hear was responsible . . . an idea sparked, catching . . .
Jones called out and said, ‘I’m a police officer.’
No more said. He waited, hoping the man would open the coffin lid, the intent to finish the job, to make sure Jones was dead. Jones only needed a moment; the lid lifting would be enough. Jones would do the rest, pushing up with as much force as possible, taking the suspect by surprise and creating his own escape.
Things didn’t always go to plan.
The man ignored him. If anything, the movement of the coffin became frantic. A forward movement, possible the man was moving him to another location . . . or to a final resting place.
Felt his fingers brush across the edge of his phone. He snatched it up.
It took only minutes, the coffin shifting downward, now on a decline, his feet lower than his upper body. A final shove. Jones heard the splash of water. His heartbeat increased, his chest tight, his lungs struggling for breath.
Knew with sudden clarity his time was running out. Jones called Barnaby, the phone on the other end ringing.
Closed his eyes and held his breath when he felt the water soak into his shoes . . . his trousers.
.
.
.
‘Sir! We’ve found something.’
Barnaby ignored his ringing phone and ran toward the edge of the lake, uniformed officers waving him in the right direction. As he drew closer, he could see a coffin. Not the kind you would buy for a recently deceased loved one, but a coffin made of old wooden planks.
‘It was in the lake?’ said Barnaby as he looked at the officers, directing his gaze to the more senior officer. Jed Mores.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Mores. ‘Thought it best if we pulled it out. In case someone was in there.’
Pushed away his concern for forensic evidence. There wouldn’t be any, the heavy rain of the last two days would have cleared the immediate area of any footprints or drag marks.
His phone falling silent, Barnaby knelt, a closer look, his right knee sinking into the mud. Water ran from the gaps between the wooden planks. He couldn’t see much, mostly darkness but there was something . . . ‘Give me a torch.’
Taking the offered torch from Mores, Barnaby shone its beam into a gap on top of the makeshift coffin and let out a slow release of breath. Recognition was immediate; pale skin, blue lips. A body, already deceased, they were too late.
His phone began to ring.
‘Call forensics and the pathologist,’ said Barnaby as he stood up and walked away to answer his phone. A quick glance at the screen told him it was Jones. Too angry to speak to his absent sergeant, Barnaby considered ignoring the call, but common sense got the better of him. It was possible Jones had a very good reason to be absent.
.
.
.
‘Jones, where are you?’
Jones hesitated, not sure what to say. Wrong thing said, he could increase his own panic, his breath already too short, his chest already too tight. He had to remain calm. Barnaby would ask questions and Jones needed to supply answers, information that would help Barnaby to find what could end up being a drowning detective sergeant, the water already covering his hips, already creeping toward his chest.
‘I’m in a coffin.’
Short but blunt, he’d made his point, related his situation to Barnaby.
He expected Barnaby to remain calm, Jones feeling his own panic increasing when Barnaby swore. His boss didn’t ask the expected questions. Didn’t ask how or why or even where. Could only listen as Barnaby turned Jones’s nightmare into reality.
‘Is the coffin in water?’
Jones looked down toward his chest. The water still rising, its level moving closer. Soon it would cover his chest, crawling toward his mouth, his nose . . .
Swallowed his fear and said, ‘Yes. It’s--’
‘There’s another coffin,’ said Barnaby, yelling to someone who wasn’t Jones. ‘Sergeant Jones is in it. He’s in the lake here somewhere. Find it. Now. Jones, we need to find you quickly. I’m going to hang up--’
‘Sir--’
‘Turn the volume up. I’ll call you back. Let your phone ring. We’ll hear you before we see you. We’ll find you, Jones. Don’t worry.’
Phone now silent, Barnaby had hung up.
His phone began to ring. Jones turned up the volume with trembling fingers. He wanted to answer. He wanted to hear Barnaby’s voice, anyone’s voice. He felt too alone . . . too afraid. If they didn’t find him . . . The water was flowing over his chest, the coffin sinking deeper. Everything happening too quickly.
The phone rang out, his short breaths too loud. Only seconds before Barnaby called back. Filled with doubt, Jones knew they wouldn’t find him in time, the coffin filling with water, now reaching his neck.
He thought of his Gran.
He wanted to answer the phone. To say goodbye. To force a promise from Barnaby that he would look after his grandmother. Knew Barnaby would do it anyway, there was no need to ask. He lifted his phone, its light shining in his eyes.
Thumb hovering over the screen . . . he couldn’t . . . wouldn’t allow Barnaby to hear his struggles to stay above water, to hear his fight for each breath . . . to hear his death.
The back of his head already up against the end of his coffin, Jones could go no further. He lifted his chin, his only available option. The effort useless, the water filling his ears, moving over his chin. Closed his mouth. Took one last breath through his nose. Held his arm up, keeping his phone out of the water for as long as he could.
The water covered his face, his head.
He knew what happened when a person drowned. Knew he would lose consciousness first . . . shoved the thoughts away. He didn’t need to describe his death. Kate would do that for him.
His lungs began to struggle. He held on, refusing to take a breath.
It didn’t take long.
Darkness already descending as he lost consciousness.
.
.
.
Barnaby ran toward the sound of his sergeant’s phone, the ringtone stopping abruptly. He could see the edge of the coffin as it sank below the surface of the water. He entered the lake, feet sinking into the mud. Fingers shaking with fear and dread, he gripped the edges of the coffin, wood splinters digging into his flesh.
‘Get it out. Get it out now!’ said Barnaby shouting at his fellow officers as they began to pull the coffin out of the mud, through the water and onto the lake’s edge. He could feel his heart pounding against his rib cage. Swallowed the lump of emotion rising into his throat.
The water in the coffin was quickly receding, pouring through the gaps. Afraid they were too late, his sergeant already dead, Barnaby pulled at the coffin’s lid. It refused to budge; the lid nailed down. Pushed to the side, Barnaby watched as Mores used a crowbar to break the lid free. It took too long.
The lid removed . . . Barnaby ignored the sight of his sergeant. Jones’s pale skin. The blue lips. His chest too still. His sergeant wasn’t breathing. They lifted him, gentle with their movements, laying Jones on firmer ground. Unwilling to give up, Barnaby began CPR. His gaze steady, watching his sergeant’s face, he was grateful when Mores cut through Jones’s tie and shirt collar, tilting Jones’s head back, clearing his airway. Too panicked to think clearly, Barnaby had forgotten the basic instructions of CPR.
Pressing steady fingers against Jones’s carotid artery, Mores shook his head, his silence telling Barnaby there was no pulse. Stopping the compressions, not the first thing required, Barnaby breathed into his sergeant’s open mouth, five breaths. Waited for a response. Jones remained still. Barnaby nodded to Mores.
Replacing Barnaby, Mores gave Jones two breaths before returning his fingers to the side of Jones’s neck. Barnaby began the chest compressions, thirty required. Ten compressions in, Mores shook his head, still no pulse. Barnaby continued the compressions. Eight more and Jones jerked, his body reacting as he drew in a breath.
Barnaby, not ready to relax, to be satisfied his sergeant was breathing, alive once more, waited. Another breath taken . . . a third. Jones continued to breathe. Still unconscious but breathing.
Barnaby stoop up, his legs shaking, threatening to collapse. He turned away, hiding his emotions, his relief. Gaze focused elsewhere, he waited for the fear to ebb away from his limbs. Regaining control, he turned back, watching as Mores placed Jones in the recovery position.
‘Ambulance should be here soon, sir,’ said another officer.
Not trusting his voice, Barnaby nodded.
‘I’ll go with him, sir,’ said Mores.
‘No,’ said Barnaby, his voice cracking. ‘No, you’re needed here. We need to find who is responsible for this. I’ll call someone. I’ll call Sarah, my wife. She’ll meet Jones at the hospital.’
Catching movement in his peripheral, Barnaby saw one of the uniformed officers running toward them, his arms full of thick blankets. Barnaby swore, his voice soft. The threat of losing his sergeant had scrambled his thoughts, his reactions. He had panicked, failing to follow proper procedure for victims of drowning. If he’d been alone, relying on his own failings . . . refusing to think about it he returned his thoughts to the job. Whoever had done this to Jones was also responsible for the death of Hamish Evans. He looked toward the home of Mr. and Mrs. Hammersmith, the couple now his main suspects.
.
.
.
Jones opened his eyes.
Blinked.
Smiled.
Not dead.
Still kicking.
‘Something funny, Jones?’
Jones flinched, his breath catching. He coughed, pain stabbing through his chest. A slow breath as he shifted his gaze. A snap of pain. Barnaby sat at his bedside. Jones not surprised. It happened too often lately. Pressed the heel of his palm against his sternum. Another breath . . . ribs bruised.
‘That would be the CPR,’ said Barnaby.
Jones frowned. ‘CPR, sir?’
Hiding his concern behind a grimace, Barnaby said, ‘You were dead when we found you.’
‘Oh.’
‘Mores saved your life.’
‘Mores, sir?’
‘I panicked. Couldn’t follow the basic principles of CPR.’
Jones smiled. ‘You care.’
‘Not about you, Jones,’ said Barnaby. ‘I panicked at the thought of having to train another lackey.’
‘Thanks for that, sir.’
‘You’re welcome, Jones.’
‘Did you find Hamish Evans?’
‘Yes. We’ve arrested the Hammersmiths. They’re at the station waiting for me to interview them. Just wanted to make sure I didn’t need to place an ad for a new sergeant.’
‘Again, thanks for that.’
‘Again, you’re welcome,’ said Barnaby as he stood up and walked toward the door. ‘They’re keeping you in for a while. Something to do with arterial saturation and the rising of your chest.’
Jones watched as Barnaby stopped at the door, fingers on the door handle. Watched as he turned back to the room, his gaze unsteady, his blue eyes filled with emotion. ‘Don’t do that again, Jones. Lackey or not, I’d prefer you didn’t die on me . . . we’ll have a proper talk later, when we’re both feeling better.’
Barnaby opened the door and left the room.
Jones smiled.
Nothing like a near death experience to bring out the truth in people.
The End.
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five
Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight
Master Fan Fiction List
Fandom: Midsomer Murders
Genre: Hurt/Comfort.
Rating: PG
Summary: 6 times DS Jones was whumped and 1 time he wasn't.
Main Characters: DS Ben Jones, DCI John Barnaby, Sarah Barnaby and Kate Wilding.
Disclaimer: Created and based on the characters and books by Caroline Graham. A Bentley production for ITV.
Spoilers: Set during season 14.
Word Count:3,319
Status: Each chapter can be read as a stand-alone story.
7. The Compulsory Drowning
Summary: With Death approaching, DS Jones can’t understand or remember how he ended up in such a predicament.
His body hurt, muscles aching, his head spinning with vertigo. Chest tight, he struggled to breathe. Short, rapid breaths. He felt exhausted. Tired, as though he hadn’t slept for days. A feeling of anxiety, of confusion. He tried to move, shifting his body, weak limbs twitching with effort before his body returned to an unnatural stillness.
Confusion growing, detective sergeant Jones opened his eyes.
Surrounded by darkness, he didn’t know where he was. Couldn’t remember where he’d been. Could barely breathe and he didn’t know why. He felt warm, too warm, sweat soaking his skin, hair, sticking his shirt to his back. Couldn’t understand or remember how he had ended up in such a predicament.
Flat on his back, a solid floor beneath him, Jones struggled to remember. He couldn’t. His memory as dark as his surroundings. Tried to come up with a scenario that would make sense, an explanation for his current situation.
Quite possible he was suffering from a hangover, too much alcohol erasing his memory of the night before. Too drunk to find his bed, he’d slept on the floor; it was possible, he’d done it before.
He could have fallen, stumbling over clumsy feet, hitting his head when he landed.
Mugged? It wasn’t beyond the stupidity of Midsomer’s criminal elite, dumb enough to assault and rob a man they recognised as the local bill.
Injured in the line of duty? It was the most plausible conclusion. He didn’t know how or who. Didn’t know if he was correct with his assumption, an attempt to save his embarrassment. Better for him if they found him beaten and bloody rather than still-too-drunk-the-morning-after to get up from the damn floor.
Could only imagine what Barnaby would say.
Closed his eyes. Tried to encourage his memory to return as his mind drifted . . .
.
.
.
Where the hell was Jones when he needed him. Beneath a calm exterior, Barnaby was seething, his anger simmering. He smiled, taking another sip of trepid tea, too much milk and too little sugar. Placed the cup back on the saucer and the saucer back on the coffee table in front of him. The table too close, his shins pressed against its edge.
He didn’t know what to say, too embarrassed, too angry to think. For something to do, he reached for the cup and saucer. Another sip of tea. Hid his grimace of distaste as he set it back down on the table.
‘You look uncomfortable, Inspector,’ said Mrs. Hammersmith.
He was.
Very uncomfortable.
‘Um, no . . . not uncomfortable,’ said Barnaby. ‘More concerned as to the whereabouts of my detective sergeant.’
‘Your detective sergeant?’ Mrs. Hammersmith laughed, a dry sound. ‘You make it sound like you own him, Inspector.’
Barnaby smiled and said, ‘If I owned him, Mrs. Hammersmith, I would return him and get my money back.’
‘Surely, Inspector, he can’t be that bad?’
‘May I remind you, he’s thirty minutes late.’
‘Then, perhaps you should call him,’ said Mrs. Hammersmith.
With a nod of agreement and an insincere smile, Barnaby stood up, stumbled around the low coffee table, and walked out of the front living room into the hallway. He turned right, the front door the closest means of escape and stepped out into the daylight.
Grateful to be out of the cottage, he decided to ignore Jones’s absence and check on the more reliable officers who were now searching the grounds for any evidence that would help them locate the missing Hamish Evans.
The last location of Hamish Evans’s phone had brought them here, to the small lake set in the grounds of the stately home belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Hammersmith. It had been a long day of searching, nothing found but Barnaby was determined, certain they would find Hamish. Also, certain Hamish Evans was dead.
Barnaby had taken up a kind offer of refreshments, Jones politely declining. A subtle suggestion as Jones turned away, telling Barnaby his sergeant was suspicious of the offer. His exact words, ‘She’s a little creepy if you ask me, sir.’
He hadn’t asked, telling Jones to check on the search and to meet him in the home of Mrs. Hammersmith at three o’clock. Thirty . . . thirty-five minutes ago.
Barnaby had been surprised to discover Jones had been correct in his assumption of Mrs. Hammersmith. Not only was there something ‘creepy’ about the woman, the atmosphere in the front living room of her home had been tense, Barnaby quickly becoming suspicious of an interest in the case. He’d been blunt, telling her he couldn’t discuss an ongoing case with a civilian. She hadn’t liked his response, remaining quiet, Barnaby becoming uncomfortable under her silent gaze. Brief curiosity wondered if Mrs. Hammersmith had anything to do with the disappearance of Hamish Evans.
It didn’t take long for Barnaby to get an update, nothing found, the search still ongoing. Standing in the sculptured gardens, Barnaby decided to turn his attention to the missing Jones. Pulling his phone from his jacket pocket, he called his detective sergeant.
.
.
.
Jones flinched, his eyes snapping open.
His phone vibrated against his thigh, the sound of its ring tone causing him to focus, to wake up. He blinked . . . his surroundings still dark, still unknown. A flicker of fear, the emotion growing.
His phone fell silent.
His mind becoming clear, more focused, instinct told him something wasn’t right, his situation . . . it was wrong. This wasn’t a drunken stumble in the dark. He hadn’t fallen over clumsy feet.
Something had happened, something sinister. Jones wondered if he’d fallen foul of the same person responsible for the disappearance of Hamish Evans. A flash of memory, his breath catching in his throat, his mind no longer confused.
Someone had put him here.
But where was here?
He’d been walking around the edge of the lake . . . someone had whacked him over the back of the head. A loss of consciousness, Jones could only presume what had happened next; his body dragged, or carried away to another location, his body hidden, locked away in . . . it didn’t matter, not to him, not now. He couldn’t see a damn thing. He couldn’t establish his location.
What he needed now was a way out, a means of escape . . .
Wait.
His phone.
His damn phone. Someone had called him.
Jones lifted his arm . . . his elbow smacked against something solid. He swore, more in surprise than pain. Closed his eyes and took a long breath, a moment to calm his fear, his imagination. Opened his eyes and reached out with both hands. He didn’t get far, fingers touching a solid surface on both sides. He reached upward; his limbs hesitant, afraid of what he would find . . .
A fourth solid surface.
Jones panicked, imagination telling him someone had buried him alive. A small area, fresh oxygen lacking; it explained his shortness of breath. He slammed the edges of his palms against the solid surface above him. Nothing more than pain snapping through his hands, his arms. He hit it again and again, panic controlling his movements until he was out of breath and in pain. He could feel the damp warmth of blood on his skin, trickling down his wrists . . .
His phone started to ring, Jones swearing in surprise and fear a second time. It took too long to reach his phone in the small space, the ring tone falling silent as he removed the phone from his trouser pocket. He froze with uncertainty. Switching on his phone; its pale light would reveal his prison . . .
Holding his breath, hoping he was wrong, Jones switched on his phone.
He wasn’t wrong.
Turned his phone to face his surroundings. His worst fear realised; he was in a coffin. Crudely made of wood, it served its purpose. He needed to call Barnaby, to inform his boss . . . not much to tell Barnaby, Jones still didn’t know where he was.
Except he did. He knew his location, stuffed into a coffin. What he didn’t know was the location of his coffin. Breathing through his nose, he couldn’t smell damp soil . . . that was something at least, one thing in his favour. If he were still above ground, it would be easier for Barnaby to find him.
A sound of footsteps, twigs snapping beneath a heavy step. Movement above him, light began to filter in through the coffin. Jones could now see the thin gaps between the planks of wood. The coffin hidden beneath something that had blocked out the sunlight, hindering the fresh air.
Jones took a deep breath.
A sudden movement, the coffin shifted, Jones dropped his phone. With fingers trembling with anxiety, Jones searched for his phone. He wanted to call out, to ask for help but he knew without doubt the person he could hear was responsible . . . an idea sparked, catching . . .
Jones called out and said, ‘I’m a police officer.’
No more said. He waited, hoping the man would open the coffin lid, the intent to finish the job, to make sure Jones was dead. Jones only needed a moment; the lid lifting would be enough. Jones would do the rest, pushing up with as much force as possible, taking the suspect by surprise and creating his own escape.
Things didn’t always go to plan.
The man ignored him. If anything, the movement of the coffin became frantic. A forward movement, possible the man was moving him to another location . . . or to a final resting place.
Felt his fingers brush across the edge of his phone. He snatched it up.
It took only minutes, the coffin shifting downward, now on a decline, his feet lower than his upper body. A final shove. Jones heard the splash of water. His heartbeat increased, his chest tight, his lungs struggling for breath.
Knew with sudden clarity his time was running out. Jones called Barnaby, the phone on the other end ringing.
Closed his eyes and held his breath when he felt the water soak into his shoes . . . his trousers.
.
.
.
‘Sir! We’ve found something.’
Barnaby ignored his ringing phone and ran toward the edge of the lake, uniformed officers waving him in the right direction. As he drew closer, he could see a coffin. Not the kind you would buy for a recently deceased loved one, but a coffin made of old wooden planks.
‘It was in the lake?’ said Barnaby as he looked at the officers, directing his gaze to the more senior officer. Jed Mores.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Mores. ‘Thought it best if we pulled it out. In case someone was in there.’
Pushed away his concern for forensic evidence. There wouldn’t be any, the heavy rain of the last two days would have cleared the immediate area of any footprints or drag marks.
His phone falling silent, Barnaby knelt, a closer look, his right knee sinking into the mud. Water ran from the gaps between the wooden planks. He couldn’t see much, mostly darkness but there was something . . . ‘Give me a torch.’
Taking the offered torch from Mores, Barnaby shone its beam into a gap on top of the makeshift coffin and let out a slow release of breath. Recognition was immediate; pale skin, blue lips. A body, already deceased, they were too late.
His phone began to ring.
‘Call forensics and the pathologist,’ said Barnaby as he stood up and walked away to answer his phone. A quick glance at the screen told him it was Jones. Too angry to speak to his absent sergeant, Barnaby considered ignoring the call, but common sense got the better of him. It was possible Jones had a very good reason to be absent.
.
.
.
‘Jones, where are you?’
Jones hesitated, not sure what to say. Wrong thing said, he could increase his own panic, his breath already too short, his chest already too tight. He had to remain calm. Barnaby would ask questions and Jones needed to supply answers, information that would help Barnaby to find what could end up being a drowning detective sergeant, the water already covering his hips, already creeping toward his chest.
‘I’m in a coffin.’
Short but blunt, he’d made his point, related his situation to Barnaby.
He expected Barnaby to remain calm, Jones feeling his own panic increasing when Barnaby swore. His boss didn’t ask the expected questions. Didn’t ask how or why or even where. Could only listen as Barnaby turned Jones’s nightmare into reality.
‘Is the coffin in water?’
Jones looked down toward his chest. The water still rising, its level moving closer. Soon it would cover his chest, crawling toward his mouth, his nose . . .
Swallowed his fear and said, ‘Yes. It’s--’
‘There’s another coffin,’ said Barnaby, yelling to someone who wasn’t Jones. ‘Sergeant Jones is in it. He’s in the lake here somewhere. Find it. Now. Jones, we need to find you quickly. I’m going to hang up--’
‘Sir--’
‘Turn the volume up. I’ll call you back. Let your phone ring. We’ll hear you before we see you. We’ll find you, Jones. Don’t worry.’
Phone now silent, Barnaby had hung up.
His phone began to ring. Jones turned up the volume with trembling fingers. He wanted to answer. He wanted to hear Barnaby’s voice, anyone’s voice. He felt too alone . . . too afraid. If they didn’t find him . . . The water was flowing over his chest, the coffin sinking deeper. Everything happening too quickly.
The phone rang out, his short breaths too loud. Only seconds before Barnaby called back. Filled with doubt, Jones knew they wouldn’t find him in time, the coffin filling with water, now reaching his neck.
He thought of his Gran.
He wanted to answer the phone. To say goodbye. To force a promise from Barnaby that he would look after his grandmother. Knew Barnaby would do it anyway, there was no need to ask. He lifted his phone, its light shining in his eyes.
Thumb hovering over the screen . . . he couldn’t . . . wouldn’t allow Barnaby to hear his struggles to stay above water, to hear his fight for each breath . . . to hear his death.
The back of his head already up against the end of his coffin, Jones could go no further. He lifted his chin, his only available option. The effort useless, the water filling his ears, moving over his chin. Closed his mouth. Took one last breath through his nose. Held his arm up, keeping his phone out of the water for as long as he could.
The water covered his face, his head.
He knew what happened when a person drowned. Knew he would lose consciousness first . . . shoved the thoughts away. He didn’t need to describe his death. Kate would do that for him.
His lungs began to struggle. He held on, refusing to take a breath.
It didn’t take long.
Darkness already descending as he lost consciousness.
.
.
.
Barnaby ran toward the sound of his sergeant’s phone, the ringtone stopping abruptly. He could see the edge of the coffin as it sank below the surface of the water. He entered the lake, feet sinking into the mud. Fingers shaking with fear and dread, he gripped the edges of the coffin, wood splinters digging into his flesh.
‘Get it out. Get it out now!’ said Barnaby shouting at his fellow officers as they began to pull the coffin out of the mud, through the water and onto the lake’s edge. He could feel his heart pounding against his rib cage. Swallowed the lump of emotion rising into his throat.
The water in the coffin was quickly receding, pouring through the gaps. Afraid they were too late, his sergeant already dead, Barnaby pulled at the coffin’s lid. It refused to budge; the lid nailed down. Pushed to the side, Barnaby watched as Mores used a crowbar to break the lid free. It took too long.
The lid removed . . . Barnaby ignored the sight of his sergeant. Jones’s pale skin. The blue lips. His chest too still. His sergeant wasn’t breathing. They lifted him, gentle with their movements, laying Jones on firmer ground. Unwilling to give up, Barnaby began CPR. His gaze steady, watching his sergeant’s face, he was grateful when Mores cut through Jones’s tie and shirt collar, tilting Jones’s head back, clearing his airway. Too panicked to think clearly, Barnaby had forgotten the basic instructions of CPR.
Pressing steady fingers against Jones’s carotid artery, Mores shook his head, his silence telling Barnaby there was no pulse. Stopping the compressions, not the first thing required, Barnaby breathed into his sergeant’s open mouth, five breaths. Waited for a response. Jones remained still. Barnaby nodded to Mores.
Replacing Barnaby, Mores gave Jones two breaths before returning his fingers to the side of Jones’s neck. Barnaby began the chest compressions, thirty required. Ten compressions in, Mores shook his head, still no pulse. Barnaby continued the compressions. Eight more and Jones jerked, his body reacting as he drew in a breath.
Barnaby, not ready to relax, to be satisfied his sergeant was breathing, alive once more, waited. Another breath taken . . . a third. Jones continued to breathe. Still unconscious but breathing.
Barnaby stoop up, his legs shaking, threatening to collapse. He turned away, hiding his emotions, his relief. Gaze focused elsewhere, he waited for the fear to ebb away from his limbs. Regaining control, he turned back, watching as Mores placed Jones in the recovery position.
‘Ambulance should be here soon, sir,’ said another officer.
Not trusting his voice, Barnaby nodded.
‘I’ll go with him, sir,’ said Mores.
‘No,’ said Barnaby, his voice cracking. ‘No, you’re needed here. We need to find who is responsible for this. I’ll call someone. I’ll call Sarah, my wife. She’ll meet Jones at the hospital.’
Catching movement in his peripheral, Barnaby saw one of the uniformed officers running toward them, his arms full of thick blankets. Barnaby swore, his voice soft. The threat of losing his sergeant had scrambled his thoughts, his reactions. He had panicked, failing to follow proper procedure for victims of drowning. If he’d been alone, relying on his own failings . . . refusing to think about it he returned his thoughts to the job. Whoever had done this to Jones was also responsible for the death of Hamish Evans. He looked toward the home of Mr. and Mrs. Hammersmith, the couple now his main suspects.
.
.
.
Jones opened his eyes.
Blinked.
Smiled.
Not dead.
Still kicking.
‘Something funny, Jones?’
Jones flinched, his breath catching. He coughed, pain stabbing through his chest. A slow breath as he shifted his gaze. A snap of pain. Barnaby sat at his bedside. Jones not surprised. It happened too often lately. Pressed the heel of his palm against his sternum. Another breath . . . ribs bruised.
‘That would be the CPR,’ said Barnaby.
Jones frowned. ‘CPR, sir?’
Hiding his concern behind a grimace, Barnaby said, ‘You were dead when we found you.’
‘Oh.’
‘Mores saved your life.’
‘Mores, sir?’
‘I panicked. Couldn’t follow the basic principles of CPR.’
Jones smiled. ‘You care.’
‘Not about you, Jones,’ said Barnaby. ‘I panicked at the thought of having to train another lackey.’
‘Thanks for that, sir.’
‘You’re welcome, Jones.’
‘Did you find Hamish Evans?’
‘Yes. We’ve arrested the Hammersmiths. They’re at the station waiting for me to interview them. Just wanted to make sure I didn’t need to place an ad for a new sergeant.’
‘Again, thanks for that.’
‘Again, you’re welcome,’ said Barnaby as he stood up and walked toward the door. ‘They’re keeping you in for a while. Something to do with arterial saturation and the rising of your chest.’
Jones watched as Barnaby stopped at the door, fingers on the door handle. Watched as he turned back to the room, his gaze unsteady, his blue eyes filled with emotion. ‘Don’t do that again, Jones. Lackey or not, I’d prefer you didn’t die on me . . . we’ll have a proper talk later, when we’re both feeling better.’
Barnaby opened the door and left the room.
Jones smiled.
Nothing like a near death experience to bring out the truth in people.
The End.
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five
Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight
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