Dead at First Sight

10 Wednesday 26 September

Johnny Fordwater saw on his phone display the words No Caller ID.

Instantly, his spirits rose. Was it Ingrid at last? Excitedly, he answered.

The voice at the other end said, ‘Hey, buddy, how you doing?’ His old mate, Gerald Ronson.

Masking his disappointment, he replied, with as much brightness as he could muster, ‘Gerry! Good to hear you!’

‘You OK, buddy?’

‘Yes, fine.’

They’d been in that foxhole together, almost twenty years back, and had both, somehow, survived the rest of their time in Iraq. They’d remained good friends ever since. Both couples had visited each other back in the good old days when Elaine was fit and well.

After his divorce, Gerry, who had become a firefighter when he quit the military, sounded like he’d been having a ball trying out online dating agencies. Gerry had been encouraging him to do the same. For over three years, still mourning Elaine’s death, Johnny had resisted. Almost a year ago, with wording provided by Gerry, he’d finally put a toe in the water. He’d chosen a German dating site, partly to avoid embarrassment if anyone in the UK found out, but just as much because of his liking for German women.

‘You don’t sound OK, buddy. You sound a little down.’

‘Around £400,000 down, if you want to know the truth, Gerry. I’m about to lose my home — thanks to my stupidity.’

‘Hey, hold on! What do you mean about what you are going to lose?’

‘My home. I’m about to lose my home.’

‘Your home?’

‘All of it, buddy.’

‘How — like — why — what’s happened?’

‘Want me to spell it out?’

‘Letter by letter.’

Johnny spelled it out. When he had finished, he sat in silence, waiting for Gerry’s response.

When it finally came it was succinct. ‘Shit, buddy.’

Within seconds of ending the call, his phone rang again. Once more he answered with his hopes raised.

It was Detective Sergeant Potting.