OUTSIDE LOOKING IN
MICHAEL WOOD

This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

Killer Reads

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Copyright © Michael Wood 2016

Michael Wood asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

Ebook Edition © MAY 2016 ISBN: 9780008190460

Version 2017-05-02

To Jonas Alexander.

For the friendship, the laughter, and the coffee.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by Michael Wood

About the Publisher

ONE

George and Mary Rainsford had the same night-time routine for over thirty years. As soon as the music marking the end of the ten o’clock news began it was time to go to bed. Mary would go straight upstairs while George put the kettle on. Waiting for the kettle to boil George would go around the ground floor of the cottage making sure all the windows and doors were locked, the cushions were neat on the sofa, plugs turned off, and say goodnight to his guppies in their tank. He made two cups of tea and headed for the stairs. Tonight, their routine would be shattered beyond repair. Tomorrow, there would be no routine. There would be no half an hour of reading before turning the light out, no goodnight kiss, nothing. Just a void where their previous life was replaced by an empty feeling of fear.

As George made the tea he listened to the sounds from the outside: a few sheep bleating from a nearby farm, a dog barking, and a car horn beeping. It was comforting; everyday life still going on outside the confines of their small cosy cottage.

He walked up the stairs carefully, a mug of tea in each hand.

‘Can you hear that?’ he asked upon entering the bedroom.

‘What?’ Mary was already in bed, a closed Colin Dexter paperback on her lap. She was rubbing cream vigorously into her hands. She took her usual mug from George and cupped her hands around it. ‘Blimey George, you’ve squeezed the bag a bit too hard. I’m not a builder.’

‘There’s a car beeping outside.’

‘Well, there would be.’

‘It’s been going on for a while.’

‘Maybe it’s an impatient taxi driver waiting for a fare. You know what they’re like.’

George placed his mug on his bedside table and went to the window. He parted the thick blackout curtains and poked his head through the gap.

‘Can you see anything?’ Mary asked, only half interested.

‘No. Those new solar powered lamp-posts are bloody useless aren’t they?’

‘Ignore it and come to bed.’

‘I can’t ignore it. It’s in my head now.’

‘Put Radio 4 on low. That’ll cover it.’

‘Wait. Listen.’ He was silent for a moment. He pulled his head out of the gap in the curtains and looked at his wife. ‘Do you hear that?’

‘I hear the beeping, yes. That’s because you’ve drawn my attention to it.’

‘No. Listen. It’s rhythmic.’

‘It’s what?’

‘Rhythmic. There’s a pattern to the noise. That’s not just beeping. Someone’s signalling. It’s Morse.’

‘What?’

‘Morse code. Listen. The beeps are dots and the silences are dashes. Sshh, listen.’

A long minute of silence passed while they both concentrated on the sound of the car horn in the distance.

‘I can just hear beeping.’

‘No. It’s SOS.’

‘What?’

‘SOS in Morse code: three dots, three dashes, and three dots. Listen, beep, beep, beep, quiet, beep, beep, beep. Then a gap, then it starts again. Someone’s in trouble.’

George turned on his heels and headed for the bedroom door.

‘George, where do you think you’re going?’

‘To have a look. Someone could be injured.’

‘Then call the police.’ She followed him down the stairs, struggling into her dressing gown.

‘You don’t call the police over a car beeping.’

‘Call the non-emergency number. What is it, 111?’

‘101. Anyway, it’s always busy. You can never get through. I may as well go and have a look myself.’

Fear was growing in Mary’s voice. It was already etched on her face. ‘George, don’t go. It’s dark. You said yourself those lamp-posts are no good. You won’t be able to see anything.’

He opened a drawer in the hall table and took out a torch. He flicked it on and off to check it worked. It did.

‘You don’t know who’s out there, George. It could be a trap.’ Her voice had risen an octave. She was scared.

‘I can’t just ignore it, Mary.’

‘Yes you can. It’s nothing to do with us.’

‘It’s people saying things like that why this country’s in the state it’s in. People don’t take an interest in others anymore.’

‘It’s called being safe.’

‘It’s called being ignorant. Where are my walking boots?’

‘Oh God, George. Please don’t go.’

‘I won’t be long. I promise.’

‘Then put your heavy coat on, at least. It’s cold. Wait.’ She ran upstairs and quickly came back down. She was out of breath. It was years since she had run anywhere. ‘Take your mobile. You see anything you don’t like the look of call 999 straightaway. Do you hear me, George Rainsford?’

‘Loud and clear.’

He unbolted the door, took the chain off, and unlocked it. ‘Lock this door behind me. Don’t open it until I come back.’

‘I love you George, you silly sod.’

‘I’ll be right back.’

As George reached the end of the garden path he turned around. Mary was watching through a gap in the living room curtains. He gave her a little wave and she waved back. He hated seeing her frightened, but he couldn’t stand by and leave a distress call go unanswered.

The beeping was louder outside, and George was more convinced than ever that it was Morse code for SOS.

From the end of the garden path he looked left and right wondering which direction the noise was coming from. He opted for left but only went a few paces before he changed his mind and headed right.

Quiet Lane didn’t have any pavements. It was a steep winding road where drivers should travel with caution, but the national speed limit signs did not promote a safety-first action.

He zipped his coat up fully. The sky was clear and the moon full; an infinite number of stars helped to brighten the dark sky. It was cold. George could see his breath forming as his breathing became more erratic with nerves. With each step, the beeping grew louder. He was heading in the right direction.

Where Quiet Lane turned into Wood Cliffe Cottage Lane there was a junction. Clough Lane was a very narrow road full of cavernous potholes and broken tarmac. The beeping was coming from down this road.

Surrounded by empty fields and leafless trees, Clough Lane was in complete darkness. He took the small torch from the pocket of his coat and turned it on. Pointing it at the ground, he edged along the road into the unknown.

The sound of the car horn was definitely coming from down here. He rounded a bend and aimed the torch upwards. The weak beam hit something; a car, a silver car. He knew the make straightaway, a Citroen Xsara. His son had one in white. This was the offending car whose horn was shattering the silence.

He picked up the pace and was about to call out a greeting when he stopped dead in his tracks. The torch beam had picked up something from the side of the road. Slumped against a tree was a man; or a close approximation of a man. It was difficult to make out any features as he had been severely beaten; the nose had erupted at some point, the left eye was swollen shut, and the right side of his face was a mangled mess from where a bullet had exploded in him.

George put a shaking cold hand to his mouth. He could smell the metallic tang of blood. He could taste it. The sight was shocking, yet he could not tear his eyes away from it. This was once a person, a living human being, and someone had inflicted an unimaginable amount of pain and torture upon his body.

The loud beeping brought George out of his reverie. He pointed the torch to the side of the car. It was covered in smeared blood. The passenger door window was shattered. Slowly, he walked around the front of the car towards the driver’s side. He could see the door was open but could not see anyone in the driver’s seat; yet the SOS beeping continued.

‘Oh, dear God.’ He gasped.

Half hanging out of the car was the stricken body of a woman. Her face was a mess of sticky drying blood; her long hair was tangled and matted. She was naked from the waist down and was literally drenched in blood. One hand held on to her stomach where blood pumped out between her fingers. The other hand was rhythmically banging on the horn. She was half in, half out of the car, her body at an uncomfortable angle. She looked up and saw George through swollen eyes. She stopped the beeping and slumped to the ground. There was a brief smile on her face before her body gave up and she lost consciousness.

George dug the phone out of his coat pocket and dialled 999. He gave his location and tried to say what had happened but he couldn’t find the words. After he ended the call he phoned his wife. He told her she would soon see the flashing lights of the police but not to panic as everything was all right. It was the first time he had ever lied to his wife.

TWO

CARL MEAGAN: ONE YEAR ON

By Andrea Fullerton

Tomorrow marks the first anniversary of the disappearance of seven-year-old Carl Meagan.

Exactly twelve months ago, Annabel Meagan, Carl’s grandmother, was looking after him at his parents’ luxury home in Dore, Sheffield, when she was bludgeoned to death. Carl was kidnapped and a ransom was demanded. However, a catalogue of errors by South Yorkshire Police led to the kidnappers breaking contact with the Meagan family and Carl has not been heard of since.

Carl’s parents – Philip 37, and Sally, 34 – have spent the past year in limbo as they desperately search for their only child.

‘It’s not knowing that is the most difficult part. He could be anywhere in the world. I’m his mother. I should know exactly where he is day and night and I haven’t a clue. I’ve failed him,’ Sally said. ‘I never left him alone. I never let him out of my sight. He was my world and now I just feel empty.’

The Meagan family believe they were being watched for several days in the run-up to the kidnapping. On the night in question, Philip and Sally were attending an award ceremony for Yorkshire Businessman of the Year in Leeds. They were not due back until the following day and Philip’s mother, Annabel, was looking after Carl.

‘We had nothing to worry about. We knew he was safe with his grandmother. She doted on him and he loved her to pieces. As far as we knew he was safe. They both were. When we got back the next day it was pure hell.’

Philip Meagan, owner of Nature’s Dinner, a chain of organic restaurants in South Yorkshire, says the blame is entirely on South Yorkshire Police. ‘The whole investigation was badly handled from day one. From Carl going missing to the ransom demand it was two days. Those 48 hours were a nightmare and we had no support from the police at all. They just left us.’

Leading the investigation was Detective Chief Inspector Matilda Darke, who, following the botched ransom drop, was suspended from the force. She has since returned to work to continue leading the Murder Investigation Team.

‘The ransom was for a quarter of a million pounds. It wasn’t easy but we managed to get the money together. For some reason the kidnappers kept changing the location of the drop. I think the amount of press attention was too much for them. They eventually decided on Graves Park.

‘It was DCI Darke who organized it all. She had the parameters covered and everything was in place. We had no reason to doubt we wouldn’t be getting our Carl home. She came back to the house an hour later saying it had all blown up. We waited and waited but we heard nothing from the kidnappers.’

It was later revealed that the kidnappers had called DCI Darke demanding the whereabouts of the ransom money. However, they were at a different entrance to the park, and in panic, they fled. That was the last anyone heard from the kidnappers and Carl.

‘It is absolutely disgusting that that woman has been allowed to return to duty. She shouldn’t have been suspended, she should have been sacked. She’s not fit to do the job,’ Philip continued.

DCI Darke was unavailable for comment yesterday, but South Yorkshire Police issued a short statement: ‘While every effort was made to communicate with the kidnappers to ensure Carl’s safe return, events beyond our control occurred and we were unable to succeed. However, the Meagan case is still ongoing and continuously being investigated. We will keep looking for Carl until he is found.’

Philip Meagan issued a direct plea to the people holding Carl. ‘If you still have Carl, please take very good care of him. If you’re worried about handing him back, just leave him in a public place and make an anonymous call to us telling us where he is and we will collect him. There will be no more action taken against you. We just want him back home so much.’

Sally continued: ‘If Carl is reading this I just want you to know that your mummy and daddy love you very much and we always will. It may take us a while, but we’ll come and find you.’

To mark the anniversary of Carl’s disappearance there will be a special service at Sheffield Cathedral. Players at Sheffield United, who the Meagan family support, will wear special messages on their shirts at this weekend’s fixture at Bramall Lane.

Matilda Darke, having read the article for the third time, threw the newspaper onto the floor and slumped back into the sofa, releasing a heavy sigh. She hadn’t been ‘unavailable for comment’ yesterday; the reporter hadn’t even tried to contact her. To the reading public, it would look like DCI Matilda Darke had washed her hands of the whole Carl Meagan case and his family, who were, in essence, grieving for the loss of their only child.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It was at times like these when she wished she had alcohol in the house. However, after a year of heavy drinking, passing out in drunken stupors, only functioning with the aid of a bottle of vodka in her hand, she had made a promise not to touch a single drop again.

Realistically, that was never going to happen. Of course Matilda would have another drink at some point, but if she could learn to live without having to depend on alcohol then it would be an achievement.

Matilda had been saved by her close friend, Adele Kean. Adele had seen the slippery slope Matilda had been on and managed to drag her back before she descended into alcoholism. The disappearance of Carl Meagan was just the starting point in a year-long nightmare that snowballed into a cataclysm of self-destruction.

She opened her eyes, which immediately fell onto the silver framed wedding photograph on the mantelpiece. Five years ago, the happiest day of her life, she and James Darke had married. Three years later he was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumour and within twelve months he was gone. His death coincided with the ransom drop for the Meagan kidnappers but Matilda’s mind was on other things. She should have handed the case over to a more competent detective, taken some time off to grieve, but she couldn’t. The devastation she left in her wake would stay with her for the rest of her life. She had to live with the consequences of her actions.

When it came to Carl Meagan, there would never be any redemption.

The picture frame was smeared with dried tears where Matilda had spent many a night curled up in bed, clutching her smiling husband and crying. Saying she loved him sounded hollow. She didn’t just love him, she ached for him, and sometimes stopped breathing when she thought of him. Her body, mind, and soul wanted to be with James more than it wanted life itself.

There was a knock on the door. She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece: 22.50. A solid knock at this time of night could only mean one thing.

‘Sorry to bother you, ma’am, there’s been a shooting.’

DC Scott Andrews stood on the doorstep in a crumpled suit. His blond hair was windswept and it was evident from his red cheeks that he had been standing out in the cold for a while. There was no greeting. Sometimes, there wasn’t time for one.

‘Where?’

‘Clough Lane. Ringinglow.’

‘I’ll get my things. Come in.’

Scott stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him. He looked down at the three bulging black bags in the corner.

‘Having a clear out? I keep meaning to do that. I buy new shirts for work and never think about getting rid of the old ones. I can hardly close my wardrobe door.’

‘Those are my dead husband’s clothes. I’m giving them to charity.’

‘Oh,’ he almost choked, his face reddening. ‘Sorry. I didn’t … well … I mean …’

Matilda smiled. ‘I love how you blush at the slightest thing, Scott. Come on, let’s go before you start trying to dig yourself out and make things worse.’

There was a strong breeze as Matilda stepped out of the house. She set the alarm and locked the door behind her. She looked up. The sky was cloudless and there was a large full moon beaming down on the steel city. It made the night brighter, bathing everything in an ethereal glow. They walked up the drive to where Scott had parked the pool car.

‘So how serious is this shooting?’

‘One dead and one critical.’

‘Jesus! I hate guns.’

‘Good evening.’

Matilda almost jumped out of her skin and quickly turned to see where the greeting was coming from.

‘Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.’ Jill Carmichael, Matilda’s next-door neighbour, was unloading her car. She was struggling under the weight of a newborn baby in one arm and trying to safely put several bags on her opposite shoulder.

‘You didn’t.’

‘How are things?’

Matilda frowned. Jill never asked that. Why, all of a sudden, was she showing an interest in … the newspaper article. She’d seen the story about Carl Meagan, read about how much of a failure Matilda was, and wanted the inside scoop. ‘Things are fine,’ she lied unconvincingly. ‘Bloody hell, what’s happened to you?’

‘Sorry?’

‘The black eye.’ It was the first time Matilda had looked up at her neighbour. Usually she wasn’t one for chatting with a neighbour but while this awkward exchange was going on she’d rather the attention be on Jill than herself.

‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ she giggled. ‘I’m having a few problems shaking off these last few pregnancy pounds so I’ve started kick-boxing again. I think I’m a bit rusty to tell the truth.’

‘I think I’d stick with the extra few pounds.’

‘You’re probably right.’

‘Jill!’ An angry shout called out to her from inside the house.

‘That’ll be Sebastian wondering where his takeaway is. I’ll chat to you some other time.’ With that, Jill kicked the car door closed and hurried into the house, struggling under the weight of the shopping, baby, and takeaway.

‘That your neighbour?’ Scott asked as they climbed into the car.

‘Spot on as ever, Scott. Yes, that’s my neighbour. Look, she’s going into the house next door to mine,’ she smiled.

‘I never got a black eye when I tried kick-boxing.’

‘I’m sure it wasn’t for lack of trying on your opponent’s part.’ Scott’s frown told Matilda he didn’t understand her little dig. Her smile widened.

Matilda wished all she had to contend with was a few extra pounds. She looked down at the ripples in her shirt caused by the rolls of fat underneath. Adele had tried to coax her into joining a spinning class. Matilda went along once. She sweated to the point of serious dehydration and felt the effects on her bum for more than a week afterwards every time she tried to sit down. Never again. In the end she just went out and bought bigger clothes. She was content with being a size twelve on a good day (fourteen on a bad one), but still yearned for the gorgeous size ten Armani suit in her wardrobe. Maybe one day.

As Scott pulled away Matilda looked back at her house, which was now in complete darkness. Next door Jill Carmichael and her husband would be sitting down to a nice takeaway, a newborn baby fast asleep: a happy couple curled up together on the sofa watching television. She envied them so much. She hoped they appreciated the happiness they had.

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 …’

‘Oh. He’s had an accident hasn’t he? I hate that road. Is he OK?’

‘Mrs Hardaker—’

‘Alice, please.’

‘Alice, I’m afraid an incident has taken place involving your husband. As a result, he received a number of gunshot wounds.’

Alice stumbled and held out an arm to grab on to something. She found the flowery sofa and gently eased herself into it. Upon hearing the words gunshot wounds, Alice’s face lost all colour. ‘What? He’s been shot?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘But he’s going to be all right isn’t he?’

‘Alice, he didn’t make it. He was dead when we got to the scene.’

Alice thought for a while. It was as if she hadn’t heard what Matilda had said. She swallowed hard. Her bottom lip quivered and tears formed in the corners of her eyes. ‘No. That’s not possible. He wouldn’t need to go on Quiet Lane this evening.’ She fought hard to keep control of her emotions but she was fighting a losing battle. ‘He was going to play tennis straight from work. He wouldn’t come home that way. Maybe … maybe he’s had his keys stolen from the locker room or something. Kevin mentioned about some things being stolen from lockers a few months ago. That’s what’s happened hasn’t it? Someone’s stolen his car and they’ve been killed. Oh my God, I should call him.’

With shaking fingers, she picked up her mobile and frantically looked for her husband’s number. She held the phone tight, her knuckles turning white. She waited for her call to be answered.

‘I can see why you think it’s Kevin. It’s definitely his car, but it won’t be him.’ Her nervous laugh was loud and forced. ‘You had me worried for a while there thinking he was dead, blimey. He’s not picking up. Strange.’ She looked at the phone and disconnected the call. ‘They sometimes go for a drink afterwards. I’ll give Jeremy a call; his phone is practically glued to his hand.’ While waiting for the call to be connected she ran her free hand frantically through her thick, dark red mane of hair.

Alice’s denial made the atmosphere uncomfortable. Matilda stood back and watched until realization dawned. There was very little else she could do. Scott was interested in the framed photographs on the mantelpiece and Joseph Glass looked almost as upset as Alice; as if it were him receiving the bad news.

It had been a while since Matilda had had to deliver the death message. The last time she’d heard it she’d been on the receiving end; a shattered-looking nurse stated the obvious ‘he’s gone, Mrs Darke,’ as she held the cold hand of her husband.

‘Jeremy, it’s Alice. Is Kevin with you?… No? OK. What time did he leave you?… Oh … Don’t you?… No, nothing’s wrong. I’ll talk to you later, Jeremy.’ She hung up and slumped further into the sofa. She held the phone to her chest. ‘Jeremy hasn’t seen Kevin for weeks. They stopped playing tennis together ages ago. What’s going on?’ She looked up at Matilda. A single tear fell from her right eye.

Joseph stepped forward and sat down on the sofa next to Alice.

‘Is there anybody you’d like me to call?’

‘Erm, no I don’t think so. There’s my sister but she’s away. I could call her, I suppose.’

‘I see you have children, Mrs Hardaker,’ he said, nodding to the school photographs on the wall. ‘Are they in the house?’

She nodded a reply. ‘Oh my God, the kids. What am I going to say to them? They love their dad. Warren dotes on him. They’re supposed to be going to the Wednesday match this weekend.’

‘Alice, I’m going to leave DC Glass with you,’ Matilda interrupted, wanting to get out of the house. The dark atmosphere was unbearable. She could feel the walls closing in. ‘I’m going to find out what’s happening. I will definitely keep you informed. If there’s anything you need, let Joseph know and he’ll get on to me.’ She looked down at the weeping Alice who hadn’t taken in a single word of what she’d said. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

Matilda nodded to Scott to follow her. She mouthed ‘call me’ to Joseph. He replied with a small sympathetic smile.

Matilda couldn’t get out of the house fast enough. The blast of cold air was like a slap. She took a deep breath to regain her composure. She could tell Scott was going to ask her how she was feeling so she dug her phone out of her pocket and quickly made a call.

‘Aaron it’s me. Are you still at the crime scene?’

‘Yes. Why? What’s wrong?’

‘I’m at Kevin Hardaker’s home and just broke the news of his death to his wife. The woman he was with is not his wife.’

‘Bloody hell. Who is she then?’

‘I’ve no idea. That’s what I want you to find out.’

‘Rory’s at the hospital.’

‘Right I’ll give him a ring. Is Dr Kean still there?’

‘No. She got a call. There’s been a suicide on London Road; she’s gone to attend.’

Bloody hell, it’s all go tonight. ‘Is there anything there at all that can identify who the woman is?’

‘Nothing at all. There are no mobiles, no purse, no bag. It’s like she’s never been in the car before.’

‘Oh God.’

‘What?’

‘They were parked in a quiet lay-by. Why would a married man have a woman who isn’t his wife with him while they’re parked in a tree-lined lay-by?’

‘You think she’s a prostitute?’ Aaron asked his voice louder with surprise.

‘It’s a possibility.’

At the Northern General Hospital DC Rory Fleming wasn’t having any luck trying to find out who the mystery woman was. She was in theatre with a team of surgeons battling to save her life. With massive internal bleeding, a punctured lung, swelling on her brain, and two gunshot wounds, it was a miracle she had survived so far. It wasn’t just the next few hours that were critical – the following minutes were touch and go.

Rory paced up and down the corridor waiting for somebody, anybody, to remember he was still there and bring him some kind of information as to the condition of the woman. He looked at his watch. It was rapidly approaching one o’clock in the morning but the hospital was still a hive of activity or maybe it was just the heaviness of the footfalls against a backdrop of silence that echoed louder in the small hours. Surely Sheffield’s emergency surgery wasn’t in such high demand all the time?

After twenty minutes of pacing and two chocolate bars from a vending machine he left the hospital and called his boss.

‘Any news?’ Matilda didn’t bother with a greeting.

‘Nothing so far, ma’am. She’s in theatre.’ He relayed the information he had been given by a duty nurse. ‘To be honest, I doubt she’ll survive the night.’

‘Bloody hell. Look, go back in and try and get her clothes from the nurses before they’re destroyed. Then get them straight to forensics. After that go home. Back at the station first thing for a briefing.’

He was just about to reply when he realized he would have been talking to dead air.

Matilda looked down at her mobile and watched as the display faded before going back into standby mode.

‘I think we may have a double murder on our hands.’

She was in the front passenger seat of a pool car with DC Scott Andrews behind the wheel. They were parked up at the side of the road halfway between the crime scene and Kevin Hardaker’s home.

‘Do we know who she is yet?’

‘Not a clue.’

‘You really think she could be a prostitute?’

‘I’ve no idea, Scott. It’s too early to say.’

‘So … what now?’ he asked after a full minute of contemplative silence.

‘There’s not much more we can do tonight. Drive me home then you get off home yourself. We’ll make a proper start of it first thing.’

Scott turned the key in the ignition and headed the wrong way to Matilda’s house. She quickly informed him of his error and he made an illegal three point turn before heading in the right direction. There was very little traffic around at this time of night; nobody noticed.

That wasn’t technically true. One person did witness the traffic violation. The driver of a black BMW, several yards back so as to avoid detection, was watching very carefully and had to make the same illegal move in order to keep the pool car in their sights.

FIVE

The next morning started very early for Matilda. When she woke her duvet was half off the bed and the fitted sheet was not living up to its name; evidence of a bad night tossing and turning. Her dreams had been unsettling and disturbed; her mind unable to rest. She constantly thought of the dead woman, who she might be and if anyone was missing her; the impending closure of the Murder Room and what that meant for her job and her team. Eventually at five o’clock she decided to get up.

When she went into the living room her eyes fell on the framed photograph of her and James at their wedding. She could not believe it was almost the first anniversary of his death. How did that happen so quickly?

Whenever she thought of the death of her husband she immediately thought of the disappearance of Carl Meagan. Even if Carl was eventually found safe and well she would always think of him whenever she grieved for her husband. The two would be forever entwined. Like James, Carl would constantly be in her thoughts; he was engraved on her memory and nothing would erase it.

It was too early to go to work but Matilda knew one person who would definitely be up and ready to face the world at this time.

‘Perfect timing! There’s coffee in the pot and bread waiting to be burnt.’

As always, Adele Kean was bright and cheerful. How it was possible so early in the morning was way beyond Matilda’s reckoning. Should a pathologist, who spends her days up to the elbows in dead bodies, have such a bubbly personality?

Adele was neatly dressed in well-fitted clothes. Her hair was tidy with not a split end in sight, and she was wearing just enough make-up to be professional with a glamorous edge. Matilda couldn’t remember the last time she’d applied make-up or when she had her hair professionally styled; probably around the time of James’s funeral.

‘So what brings you around here so early?’ Adele asked, feeding bread into the toaster.

‘I couldn’t sleep.’ She slumped on the stool at the breakfast counter and released a loud, wide yawn that would make a Labrador jealous. ‘What time did you get in last night?’

‘It was almost two o’clock. An elderly man had jumped from a tower block on London Road.’

‘So you’ve only had about two or three hours sleep?’

‘About that, yes.’

‘You’ve no right to look that good on three hours’ sleep. If you weren’t my best friend I’d be scratching your eyes out.’

Adele gave a sweet smile. ‘I’m just a naturally beautiful woman. L’Oréal are testing my skin to find out why I’m so youthful and good-looking.’

Matilda rolled her eyes. Adele’s personality was warm and infectious. She didn’t have an ounce of malice or bitterness in her, despite all she had gone through. It was refreshing. Matilda would love to be more like Adele.

‘Any news on your double shooting?’ Adele asked, interrupting Matilda’s thoughts.

‘Not yet. We’ve still no idea who the woman is. She certainly isn’t his wife; I delivered the death message to her myself last night. I called the station on the way over here but there have been no reports of a missing person.’

‘You’re wondering if she’s a prostitute, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. God only knows how many of them go missing every year. I find it unbelievable how someone can disappear and not one person misses them. Don’t you find that sad?’

‘I do. How is she by the way?’

‘I haven’t called the hospital yet. I’ll do it later.’

Adele poured coffee into a large mug and handed it to Matilda. Conversation over, Matilda’s mind drifted off again. She gave a small sigh and looked into the distance, through the wall, out of the house and into another world.

‘What else is on your mind?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Something else is stopping you from sleeping. Is it James’s anniversary? Eight days away isn’t it?’

‘Yes. 28th March. But no, it’s not that. I called Masterson last night. She told me the Murder Room is closing.’

‘What?’ Adele asked, stopping midway through buttering a slice of toast.

‘Budget cuts apparently. Last week the police dogs, this week us.’

‘What’s going to happen to the team?’

‘I’ve no idea. I’m working with a reduced team anyway. Faith Easter has transferred back to CID, I’m down a DI, and I’ve got two DCs who still behave like students. Honestly, Adele, it would be funny if people’s lives weren’t at risk.’

Matilda got up from the breakfast bar. She could feel her legs starting to shudder and she was seconds away from remembering her old anxiety exercises. She walked to the back of the kitchen and leaned against the patio doors. She looked out at the well-kept garden.

‘Why can’t my garden look as good as yours?’

‘Because I have a son to blackmail. Can I ask you a question?’

She turned to face Adele. ‘Oh God. Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like this? Go on.’

‘Are you drinking again?’

‘What? Where did that come from? No I’m not drinking again. New Year’s resolution, remember? I don’t have a drop in the house and I haven’t had a drink since New Year’s Eve. What made you ask that?’

‘You seem anxious; more than usual. The anniversaries, this case, it’s bound to cause some stress. I don’t want you falling backwards.’

Adele’s son, Chris, could be heard getting up. His size eleven flat feet slapping on the hardwood floor travelled down the stairs. Matilda lowered her voice and walked back to the breakfast bar, helping herself to a slice of toast.

‘Adele, in the past year I think I’ve drunk more than most people do in a lifetime. Just thinking about everything I went through, how I was feeling when I was drinking, makes me feel sick.’

They looked at each other for a long few seconds. Matilda could tell Adele wasn’t convinced. ‘You don’t have to worry about me, Adele. I’m fine. I’m smiling. I’m happy. You find me a bloke called Larry and I bet you a month’s wages I’ll be happier than he is.’

Adele smiled. ‘You are a lot brighter than you were a few months ago. I just wish you wouldn’t end your visits to the therapist. At least not until the anniversaries have passed.’

‘I don’t need therapy anymore. I’m coping very well without it. Dr Warminster said I would know when the time was right to end the sessions, and I do.’

‘But …’

‘Adele, I’m fine. Look, if I feel like I can’t cope you’ll be the first to know. I promise you.’

Adele visibly sighed, relieved. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re a good friend, Adele.’

‘I know I am. The best.’

Right on cue Chris entered the kitchen. He was gangly; a skinny frame and neck-achingly tall. He had a wild abandon of unruly hair; a rival for Matilda’s back garden.

‘Bloody hell, it’s Sideshow Bob,’ Adele said, laughing.

He sat next to Matilda at the breakfast bar and slumped forward, his head in the crook of his arm.

‘Why do students make tiredness an art form?’ Matilda asked.

‘What are you doing up so early?’

‘I kept hearing two crazy women with no volume control.’

‘This crazy woman is paying your tuition fees, so mind your manners.’

‘And this crazy woman knows where your nude baby photos are kept. If you don’t want them posted on Facebook, you’ll watch your mouth,’ Matilda said, winking at Adele.

Both women laughed while Chris slammed his head against the table, admitting defeat.

‘You can’t win against us two. We’re experts in cunning and manipulation. Isn’t that right DCI Darke?’

‘It certainly is Dr Kean. Don’t worry Chris, when you have kids of your own you’ll be able to play mind games with them. Right, I’d better be off. Thanks for the breakfast and chat.’

‘Not a problem. Leave your tip at the door.’

Matilda smiled. She always felt better after just half an hour in Adele’s company. ‘Have a good day, Christopher.’

A grunt came from under his hair. Matilda left the house a different woman from when she entered. Her head was held high, shoulders back and she felt ready to take on anything, even the ACC. Adele must have healing powers; she was wasted on the dead.

SIX

The reduced Murder Investigation Team comprised DSs Sian Mills and Aaron Connolly, DCs Rory Fleming and Scott Andrews, a smattering of uniformed officers and a couple of support staff. It was pathetic. They were originally spread out around the room but Matilda called for them all to group together.

Matilda stood in front of a wall of whiteboards. Presently, very little information was written down as the case was in its infancy.

‘Good morning everyone. We seem to be very few in number but you’re all professional and know your job. Following the events of last night, we’re going to be working long and hard; however, we can do this. I believe in you all and have faith in your abilities.’ She wondered if she sounded convincing enough. She hoped so. ‘Right after this briefing I’m going to the ACC to ask for more support so hopefully we will shortly have a larger team. Now, last night’s double shooting … who did door-to-door?’

‘I did ma’am,’ Rory said putting his hand up. Rory Fleming was like a male version of Adele Kean. It didn’t seem to matter how little sleep he had, he always turned up for work looking fresh and clean in a sharp, fitted suit, perfectly ironed shirt, understated tie and a messy hairstyle that probably took hours to perfect. Was it just Matilda who looked like she’d had five minutes’ sleep in a skip?

Rory continued. ‘There aren’t many houses around there; just a few cottages. I knocked on them all, although I don’t think they were happy to be woken up. I don’t have anything to report I’m afraid. Nobody heard a thing.’

‘How can they not have heard anything? Kevin Hardaker was beaten to a pulp. Surely he screamed. And gunshots aren’t exactly quiet.’

Sian interrupted. ‘Mr Rainsford said his wife has the TV turned up more loudly than is necessary. She refuses to accept she’s losing her hearing.’

‘Mrs Foster next door was at a wedding and didn’t get back home until after we were on the scene,’ Rory read from his notebook. ‘Another cottage is home to Mrs Cliff. She’s recently come out of hospital following hip replacement surgery. She’s on sleeping tablets and slept through the whole thing.’

‘Maybe the gunman used a silencer?’ Scott Andrews suggested.

‘Oh God, I hope not. A silencer suggests a professional job, a hitman. Let’s not go down that road until we have to. What about Clough Lane itself? Where does it lead?’

Aaron had stuck a map of the area onto one of the whiteboards. He followed the road with his finger. ‘Well it’s quite a long road, passes a few farms then out into the Peak District.’

‘So it’s not the type of road you’d go down if you lived in Sheffield?’ Matilda said, thinking aloud.

‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’

‘So why would you pull up on Clough Lane late at night?’

‘For a shag,’ Rory said unwrapping a KitKat he’d taken out of Sian’s snack drawer.

‘Precisely. Help yourself to a KitKat, Rory,’ the rest of the officers sniggered. ‘So, Kevin Hardaker, cheating on his wife, is with his girlfriend, or whoever she is, and they park up on a quiet lane, for what Rory so romantically calls a shag. What happens next?’

‘A bloke comes along and kills them?’ Aaron said.

‘No. That’s not what happens. If this was a random killing, a drive-by shooting, then that would have happened, but this is more personal. Our killer comes along, drags Kevin Hardaker out of the car, beats him senseless then shoots him. Then he drags our mystery woman out from the front passenger seat and does the same to her. Thinking she’s dead, he leaves. What does this tell us?’

Matilda looked out at the sea of blank faces staring back at her. To be more accurate, with a reduced team, it was more like a river of blank faces.

‘It wasn’t a random killing,’ said Rory, licking melted chocolate from his fingers.

‘Go on,’ prompted Matilda.

‘Like you said, if this was a drive-by shooting they would have been shot dead where they sat. They weren’t. They were pulled from the car and subjected to a right beating. This was personal. Someone knew they were going to be there, or maybe followed them there, then attacked.’

‘Exactly my thinking, Rory.’

Rory was still only young and had the fresh-face of a skin-cream commercial actor. He also had a vacant expression that wasn’t always comforting while trying to have an in-depth conversation. However, he was an intelligent young man and would make an excellent detective. He just needed to do a bit of growing up.

‘So, in a personal attack such as this,’ Matilda continued, ‘who are our most likely suspects?’

‘The man’s wife or the woman’s husband,’ Scott spoke up.

‘Thank you, Scott. We need to talk to Kevin Hardaker’s wife and the second we find out who our mystery woman is we need to talk to her husband – if she has one.’

‘That reminds me,’ Aaron spoke up. ‘I had a call from forensics first thing. They’ve found a mobile phone at the crime scene. It could belong to the woman.’

A phone rang. Rory answered it, talking quietly.

‘Excellent. Give forensics a call and have them do their usual routine on it. I want a copy of all the contacts and text messages, photos, emails, apps used, and whatever else is on there. Now, Scott, what was the name of the FLO last night?’

‘Joseph Glass.’

‘Right. Give him a call. Ask him to bring Alice in. She needs to make a statement and I want to know everything about their marriage, any money problems, Kevin’s work – the usual. Also, talk to the neighbours, Kevin’s work colleagues, friends. Aaron, can you sort that out?’

‘Sure.’

‘Sian, what’s happening with Mr Rainsford?’

Sian looked up from her notebook where she had been making extensive notes. ‘PC Grabowski stayed with them overnight. I called her first thing and he’s actually feeling a lot better after a good night’s sleep. She’s bringing him in after he’s showered.’

‘OK. Sian will you interview him and keep me informed?’

‘No problem.’

‘Thanks. Right, I’m going to have a word with the ACC about getting more people in this room to make it look less like a gathering of the Nick Clegg fan club.’

‘Boss,’ Rory called out, putting the phone down, ‘that was a nurse from the hospital I got chatting to last night. The woman is stable, but still critical. There’s evidence she was raped.’

ACC Valerie Masterson was enjoying breakfast at her desk. Like Matilda, she also had trouble sleeping. Once the phone call had come through about the double shooting the logistics of the case weighed heavily on her mind; this could possibly be the Murder Room’s final investigation.

Much to the annoyance of her retired husband, Valerie decided to come to work early. She wanted to prepare for the battle with Matilda. Valerie believed her still to be a fragile individual; she had only been back at work four months and in that time she had faced a fight for leadership of the Murder Room, and internal scrutiny of her ability to carry out her duties. There could have been better resumptions to her career.

The loud knock on the door did not surprise Valerie – she had actually expected it sooner than this. She was tempted to say ‘Come in Matilda,’ but decided against flippancy.

Matilda burst into the room with all the grace and determination of a charging bull.

‘Good morning, Matilda. Coffee?’

‘Please.’

‘I know why you’re here,’ Valerie began, her back to Matilda as she prepared the coffees, ‘I need you to listen to what I have to say first before you erupt.’

‘I have no intention of erupting.’ Matilda’s tense white lips told a different story.

Valerie handed over the cup and saucer remembering that Matilda took her coffee black with no sugar. It was very hot and very strong. Matilda took a sip; it was good coffee. She placed it carefully on the desk.

The silence in the room was crippling; it was like a Mexican stand-off – who would blink first. Valerie sat behind her large desk, which looked bigger than it was due to her small stature.

‘I want you to know that I fought long and hard for the Murder Room to be kept open. You’ve done a brilliant job in building up an impressive reputation, and figures have proven its success.’

‘So why is it closing?’ Despite wanting to remain calm, the firmly folded arms across Matilda’s chest suggested otherwise.

‘It’s mostly budgetary reasons. South Yorkshire Police is under intense scrutiny, as you’re aware; we’re still under the microscope with the Hillsborough inquiry and the level of sexual abuse that has emerged in Rotherham has taken its toll. We’ve got representatives from the National Crime Agency looking into this sex abuse scandal. They’ve uncovered more than three hundred potential abusers. I’m lucky to still be sitting here. As we’ve been underperforming, so they say, we’re having our budget cut. Another reason is that the levels of murder within South Yorkshire have dropped. The Chief Constable believes that a dedicated murder unit is no longer necessary.’

‘I’m guessing he hasn’t heard about the double shooting last night,’ Matilda said with a hint of sarcasm.

Valerie gave a half-smile. ‘That has come with unfortunate timing. However, the Murder Room still exists at present and you have the full backing of the force.’

‘Just not the resources.’

‘Whatever you need to help you solve this case you will have.’

‘I want more detectives.’

Valerie sighed. ‘I will do the best I can for you; however, with these aggravated burglaries occurring left, right, and centre, CID are stretched as it is. Besides, you have Mills and Connolly, Fleming and … what’s his name, blond hair?’

‘Scott Andrews. I need a replacement DI.’

‘And you’re getting one. I have several candidates to interview in the coming days.’ That was a lie. Valerie had one person left to interview. It appeared that South Yorkshire Police’s reputation was not favourable with people seeking to improve their position. It would appear nobody wanted to be associated with the force.

‘Can’t I have one from CID? What about Brady?

‘DI Brady is working round the clock on these burglaries.’

‘Brady has been in this job longer than I have and you’ve got him working on burglaries. It’s not using him to his full potential.’ Matilda’s frustration was mounting. ‘With the Murder Room closing you’re sending dedicated detectives back to menial tasks. They won’t stand for it and they’ll leave. You’ll end up with a force like a ghost town and below-par coppers out of their depth when a serious crime occurs.’

Matilda paused for breath. ‘If the Murder Room closes the inevitable is bound to happen – the more experienced detectives will apply for a transfer to a force with dedicated units and South Yorkshire will be left with the dregs, and before the Chief Constable can polish his buttons crime will rise and the region will be crying out for a dedicated Murder Investigation Team, but there’ll be nobody skilled enough to run it.’

Valerie didn’t seem to be listening as she looked for a folder on her desk. ‘A warehouse in Snig Hill was broken into; £15,000 of computer equipment stolen, the whole place trashed and a security guard with a fractured skull. A house on Dore Road was broken into; elderly man and woman tied up while their house was ransacked. The woman was threatened with rape if she didn’t take off her wedding ring. A man was severely beaten in Heeley and had expensive watches and computer equipment taken. He was tied up with duct tape and doused in petrol. Need I go on? These are not just teenagers pissing about, Matilda.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly, her head bowed. ‘I had no idea of the level of violence involved. Christian Brady is a fine detective. He’ll do well on the burglaries. I just feel like I’m fighting a war single-handed. There’s no way I can win so why bother with the battle?’

‘Matilda, I understand your frustration, and your anger. I will do everything in my power to help you but I’m limited in what I can do. What you did with the Harkness case before Christmas was beyond excellent. I’m not going to placate you but I do believe you can work this case with the minimum of officers and still get a result.’

‘Why should I, though? Why should I work my arse off and get a result when it’s not appreciated? The Chief Constable is closing us down; I’m guessing there will be redundancies and I’m guessing I’ll be one of them. Why should I sweat blood just to be given my cards in a few weeks’ time?’

‘I’ve been assured there will not be any redundancies. It’s about having a CID and an MIT running side by side when it isn’t necessary. Combined you can have pockets of teams working individual cases with one or two senior officers overlooking the whole department.’

Those words may have been spoken by ACC Masterson but they were written by the Chief Constable, and, judging by the look on Matilda’s face, she knew that too. Matilda stood up to leave.

‘Before you go, did you see The Star last night?’

‘I’m afraid I did, yes.’

Valerie pulled out her dog-eared copy and laid it flat on her desk. It was open at page seven: ‘CARL MEAGAN: ONE YEAR ON’. Her stomach began performing somersaults.

Robert Walpole, Spencer Compton, Henry Pelham, Thomas Pelham-Holles, William Cavendish.

It had been a long time since Matilda had recited the names of the British Prime Ministers as an aid to relaxing. She hadn’t needed them since she’d given up drinking and learned to channel her grief. It seemed it only took the mere mention of Carl Meagan’s name and she was plunged back into her paranoiac nightmare.

‘We don’t come out very well I’m afraid. Were you contacted yesterday to contribute to this travesty?’

‘No.’

‘I thought not. It says you were unavailable for comment.’

‘I know,’ Matilda said, looking away from the paper. She didn’t need to see it; it was imprinted on her memory. ‘Why do they have to keep raking it up?’

‘It’s been a year. The parents want to keep the story alive. It’s understandable. He’s their son.’

‘I know,’ she said, bowing her head. ‘But I can’t keep doing this if I’m smacked in the face with Carl Meagan every time I’m working on a case.’

‘Matilda, leave the press to me. Do your job, a job you do incredibly well, and defy them all. I know you don’t believe this Matilda, but I’m with you 100 per cent,’ Valerie said when the expression on her DCI’s face remained hollow and drawn.

‘You’re right, I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it at all.’ She turned and left the room, not caring if there was more to the meeting.

Matilda didn’t have the energy to storm out and make a scene. What was the point in shouting and screaming from the rooftops if nothing was going to change? As Matilda walked away from the door and headed to the nearest toilets she was reminded of the saying ‘no man is an island’. Maybe not, but a high-ranking woman in the police force certainly was.

SEVEN

Matilda entered the pathology suite and was met immediately by a team of police officers milling around. It was imperative the body of Kevin Hardaker was not left alone at any time for fear of evidence tampering.

‘Morning Adele,’ Matilda said. ‘I see you’ve got a full house.’

‘We certainly have. The coroner has given the go-ahead for the Digital Autopsy.’

‘I’ve never seen one before. What are they like?’

‘It’s just looking at scans on a computer screen,’ she said, folding her arms.

‘You don’t seem impressed. Worried it might make you redundant?’

Three years before, Sheffield had become the first city in the country to open a state-of-the-art, non-invasive Digital Autopsy Facility. Its aim was to establish the cause of an unnatural death using sophisticated visualization software and a scanner rather than a scalpel. With the results available almost immediately, it was a huge step forward for the Sheffield police force, but Matilda could see why Adele might be concerned.

‘No, of course not. It actually makes my job a whole lot easier. You can rotate a body 360º without getting your hands dirty. I’m all for that.’

The doors opened and the radiologist, Claire Alexander, stepped out. She was a small woman in her mid-thirties, with long brown hair, tied back in a severe ponytail. She was wearing hospital scrubs that were a size too big for her.

‘Morning Claire, happy birthday,’ Adele said.

‘Thank you. I see you’ve got me a present.’ She nodded towards the black body bag containing Kevin Hardaker.

‘I certainly have. No peeking.’

‘We’re all set next door if you are.’

Victoria Pinder, Adele’s Assistant Technical Officer, led the way with the trolley. It was a short narrow corridor leading into the Digital Autopsy suite and the trolley banged loudly against the walls and door.

‘Mind my paintwork. It’s just been redone,’ Claire said.

The mood as everyone entered the suite quickly changed from one of levity to sombre professionalism. They were all here because of a dead man: a person whose life had been brutally cut short. He deserved respect and dignity.

The machine was simple in design. It reminded Matilda of the many times she accompanied her husband to the hospital in the early days of his diagnosis and the many scans he had to endure. This scanner didn’t seem as bulky as the one at the Northern General; it was obviously a newer model. It looked less daunting and not as claustrophobic.

Victoria and Claire lifted Kevin, still in the bag, onto the scanner and secured him in place using Velcro straps. Everyone then made their way into the control room.

The small room, with a bank of five large computer screens, was packed with police officers and technical staff. Claire squeezed her way through and seated herself behind a computer in front of the window looking out into the main room. She clicked a few buttons and the scan began.

‘What’s happening now?’ Matilda whispered to Adele.

‘You know those annoying Slinky things that go down stairs on their own?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, imagine you’re standing in the middle of a large Slinky. The scan circles around the body from top to toe. Claire can adjust the thickness of the spirals to get a more detailed view of the body. The smaller the gap, the more detail we can pick up.’

‘So why is Claire doing this and not you, if you’re a pathologist?’

‘The scan works like an X-ray and you have radiographers for that. That’s what Claire is. All I do is interpret the results.’

‘It’s not noisy is it?’ Matilda whispered. ‘I remember going to an MRI with James and I could have done with earplugs.’

‘Everything is less noisy these days; with the exception of a Dyson vacuum cleaner.’

A ghost image of Kevin’s body appeared on the screen and looked like an X-ray. Leaning forward, Matilda frowned at the bright white objects on the body, but didn’t ask any questions. She’d save that for later.

Claire singled out the head and rescanned to get a better image. A full 3D picture of Kevin’s head filled the screen. She rotated it several times to get a good look at it from all angles; something that wouldn’t be possible in a traditional post-mortem without physically turning the body over.

‘The entry wound of the bullet was just below the left eye. You can see the bevelling of the bone as it enters. The exit wound,’ Claire said as she tilted the 3D image to view the back of the head, ‘is here. Just above the base of the skull. Those white specks are metal fragments from the bullet.’

Matilda’s question was answered.

‘What about the second bullet?’

Going back to the full body scan, Claire selected a second region of interest, the chest, and looked closer. The impact the bullet had on the body was shocking to see in glorious technicolour. The ribs and organs were easily identifiable but were in a condition Matilda had never seen before.

‘The bullet entered the chest just below the heart.’ Claire pointed to a bright white object the exact shape of a bullet, which was firmly lodged in Kevin Hardaker’s body. ‘It shattered the ribs, as you can see. The rib fragment has punctured his left lung, which is why it’s deflated. He suffered a pneumothorax.’

‘Is that what killed him?’

‘It depends which bullet came first. Either one was enough to kill him.’

‘What about the beating he received? Would that have led to his death?’

‘It’s not easy to pick up bruising on these scans but we can see where blood has settled. Look here,’ she said, pointing to the screen, ‘on the right side of his ribcage there are several fractures in the ribs. This doesn’t follow the trajectory of the bullet in his chest, so must have come from where he was kicked or beaten with something.’

‘So the killer was standing over Kevin while he was on the ground, and shot him?’

‘It wasn’t at point-blank range,’ Adele said. ‘There were no burns on the skin.’

‘My point is the beating came first. He’s given a kicking, fractured ribs, bruising, the works. Then, when he’s down, the killer fires into his chest and face, finishing him off.’

‘That’s about the shape and size of it, yes,’ Claire said.

Matilda gave the nod to Adele and they left the room. The scanner room was hot and Matilda had a sheen of sweat on her face. Neither of them said a word until they were in Adele’s office.

‘Bloody hell, how do you stand it in there?’ She picked up some tissues from Adele’s desk and wiped her face.

‘It does get a tad warm. Are you OK? You look flushed.’

‘I’m fine. Poor bloke. He wasn’t shown an ounce of mercy was he?’

‘Not in the slightest. I don’t envy your job at all. Whoever did it sounds like a nasty piece of work. What do you think of our new equipment?’

‘It’s very impressive. It’s a bit ghoulish watching a floating head rotate a full three-sixty but I can’t believe how clear everything is. You can actually see the path the bullet takes in the body. Frightening, but fascinating.’

‘I’m pleased you think so.’

‘So you won’t have to cut him open now?’

‘No. Well, not for a post-mortem. We’ll need to get the bullet out of him, obviously, so your forensic people can find out what kind of gun was used. We’ll get a report and I’ll read it and the coroner will read it but I think it’s pretty self-explanatory how he died. There should be no need to go in with a scalpel.’

‘It’s a bit more dignified isn’t it?’

‘Absolutely. It’s not nice for the family knowing their loved ones are naked on a slab having their insides removed.’

‘It depends if you like them or not,’ Matilda laughed. ‘Is anyone working on developing a scan that will reveal the name of the killer?’

‘I think for that you’ll need a doctor more qualified than I am. Preferably one with a sonic screwdriver.’

EIGHT

Martin Craven approached the front desk of the police station like a member of the walking dead. His eyes were circled red and bloodshot, his hair a tangled mess, and his face was grey and sallow. His suit, one he had worn for work the previous day, was creased and stained.

‘I want to report my wife missing,’ he said in a voice affected by lack of sleep and too much caffeine.

The uniformed sergeant behind the desk didn’t even blink. He had seen it all over the years; people came to the counter with all kinds of stories ranging from the bland to the bizarre. A missing person was banal in comparison.

‘When did you last see your wife, sir?’

He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. Holding on to the counter for balance he spoke slowly with determination. ‘She left for work yesterday morning. She was due home about eight o’clock last night, but never arrived. Her mobile was going straight to voicemail. By ten o’clock I started phoning around her friends but they hadn’t heard from her. This morning I called her work but she hasn’t turned up. They said she was there until five o’clock yesterday and left as normal. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened at work either. She’s disappeared. I need you to find her.’

DC Joseph Glass hoped training as a Family Liaison Officer would impress the bosses when it came to promotion time. He had been on several health and safety and first aid courses and was even a fire officer at South Yorkshire HQ. What he hadn’t expected was how unbelievably boring being an FLO was.

He had spent most of the night wondering what to say to a tearful and desperate Alice Hardaker.

‘Should I wake the kids and tell them or wait until morning?’

‘Only you can answer that, Alice. I’ll provide you with whatever support I can though.’

‘How sure are you that it’s really Kevin?’

‘As sure as we can be at the moment.’

‘Do you think he suffered?’

‘I honestly don’t know, Alice.’

This went on until the small hours of the morning until, physically and mentally drained, she had fallen asleep sitting up on the sofa. He had taken the eighth undrunk cup of tea from her hands and placed a throw over her to keep her warm. He returned to the armchair and waited. He managed an hour’s sleep at about three o’clock but woke with a start; his subconscious telling him he was in unfamiliar surroundings. He made another cup of tea, something he was becoming an expert in, and waited for Alice to wake up.

At four o’clock, knowing his sister would have come off the late shift at the Children’s Hospital, he gave her a call.’

‘Morning, you’ll never guess what’s happened,’ he spoke quietly into his phone from the kitchen so as not to wake the snoring Alice. ‘There’s been a shooting on Quiet Lane.’

‘I know. We’ve heard. Tom’s girlfriend works at the Northern. She phoned earlier.’

Feeling downhearted at not getting in first with the gossip, Joseph added, ‘Yes, well, guess who’s FLO for one of the victim’s family?’

‘You’re not!’

‘I bloody am.’

‘Good for you. How is it?’

‘Boring. I’ve lost count of the amount of cups of tea I’ve had and they’ve only got plain biscuits. Two kids and not a single bit of chocolate in the house.’

‘Sod the biscuits, Joe. Let’s have some juicy details.’

‘I haven’t got any. Like I said, it’s boring. Hang on, I think I can hear movement upstairs. I’ll call you later.’

He hung up without saying goodbye and listened intently to the noise from upstairs. He heard the sound of feet padding lightly along the hallway, a toilet flushed and then more footsteps. One of the children going to the toilet. He sighed and returned to the living room.

When the children, Warren aged ten and Milly aged seven, came down for breakfast, they looked with heavy frowns at the gangly detective. Who was this man and why had he spent the night on their recliner?

Alice had no idea what to say to them and stumbled her way through a statement of silences, um’s and ah’s. In the end, Joseph stepped forward and took over. Surprisingly, Alice allowed it.

Joseph bent down in front of the two frightened children who looked vulnerable and innocent in their pyjamas and dressing gowns. He lowered his voice and tried to sound soothing and calm. ‘At the moment, we don’t know what’s happening but we think your dad has been involved in some kind of accident. The reason why I’m here is to look after you all while the main police officers find out what’s going on. If there’s anything you need or anything you want to know, come and ask me and I’ll do what I can to help. Is that OK?’

The children nodded in unison. They looked to their mother who nodded and gave a painful smile, doing all she could to stop the tears from falling.

‘Right then Warren, your mum tells me you’re a very good boy and always help at mealtimes. I bet you know where all the breakfast things are don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ he nodded.

‘OK. Now, you look like a Coco Pops man to me. Am I right?’ He knew one of them would like Coco Pops having seen two boxes of them in the cupboard while looking around during the hours of darkness.

‘Milly likes Coco Pops. I prefer Frosties.’

‘Cool. I like those too. Have you ever mixed them together?’

He ushered the kids into the kitchen and Alice mouthed her thanks as her emotions took over. She turned her back so nobody would see her cry.

As Alice made her way towards the hallway the front doorbell rang. She quickly wiped her eyes and turned round to look at Joseph in the doorway to the kitchen.

‘Would you like me to answer it?’

‘No, it’s OK,’ she sniffled. She looked through the spyhole. ‘It’s my sister.’ She had barely opened the solid front door before her younger sister burst into the house and grabbed Alice in a bear hug.

‘Oh my God, Alice,’ Jenny was younger, shorter, fatter, and plainer than her sister.

Alice had called Jenny last night, before she had fallen asleep, and told her the tragic news. Jenny, who was away at a wedding in Skegness, had come straight back to Sheffield.

‘I didn’t think you were coming straight back,’ said Alice. ‘What about Geraldine’s wedding?’

‘She’s got another three bridesmaids; I won’t be missed. Alice, what happened?’

Alice put her arm around her sister and led her into the living room where they could talk in private.

Joseph was torn. He wanted to listen in on the conversation. Would Alice say something to her sister she wouldn’t say to him? However, there were two children in the room behind him and it sounded like they were making a mess.

As Alice closed the door to the living room, Joseph heard her say ‘you’ll never believe what’s happened’. Joseph had started the conversation with his sister the same way a few hours earlier. But he’d just been gossiping then. He never would have said that had he been talking about the brutal murder of a close relative.

NINE

Matilda’s office was a small cubicle in the corner of the Murder Room. She liked to keep her door open so her team knew they could step in at any time to talk to her, and also so she could keep an eye on them. Usually at the start of a major investigation the Murder Room would be a hive of activity – unfortunately, being able to hear the clock ticking was not a good sign.

Through the open doorway, Matilda looked out at her team. Aaron looked strained and brooding like he had the entire world’s worries on his shoulders. She had heard Sian refer to him as John Luther but without the cool coat. This was an accurate description of Aaron Connolly. If he won the lottery he’d still have the dour face of a basset hound. Scott was on the phone, held in the crook of his shoulder while tapping away at the computer. He was a quiet man, almost monosyllabic. She wondered what it would take to bring him out of his shell. Despite him being an excellent DC he was the hardest of the team to try and get to know. Rory Fleming was his polar opposite; confident, brash, smiling, bounding around like a puppy. Matilda was surprised that Rory and Scott liked each other, yet they often went to the gym together after work. She wondered what they found to talk about, if anything.

Sian popped her head around the door. ‘Have you got a few minutes?’

‘Sure. Come on in.’

‘You looked lost for a moment there.’

‘Just thinking. What can I do for you?’

‘I’ve had forensics on the phone. They’ve not been able to get anything from the partial footprint on Kevin Hardaker’s chest.’

‘Adele said as much last night.’

‘The bullet from his chest is from a semi-automatic handgun, similar to the kind our armed officers use.’

‘A Heckler & Koch?’ Sian nodded. ‘Do we have any reports of guns being stolen or missing?’

‘None at all. I’ve run through the list of local gun owners and we’ve contacted the majority of them. They all know where their guns are.’

‘So an illegal weapon bought on the black market then?’

‘It would appear so.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yes. Uniform were called out to an RTC in the small hours of this morning off Psalter Lane. A nurse going home from the late shift was driving her Nissan and was run off the road by a man driving a black BMW. She crashed into a tree.’

‘Is she OK?’

‘Yes, she’s fine. The car was being driven way over the speed limit and the driver didn’t stop. She said it all happened rather quickly but she was sure the car didn’t have a registration plate. I’ve been in with traffic for the last hour; I’ve looked at the cameras close to Psalter Lane and a black BMW is seen speeding at the roundabout at Hunter’s Bar. It didn’t have any plates.’

‘Can the ANPR track it back?’

‘I’ve got someone working on that for me.’

‘Could you make out the driver?’

‘No. It was dark.’

‘Have any BMW’s been reported stolen?’

‘No.’ Sian shook her head. ‘What do you think – same guy?’

‘Could be.’

Sian whistled. ‘So a black market semi-automatic handgun and potentially stolen BMW. This guy means business.’

‘He certainly does.’ Matilda’s expression darkened. ‘Excellent work, Sian. Well done.’

‘You’re welcome. I’ll keep you up to date.’

Matilda’s mobile phone burst into life as Sian was leaving the office.’

‘DCI Darke,’ she answered. There was no reply but she could definitely hear breathing. ‘Hello,’ she waited, listening to the background noise. ‘Hello, is anyone there? I can hear you, you know.’ The line went dead. She was just about to pull away when the phone rang a second time. Once more, no number was displayed.

‘Yes!’ she snapped.

‘DCI Darke?’

‘Yes!’

‘Hello, I’m Alex Winstanley, the new crime reporter on the Sheffield Star. I was wondering if I could have a word.’

Matilda visibly relaxed. ‘How did you get my number?’

‘From my predecessor. Is this a good time to talk to you about the murder on Clough Lane last night?’

‘How do you know about that?’

‘Pure chance I’m afraid,’ his accent wasn’t local so Matilda guessed he’d moved to Sheffield purely for the job. That meant he would be ambitious and ruthless about getting his hands on the juiciest story, and the Clough Lane murder was certainly juicy. She had an eerie feeling they would not get on. ‘I was in A&E last night and happened to see all the commotion. Is it true you have no idea who the victims are yet?’

‘A statement will be released in good time.’ She gave the standard reply.

‘I heard several shots were fired. Adding to this the recent spate of aggravated burglaries, in which a gun was used in at least one incident, should the people of Sheffield be worried about the rise in gun crime in the city?’

‘There is no rise in gun crime Mr Winstanley.’

‘Really? Official figures seem to show otherwise. Are you aware of an eight-year-old boy found waving a replica gun in Gleadless Valley last weekend?’

Matilda had not heard of this, not that she could let Winstanley know that. Maybe having a dedicated MIT was isolating them from the rest of CID; bringing the two back together would mean information would be passed around more freely. Bloody hell, I’m justifying the scrapping of my own department.

‘Mr Winstanley, allow me to be frank: South Yorkshire Police work very hard to keep the people of Sheffield safe. These minor incidents are being investigated by the best detectives we have. The public are under no threat from gun crime. As for the incident last night, like I said, a statement will be released in due course. Good day Mr Winstanley.’

Matilda didn’t realize it, but that statement would return to haunt her when the local paper hit the shops that evening. Before she had time to think, however, Rory burst into her office.

‘I think we may have found our mystery woman.’

TEN

Martin Craven, a short man with rapidly receding brown hair, fingernails bitten down to the quick and displaying all the tension of a bomb disposal expert on his first day on the job, paced anxiously inside interview room one. The door opening made him jump.

‘What’s going on? Why have I been left in here like this?’

Matilda and Rory entered and sat down.

‘Mr Craven, I’m DCI Matilda Darke—’

‘DCI? That’s a high rank, what’s happened? What’s happened to my wife?’

‘Mr Craven, please, sit down.’

If it was possible his face looked graver. Reluctantly he pulled out the hard plastic chair, scraping it on the floor, and sat down, straight backed and uncomfortable.

‘Would you like a tea or coffee?’

‘I don’t want a bloody drink.’ He almost exploded but managed to hold himself back. ‘I just want to know what the hell is going on.’

‘Sir, your missing person report has coincided with an anonymous woman being admitted to the Northern General last night.’

‘The Northern? Oh my God. Is she OK? What happened?’

‘I can’t tell you how she is as I don’t know yet. However, I would like to ask you a few questions. When was the last time you saw your wife?’

‘I’ve been through all this once already,’ he said, deflating in his seat. ‘Yesterday morning. I had to leave for work early so I left about 7.30. She didn’t need to be in work until later so she was still in her dressing gown at the table with the kids. I said goodbye to her and the kids and that was it.’

‘Did she arrive at work?’

‘Of course she did. I’ve already checked on that. She arrived on time, had lunch at the same time, and left at the same time. It was just an ordinary day.’

‘Was she going anywhere after work?’

Martin Craven sighed at having to repeat himself. ‘Yes. She plays tennis. She was going straight to the club from work. I was expecting her home at about 8 p.m.’

At the mention of tennis Matilda and Rory exchanged a quick glance with each other. Martin didn’t appear to notice.

‘But she didn’t come home?’

‘Well obviously not.’

‘Did you call her?’

‘Many times.’

‘No reply?’

‘None.’

‘When did you suspect she might be missing?’

‘This morning. I waited up for her. I must have nodded off in the chair. Our youngest came down at six and woke me up. Lois hadn’t come home so that’s when I realized something must have happened.’ He looked at the blank expressions on the officer’s faces in front of him, hoping to find anything there that might explain the disappearance of his wife. ‘Something has happened hasn’t it?’

‘Mr Craven, is there any reason why your wife might have been on Clough Lane last night?’

‘Clough Lane? No,’ he frowned. ‘There’s no reason at all for her to go that way. Hang on; there was something on the radio this morning about a shooting at Ringinglow. It’s her isn’t it? She’s been shot.’ Tears started to fall from his eyes.

‘Do you have a photograph of your wife?’

‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I should have brought one with me, sorry.’

‘That’s OK. Mr Craven, a woman, who we have not yet been able to identify, was attacked and shot last night on Clough Lane. She’s currently in Intensive Care. It could – and I stress could – be your wife.’

He fell forward onto the desk, buried his head into the crook of his arm and gave out a loud sob. He looked up at Matilda. ‘I want to see her.’

‘Of course. If you’ll wait here I’ll make a call to the hospital.’

‘Thank you. Look, would it be possible for me to have a drink of water or something.’

‘Certainly.’

Matilda and Rory left the room. They waited until they were out of hearing range before they began talking.

‘What do you think?’ Rory asked looking across at his perplexed boss.

‘It’s possible. We need to get him to ID her. Get a car sorted. What did you think of him?’

‘He genuinely seems concerned for his wife. He obviously cares for her.’

‘So what was she doing in a car with a married man?’

‘I hate these domestic cases. We always end up in the middle of some kind of marital dispute.’

With the amount of work she had to do Matilda should have sent Rory to the hospital alone with Martin but she wanted to go herself. Rory was right, this was a domestic case and if the mystery woman was Lois Craven then the question of what she was doing with a married man would arise. If she was having an affair, who knew about it? Did Martin know? Did he commit the attack? His reaction to seeing his wife unconscious in a hospital bed could be pivotal. She needed to see this for herself.

On the drive to the Northern General Hospital, Matilda allowed Rory to take the wheel while she sat in the front passenger seat and Martin Craven in the back. She had angled the rear-view and side mirrors so she could glance at his expressions. He sat poised in the centre of the back seat, his hands firmly clasped in his lap, fingers twitching. He looked worried; his eyes were wide and staring and he was biting down on his bottom lip. It was clear he was nervous about what he was going to find.

The doctors in Intensive Care were not happy about the intrusion from the police. Their main duty was to the well-being of their patient. A nurse with a frosty attitude led them to the private room but would not allow them to enter.

‘She is unconscious and in a critical condition. She’s lost a great deal of blood and is at a high risk of infection. Until she is assessed later by a consultant I cannot allow anyone unauthorized to enter. I’m sorry,’ she added as an afterthought when she saw the tears in Martin’s eyes.

The woman in the bed was hooked up to all kinds of machines. Wires and tubes were coming out of her nose, mouth and hands. Her head was heavily bandaged and there was thick padding to the left side of her neck. Matilda looked through the window at her without emotion. She looked as if she was sleeping and Matilda guessed she was not feeling any pain. At this stage it would be best if she remained in this condition.

Martin Craven banged on the window with fists squeezed so tight together they were almost blue. He let out an unnatural sound like a wild animal caught in a trap. Rory caught him just in time as he fell to the floor while several nurses ran to attend to him. Matilda stepped back. On the night she returned home from the hospital after her husband died she had made exactly the same noise. Almost one year ago to the day.

ELEVEN

By the time of the evening briefing at 6.30 the backgrounds of Kevin Hardaker and Lois Craven had been established. Matilda stood at the top of the room in front of the whiteboards and looked at the half dozen officers assembled.

Matilda opened the briefing and quickly handed over to Aaron while she sat back and took it all in. She needed to know what everyone had been working on.

‘Kevin Hardaker is forty-three-years-old, married to Alice who is forty,’ Aaron began, pointing to their respective photographs on the boards. ‘They’ve been married for thirteen years and have two kids, Warren is ten and Milly is seven. Kevin worked for Currys as a sales manager. Supposedly, he’s been playing tennis several times a week after work for many years. However, according to his tennis partner, Jeremy somebody, can’t remember his surname, they stopped about six months ago. Kevin has been having an affair with Lois Craven, also a member of the same tennis club, for a little over a year. Six months ago is when it started getting serious and the tennis stopped.’

‘Did Alice know about the affair?’ Matilda asked.

‘No.’

‘Are we sure?’

‘DC Glass is pretty convinced and I thought the same when I spoke to her,’ Scott said, looking up from his pad.

‘Is DC Glass still there?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘If Alice Hardaker doesn’t need him, get him back here. We need all the help we can muster.’ Scott nodded. ‘What about this Jeremy somebody? Did he know about the affair?’

‘Yes he did. He didn’t know Alice very well, he only met her a couple of times, but he felt guilty about keeping Kevin’s secret.’

‘Not guilty enough though,’ Matilda said to herself. ‘What’s his alibi for the attack?’

‘He was in a restaurant with his wife. I’ve seen the receipt,’ Aaron said. ‘Two hundred quid on one meal.’

‘Blimey, they had more than a Big Mac then,’ Rory said.

‘OK. Has anyone spoken to Kevin’s colleagues at Currys?’

‘Not yet.’

‘That’s the next job. Let’s move on to Lois Craven.’

‘Lois Craven is forty-one-years-old. She’s married to Martin. They celebrate their twentieth wedding anniversary later this year. They’ve got three children; Jack is eighteen, Anna is fifteen, and Thomas is eight. Lois is an office administrator at the Sheffield College and Martin is a medical rep. He frequently works away. Now, according to her colleagues Lois started the affair with Kevin because she was bored. Martin’s always away and two of the kids look after themselves, she only had Thomas to contend with. She was bored with playing the happy housewife and mother and wanted some excitement while she was still able.’

‘Well, she sounds like a lovely woman,’ Matilda said with a hint of anger. She immediately thought of James. Matilda would have relished the opportunity to find out what a bored housewife was like. Lois should have been content with what she had. ‘What’s Martin’s alibi for the attacks?’

‘He was at home. All three kids can corroborate that. So can a neighbour, a Mrs Blanchford,’ Scott said.

‘How does she know?’

‘She went round about half past eight to borrow some foil. Apparently her son is making a robot for school and she’d run out. She went next door, stayed for a few minutes then went back home. She said everything was as it always is. Nice robot too.’

‘What are the neighbours saying about them as a couple? Are they well liked?’

Scott flicked a few pages in his notepad. ‘The Hardakers’ neighbours were shocked by Kevin’s death. I didn’t mention the affair but just asked about what they were like as a family. Apparently they were very happy. They often went out together, weekends away, etcetera, and they always invited the neighbours around for the kids’ parties. They seem like the perfect couple.’

‘There’s no such thing as the perfect couple,’ Rory said while rummaging through Sian’s snack drawer. As usual, Sian was keeping her eyes firmly glued on the young DC; making sure he didn’t take advantage.

‘What about you and Amelia?’

‘Like I said, there’s no such thing as a perfect couple.’

Matilda looked at Rory with a frown.

‘OK, what about the Cravens’ neighbours?’ she asked, bringing the conversation back to topic.

‘They keep themselves pretty much to themselves,’ said Rory flicking through his notebook. ‘One neighbour said they heard arguing a few times but nothing too serious.’

‘When was the last argument?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘Go back and find out. Try and find out as much as you can. How private are we talking here? Do they mingle with their neighbours, exchange Christmas cards, or do they pull up the drawbridge at night? How did you get on with the ANPR?’

Rory turned on the laptop and asked Aaron to turn off the lights. He then asked Scott to pull down the white screen covering the whiteboards. His laptop now acted as a projector.

‘OK, so, the ANPR has picked up eight images of Kevin Hardaker’s car as it travels from his place of work at Heeley to where he ends up on Clough Lane. As you can see, the first picture shows Mr Hardaker sitting behind the wheel of his car. He is alone.’

Rory flicked through the next three images as they only showed the rear of the car at various junctions and traffic lights. It was impossible to say if he was still alone in the car.

‘Here is picture number five; next to him in the passenger seat is Lois Craven.’

The photograph showed them both smiling, obviously in the middle of a conversation. They looked happy and relaxed. If only they knew what horrors were in store for them.

‘Number six is only half the car; he’s blocked by a bus. Number seven shows them on Bents Road, and just as they turn off onto Common Lane they’re snapped once again.’

The final picture showed a front image of the car. Their smiles had gone. They had finished their conversation and were both looking straight ahead. There was a sense of foreboding about the picture. In the few minutes after it was taken they would both be subjected to a violent attack, which would leave one of them dead and the other fighting for their life.

‘Thanks for that Rory. Any other cars picked up in front or behind them that could be of interest?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘No problem. Sian, how’s our Mr Rainsford doing?’

‘Poor bloke. He’s in bits. He keeps blaming himself, saying he should have noticed the beeping sooner. I tried to comfort him but it wasn’t helping. His wife seems like a pretty strong woman; she’ll soon bring him round.’

‘No chance it’s a guilty conscience is it?’ Matilda asked with a hopeful half-smile.

‘I’m afraid not. He’s definitely just a witness. I’ve told him to pop in if he remembers anything else or if he wants to chat but I doubt he will.’

I bloody hope not. That’s all we need, hysterical witnesses cluttering up the investigation.

Scott’s desk phone rang. He answered, said a few words then hung up. ‘Ma’am that was the ACC’s secretary. She was wondering if you could pop upstairs for a moment.’

‘OK, thanks Scott. Look, wrap up what you’re doing here then we’ll call it a day. Until we can have a word with Lois Craven there’s very little we can go on.’

ACC Valerie Masterson only ever called down for Matilda when something serious had occurred. She could feel the prickly sensation of tension slowly creeping up her back.

HIGH-RANKING COP RIDICULES ‘MINOR’ GUN CRIME

By Alex Winstanley

A top detective within South Yorkshire Police has ridiculed the spate of gun crimes in Sheffield as ‘minor incidents’.

Detective Chief Inspector Matilda Darke, head of South Yorkshire’s prestigious Murder Investigation Team, said the people of Sheffield had nothing to worry about despite a double shooting in Clough Lane last night, killing a man and leaving a woman in Intensive Care.

This comes a week after an 8-year-old boy was found playing with a replica handgun in Rollestone Wood, Gleadless Valley.

This year alone, there have been a number of burglaries in the city, many of which have involved the use of guns.

In February, two Co-op stores were held at gunpoint, and earlier this month three young women on a night out in the city centre were mugged by a masked man they believe had a handgun in his pocket.

DCI Matilda Darke said, ‘These are minor incidents. The public are under no threat from gun crime.’

Cheryl Glover, 19, one of the three mugged said, ‘If DCI Darke thinks having a gun pointed at you and having your possessions stolen is a minor incident she’s obviously in the wrong job.’

DCI Darke has recently returned to leading the Murder Investigation Team following her suspension over the Carl Meagan kidnapping. Carl was taken from his home last March and his grandmother killed in a robbery, again involving guns.

DCI Darke’s comments will come as a blow to the Meagan family, who, next week, will commemorate a year since their son was kidnapped. Sally Meagan, Carl’s mother, has been particularly critical of DCI Darke’s return to work and once again calls for her to be removed from South Yorkshire Police.

‘I have no idea why she was allowed back to work,’ Mrs Meagan said in a recent interview. ‘My mother-in-law was murdered and my son kidnapped. She botched the ransom drop, which led to the kidnappers fleeing with him. She’s not fit to work for the police and I sympathize with any family of victims of crime she is involved in.’

Assistant Chief Constable Valerie Masterson was unavailable for comment.

TWELVE

Matilda felt like she was taking the long, slow walk to the gallows as she ascended the stairs to the ACCs office. By the time she reached the top (two floors up) she was breathless. Maybe she should rejoin Adele at her spinning class, get in shape, and back down to a size ten.

Robert Walpole, Spencer Compton, Henry Pelham, Thomas Pelham-Holles, William Cavendish.

She knew the stress was becoming too much when the Prime Ministers turned up. An exercise suggested by Dr Warminster. She had told her to concentrate on naming the British Prime Ministers during times of stress to help her regain control of her breathing and settle her thoughts. It worked. However, Matilda had thought now she could cope with life and its many hurdles without their appearance. It would seem not.

Through her jacket she could feel her shirt sticking to her back, damp with sweat. She hoped it wasn’t noticeable. She knocked on the door and was called in almost immediately. Masterson had obviously been waiting. This did not look good.

‘Matilda, come on it. Have a seat,’ Masterson was all smiles, her voice friendly. A very bad sign.

As Matilda stepped fully into the room she saw the heavily pregnant Karen Sweetland from Media Support standing beside a seated ACC.

‘You wanted to see me?’ Matilda asked once she was as comfortable as she could be while visibly sweating. Her lungs seemed to have shrunken down to the size of a pound coin. Her breathing was laboured and her vision began to blur. She hated not being in control of her own mind. Panic attacks were crippling, and just when she thought she had a handle on them she was floored by another.

‘Yes I did. The evening edition of The Star has just been delivered to me.’

Matilda had a sinking feeling. Her heart practically plummeted through the floor. She was beginning to loathe this paper.

The newspaper was neatly in front of Val Masterson on the desk. Matilda tilted her head slightly to read the front page, which was upside down from her point of view, but she couldn’t quite make it out.

‘I believe they have a new crime correspondent,’ Val continued. ‘You’ve spoken to him.’

‘Yes. He called me this morning trying to get something out of me about the shooting last night. I just told him a statement would be released in due course.’ She looked at the grave faces of her boss and the press officer. She quickly went over the very short conversation with Alex Winstanley but could not think of anything controversial she may have said. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘You tell me.’ Val opened the newspaper to page five, folded it back and slapped it down hard in front of Matilda. The headline screamed out at her: ‘HIGH-RANKING COP RIDICULES “MINOR” GUN CRIME’.

‘What the hell?’ Matilda snapped up the newspaper.

‘My words exactly.’

Matilda scanned the article. Her hands were shaking, rattling the pages. She stopped reading as soon as she found Carl Meagan’s name. ‘Where did he get this crap from?’

‘You.’

‘What? I didn’t say gun crime was a minor incident.’

‘I think you’ll find you did.’ The ACC turned to Karen Sweetland who was now sitting down uncomfortably to take the weight off her back.

‘Alex Winstanley sent me, via email, a recording of the conversation you had. You definitely said minor crime.’

‘I honestly don’t remember,’ Matilda said, taken aback. ‘I didn’t mean minor. I’m sure I said isolated. I meant to say isolated. I would never deride gun crime.’

‘Isolate and minor do not sound similar. I’m not sure how you could have mixed up those two words, Matilda.’

Matilda sat forward in her seat. ‘Ma’am, I am truly sorry for this article and I will apologize to anyone you want me to but I honestly, hand on heart, did not mean to call gun crime a minor incident. I wouldn’t.’ She placed her shaking right hand firmly on her erratically beating heart.

There was a heavy silence before ACC Masterson spoke again. ‘I do believe you Matilda, I really do; however, this is not what we need right now.’

‘I know. Look I’ll talk to this Alex Winstanley—’

‘No you bloody won’t,’ Val interrupted. ‘I’ll be speaking to him myself. If you look at the bottom it says I was unavailable for comment. I’ve not had a call from anyone at The Star all day. I’ll be having a few words with this Mr Winstanley and Karen here will be putting together a placating statement for you.’

‘Thank you,’ Matilda said to both Karen and Val before looking down at the floor in shame.

‘I do not want you speaking to Alex Winstanley or anyone else from the press again. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘If they do happen to call you be polite, but firm, give no comment, then hang up.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Karen, would you leave us alone for a while?’

Karen agreed and struggled to get up out of her seat. She said she would start work on the statement and would email it through when she had finished. Val Masterson waited until the door closed and Karen was out of earshot before she began.

‘What’s going on with you, Mat?’ Her voice was all concern, giving the impression of two friends chatting over coffee. Matilda wouldn’t dare call her Val.

‘Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine. Understaffed, but fine.’

‘Then why do you look like shit?’

‘I wasn’t aware that I did.’ She tried to scoff but it wasn’t working.

‘I’m not completely heartless you know. I’m aware the anniversary of James’s death is looming, but you need to talk to me, Matilda. You can’t allow things to bottle up.’

‘I’m not bottling anything up.’

Val Masterson rose from behind her desk; five foot nothing tall and wafer thin, she came to the front and sat on the edge of the desk. Matilda had to hide a small smile when her boss had to jump up.

‘We’ve known each other for a very long time; let’s forget rank for the next few minutes. We’re just two middle-aged women having a chat. So, what’s on your mind?’

Has she been taking lessons from Dr Warminster?

It took a while for Matilda to find the courage to open her mouth to speak without a flood of tears pouring out. The moment the first word came out, the rest followed in an almost incomprehensible tumble. ‘James is on my mind twenty-four hours a day. Carl is constantly vying for attention. I want to look for him. I want to search every inch of this country to try and find him. I’m losing my team. Sian and Aaron are doing their best but I need a DI I can leave in charge when I’m not here. I’m down countless support staff and a DC.’

The large clock on the far wall ticked loudly. Matilda sniffed hard to try and rein in the tears. She managed it just in time. It was never a good idea to cry in front of your boss.

Val looked down at her most trusted detective. The silence grew.

‘What happened to James was devastating. I cannot begin to imagine what you’re going through and I won’t even try. If you want to take time off, you just have to let me know …’

‘I don’t want …’

Val held up a hand. ‘I know. I was about to say I know that you won’t want to take time off work, but the offer is there for you whenever you need it.’

‘Thank you.’

‘As for Carl Meagan,’ she shrugged her shoulders. ‘Well, I’ve no idea what happened there. The kidnappers knew the money was there to be dropped off. They got spooked and did a runner but they could have contacted the Meagan family again. Why they didn’t is anybody’s guess. There hasn’t been a sighting, a phone call, a letter, nothing. There is nothing we can do about that now.’ She spoke slowly and with determination as if she was drilling every single syllable into Matilda’s head. ‘It’s easy for me to say, I know, but until we receive any more information about Carl Meagan there is nothing else we can do to locate him. You need to keep telling yourself that.’

‘I know. I keep thinking of his parents; what they must be going through, not knowing where their son is. It must be torture.’

‘The case will be reviewed on a regular basis, you know that. However, you need to move on. Your job is to solve murders. You can’t do that if you’re constantly harking over an unsolved case. As for your team, you’re right and I’m sorry. It’s wrong of me to expect you to solve a murder case with a couple of DSs. I’ll get some drafted over to you from CID.’

Matilda looked up. Val’s face looked softer and there was a genuine sincerity in her voice. It was the first time in a long time Matilda actually believed in what Valerie was saying.

‘Now I want you to go home—’

‘But—’

Again, Val held a hand up to silence her. ‘This is not negotiable. I want you to go home.’

‘I can’t leave—’

‘My grandfather used to always say there’s no such word as “can’t”. It annoyed me when he said that but it’s true. You can leave and you are leaving. I will arrest you if I have to.’ She smiled.

Matilda was about to thank her boss but, once again, the hand came up. Matilda took this as her cue to leave.

Matilda should not have driven home. Her mind was a maelstrom of activity. Not only did she have James and Carl battling for attention in her head, she had the Meagan parents judging her, ACC Masterson offering comforting words, which wouldn’t last if she continued with her erratic behaviour, and now, Alex Winstanley was throwing her to the dogs. There was very little room in her mind for anything else.

The doormat was covered with the usual array of white and brown envelopes, junk mail, and fast-food menus. She stepped over them and made her way to the kitchen. At the back of the drawer she used for items that didn’t have a place to live, she found an emergency supply of the Venlafaxine tablets she used to take. It had been her decision to stop taking them, but she still collected the prescriptions from her GP. With shaking fingers, she took three tablets, two more than prescribed.

Her head pounded and weighed heavy on her shoulders. As she went into the living room, she picked the post up from the front door and threw it onto the coffee table.

James was looking down on her from the mantelpiece. His gorgeous smile, his bright blue eyes, his broad shoulders; he wasn’t judging, he had love in his eyes. He cared for Matilda and he wanted her to be happy. The only way she would be happy again would be for James to enter the living room and wrap his strong arms around her.

Through teary eyes she looked at the post on the coffee table. One envelope stood out among the bills and offers of credit cards; it was a brilliant white and didn’t have a stamp on it. A hand-delivered letter. Matilda ripped open the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper and a cutting from a newspaper. She didn’t notice the tears fall down her face as she saw the scathing article written by Alex Winstanley in today’s edition of The Star. She threw it down and looked at the letter:

You’re a murdering bitch! There’s blood on your hands Detective Chief Inspector Matilda Darke.

THIRTEEN

Dr Adele Kean pulled open the glass doors to the Murder Room and stepped inside. She immediately noticed the lack of activity and the lack of officers. ‘It’s like a closing-down sale in here,’ she remarked without thinking. Matilda had told her she wasn’t telling the rest of the team the Murder Room was closing.

‘Morning Sian, where is everyone?’

Sian looked up from her computer, probably for the first time that morning. She breathed out and answered Adele, glad at the chance of a break. She leaned back as far as she could in her chair, stretched her aching muscles and enjoyed a very wide yawn.

‘Well, Rory’s with forensics, Scott’s … I’ve no idea where he is actually. I think Aaron’s in … Do you know what, I don’t know where anyone is. I didn’t realize I was on my own in here.’

‘You’re busy then I take it?’

‘You could say that. I’ve been here since six and I haven’t shifted from this desk yet. Anyway, what can I do for you?’

‘Well, I came to see Matilda.’ Adele noticed a tray of muffins next to the kettle. ‘Ooh, are they to share?’

‘They were. Nobody’s had time for a break yet. Help yourself.’

‘Thanks. What’s the occasion?’

‘It’s my wedding anniversary today.’

‘Oh congratulations. How many years?’

‘Thirteen. We’ve been together about twenty years though. It took him six years to propose, bless him.’

‘A bit slow on the uptake?’ Adele asked, still trying to choose a muffin.

‘You could say that. I gave up hinting in the end and just came out with it. I said, “Stuart Mills, are you ever going to propose or should I start making eyes at your brother?”’

Adele laughed. ‘What did he say to that?’

‘After he finished choking on his beer he asked me to marry him. I told him I’d have to think about it.’

‘These are gorgeous, Sian,’ Adele said, her mouth full of chocolate sponge. ‘Did you make these?’

‘Yes. They’re Mary Berry’s.’

‘Well next time you speak to Mary tell her thank you. Are you doing anything special tonight?’

‘You’re joking! By the time Stuart remembers it’s our anniversary it’ll be time for the next one. Do you think you’ll get married one day?’

Adele almost choked on her muffin. ‘God no. Men are only useful for one thing and half the time they’re no use at that. Anyway, I won’t keep you. I’m actually looking for Matilda. Is she in yet?’

‘I haven’t seen her. Mind you, a marching brass band could have walked through and I wouldn’t have noticed.’

‘Well, I’ve got some information about your double shooting. You couldn’t tell her for me could you?’

‘Sure.’

‘Now, let me show you something.’ In the folder she had been cradling in her arms she produced some close-up photographs taken by the scene of crime officers. ‘This is a photo of fibres taken from under Lois Craven’s right hand. They’re black and man-made.’ She took another photograph out of the file. ‘Now, on the night of the shooting I was called out to a suicide on London Road. This is a photograph of the jumper’s right hand. Under the forefinger and middle fingernails there are identical fibres.’

‘So, what are you saying? The bloke committed a double shooting then went to London Road to kill himself? Why not just shoot himself in the head?’

‘No. I’m not saying that. Look at these,’ Adele took out the remaining photographs from the suicide. ‘These are photos of Gerald Arthur Beecham aged 80. Apparently he jumped off the roof of a high-rise block of flats and landed face down on the paving slabs below.’

‘Why apparently?’

‘Look at this one; there’s blood on the back of his jacket.’

‘So?’

‘If he jumped, why would he have blood on the back of his jacket?’

‘Good question. Is it definitely his blood?’

‘Another good question. I’ll answer that in a bit. When we got him back to the mortuary and removed his clothes we found him covered in very fresh bruises. He didn’t jump. He was either pushed or thrown.’

There was silence while Adele allowed Sian to take in what she had just said.

‘Why would anyone want to throw an 80-year-old man from the roof of a block of flats?’

‘I’ve no idea. Fortunately, I don’t have to find the answer to that question, that’s your job.’

‘So, tell me whose blood it is then.’

‘Are you ready for this?’

‘If you decide to cut to a commercial break I’ll slap the make-up off your face.’

‘The blood belongs to Lois Craven.’

‘What? How?’

‘My best guess is that whoever committed the shooting in Ringinglow went to London Road, for whatever reason, got into a bit of a tussle with poor old Mr Beecham, and pushed him over the edge,’ Adele said. She sat back in her seat and folded her arms. She had a slight smug look on her face, a look she always had when she delivered ground-breaking news.

‘This is very … I don’t understand this at all,’ Sian readily admitted. ‘You need to speak to Matilda.’

‘Well I’ve called her mobile but she’s not answering. I think I’ve filled up her voicemail.’

‘What about her landline?’

‘Straight to answer machine. I didn’t see her much yesterday after the post-mortem. How was she?’

‘I hardly spoke to her.’

Aaron stormed in and kicked the door closed behind him. ‘Thirty minutes I’ve just spent on the phone, twenty of them on hold, only to be told that Kevin Hardaker’s manager is off sick and the relief was from a store in Derby and didn’t know him. Why couldn’t the bloke who picked up the phone tell me that? No wonder their sales are falling. Gormless pillocks.’

‘Good morning to you too, Aaron,’ Sian said over the top of her computer.

‘Yes, whatever.’

‘You haven’t seen Matilda on your travels have you?’

‘No.’

‘How was she last night before you left?’ Sian asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Was she happy, sad, fed up, excited, what?’

‘Well she was a bit low. There was an article in The Star about the Carl Meagan anniversary the other day. I saw her reading the story a couple of times in her office. Then there was something in last night’s edition about a conversation she’d had with the new crime reporter. The ACC called her in towards the end of the day but I didn’t see her after that.’

‘How was she when she went to the ACC?’

‘A bit stressed.’

‘Right. OK. Cheers, Aaron.’

When Aaron was out of earshot Adele turned back to Sian and said, ‘I think I’m going to pop round to her house, see if she’s OK.’

‘Do you want me to come with you?’

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