Outside Looking In: A darkly compelling crime novel with a shocking twist

THREE

To get to Clough Lane, Scott had to traverse Quiet Lane – a long, meandering road that belonged in the middle of the countryside. With tall trees on both sides and inadequate lighting you took the perilous corners and bends with caution. Scott slowed down to thirty miles per hour, and even then he felt like he was speeding.

The scene laid out before them was like a location set for a sci-fi film. Looking down Matilda could see the intense brilliance of white spotlights and a cast of white-suited police and forensic officers going about their work.

Scott pulled up at the roadblock, a sensible distance away from the crime scene.

Matilda hated this part: entering a crime scene for the first time. Scott had filled her in on the basics during the journey but it was nothing compared to experiencing it for herself. She was stepping into the unknown and had no idea how it would make her feel.

She opened the door and stepped out. The stiff breeze in the built-up area of Sheffield had been upgraded to a strong wind on the border of the Peak District National Park.

From the outset, the scene didn’t give anything away. The white tent was covering the main stage. Inside, a brilliant light was glowing, casting shadows of forensic officers going about their grisly business.

‘Ma’am.’

She jumped and turned to see DS Aaron Connolly standing beside her. He proffered a white forensic suit for her to try and squeeze into. She looked for Scott but he had disappeared. How long had she zoned out for?

Aaron was a tall, well-built man in his mid-thirties. Unfortunately for him, forensic suits weren’t designed as a fashion item, nor did they come in an array of sizes. It was first come, first served, and judging by the difficulty Aaron was having breathing in his, he was obviously late to the scene.

‘Sorry we had to call you out, ma’am. Any news on a new DI yet?’

‘Not yet. The one who was joining us from Middlesbrough changed his mind.’

‘Really? Why?’

‘No idea. He probably saw the Park Hill flats from the train station and decided to head back north. What’s happening here then?’ she asked, quickly wanting to get off the subject of a new DI. Her involvement with the last one was still a very sore subject.

Aaron dug around in his pocket for a notebook. ‘George Rainsford, an old bloke who lives in one of the cottages, hears a car beeping just after going to bed. It carries on and he realizes there’s a pattern to the beeping. He listens and he says it’s rhythmic; the beeps are SOS in Morse code. He decides to investigate and discovers a woman, barely conscious, sounding the horn, and a dead man at the side of the road. They’ve both been badly beaten and shot several times. The woman’s gone to the Northern General Hospital and the man was already dead when we arrived.’

Matilda was sure that was the most she had ever heard Aaron say in one go. ‘I’d better take a look then. Who’s here?’

‘We’ve got a full forensic team. They’ve not been here long and it looks like they’ll be here all night. Dr Kean and her assistant have arrived and the Crime Scene Manager is knocking around somewhere.’

Matilda stopped. She had a heavy frown on her face, thinking about what steps to take next. ‘I want a full statement from the man who found her. What did you say he was called again?’

‘George Rainsford,’ he replied, checking his notebook. ‘Sian’s taken him back to the station. He was in a right state. I doubt she’ll get anything out of him tonight.’

‘OK. Give Sian a ring, ask how he’s doing. If he’s not capable of giving a statement tonight get her to send him home with a uniformed officer to stay with him and we’ll interview tomorrow morning. Any other witnesses?’

‘No.’

‘I see I’m here before the gawkers; didn’t anyone hear the gunshots, screams?’

‘It doesn’t look like it. It’s pretty isolated around here.’

‘Door-to-door?’

‘There aren’t many houses around here as you can see but I’ve got a small team together and they’re going to knock on a couple of doors.’

Matilda was beginning to feel surplus to requirements. ‘Do we know who our victims are?’

Aaron checked his notebook again. ‘I’ve run the car through the ANPR. I’m still waiting to get information on where it’s been in the run-up to it arriving here. However, the PNC says it’s registered to Kevin Hardaker at Broad Elms Lane in Bents Green.’

‘Not far away.’

‘No.’

‘And the woman?’

‘I’ve no idea. There’s nothing in the car to identify her; no bag, purse, nothing. I’m guessing she’s his wife.’

‘Are you thinking robbery then?’

‘I’m not sure. Mr Hardaker is wearing a very expensive-looking watch, his wallet is in the glove compartment with cash and cards, and Mrs Hardaker still has a ring on her wedding finger.’

‘How is she?’

‘She was unconscious by the time we arrived. According to Mr Rainsford she was using all her energy to signal for help. The second he arrived she just collapsed. PC … blonde woman, Polish, can’t pronounce her surname … she went with her in the ambulance; she called me a few minutes before you arrived. She has a collapsed lung, internal bleeding, and several broken ribs, and that’s just what the paramedics mentioned. God knows what they’ll discover when they fully examine her. It’s not looking good.’

‘Bloody hell. OK. Good work Aaron.’ She reached up and patted him on the shoulder and headed towards the white tent protecting the area.

As Matilda entered she was presented with a scene of utter destruction. The body of Kevin Hardaker was lying in a painful-looking position. He no longer resembled a person. He was badly beaten and heavily bloodied; his limbs at unnatural angles. Not even his own mother would be able to identify him. His face had no recognizable features.

Photographs had already been taken of the body in situ, and bags had been placed over each hand and his head to collect any evidence that may have fallen off when transporting him from the crime scene to the mortuary.

Matilda was surprised to see pathologist Adele Kean bent over the body. Usually it was left to forensics to gather everything and Adele would wait in the relative warmth of the mortuary. During the more disturbing crime scenes Matilda would request that Adele attend.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Sian called and told me how bad it was. I thought I’d put in an appearance.’

Matilda looked at the broken body of Kevin Hardaker. ‘What can you tell me about this poor chap?’

Adele shook her head in disbelief. ‘Where do I begin? Until I get him back to the mortuary I’m not going to make any snap judgements. Firstly, I can only describe the beating as savage. The majority of the blows are to the trunk of the body and head. If you look around, you’ll see sprays of blood; this was a prolonged attack which covered a great deal of ground. It looks like he was kicked around like a football.’

‘Bloody hell!’ Matilda muttered.

‘He was shot twice. One shot to the chest, the second to the head, which practically blew it open at the back.’ She spoke with such nonchalance she could have been reading a children’s story book.

‘Was it the gunshots that killed him?’

‘At this stage I’ll say yes. Although judging by the blows to the face and head I’m guessing he was unconscious before the first shot.’

‘Let’s hope so.’ Matilda was rooted rigid to the spot. She was surrounded by death on a daily basis but the level of violence people seemed able to inflict on others never failed to shock her. Adele’s cool, calm presence was astonishing.

‘His left eye is swollen shut. There’s nothing left of his right. My guess is he didn’t even see the gun being pointed at him. I’ll try and get the PM done first thing and you’ll know more then.’

‘Thanks Adele.’

‘You’re welcome,’ she said, placing a friendly, comforting arm on her best friend’s shoulder. ‘What’s all this about an SOS call?’

‘The woman was beeping SOS in Morse code; that’s how the man who found her came to discover her.’

‘Blimey, I didn’t think people used Morse anymore. The last time I saw it was on Titanic.’

‘Ah, Adele, you’re not that old, surely,’ Matilda said with a hint of a smile.

‘The film, you cheeky cow. Come over to the car; I want to show you something.’

Both front doors of the silver Citroen Xsara were wide open. As Matilda approached she took a long look at it. There were specks of blood on both sides of the bodywork. On the back, full sprays of blood adorned the boot.

Matilda stopped in her tracks. On what was left of the window in the back of the car was a sticker that read ‘cheeky monkey on board’. Kevin Hardaker obviously had a young child, maybe more than one. She closed her eyes tight to banish the image of a small boy in torment over the loss of his father at a young age: a father who called him his cheeky monkey.

‘Right then, Kevin Hardaker was driving—’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Well, for a start I have a wonderful Assistant Technical Officer who spotted what I’m about to show you. He was forcibly pulled out of the car and was still wearing his seat belt at the time. If you look at the body, you can see where the belt cut into his neck and there’s blood on the driver’s side.’

‘OK.’

‘Judging by the spatter patterns of blood on the car he’s punched, kicked, whatever, towards the back of the car; the attack getting more frenzied as he gets to the back, as you can see. If I were you I’d get forensics to get good detailed photos and film of these patterns—’

‘We already have.’ The interrupting call came from one of the forensic officers currently with their head in the back of the car.

Adele shrugged her shoulders and continued. ‘Once he’s behind the car the beating becomes more intense. I mean, look at the state of the car; the bodywork is knackered. When the attacker has finished he throws him to the ground – where he is now – and finishes him off with two bullets at point-blank range.’

‘What about the blood on the other side of the car?’

‘I’m guessing they belong to the wife. Forensics have taken samples.’

‘Do you know what type of gun was used?’

‘No. We’ve found some shells and I can’t see any exit wounds so I think the bullets are still in him. I’m not too hot on guns so I’ll need to do some research.’

‘How long do you reckon the attack on Kevin Hardaker lasted?’

She blew out her cheeks. ‘I’ve no idea. Anything from a few minutes to ten minutes to much longer. If there was a conversation between the attacker and victim it could have gone on for a very long time.’

‘So while he was being beaten, what was Mrs Hardaker doing at the time? Even if the attacker took the key and locked it she could have still got out. A second attacker maybe?’ Matilda was thinking aloud.

‘So far we’ve found no foreign prints or anything on Mr Hardaker, but I may do once I get him back to base. There’s a partial footprint on his chest though. I may be able to work out a shoe size from that, but I’m not hopeful.’

‘So there was either a second attacker keeping her hostage while Mr Hardaker was beaten or she just sat there awaiting her fate.’

‘That’s your department DCI Darke, not mine, thank goodness.’ Adele turned on her heels and headed back to the dead body of Kevin Hardaker leaving Matilda in deep thought.

‘Ma’am?’ DC Rory Fleming interrupted her.

‘Good evening Rory, what … bloody hell, are you sponsored by Calvin Klein or something?’ she asked, wafting away the strong smell of fragrance coming from him.

‘Sorry?’

‘You don’t need to drown yourself in the stuff.’

‘It’s Paco Rabanne, actually.’

‘Is that Spanish for sewer water?’

He pulled out his collar and sniffed himself. ‘I think it smells nice; very sexy.’

‘Since when was attending a crime scene sexy? Look, Rory, do me a favour, go to the Northern General and find out how Mrs Hardaker is.’

‘Will do. I thought you’d want to look at this.’ He handed her a wallet sealed in a forensic bag. It was open and the driving licence was showing.

Matilda studied the photograph. He didn’t look familiar. ‘A good-looking guy.’ There was a trace of sadness in her voice.

‘He used to be.’

‘Where’s Scott disappeared to?’

‘He’s over with forensics.’

‘OK. Tell him to get a car and an FLO. I want to go to the Hardaker home. If they do have kids they’ll be worried out of their minds.’

They were both interrupted by a bright white flash coming from further up the road. They looked up to see a man with a camera pointing at them, obviously a journalist.

‘Shit,’ Matilda said under her voice and turning her back on him. ‘How do they find out so quickly?’

‘I saw the story about you in The Star tonight,’ Rory said.

‘You and everyone else judging by the stares I’ve been getting.’

‘I shouldn’t worry about it. Nobody believes the crap they write anyway. Do you know what my mum always says?’

‘That today’s newspaper is tomorrow’s chip paper?’

‘How did you know that? Do you know my mum?’ Rory asked, a shocked look on his face.

‘No. I just knew one of you was going to say it at some point. I’d have put money on it being you, too.’ She smiled. ‘Now bugger off to the hospital.’

Matilda took out her phone and looked for a number in her contacts list. She had one eye on the journalist, wanting to make sure he wasn’t trying to get closer to the crime scene.

‘Ma’am, I’m sorry to call so late,’ Matilda said when the call was eventually answered.

‘Who is this?’ The sleepy, gravelly voice of Assistant Chief Constable Valerie Masterson. Obviously she had answered the call as a matter of urgency, not looking at the display to see who was interrupting her much valued sleep.

‘It’s DCI Darke, ma’am. There’s been a shooting.’

That statement was better than a bucket of cold water thrown in the face. She suddenly sounded wide awake.

‘Shooting? Where? Who?’

‘I’m on Clough Lane – it’s Ringinglow.’

‘I know where Clough Lane is,’ she snapped.

‘As you know I’m a few detectives down and I’m going to need all hands on deck. I was wondering—’

‘Let me stop you right there Matilda. I was going to talk to you first thing in the morning. I’m afraid the Murder Investigation Team no longer exists.’

FOUR

The scream woke Martin Craven with a start. His eyes wide and his heart thumping in his chest, he wondered where he was.

A second scream and he jumped up. He must have fallen asleep on the sofa. The cry was coming from upstairs. He left the living room and ran upstairs, taking them two at a time. He knew where the offending noise was coming from.

He burst into the small box room and turned on the light. Sitting up in the single bed was his youngest son, Thomas, aged eight.

Thomas was glistening with sweat, his face red, and tears streaming down his face. ‘I had a bad dream,’ he said loudly, too frightened to sign.

Martin ran towards him, sat on the edge of the bed and put his arms around him. He pulled him close and tight and tried to hush him from waking everyone else in the house.

He released him so Thomas could read his father’s lips. ‘It’s all right, Thomas, calm down. It was just a dream. There’s nothing to worry about,’ he enunciated.

‘Someone was chasing me …’

‘Now, come on Thomas. We’ve talked about this before. They’re just dreams. They’re not real. You’re perfectly safe.’

Thomas sniffed and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his Batman pyjamas. ‘I’ve had an accident,’ he said, almost under his breath.

Martin carefully pushed back the Avengers duvet and saw the wet patches on his pyjama trousers and the fitted sheet. ‘Don’t worry about it. Come on, hop out and we’ll clean it up.’ He signed and spoke at the same time.

‘Are you mad at me?’

‘Of course I’m not mad.’ He gave him a kiss on the top of his head. ‘You go and have a wash and put on a new pair of pyjamas. I’ll change your bedding and we’ll meet in the kitchen and have a glass of milk and a few Oreos.’

Thomas’s eyes lit up. ‘Just us two?’

‘Just us two.’

Thomas jumped out of bed. The prospect of milk and cookies brightened him up. He picked up the two hearing aids from his bedside table and placed them in as he trotted to the bathroom.

Martin took off the duvet cover and carefully lifted off the fitted sheet. Before he took them downstairs to the utility room he looked into his own room expecting to see his wife fast asleep in bed. She wasn’t. The bed hadn’t been slept in. He looked at his watch. It was almost midnight.

His wife should have been home more than four hours ago.

It took less than five minutes for Matilda, DC Scott Andrews, and DC Joseph Glass to get to Broad Elms Lane from the crime scene.

Matilda had been hoping for a female Family Liaison Officer, especially if the Hardakers had young children; a six-foot tall, stick thin, geeky looking bloke with stubble and thick-rimmed glasses may not have the natural ability to offer succour to petrified kids wanting their parents. It didn’t help that the quickly drafted-in DC Glass reeked of the local pub.

‘When did you complete the FLO course, Glass?’

‘A couple of weeks ago ma’am.’

‘Is this your first assignment?’

‘It certainly is,’ he replied with a smile. ‘You don’t need to worry though. I’ve done plenty of courses since joining the police. I’m on the fast-track scheme too. I know what I’m doing.’

‘Do you have any kids of your own, Glass?’

‘No. It’s just me and a tortoise.’

DC Andrews sniggered from the driver’s seat while Matilda could feel the oncoming tension of a stress headache creeping up the back of her neck.

Since hearing of the fate of the Murder Room, Matilda had been a mass of seething rage. She had helped to set up the Murder Investigation Team (South Yorkshire), to give it its formal title, five years ago, and now it was being axed, closed, deleted.

It was no secret that the future of the department was in doubt, but Matilda had been silently confident that ACC Masterson could save it, if she worked hard on the decision makers.

The national press had not been good to South Yorkshire Police; their part in the Hillsborough disaster and the unprecedented levels of sexual abuse in Rotherham had placed the force under intense scrutiny. Budgets had been slashed and non-essential projects and departments shelved or dropped. Even police dogs weren’t immune; several were facing early retirement. It would appear that the Murder Room was also one such department. What did that mean for Matilda’s future?

She thought of her team: Aaron and Sian were two very dedicated sergeants. They had been with the MIT from day one. It would be a waste of their talents to go back to investigating burglaries and druggies with egos from the sink estates. Matilda decided not to say anything to anyone yet. She would have a more detailed word with the ACC in the morning and go from there.

Broad Elms Lane was picturesque. Residents seemed to take care of their properties; neatly trimmed lawns and hedges, well-kept driveways, swept pavements, gleaming windows and doors, and not a single item of litter in sight. It was like they were anticipating a royal visit.

Matilda stepped out of the car and looked around her. Most of the houses were in darkness. It was rapidly approaching midnight, after all. The breeze had picked up and she felt a chill run through her; it may have been the task ahead, the breach into the unknown of what lay behind the front door of the Hardaker house; young children, teenagers, a baby? This was not going to be easy.

Everything about the front door was symmetrical: a small potted fern tree either side of the door, the pattern in the stained glass, even the door number, 101, was symmetrical. The gravel driveway was neatly swept too, not a stone out of place. A perfectly designed entrance to what appeared to be, from the outside, an orderly family home.

The property was in darkness save for the faint glow from the edge of the closed curtains in a downstairs front room. The sound of the doorbell echoed through the house and down most of the street. Matilda wondered how many curtains on the opposite side of the road were twitching right now. A caller in the middle of the night was rare; three people, smartly dressed with grim faces, screamed plain-clothes police delivering bad news.

The door opened and Matilda was surprised to see a tall woman around her own age, early forties. For a second she was sidetracked, and temporarily blinded by the hallway light. A thought suddenly struck Matilda. Was this Kevin Hardaker’s wife? Of course she could be a neighbour or a relative, but something told Matilda this wasn’t the case. Which begged the question: who the hell was the woman he was parked with on a quiet country lane?

She broached the question cautiously. ‘Mrs Hardaker?’

‘Yes.’

Behind Matilda, Scott and Joseph exchanged nervous glances.

She held up her warrant card. ‘I’m DCI Matilda Darke from South Yorkshire Police …’ Was there a flash of recognition on the woman’s face at the mention of her name? Had she read tonight’s copy of The Star? ‘This is DC Andrews and DC Glass. May we have a word?’

‘Oh God,’ the greeting smile fell from the woman’s face. ‘Has something happened?’

‘Perhaps we could come inside.’

Alice Hardaker stepped to one side and allowed the three detectives to enter. She closed the door firmly, even putting the security chain on, and led them into a very large living room. The decoration was minimalistic; two large sofas, a large-screen TV with various consoles attached, and a solitary bookcase housing DVDs, games, the odd ornament, but strangely, no books.

‘Mrs Hardaker, your husband …?’

‘Kevin.’

Again Scott and Joseph Glass exchanged nervous glances. They could have conducted this entire interview with their facial expressions alone.

‘Does he drive a silver Citroen Xsara with the registration number …?’ She looked at Scott who rapidly flicked through his notebook.

‘YP52 XPD.’

‘Yes that’s right,’ Alice said. A heavy frown appeared on her forehead and she started to play with the loose collar on her shirt to give her hands something to do. ‘Has there been an accident?’ Her hands were shaking, fearing the worst.

‘Mrs Hardaker, a short time ago this car was found on Clough Lane, just off Quiet Lane …’