The Murder House

DCI Matilda Darke V

MICHAEL WOOD

One More Chapter

an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Michael Wood 2020

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

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

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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.

Ebook Edition © January 2019 ISBN: 9780008374822

Version: 2020-02-12

To Scout Master Kevin Embleton. Aka Kevin the Beagle.

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

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Epilogue

Keep Reading …

Acknowledgements

Also by Michael Wood

About the Author

About the Publisher

Chapter One
Monday, 15 January 2018

02.30

Jeremy Mercer couldn’t sleep. The room was spinning. He couldn’t remember the last time he had drunk so much. Still, it wasn’t a regular occurrence. A blow-out once in a while didn’t do any harm. Maybe he should have slowed down though. Looking back, he seemed to have had a glass of champagne in his hand since early evening until he staggered out of the marquee, into the house, and, somehow, managed to crawl upstairs.

He felt sick. He closed his eyes but that seemed to make matters worse. He quickly opened them again and gave a little laugh. He was back in the bedroom he had grown up in, his mother and father asleep in the attic room upstairs.

Jeremy had been sensible in front of his seven-year-old daughter, Rachel, but once she had gone to bed at eight o’clock, he’d let his hair down and allowed his father to continue pouring glass after glass of champagne down his throat.

Today, or rather, yesterday, was a special occasion. His little sister, Leah, had got married. As the fug of alcohol distorted his memory, one image of the happy day stuck out more than others. Just before the ceremony, he had gone into his parents’ bedroom where Leah was getting ready and they’d had a chat.

‘Wow, you look stunning,’ he said. ‘You look so grown up.’

‘Thank you. I can’t stop smiling,’ she said. The floor-length gown was an off-white colour. It was a simple design, but the material was sheer and elegant. It may have sounded like a cliché, but she really did look like a princess. ‘How’s Oliver doing?’

‘He’s fine. His shoes are hurting his ankles.’

The smile dropped. ‘I told him to put wet newspaper in them a few days before the wedding. Well, I don’t care if they cause blisters and he’s in agony for weeks, he’s leading me on that dancefloor.’

Jeremy sat down on the bed. ‘Can you believe this?’

‘What?’

‘It doesn’t seem like five minutes ago you and I were in the back garden pushing each other off the swing. Now look at us; you’re getting married and I’ve got a seven-year-old daughter, a mortgage and debts up to my eyeballs.’

‘It’s fun being a grown-up, isn’t it?’ she said with a twinkle in her eye.

Jeremy felt a tug of emotion. ‘I hope you and Oliver will be very happy together,’ he said, a catch in his throat.

‘Don’t make me cry, Jeremy. I don’t want to ruin my make-up.’

‘Sorry. I was just thinking of …’

‘I know. Today can’t be easy for you.’

‘It’s not. But, today isn’t about me. It’s about you.’

‘I’m not looking forward to everyone looking at me in church.’

‘Have you taken your medication?’

‘You’ve asked me that three times already,’ she said.

‘Sorry. I just want your day to be perfect.’

‘And me off my medication would ruin it?’

‘Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean—’

Leah giggled. ‘It’s all right, Jeremy, I know what you meant. Don’t worry. I’m fine. I feel fine.’ She turned to the mirror and looked at her reflection. ‘Well, time I made a move.’

Jeremy stood up, held his sister by the shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. ‘I love you, Leah.’ He kissed her on the cheek.

‘I love you too, Jeremy. I couldn’t ask for a better brother.’

‘One day, I might give you your Barbie doll heads back.’

‘Then you really will be the best brother ever.’

There was a knock on the bedroom door. It was time to go.

Jeremy pushed back the duvet and staggered out of bed. He needed a drink of water. Or maybe he needed to vomit, he didn’t know which.

Wearing only a T-shirt, boxer shorts, and, for some reason, one sock, he fumbled along the landing. He was tempted to look in on Rachel but didn’t want to wake her. He was sure she was fine. She had Pongo to keep her company.

Gripping the bannister firmly, he looked down the stairs. This must be what mountain climbers see when they’re at the top of Everest; a long and treacherous way down. Each step seemed to reverberate throughout his entire body. Even his hair hurt. He decided, right now, he was never drinking ever again. Well, maybe a glass at New Year. And at Christmas. And on special occasions, but not to excess. Apart from that, he was never drinking ever again. Obviously, he’d have a pint on his birthday, too.

He somehow made it to the bottom of the stairs. He felt a cold draught coming from somewhere and wondered if a window had been left open.

‘Jesus! You scared the life out of me. I thought everyone had gone home.’ Jeremy smiled. The figure in front of him was blurred. He tried to focus his vision, but he couldn’t make out who was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, or even if there was someone there at all.

The figure moved towards him. Jeremy felt a sharp pain in the side of his body. He placed a hand there, looked at it, and saw red. He staggered backwards and fell into the hall table and onto the floor. He looked around, but the figure had gone.

What the hell had just happened?

His T-shirt was turning red. His left hand was red. This didn’t make any sense. It took a while for his brain to make the connection. Then, the pain kicked in. He’d been stabbed.

He heard the sound of heavy footfalls on the stairs and the muffled yap of Pongo.

‘Rachel,’ Jeremy uttered.

He scrambled along the hall to the stairs and tried to stand up, but he couldn’t. He reached the bottom of the stairs, put a red-stained hand on the first step, and dragged himself up. It was no use. The life was seeping out of him and he had no energy to pull himself up a whole flight of stairs.

‘Who are you?’ That was his father’s voice. ‘What do you—?’

‘Dad,’ Jeremy whimpered.

His father was cut off from finishing his sentence, and all Jeremy could hear was the sound of gurgling and grunting followed by a heavy thud. Then, more heavy thuds as the figure ran up the next set of stairs to the attic bedroom. A loud piercing scream from two floors up was obviously from his mother.

‘Daddy?’ A pitiful cry from his daughter in the room next to his.

‘Fuck,’ Jeremy said to himself. He tried to stand up but the mixture of alcohol and heavy blood loss made him weak. ‘Rachel, sweetheart, it’s OK. Stay where you are. Don’t come out of your bedroom.’ His voice was slow and sounded like it was coming from someone else.

There was another yap from Pongo.

‘Daddy. I’m scared. What’s happening?’

‘It’s all right. You’re going to be fine. Just stay where you are. I want you to be a big girl for daddy. Can you do that?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Rachel. The chair next to your bed, I want you to put it under the handle of your door so nobody can come in.’ His voice was full of urgency. Slumped at the bottom of the stairs, one hand holding onto his side to stem the blood flow, the other trying to pull himself up the stairs. It was futile.

‘Daddy,’ Rachel cried.

‘Rachel, you need to do this. Please.’ He tried to keep the fear out of his voice for his daughter’s sake, but it was no good. He was petrified at what was happening. He waited for her to say something, but she didn’t. ‘Let me know when you’ve done it.’

He listened intently but he couldn’t hear any sounds apart from the grandfather clock in the living room.

‘Rachel?’

There was no reply.

‘Rachel?’ He shouted louder.

‘I’ve done it, Daddy,’ Rachel wept.

‘Good girl. Now, get back in bed and Pongo will look after you.’

‘Will you come and look after me, Daddy?’

‘I won’t be long sweetheart. I’m just …’

The figure stood at the top of the stairs looking down at Jeremy. His vision was still slightly blurred but there was no mistaking the amount of blood he was covered in. Jeremy tried to focus, tried to make a mental picture of his image, but it was no use. He had a balaclava covering his face.

‘What have you done?’ Jeremy asked.

The figure disappeared from view.

‘Not my daughter,’ he whimpered. ‘No. Not Rachel. Please. Kill me but leave her alone. Please. She’s only seven.’

The sound of yapping grew louder as the bedroom door was forced open, then a yelp and a whine as Pongo had obviously come to harm.

‘Daddy!’ Rachel screamed.

‘You bastard,’ Jeremy tried to shout. He was struggling to breathe, and tears were streaming down his face. ‘I’m going to kill you,’ he screamed. ‘Fucking kill you!’

With what little energy he had left in his body, Jeremy tried to pull himself up the stairs. It was no use. He had lost so much blood, he was weakening by the minute. He looked around him. The cream-coloured carpet was saturated with his blood.

The figure reappeared at the top of the stairs and slowly began to descend. There was a large knife in his right hand.

‘If you’ve done anything to my daughter. If you’ve hurt her, I promise your life won’t be worth living.’

He looked up and saw the glint from the bloodstained knife. He didn’t feel it enter his neck, but he could taste blood and his breathing became erratic. He looked down and saw his T-shirt turn red as the blood from a ruptured vein pumped out of his rapidly dying body. He tried to speak but he couldn’t. He choked as the knife was slowly pulled out of his neck and let out a small groan of pain as it was plunged into him once again.

As he lay at the bottom of the stairs, he looked up and saw the one-year-old Dalmatian puppy staring down at him. Jeremy smiled. Pongo was Rachel’s best friend. She loved him from the second he brought him home. She often tried to count the spots on his chubby little body, but Pongo was a wriggler, so she never managed to count them all. It wasn’t only black spots Pongo now had; some were red. Blood.

The last thing Jeremy thought of before he died was how do you get blood out of dog fur. He laughed at the implausibility of his thought as he slumped on the stairs and closed his eyes.

Chapter Two
Monday, 15 January 2018

09.30

Sally Meagan stood in the middle of the living room and looked around her. She couldn’t remember the last time she had used this room, sat on the sofa, snuggled up to her husband and watched television with her feet up. The family room. That was a joke. They were no longer a family. How could they be when their only child was still missing?

The life had been drained out of Sally when Carl was taken on the 25th of March 2015. She no longer lived, she could merely exist, until the fate of her son was known. After that … who knew?

The house was empty. As usual, Philip was at one of their restaurants. He’d left before she’d even woken up. He seemed to be leaving the house earlier and getting home later each day. He only used the house to shower, change his clothes and sleep. She hardly saw him anymore. A few weeks before Christmas, when the restaurants were at their busiest, she followed him to one and stood outside, watching him, seeing how he was at work. It was like looking at a total stranger. He was laughing and joking, schmoozing with the customers, smiling, engaging in pointless small talk, dealing with any issues that cropped up, getting on with life as if everything was peaches and cream. Sally couldn’t do that. She tried, but every time she found herself smiling, having fun, or living a seemingly normal life, she remembered Carl was missing, and she hated herself even more for trying to live while goodness knows what was happening to her child.

How could Philip continue with life as if nothing had happened? On that spring day almost three years ago, someone had broken into their home, killed her mother, who was babysitting, and stolen their seven-year-old son. It was a parents’ worse nightmare, and while Sally was still suffering, her husband had returned to normal life.

Maybe it was different for a father. A mother has a stronger bond with her child, as she’s carried him inside her for nine months. Was that it? Was that the reason? Maybe Philip was looking at the bigger picture; without the restaurants, they wouldn’t be able to pay the bills and the mortgage, and they’d have to sell their home. Sally couldn’t allow that to happen. This was Carl’s home.

She went into the kitchen, took out a bottle of vodka from the freezer, and poured herself a large glass. She slugged it back in one and poured another. She didn’t care it wasn’t even ten o’clock in the morning yet. She looked down at the golden Labrador who was permanently at her heels.

‘Don’t judge me, Woody,’ she said.

Woody had been bought for Carl’s sixth birthday. He’d been asking for a puppy for years, and they’d finally relented. They loved each other on sight and were inseparable. Woody even slept in Carl’s bedroom. He accompanied them on the walk to school and pulled Sally on the way to pick him up. When he disappeared, Woody felt the effect of the loss. He stopped barking, he lost his bounce, and spent every night on Carl’s bed, pining, sighing, aching for his best friend to return.

Now Sally was home all the time, Woody had latched himself on to her. He didn’t want to lose another member of the household. He followed Sally everywhere. While she was working on the computer in the study to find her son, he sat on the floor by her feet. When she left the room to go to the toilet, he followed, and sat outside the bathroom door until she was finished. At first, it annoyed her, but as time went on, it was comforting. She spoke to Woody all the time, told him her feelings, and fears. She’d sit on the floor with him, his head on her lap, and she cried buckets as she poured her heart out to him. He seemed to understand. She told him things she couldn’t tell anyone, not Philip, not Matilda, and he never judged her. Even now, when she drank to dull the pain, he still looked at her with those big brown eyes and he seemed to sympathize with her.

‘Come on, Woody, let’s check the emails. Fingers and paws crossed, eh?’

The study at the back of the ground floor was the nerve centre for Sally’s campaign in finding her son. She connected with people all over the world who were missing children to offer a shoulder to cry on. She had a website where people could message her with possible sightings, though they were getting fewer and further between. The room was full of files, missing persons posters, copies of the book she had written. Sally spent more time in this room than anywhere else in the house.

She sat down and powered up the computer. Woody assumed the position at her feet, circling a few times before he found the right spot for him.

On the desk were several framed photographs of Carl. She often looked at them, remembered the exact moment when the picture was taken, what they were doing, what she said, what Carl said, and shed a little tear. Why was this happening to them?

Her first job was to check the emails. There were none. This was the ninth day in a row without a new email. Several people had contacted her from Sweden in the past few months with a possible sighting. She wondered if it would be worth going out there, maybe visiting a few schools. Philip and Matilda didn’t think it was such a good idea, and she didn’t fancy going to a strange country on her own.

Last year, a former detective with South Yorkshire Police had done some digging of his own. He had an ulterior motive, of course. He wanted to solve the case DCI Darke couldn’t. What he’d uncovered made no sense to her, but Matilda was working hard to salvage order out of the chaos of paperwork. If only she didn’t have her day-to-day police work getting in the way of finding Carl. It was a selfish thought, Sally knew that, but …

Her mobile rang, making her jump. She didn’t look at the display. She knew it would probably be Philip asking her if she’d made the changes to the menu she had been promising to do for the past week.

‘Hello,’ she answered. Her voice was tired and lacked emotion.

‘Mummy?’

‘Carl?’ Sally shot up out of her seat, frightening Woody. ‘Carl? Is that you?’

‘Mummy?’

‘Oh my God.’ Tears fell from her eyes and she didn’t wipe them away. Her entire body shook with fear, adrenaline. She gripped the phone tighter. ‘Carl, sweetheart, it’s me. It’s your mummy. Where are you?’

Silence.

‘Carl? Carl?’

‘I’m scared, Mummy.’

‘It’s all right, Carl. There’s no need to be scared. I’m here. I’m going to find you. Can you tell me where you are? Look around you. What do you see?’ Her words were tripping over each other as she panicked to find her son.

The line went dead.

‘Carl? Carl? Are you still there? Answer me.’

She looked at the phone, but the call had been disconnected. In the call log, she saw a number she didn’t recognize. It was a mobile number. With a shaking hand, she picked up a pencil and quickly scribbled it down on a scrap of paper. She then looked up her husband’s number and called him.

‘Philip, it’s me,’ she said. She spoke quickly. Her voice was high-pitched. There was an urgency behind it. ‘You need to come home right now. I’ve just had a call from Carl. He’s alive, Philip.’

She looked down at Woody who was sitting bolt upright. His ears were pricked, and his tail was wagging.

‘Carl’s alive.’

Chapter Three
Monday, 15 January 2018

09.45

Rose Bishop diverted from her journey in to work to head for the Mercer house in Fulwood. She had drunk so much at the wedding reception yesterday that she hadn’t realized she had gone home wearing only one shoe. She had tried to call Serena this morning to make sure the shoe wasn’t casually thrown away with all the leftover food and empty bottles, but she wasn’t answering her mobile or the landline.

She pulled up at the top of the drive and trotted down it. She knocked on the door, rang the bell and stepped back, looking up at the house. The curtains were drawn in every room. Serena had been just as drunk as she was, but Clive wasn’t a big drinker. Surely they should have been up and getting ready to go to work by now. She knocked again, louder, and leaned into the door to listen for the sound of footsteps. It was deathly silent.

She went around the back of the house and entered the marquee. Rose vaguely remembered complimenting Serena on how gorgeous and elegant everything looked when she first saw it after the church service, but, looking at it now, you would be forgiven for thinking a group of eight year olds had held a birthday party here. It was a mess. She made her way through the tent, and, surprisingly, she found her shoe on a table near the wedding cake. She picked it up and headed for the house. It would be rude to leave without saying hello.

Rose was shocked to find the back door wide open. Clive and Serena were so security conscious. They wouldn’t have gone to bed and left the house exposed like this. Maybe Clive was already up and had gone out for a newspaper or something.

‘Hello? Clive, Serena, are you up?’ Rose called out from the kitchen. She looked at the remains of the food on the island. She picked up a smoked salmon canape and popped it into her mouth. It was as delicious as she remembered. She had eaten dozens of them. She made a mental note to ask Serena for the recipe.

‘Jeremy? Rachel? Anyone awake?’ Rose asked as she made her way along the ground floor.

She poked her head into the living room but it was empty. This had been off-limits to party guests yesterday and it was, as it always was, spotlessly clean and tidy.

Rose stopped in her tracks at the bottom of the stairs. It took her brain a few long seconds to realize what it was seeing. Jeremy Mercer was slumped against the wall. His eyes were closed and there was so much blood surrounding him.

‘Jeremy,’ she whispered. It didn’t seem real. This was a practical joke, surely. She leaned down, and, with shaking fingers, felt for a pulse on his wrist. He was freezing cold and there was no beat coming from the vein. ‘Oh my God.’

She looked up the stairs and saw the trail of blood on the cream-coloured carpet. She stumbled back and almost tripped over the remains of the hall table. On the floor, the cordless phone was out of its cradle. She reached out for it and saw her hands were covered in blood. She silently screamed, picked up the phone and dialled 999.

‘999. What’s your emergency?’

Rose was about to speak when she heard the sound of barking coming from upstairs.

‘Oh my God. Rachel.’

‘I’m sorry?’ the operator asked.

‘You need to come quickly. Someone’s been killed, and I think there may be more bodies.’

She tried not to look at Jeremy as she stepped over his lifeless corpse. The carpet on the stairs was full of bloodstains in the shape of paw prints.

‘Where are you calling from?’

‘Rachel?’ Rose screamed, ignoring the 999 operator.

Rose reached the top of the stairs, stepped onto the landing and saw more horror before her. She screamed and continued to scream until her voice was hoarse. The operator was asking questions, but she didn’t hear them. She fell back against the wall and slid down it. She clutched the phone firmly against her chest and couldn’t take her eyes off the nightmare inches away from her.

Chapter Four

‘According to Rory, it’s the worst crime scene he’s ever seen.’

‘Bloody hell.’

DS Sian Mills was driving; DCI Matilda Darke was in the front passenger seat. They had been informed of a triple murder in an affluent part of Sheffield. Uniformed officers were on the scene and forensics were en route.

‘Do we know who the victims are?’

‘We think so. Ranjeet is looking them up for me back at the station.’

Sian’s mobile beeped an incoming text message. It was in a cradle attached to the dashboard. She opened it. ‘It’s from Rory. He says, “I hope you haven’t had your breakfast yet”.’

‘Jesus,’ Matilda muttered as she looked out of the window.

It was another cold morning. Winter had started early in Sheffield with the first snowfall way back in mid-November, and despite there being no white Christmas (again), snow had returned in the new year. The days were cold and the nights were colder. As Sheffield passed by in a blur, Matilda looked at the bare trees. The branches were white with a thick layer of frost. Grass looked beautiful as each white blade sparkled in the glint of the cold sun. Pavements were tricky to walk on and pedestrians took their time over the patches of black ice. Despite the heating being on in the car, Matilda shivered just watching people as they braved the elements.

‘Are you all settled in to your new house, now?’ Sian asked, filling the silence with a safe topic of conversation so neither of them had to think about the horror that awaited them.

‘More or less,’ Matilda said with a smile. ‘Just one more room to sort out.’

‘I bet you’re glad. There’s nothing like your own home, is there?’

‘No,’ Matilda replied. She returned to looking out of the window. She had only officially moved in a week ago. It was a bit early to be calling it her home. When she thought of home, she thought of the house her husband built; the one they both agonized over the plans of: how big the kitchen should be, where the downstairs toilet should go, the colour of the tiles in the bathroom. James had put his blood, sweat, and tears into that house. That was her home – their home. This new house was … at the moment she didn’t know what it was; somewhere to lay her head.

They pulled up as close as they could to the police cordon. From here, they couldn’t see the house but the faces on the uniformed officers who were milling around were grim. It was not a good sign.

Matilda looked around at the nosy neighbours as they stood on the side of the road gossiping among themselves. ‘You know those cases that you always go back to, that you can’t shake off? I get the feeling this is going to be one of them.’

‘Haven’t we had enough of those, lately?’ Sian quipped, pulling her coat tight against the cold.

Pathologist, Adele Kean, parked behind them. Her assistant, Lucy Dauman hesitantly got out of the front passenger seat, flicking back her blonde hair, a habit she was well known for.

‘Rory told me to imagine the worst crime scene I can, then times it by a hundred,’ Adele said, her face pale with worry. ‘Please tell me he was exaggerating.’

‘I haven’t been in yet,’ Matilda said. ‘I’ve been told it’s bad.’

‘Oh my God,’ Lucy muttered.

‘Lucy, get a couple of suits out of the back and we’ll probably need to double up. We’ll need extra gloves and overshoes too.’

Lucy remained where she was. She was relatively new to this job and only in her mid-twenties. She was fine assisting in post mortems, but crime scenes always seemed to upset her. Adele, however, was a seasoned professional, yet even she looked green. This was going to be a nightmare for Lucy. She slowly walked to the boot of the car to get what they needed.

All four women made their way down the driveway to the beautiful stone-built double-fronted house with its sash windows, side breast chimney, and a cast iron shoe scraper by the door. Neither of them spoke. A uniformed police officer was standing on the doorstep. He knew who they all were and began writing their names down on his clipboard. His hand was shaking.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t recall your name,’ he said to Lucy in a quivering voice. She told him and spelled her surname. He gave her a smile of thanks, but it wasn’t genuine. He looked too frightened to smile.

An ambulance was parked close to the house, its back doors open, but nobody was inside.

The front door was opened from the inside and Rory greeted them. He was wearing a white forensic suit which was covered in bloodstains. To the untrained eye, Rory looked like the murderer and had been caught in the act. Usually, DC Fleming was the life and soul of the team, always ready with a joke or a sarcastic comment to lighten even the most difficult of moods. However, he was looking down at the floor, his expression ashen.

‘Rory?’ Matilda asked.

‘Ma’am, nobody needs to see this if they don’t have to,’ he said quietly.

‘Oh God,’ Lucy said.

‘Where am I heading for, Rory?’ Adele asked.

‘Forensics are on the top floor in the attic bedroom. There’s a body on the stairs, be careful. And … prepare yourself for what you see on the first-floor landing.’

‘Thanks. Let’s suit up then, Lucy.’ Adele tried to sound professional, but there was a definite tinge of fear in her voice.

Matilda angled her head to look past Rory into the kitchen. A uniformed officer was comforting a fellow officer who was bent over, in tears.

‘Who’s that?’

‘PC Tranter, ma’am. She’s not handling it very well. I told her to have a break.’

Matilda and Adele exchanged glances. Both looked worried.

‘There’ll be nothing we can do until forensics say it’s OK for us to go in. Rory, is there anywhere we can go for you to talk us through it?’

‘The living room is free,’ he said.

The lounge was a huge space, expensively decorated in neutral colours, though the feature wall with a real fireplace was painted in a warm deep blue. The carpet smelled new, the curtains were rich and expensive. The whole room oozed class and taste.

Rory headed for the sofa and slumped down in the middle. ‘I have never seen anything like this before in my life. It’s like a horror film up there.’

‘Are you all right?’ Sian asked, sitting next to him.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I will be. I just need a minute.’

Matilda sat on the edge of an armchair. She looked at a gorgeous grandfather clock in the corner of the room and listened to the heavy ticking. It would look great in her new hallway. There was a photograph on the mantelpiece of a couple raising a glass of champagne to the camera. They looked happy.

‘Rory, what have we got here?’

He swallowed hard then looked up at his boss. ‘There’s a young guy on the stairs, about my age, I’d say. He’s been stabbed a fair few times.’ He blew out his cheeks and took a deep breath. ‘On the first-floor landing there’s an old-ish bloke who’s practically been decapitated.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just … there’s so much blood. I’ve never seen so much blood. Every time I close my eyes, I’m just seeing red.’ He ran his fingers through his short dark hair and took a deep breath. ‘On the top floor there’s a woman. You can’t make out her face at all.’ He took another breath which shook with fear. ‘In the small bedroom at the top of the stairs there was a young girl. She was tied to a chair.’ His voice quivered with emotion. ‘She was drenched in blood.’

‘Is she dead?’

‘No. She hasn’t got a mark on her. I think the blood must belong to the other victims. God only knows what she must have seen. There was a dog with her too; a Dalmatian, only a puppy. He was covered in blood as well.’

‘Where are they now?’ Matilda asked.

‘The girl is at the hospital. I think she’s in shock. She didn’t say anything. A PC is with her. The dog is in the back of the forensics van.’

‘OK. The dog is a crime scene. He’ll need checking out. Maybe the killer touched him. Or maybe the dog bit him.’

Rory nodded. ‘I carried her to the ambulance,’ he said, a tear rolling down his face. ‘You should have seen how she was looking at me. She couldn’t take her eyes off me. I didn’t know what to say to her.’

‘Rory, do you want to go outside, get some air?’

‘I think I will, thanks,’ he said, standing up. ‘Scott’s upstairs in the bedroom the girl was found in. He’ll be able to give you more information.’ He left the room while he was still talking.

‘I don’t think I want to go up there,’ Sian said.

‘If only we had that option.’

Dressed in white forensic suits, Matilda and Sian stood at the bottom of the stairs and looked at the young face of Jeremy Mercer.

‘Poor bloke,’ Sian said.

Matilda looked up the stairs, at the bloody footprints and paw prints on the carpet, the sprays and smeared stains on the wall. ‘Come on.’

She led the way, taking the stairs slowly. She didn’t touch the bannister, despite wearing gloves, in case she smudged any fingerprints. Sian was close behind. Matilda could hear her breathing heavily. The metallic smell of blood was heavy in the air. She could already taste it. Something caught her eye. She turned right and looked through the spindles at the landing.

‘Shit,’ she muttered under her breath, quickly looking away.

‘How bad is it?’ Sian asked from behind. Her voice was quivering with nerves. Her eyes remained fixed on the back of Matilda’s head.

Matilda composed herself, still with her eyes closed. She took a deep breath and eventually opened them. ‘Don’t look until you’re on the landing.’

She held out a hand and Sian took it, gripping it hard. Matilda pulled her up. As she turned around, she gasped and slapped a hand over her mouth. On the floor in front of them was a grey-haired man. His face was deathly white from having bled out. The carpet was saturated. The walls were dripping in blood. The man’s head was barely attached to his body. This was a scene of pure carnage. As much as they wanted to, neither was able to take their eyes off the destruction at their feet.

The door to a room on the left was slightly ajar. Inside, muffled voices were heard, and a brilliant yellow light was coming out from the gap.

Matilda walked over to it and pushed the door open. Sian followed close behind. DC Scott Andrews saw them enter and went over. His white forensic suit was stained with dried blood.

‘Ma’am,’ Scott said quietly, nodding at his boss.

‘Scott, I thought the girl was unharmed?’ Matilda frowned at the scene laid out before her.

‘That’s right.’

‘So where did all this blood come from?’ Matilda looked down at the white carpet. A trail of blood ran from the door to the bed. The pink duvet was smeared with blood.

‘Well, there was a puppy. He was on the floor next to the girl when the first officer on the scene arrived. It was as if he was looking after her. If you look, there are paw prints all over the carpet. I’m guessing the dog kept going out onto the landing and coming back in, not wanting to leave her.’

‘Poor thing,’ Matilda said.

‘The dog or the girl?’ Scott asked.

‘Both.’

Sian, gloved hand slapped to her mouth, looked down at the floor. She couldn’t take her eyes from the horror. ‘Are you sure she wasn’t hurt in any way?’

‘Not physically.’

‘She wasn’t … you know … interfered with?’

‘We don’t know that yet. I’m sure they’ll check her out at the hospital.’

‘How was she tied to the chair?’ Matilda asked. The chair was a small pine children’s chair. It was painted cream and the name ‘Rachel’ was written in pink copperplate on the back with a picture of a Dalmatian drawn on the seat.

‘She was tied around the waist, which held her arms in too. Her legs were tied together. She was also gagged but she’d managed to work that loose somehow.’

‘Why tie her up and not hurt her yet go on to kill like he did?’ Matilda asked, more to herself than her colleagues.

‘I don’t know. Have you seen the other victims?’ Scott asked.

‘We’ve seen two,’ Matilda replied.

‘Prepare yourselves. This is horrific.’

Matilda turned to Scott. He was looking at the ground, but she could see him struggling to keep hold of his emotions. ‘Are you all right?’ Matilda placed a comforting hand on the young DC’s arm. She could feel the tension.

‘No, I’m not. You don’t expect anything like this, ever.’

‘I’ve sent Rory outside for a break. Do you want to go?’

‘No. I’m fine.’

‘Right. Well, I need a team to go door to door. I want to know who these people are and if anyone saw anything. Sian, can you sort that?’

‘Sure.’

‘Obviously, don’t go into any details on what’s happened here. Not yet.’

‘There’s a marquee in the back garden,’ Scott said. ‘According to the woman who found them, there was a wedding reception here from yesterday evening onwards.’

‘We’re going to need a list of all the guests. Sian, give Christian a ring. Get him to bring a team out. I want everyone questioned.’

Sian left the room, dialling as she went.

‘Where’s the woman who found them, now?’

‘She’s been taken to hospital. She was hysterical when we got here. Oh, there’s a wet patch on the carpet on the landing. It’s where she wet herself.’

‘OK. I’ll let forensics know.’

‘What do you want me to do?’ Scott asked.

‘Go to the hospital and keep me informed of the girl’s condition. Take a uniform with you to keep guard.’

‘Do you think the killer will come back?’

‘I’ve no idea, but it’s a possibility.’

Matilda made her way carefully around the butchered man at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the attic. She felt her mobile phone vibrate in her pocket but ignored it. She couldn’t take her eyes from the man. Despite the horror of his final minutes, he looked at peace. Who would do something so violent, so shocking to another person?

The stairs leading up to the second floor were drenched in blood; smeared footprints and the odd paw print. Matilda looked down at her feet. The protective overshoes were covered in blood. When she got to the landing, she pulled another pair out of her pocket and replaced the saturated ones.

The attic was a hive of activity as Adele worked with the crime scene investigators. Arc lights had been erected and lit up the scene in an intruding bright white. Matilda entered the room and saw Lucy to one side, tears streaming down her face.

‘I’m sorry. I’ll be all right in a minute,’ she said.

Matilda felt sorry for her. She tried to remember when she was new to the job and the first crime scenes she had attended. In her whole twenty plus years on the force, she had never seen anything as horrific as this. If she had entered the scene as a twenty-something, she would have fainted and probably handed in her notice.

‘Why don’t you go outside for some air?’

‘I can’t. I’m needed here,’ she said between sobs.

‘I’m sure they can spare you for five minutes.’

‘I don’t think I can go down. I don’t want to see that man. Did you see his head? Oh God.’

Matilda didn’t know what else to say. She placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder then moved away towards the bloodshed.

Adele, crouched over the bed, stood up when she caught Matilda approaching out of the corner of her eye. Her blue forensic suit was stained red. She looked like the killer in a slasher film.

‘Late-fifties, early-sixties, at a guess,’ she said. ‘I’ve no idea how many times she’s been stabbed. Once we get her to the mortuary and cleaned up I’ll give you a better idea. Most of the wounds are to her face, chest and stomach. Look around you, the length of the sprays, this was savage.’

Matilda looked up at the ceiling and took in the sight of red lines, flicked up as the knife was pulled out of the body.

‘Lucy, I need your help here to turn her over,’ Adele called out.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Matilda said.

Matilda backed away and watched as Adele and Lucy gently turned the woman over. She tried to get a look at her face, see if she recognized her from somewhere, but there were no definable features. This woman had been destroyed.

Lucy turned away and made a gagging noise as if she was about to be sick. Matilda looked back at the body.

‘Is that what I think it is?’ she asked.

‘Her intestines? Yes.’ Adele nodded.

‘What the hell has he done? Removed her organs?’

‘I won’t know until I conduct a full PM. It’s not unusual, though, for someone to stab so frenzied that they dislodge the intestines.’ Adele sounded so calm, so professional. How was that possible?

‘You’ve seen something like this before?’ Matilda asked.

‘Only in text books.’

More photographs were taken by the forensic team. Matilda couldn’t take her eyes from the butchered woman. She was reminded of one of Jack the Ripper’s victims. The carnage, the sense of anger and hatred the killer must have had to perform an act of pure evil. Matilda uttered a goodbye to Adele, but she was wrapped up in her work so didn’t hear. She turned to the staircase, and headed back down, frowning at the position of the bloody footprints. A flash of something entered her head, then disappeared just as quickly.

As she reached the landing, she stepped over the man again, looking him directly in the eyes. There was nothing there. She was staring death in the face and it was looking right back at her.

‘Matilda.’ She heard her name being called from the hallway downstairs. Glad of the distraction, she turned away.

Walking downstairs, she saw how her white forensic suit and gloves were smeared with blood, even though she hadn’t touched anything. It was everywhere. Her plastic overshoes were slippery on the wood flooring of the hallway. She closed her eyes as she carefully stepped around the body at the bottom of the stairs.

‘I’ve got an ID on our victims,’ Sian said, heading into the living room.

‘Go on.’

‘Clive and Serena Mercer live here alone. They have two children: Jeremy and Leah. Now, according to neighbours, Leah got married yesterday and she and her new hubby left for their honeymoon early evening. Jeremy came home from Liverpool for the wedding with his daughter, Rachel, and stayed the night.’

‘So he’s our other victim?’

‘It looks like it.’

‘And the little girl is his daughter.’

‘It would appear so.’

‘Where’s her mother?’

‘Apparently, she died a few years ago.’

‘We need a contact number for Leah. I don’t want her hearing about this on the news. Do we know where she’s gone for her honeymoon?’

‘Paris,’ Sian replied, looking down at her pad.

‘OK. Have a look around, try and find something that tells us whereabouts she’s gone and we’ll arrange for the local police to go around and tell her. Where is everyone?’ Matilda asked, looking around and seeing no police officers.

‘I’ve just seen Scott drive off. Rory is in the back garden. He looked dreadful. I haven’t seen anyone else.’

‘Give Christian another ring. We need more people here. I need to go and see Valerie. This is going to go international once the press gets to know about it.’

Matilda left the house and peeled off the forensic suit. She passed a police car with its back door open. Behind a grill was a puppy Dalmatian caked in blood. Laying down, his head between his front paws, he looked up at Matilda with large sad eyes as she approached.

‘Hello sweetheart.’ She put a few fingers through the grill and scratched the top of his head. His tail wagged, but he didn’t stand up. ‘You’re missing Rachel?’ His ears pricked at the sound of a familiar name. ‘Poor thing. What did you see in that house?’ She tore herself away from the dog and headed to her car.

At the top of the drive she turned back to look at the house. It was a beautiful family home. Yesterday, there was a wedding. Everyone would have been so happy to watch two young people begin their new life together. They will have laughed, danced, and drank well into the night. Within hours it was a scene of horror.

It reminded Matilda how fragile life was. She knew that only too well. She took her phone out of her pocket, ignored the missed calls from Sally Meagan and looked at the photo she had as her wallpaper. It was her husband, James, smiling back at her. She loved that smile. She missed him so much. She walked away with tears stinging her eyes.

Chapter Five

The knock on the door made ACC Valerie Masterson jump. She was perusing a brochure on motor homes, which she quickly hid under a file on her oversized desk, before calling for her visitor to come in.

Matilda entered the room. She had driven to the station from Fulwood and gone straight into the toilets to scrub at her hands and face. Yet, even though she had been wearing gloves at the crime scene, she felt as though her hands were covered in blood and no amount of washing would make her clean.

‘Matilda, come and sit down. I’ve just heard. How bad is it?’ she asked. She went over to her coffee machine and started making Matilda a cup.

Matilda shook her head. ‘It’s like some kind of sick horror film.’

‘How is everyone?’ she asked, handing Matilda the coffee.

‘Not good. I think we’re going to have to offer counselling. Rory is taking this hard.’

‘That’s not like him.’

‘I know. I’ll ask Scott to keep an eye on him. Since he was attacked he’s been more sensitive.’

‘Do we know who they are yet?’

‘I think so. Clive and Serena Mercer.’

‘The Mercers?’ Valerie asked. Her eyes wide.

‘You know them?’

‘No. There was something in the local paper about them last week. Hang on.’ Valerie opened her laptop and began searching the Internet. ‘Yes, here we are. He’s an anaesthetist and she’s a neurologist. They’re always in the news for helping to raise money for various charities. Serena’s been doing a lot of protesting about saving the Sheffield trees. If memory serves, she was arrested late last year,’ she said with a hint of a smile. ‘Anyway, it was their daughter’s wedding, and the vicar who married them all those years ago came out of retirement to marry their daughter. They had the same church and everything. You’re saying they’ve been killed?’

Valerie turned the laptop around and showed Matilda the article on the site of the local newspaper. The main photograph was of Clive and Serena standing next to their daughter and soon-to-be son-in-law, who were hugging. All four were grinning to the camera.

‘So has their son. His daughter has been taken to hospital. We don’t think she’s physically injured though.’

‘Oh my goodness.’

Matilda closed the laptop. She could feel the smiling eyes boring into her. ‘The press is going to be all over this when it gets out.’

‘Well, leave that to me,’ Valerie said. ‘I want you and your team to put all your efforts into this. Drop whatever you’re working on and get this solved as soon as you can.’ Valerie returned to her side of the desk. ‘I don’t mean to sound heartless here, Matilda, but this has come at the best time for us. You’re now running a Homicide and Major Enquiry Team and this is your first test. Solve this, and solve it fast, and it will show those upstairs they did the right thing putting you in charge. We could get more money out of them for more officers. Then we can tackle some of these cold cases.’

‘I’m short of detectives as it is. I haven’t had a replacement for Faith yet and now Kesinka’s on light duties.’

‘I’ll get some drafted in but it will only be for this case. You can’t have them on a permanent basis.’

‘I need at least one permanent to cover Faith.’

‘I’m working on it.’

Matilda drained her coffee cup and stood up to leave. She hadn’t failed to notice the brochure for motor homes sticking out of her in-tray. Valerie wasn’t fully focused on getting more detectives for the HMET at all. She was due to retire in less than two years and the plan was for her and her husband to travel around Europe while they were still able to. Valerie’s mind was on one thing – buying the right camper van.

When Matilda Darke was first promoted to detective chief inspector, she was put in charge of the Murder Investigation Team. Budget cuts soon intervened and, five years later, the MIT was closed down and Matilda was put in charge of CID. When the press got hold of the information that South Yorkshire Police had more than twenty-five unsolved murders on their books, the pen pushers on the top floor decided to launch a Homicide and Major Enquiry Team which would deal with all serious crime and, in their spare time, tackle some of these cold cases. It was basically the Murder Investigation Team with a new name. Matilda was, once again, put in charge, and she was able to hand pick her team. She purposely chose the same team she had when running the MIT. They were even in the same open-plan office the MIT worked from.

The new unit had been up and running for less than a month. However, a lack of resources had meant the cold cases hadn’t even been touched yet. The murder of DC Faith Easter last year had been a blow to everyone on the close-knit team, and now DC Kesinka Rani, who was heavily pregnant, was on restricted duties, following a health scare in which she collapsed at a crime scene, until it was time for her to start her maternity leave. So, Matilda had only a DI, two DSs and two DCs. It was not enough.

As Matilda headed for her office she was stopped in the corridor by DI Christian Brady. He was usually composed, neat and professional, but this morning, his shirt was sticking out of his trousers and his tie was loose around his open-neck shirt.

‘You look harassed,’ Matilda said.

‘You’d think being a DI would give you some power, wouldn’t you? I’ve spent almost an hour having an argument with a sergeant to send a team of uniforms out to Fulwood. He was behaving like they were his own personal PCs.’

Matilda smirked. ‘Have they gone?’

‘Yes. They’re on their way now. Aaron’s already on site. He’s going to tell them what to do.’

‘Excellent.’

‘There are several DCs on the fast-track in CID. Can’t we steal them?’

‘Only if you want to give the ACC a heart attack. We need her say-so before we do anything.’

‘We’re going to end up with a couple of trainees, aren’t we?’

‘Not if I can help it.’

They walked down the corridor at speed, taking long strides to get to the HMET suite.

‘Rory called a few minutes back. He said forensics are going to be there all day, possibly tomorrow too. There’s a lot to process.’

‘I know. I’ve never seen anything like this before in my life. It’s shocking,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Fingers crossed house-to-house will give us something. Whoever did this is going to have been drenched in blood. You don’t take a change of clothing with you to commit a crime, so someone must have seen something.’

‘Famous last words,’ he said as he held the door open for her.

‘You’re getting as cynical as I am.’

‘I know. Horrible, isn’t it?’ He smiled.

Matilda made her way along the suite towards her office. She couldn’t help it, but she threw a glance at the desk Faith used to sit at. Her heart sank. It wasn’t getting any easier. Faith wasn’t the first detective under her charge she had lost in the line of duty. They all tore away at her conscience, caused a piece of her to die inside.

‘Boss,’ Kesinka struggled to stand up. She seemed to be getting bigger by the day. ‘I’ve just had Sian on the phone. You’re not going to believe what she’s found at the murder house.’

Chapter Six

Matilda and Christian drove to the crime scene in silence. Christian was driving while Matilda sat staring out of the window with a heavy frown on her face. She had been so sure the neighbours would have spotted a bloodstained man fleeing the scene. Now, her theory had been thrown out of the window.

A larger crowd had grown at the entrance to the cul-de-sac. Police tape was keeping them at bay, but uniformed officers were still battling with the neighbours who chanced their arm and stood in the middle of the road. Christian beeped, making a few onlookers jump.

‘Ghouls,’ he said quietly.

‘At least there are no reporters here, yet.’

‘I doubt they’ll be much longer. One of these lot will have called them, hoping to snag a few quid.’

They drove up to the drive and Christian parked haphazardly on the pavement. Sian was waiting for them.

‘Have you heard from Scott?’

‘Not yet.’

‘I just wondered how the young girl was,’ she said as she led the way down the gravel drive to the large house.

‘How are forensics getting on?’

‘There are plenty of fingerprints but as there was a wedding reception here yesterday it’s hardly a surprise.’

‘True. Give Scott a call, see if the woman who found them is ready to talk to us. She might know who the guests were. Then we can start eliminating people.’

‘Will do.’

Matilda paused at the bottom of the stairs. Jeremy Mercer was still slumped in the corner. It seemed disrespectful for him to have been left alone here with nobody sitting with him, but depending on what you believed, the person previously known as Jeremy Mercer was no longer here. He was dead. What remained was a shell, an empty body.

‘By the way,’ Sian continued, ‘we’ve found about a dozen digital cameras in the marquee. It seems there was one on every table and guests were invited to take snaps.’

‘I wonder if our killer will be on any of those photos. Maybe it was a fellow guest. Sian, get them sent back to the station. I want every photo downloaded and every person identified.’

‘That’s going to be a full-time job in itself,’ Christian said. ‘We don’t have anyone available for that.’

‘Then draft someone in from uniform,’ Matilda raised her voice. There always seemed to be some obstacle to every little task. ‘Sian, what did you want to show us?’

Sian led them into the kitchen where several evidence bags had been placed on the central island. They were sealed but through the little window, Matilda could see bloodstained clothing.

‘Where were they found?’

‘In the main bathroom. There’s a hooded sweater, jeans and a T-shirt.’

‘How do we know they belong to the killer?’ Christian asked.

‘We don’t, but, there are no stab holes,’ Sian said.

‘So, what are we saying, the killer comes in, murders three people and has brought a change of clothes with him?’ Matilda asked.

‘It looks that way.’

‘Are there any clothes missing from any of the bedrooms?’

‘I don’t know. We still can’t get in to have a look yet. I doubt robbery was a motive though. Have you seen some of the expensive stuff they’ve got down here?’

Matilda picked up the bag with the hooded sweater inside. It felt heavy. ‘Get this back to the lab. I want every centimetre of these clothes analysed. If they belong to the killer there’ll be something on here, a stray hair or sweat or something. Maybe even his own blood. The attacks were that frenzied I’ll be surprised if he didn’t cut himself.’

‘If he came here with the intent to kill, why not just stab them once each? Why be so violent if he’s going to have to change his clothes? He’s left us vital evidence, here,’ Sian said.

‘Unless …’ Matilda began, thinking aloud.

‘What?’ Christian asked.

‘Either, he’s really dumb and he’s basically handing himself to us on a plate, or, he’s incredibly smart and those clothes will give us absolutely nothing.’

‘And if they give us nothing?’

She thought for a while. ‘Then they’re a plant, and the killer will strike again.’

On the M1 motorway between junctions 28 and 29 was the Chesterfield Motorway Service Station. The bay for lorries was mostly empty. One was just pulling away, and the driver of another was exiting the coffee shop, carefully carrying his provisions that would tide him over until he was able to stop again.

At the side of the bay was a patch of grass with a few wooden tables so people could have somewhere to sit if they wanted to eat outside before continuing with their journey. As it was a freezing cold day in January and there was a fine drizzle in the air, most of the tables were empty. However, sitting at one of them, furthest away from the glow of the services, was a man, hunched over his rapidly cooling coffee. He was wearing a hooded sweater that was too large for him. The hood was pulled up and covering his face. When he heard the sound of a wagon pulling up behind him, he risked a glance.

A heavy-set man jumped down from behind the wheel and bent down to tie his shoelace. He was on his mobile.

‘I should be with you in about three hours, depending on traffic. I’ve been told there’s roadworks just outside Milton Keynes but I should be in Luton before five. Is that any good to you?’ He stood up and headed for the Costa kiosk.

The man waited until the driver was heading back to his truck before he approached him.

‘Excuse me, mate. You couldn’t give us a lift to Luton, could you?’

The driver eyed him with a frown. Usually when someone wanted a lift they had a rucksack or bag with them. ‘Who are you running from?’

‘No one. I got mugged yesterday. They took my bag. It had my train tickets in and everything. I had to take this out of one of those charity bins or I would have frozen to death last night,’ he said, pulling at his oversized hoodie.

‘Okay. Jump in.’

The man breathed a sigh of relief. He was surprised by how quickly he was able to lie, and how convincing he sounded, but he’d always been told he could talk his way into and out of any situation. He ran around to the passenger side of the truck and pulled open the door. He was smiling as climbed in. In three hours he’d be in Luton. From there he’d try and get to Dover and see if he could get someone to drive him through the Channel Tunnel. This time tomorrow he’ll be lost in Europe.

Chapter Seven

It was almost half past six by the time Matilda and her team were assembled for the evening briefing. It was a very sombre affair. The atmosphere was heavy. The whole room was quiet. Sian, who had a snack drawer full of chocolate bars and biscuits, pulled the whole drawer out of her desk and began handing out Mars bars, Snickers and Crunchies to anyone who needed a sugar rush, something to get them through the rest of the day.

‘Right. We’ve all had a bad day. I don’t think any of us has attended a crime scene like this one before. Now, I’ve been speaking to ACC Masterson and if anyone feels they need to talk to someone, anyone, in confidence, help will be made available to you. However, if you want to chat to me, my door is always open,’ Matilda spoke slowly and with determination. She had an earnest expression on her face. Who do I talk to about this, though?

‘Obviously, today has been a bit of a non-day. We’ve not been able to get into the house properly to have a good scout around. Hopefully, that will change tomorrow. Now, our first, lucid witness so far is Rose Bishop, who found the bodies. Sian?’

Sian had just put a handful of Maltesers in her mouth. She quickly chewed and took a gulp of tea to wash them down with. ‘Yes. Poor woman. She only went round this morning because she left a shoe behind yesterday.’

‘Did she say how many guests were at the wedding reception?’

‘She thinks about one hundred and fifty, maybe more. She didn’t know a lot of them, but she’s going to work on a list of the ones she did know. I’ve said I’ll pop round tomorrow morning to see how she’s getting on.’

‘That’s great, Sian. So, we’ve got Clive Mercer, his wife Serena, and their son Jeremy killed, and his daughter, Rachel, left alive for some reason. Scott, how’s she doing?’

Scott looked up from where he had been doodling on his pad. He hadn’t touched the coffee Rory had brought him or the Twix Sian had placed in front of him. He looked drained. ‘She’s in shock. She’s not responsive to anyone. It’s like she’s in some form of trance. However, she hasn’t been injured in any way and there is no sign of sexual interference.’

‘One saving grace,’ Sian muttered.

‘Unfortunately, we don’t know what she’s seen,’ Scott continued. ‘There’s probably a reason why she’s not talking. There’s a uniformed officer sitting guard outside her room all night. If there’s any change he’ll ring and let me know.’

‘What do we know about the Mercer family?’ Matilda asked. She looked at Scott out of the corner of her eye. It had only been a few months since he had been attacked by Steve Harrison. His physical injuries had healed quickly but who knew what was going on inside his head. Scott had always been the quiet one of the group. She didn’t want him suffering in silence.

DS Aaron Connolly approached the white board. He’d begun to stick photographs up. ‘Clive Mercer, aged sixty, was an anaesthetist and Serena, fifty-seven, a neurologist. Both worked at the Northern General. Jeremy, aged twenty-eight, was a junior doctor in Liverpool. We’re looking into their backgrounds, any known enemies, money problems, et cetera, but, so far, all the neighbours are saying they’re a lovely family. Clive and Serena raise money for local charities and the hospital. They’re regular churchgoers and both children are following in their parents’ footsteps. The perfect family.’

‘The ACC mentioned something about Serena being arrested last year while protesting about the trees being cut down,’ Matilda said.

‘Yes. Officially, Serena Mercer does have a record. In November while protesting in Ecclesall, she got a bit carried away and physically assaulted a bloke from the council.’

‘How?’ Sian asked. There was a glint in her eye.

‘She gave him a backhander across the face. According to the report, he went down like a sack of spuds. The whole thing was caught on camera and has over a million views on YouTube.’

‘Good for her. Bloody council,’ Sian said.

‘OK. I very much doubt this is some disgruntled council worker getting his own back after being embarrassed online, but, stranger things have happened. Pay the bloke a visit, Aaron, find out his alibi for last night.’

‘Will do.’

‘Have we managed to track down Leah yet?’ Matilda asked.

‘We’ve got a mobile number,’ Rory said.

‘Rose says she knows the name of the hotel they’re staying in in Paris but can’t remember it. She’s still a bit fuddled. She’s going to have think,’ Sian said.

Matilda took a deep breath. ‘What about forensics?’

‘Still at the scene. According to Sebastian Flowers, it will be at least another day before they’re through,’ Sian said.

‘Point of entry?’

‘Rose said the door from the marquee leading into the kitchen was open. The killer could have got over the fence at the back of the garden,’ Aaron said.

‘Anything missing?’

‘Nothing we can find so far. Maybe when Leah gets back from Paris she’ll be able to give us more information on that,’ Sian replied.

‘What about the clothing found at the scene?’

‘Nothing yet. It’s going to take time.’

‘Did any of the neighbours see anything suspicious?’ Matilda’s questions came faster. It was early days in the investigation. Unfortunately, the first hours were the most important. It was frustrating the crime scene was so intense they were unable to get into the house and have a good look around and try to understand the victims more.

‘The majority of the neighbours were at the reception. Apparently, the drink was flowing quite freely and most of them didn’t surface until they noticed flashing blue lights out of their windows,’ Rory said.

‘Which tells us times of death was sometime after the reception on Sunday night or the early hours of Monday morning. We need to find out what time the last person left.’

‘Rose said it was just after midnight when she left,’ Sian said. ‘There were still a few others milling around.’

‘And she was up and ready to go to work by ten o’clock?’ Rory asked.

‘She said alcohol’s never affected her badly. It doesn’t matter how much she drinks she’s always fine the next morning.’

‘Lucky cow,’ Rory said to a ripple of laughter from around the room.

‘CCTV?’

‘Some of the properties have cameras up. We’re working on it,’ Aaron said.

‘The digital cameras?’

Matilda had managed to snag a uniformed officer and recruit him as a trainee DC for the length of this case. Finn Cotton was in his early-twenties but looked to be in his late teens. He had the young fresh face of a children’s television presenter. He had strawberry blond hair and wore designer frameless glasses. The ravages of working through the night on a difficult murder hunt, surviving on a few hours’ sleep, missing meals and the stress of a dedicated homicide unit had not been felt by this man. Yet.

He looked up and cleared his throat. ‘I’ve uploaded all the photos and put them on an iPad. There’s over three hundred of them.’ His voice was soft with nerves at being the newbie in the group. ‘I’ve been able to tag names to those I know, but that’s only the victims and the main players like the bride and groom. I’ll need to go through them with one of the guests who’ll be able to identify them.’

‘I’ll have a word with Rose,’ Sian began. ‘As soon as she feels able enough, we’ll bring her in.’

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘Good work, Finn,’ Matilda said.

Finn smiled. His eyes lit up. He seemed pleased he was doing something right and hadn’t screwed up on his first day.

Matilda looked at the ashen faces of her team. ‘OK, I think we should call it a night. I want you all to go home, try and have a good night’s sleep and we’ll look at this afresh tomorrow. Again, if any of you need to talk, please do so. Do not let this eat away at you. Off you go.’

Matilda watched while the team slowly packed up and headed for the door. There were some sights you could never unsee, and the bloodbath they had all witnessed today would stay with them all for the rest of their lives. They would all see this through to the end, of that Matilda had no doubt; but how many would ask for a transfer, or resign when it was over? Aaron and Sian would stay, Christian too, but Scott and Rory were young. Would they think a career in the police force wasn’t for them? They had both been viciously attack in the past year or so. How would the hunt for a depraved madman change them? Valerie wanted this case solved at any cost. That was not going to happen. Matilda’s primary concern was for her colleagues. If they needed to finish early for their sanity, then so be it.

Matilda waited until everyone had left before going into her small office. She closed the door behind her and went over to her desk. She sat down and released a long, heavy sigh. Today had been a challenge, but they had all made it to the end pretty much unscathed. Who knew what tomorrow would bring?

Matilda looked at her reflection in the laptop screen. She looked tired, was getting dark circles underneath her eyes, and her hair was dull and lifeless. She slammed the laptop closed. She felt in urgent need of a shower, or a long soak in the bath followed by a bottle of wine or two and a plate of something unhealthy. She lifted her hands up and looked at them. They were clean but, in her mind, they were covered in blood. She could almost feel it dripping through her fingers.

As usual, Matilda was the last to leave the office. She passed the white board and looked up at the smiling faces of the Mercer family. It was deplorable what people did to each other. Throughout her career she had met murderers who had stabbed, shot, hanged, run over their victims, but what she had seen today was depraved. Her phone rang. She looked and saw it was Sally Meagan calling her again. It was the fourth time today she had phoned, and each time Matilda had ignored it. She waited until the phone stopped ringing before putting it back in her pocket. She couldn’t put off speaking to her for much longer.

In a private room in Sheffield Children’s Hospital, Rachel Mercer lay in bed. Her eyes were wide open, and she stared at the ceiling. Outside, a uniformed police officer was standing guard. She could hear the distant sound of life continuing as normal. Nurses came in on a regular basis to see how she was. It was always a different nurse. They spoke to her, checked her breathing, her blood pressure, her heart rate, but she didn’t reply. She couldn’t.

‘Daddy, I’m scared.’

‘It’s all right, Rachel. Everything is going to be all right. Just keep your door closed. Pongo will look after you.’

‘Who are you?’ she heard her granddaddy ask. He sounded shocked. He sounded close.

Pongo yapped.

‘Quiet, Pongo,’ Rachel hissed.

She crept to the door and pushed down the handle. Slowly, she pulled it open just a crack. Not wide enough for Pongo to escape, but wide enough so she could see out onto the landing, see what was going on.

There was a man. She couldn’t see his face as it was dark. Her granddaddy was on his knees. The man was holding him by his hair and he was stabbing him repeatedly in his neck. Blood was spraying everywhere. Her granddaddy was choking, gasping as each stab with the knife caused more blood to flow down his pyjamas, soak into the carpet, spray onto the walls. Rachel felt a warm splash of something on her face. She screamed. Her granddaddy looked her in the eye as he was thrown to the floor.

‘Rachel! Close your door!’ her dad shouted from somewhere.

Rachel couldn’t move.

Chapter Eight

It was pitch-dark by the time Matilda arrived in Bradway on the outskirts of the steel city. She parked her new Range Rover at the top of the drive and looked at it with a smile while she stood on the doorstep waiting for her knock to be answered.

The door opened and bathed Matilda in a warm glow coming from inside.

‘Matilda, this is an unexpected … erm …’

‘Surprise?’ She finished with a smile.

‘That depends on what favour you want.’

‘You’re a suspicious woman, Pat Campbell. What makes you think I want a favour?’

‘Oh, so you’ve come round for coffee and cake? You’re more than welcome. Come in. I’ll get out my photos for our holiday in Italy,’ Pat said, her reply oozing with sarcasm. The former detective inspector stood to one side to allow Matilda to enter.

‘You’re going to cut yourself with that sharp tongue of yours one of these days,’ Matilda said as she stepped into the warm hallway.

‘You’re holding a file behind your back. I may be retired but my detecting skills are still razor sharp.’

Matilda blushed as she brought the heavy file around to the front of her body.

Pat rolled her eyes and showed Matilda into the living room. It was minimalist and spacious, neat and tidy, yet homely. Anton was sitting in a recliner by the fire, feet up, reading the evening local paper. Wearing a grey cardigan, comfortable trousers and carpet slippers, he looked every inch the retired gentleman.

‘We’ve got a visitor, Anton, put the rag away.’

‘Matilda, lovely to see you,’ Anton said.

‘You too. You’re looking well.’

‘He’s looking old,’ Pat said with scorn. ‘Bowling, cardigans. He’s only thinking of booking us on one of those Saga cruises. I’ve told him, he can go on his own. Mind you, if the boat sinks, at least everyone will float with their plastic hips and their plastic knees.’

‘Ignore her. She looked in the mirror this morning and realized that expensive skin cream she’s been lathering all over her face for the past thirty-odd years doesn’t work. Would you like a drink, love?’

‘I’d better not, I’m driving.’

‘As you’re up, you can get me a gin and tonic,’ Pat said, taking his place in the recliner.

Anton made to leave the room, rolling his eyes at Matilda as he left.

‘Have a seat. Tell me what’s on your mind.’

Matilda sat down opposite Pat. ‘Is everything all right between you two?’

Pat sighed. ‘Yes. Everything’s fine. He’s just getting into the pipe and slippers routine a bit early for my liking. I’m getting old, I know that. I’m not dead, though. A Saga cruise. Can you think of anything worse? I want to go walking in the Rockies or skiing in Aspen. He wants to go to Norfolk because it’s nice and flat. I learned the flamenco in Italy. He twisted his ankle in the first couple of minutes and wore his comfortable shoes for the rest of the trip. Ignore me, I’m just having a moan.’

Matilda leaned forward. ‘How would you like a job?’

She half-closed her eyes. ‘Depends what it is.’

‘I want you to find Carl Meagan.’

‘What?’ Pat’s eyes widened. She sat up. A plethora of emotions ran across her face: excitement, fear, horror, wonder. ‘You’ve got new evidence?’

‘I’m not sure. A few weeks after Ben Hales killed himself, Sally Meagan got a letter from his solicitor. Since he’d been kicked out of the force, he’d been working as a sort of unofficial private investigator, trying to find Carl, another way to stick the knife into my back. Anyway, when Ben’s wife was clearing out his house, she found a load of paperwork. The solicitor gave it to Sally and Sally contacted me.’

‘I bet that was a frosty first meeting,’ Pat said with a hint of a chuckle.

‘It wasn’t the most comfortable of meets, no. We’re not best friends or anything, but we’ve sort of reached an understanding. We’ve been going through Ben’s information. I don’t know how he did it but he’d been speaking to child traffickers in prison and missing persons groups abroad. He may have been a dick, but I can’t fault his work.’

‘Have you found him, then?’

‘A couple of weeks ago, we were going through some photos Ben had come across. They were of kids in a school playground, wide-angled shots, but the schools weren’t in this country. They were in Sweden.’

‘Sweden?’

Matilda nodded. ‘Sally suddenly got it into her head that Carl was taken abroad. He’s blond with blue eyes, he fits the Swedish look. She wants to go out there. Me and Philip have been trying to put her off. It’s a ridiculous idea, but she’s dead set.’

‘I suppose she’s clinging to any form of hope she can get.’

‘True. I’m not a parent, I can’t imagine how she’s feeling.’

‘That’s why you’ve come to me?’

Matilda took a deep breath. ‘I attended a crime scene this morning that is possibly the worst crime I’ve ever come across. I can’t go into details, obviously, but imagine the worst thing a person can do to another person, then times it by ten. It’s that bad. I’m not going to have time to listen to Sally crying at me down the phone.’

‘So you want her to cry down the phone at me?’

‘I want you to work with her. Just while I’m on this case, then I can take over. She’s rung me about half a dozen times today. I haven’t called her back. I can’t be dealing with it right now.’

‘I don’t know, Mat. Didn’t she go a bit weird at one point, especially after she’d written that book?’

‘That was only because she felt she was in limbo. She’s got a purpose now. She’s doing something positive to find her son,’ Matilda said, almost pleading with Pat.

‘But he was kidnapped and held for ransom. Why would she think he’d been sold abroad? From the original investigation, it sounds like it was a couple of chancers trying to get some money from a rich couple. You wouldn’t go from that to child trafficking.’

‘You would if it was the only way you could make some money and you had a kid on your hands you needed to get rid of. What do you say, Pat? Please?’

‘Will you let me sleep on it?’

‘Sure, no problem,’ Matilda said, slightly dejected. She thought Pat would have jumped at the chance of a project to test her brain power.

‘Pat, where’s the Gaviscon?’ Anton called out from the kitchen. ‘Those kippers I had for lunch are repeating on me.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Pat said quickly to Matilda.

Chapter Nine

DS Sian Mills was a married woman with four children. As much as she tried to leave work behind when she left the station, it was difficult not to take the emotions home with her, especially on difficult cases such as what had happened with the Mercer family. She was preparing a quick and easy meal for the family – spaghetti and meatballs. It was only when she took the mince out of the fridge, slapped it onto the chopping board and went to take a handful to roll into balls when it hit her. She couldn’t face touching the raw, pink meat. She started crying.

‘What is it?’ Stuart asked, coming into the kitchen with a basket full of dirty clothes for the laundry.

‘I can’t do this.’

‘Do what?’

‘This. I can’t touch the mince. I keep looking at it and seeing …’

Stuart put the basket on the floor and took his wife in his arms. He was much taller than Sian; in fact, he towered over her. He was a large-built man and would not have looked out of place on the rugby pitch at Twickenham. He held her close, her head on his broad chest.

‘I’m sorry,’ she cried, her words muffled.

‘Don’t be. We’ve been through this before, we’ll go through it again. I’m here for you, you know that.’

‘I’ve never seen anything like this before, Stuart.’

‘Come on.’ He led her to the kitchen table, pulled out a chair for both of them and sat Sian down. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

Sian and Stuart had been married for twenty-four years. Although Sian was not supposed to discuss delicate work matters with anyone outside of the station, she often unburdened herself on Stuart. That’s what kept their marriage so strong. They supported each other and didn’t keep secrets. She refused to be a cliché detective who hid things from her husband, bottled things up and turned to drink to ease her pain. She lowered her voice so the kids in the living room couldn’t hear and told her husband what she had spent the day doing. When she finished, he grabbed her in his massive arms and pulled her towards him once again.

Being a detective, especially working on a Homicide and Major Enquiry Team, you saw the worst side of human beings, the depraved behaviour, the evil they inflicted on others. Eventually, it began to seep into your subconscious, and suddenly, you were seeing potential killers everywhere. Having someone stable in your life, just one person, to talk to, to lean on, made all the difference. Sian could tell Stuart anything and knew it wouldn’t go any further. She trusted him with her life. She felt safe in his arms.

‘Don’t tell the kids any of this; they don’t need to know,’ Sian said when she’d finished crying.

‘Are you going to be all right? You can ask Matilda to reassign you. She’ll understand.’

‘I know she will, but, no, I can’t do that. This is my job,’ she said, trying to sound positive and determined. She looked over at the chopping board, at the pink flesh of mince waiting to be cooked. ‘Tell the kids we’re having pizza tonight,’ she smiled.

‘Will you slow down? You’re killing me.’

Chris Kean stopped running and leaned against an oak tree in Graves Park. Further ahead, Scott Andrews was speeding up the incline. He stopped, turned and headed back down.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ Chris asked, breathing rapidly. ‘You’re like the Duracell bunny on acid.’

‘Sorry. Bad day,’ Scott said, stretching his limbs to keep them warm while Chris caught his breath.

‘Must have been. I’ve heard about taking your frustrations out through exercise, but this is ridiculous.’ He tried to laugh, but couldn’t.

‘I’m not frustrated, I’m just …’ Scott couldn’t finish. ‘Besides, you want a good time for the marathon, don’t you?’

‘Yes. I don’t want to kill myself though.’ Chris lowered himself down carefully and sat on the rough tarmac.

It was dark and the wind had picked up, an ice-cold stiff breeze was blowing. The temperatures hadn’t risen much above zero degrees all day. Now night had fallen, the temperature had plummeted. The clear sky, the billions of twinkling stars, the hard frost on the ground, it all looked stunning, but not when you were running in it, not when your face was bright red and your nose wouldn’t stop running.

Scott went over to him and joined him on the ground. He let out a heavy sigh.

‘Mum told me about the crime scene,’ Chris eventually said, referring to his pathologist mother, Adele Kean. ‘She said it was one of the worst she’d ever seen.’

‘It was.’

‘You stayed with the girl, didn’t you? The survivor?’

‘Yes.’

‘How is she?’

‘I was going to say she’s lucky to be alive, but is she? She’s going to live with the memory of what happened for the rest of her life, and with the fact that her father and grandparents were butchered. Would you want to live with that?’

‘She’s got an aunt. She won’t be alone.’

Scott wiped his eye before the tear fell. ‘Fuck.’ He turned away.

‘It’s OK to cry, Scott.’

‘It’s times like this that you wish you had someone to go home to.’

‘You’ve got Rory.’

Scott laughed. ‘He’s my flat mate. I meant, someone to … you know … hold you. I hate being single, sometimes.’

Chris put his arm around Scott and placed his head on his shoulder. ‘I know, mate. It’s been a while for me too. I know it’s no substitute, but you’ve got me if you need to talk.’

‘Thanks, Chris,’ he replied, not comforted.

‘And we’ve got running.’

Scott laughed.

‘And as a last resort, there’s always alcohol.’

‘And turn into Matilda Darke? No thank you.’

Scott and Chris ended their training session early. Neither were in the mood after that. Chris suggested going for a drink but was secretly pleased when Scott turned him down. He had a busy day tomorrow and a lot of marking to get done tonight. His job as an English teacher was originally temporary to cover someone on maternity leave. Fortunately for him, she decided not to return to work, so he was given the job full time. As they left Graves Park, Scott asked Chris not to tell his mother how he was dealing with this case. He didn’t want it getting back to Matilda. Chris promised.

Scott and Rory shared a two-bedroom apartment on the third floor of Riverside Exchange, on the outskirts of the centre of Sheffield. The view from the lounge overlooked the dirty water of the River Don and the sprawling city, which, at present, was a building site. Sheffield seemed to be going through a new burst of regeneration with ugly concrete eyesores being demolished and replaced with modern office blocks, cinemas and coffee outlets. Soon, the extension on Meadowhall that nobody wanted would begin. More roads would be built, more traffic would come into the city, more noise. It wasn’t shops and hotels Sheffield needed it was affordable housing. Scott and Rory were in their mid-twenties and the only way they could afford to leave their parents’ homes was to share. How long would they be doing that for? It didn’t look like either of them would be settling down soon. Another few years and they would have to decide who was going to be Jack Lemmon and who was going to be Walter Matthau.

Still wearing his Lycra running gear, Scott dragged his heavy feet along the corridor to his apartment. The bag with his work suit screwed up inside was dragging along the floor behind him. He’d pushed himself too hard tonight in Graves Park, but he needed to do something to forget what he had seen that morning in Fulwood. Not that it would make much difference: he would be seeing it again tomorrow.

He opened the front door, slammed it closed behind him and stopped still in the hallway. He could hear the sound of sex coming from Rory’s bedroom. Scott rolled his eyes. Since breaking up with his long-term girlfriend and having the freedom of his own place, Rory had been living life to the full. There was a new woman every weekend, it seemed. Although, this latest one seemed to be sticking around longer than the others.

Scott walked past Rory’s bedroom and the sound of grunting and the headboard hitting the wall grew louder, as did the woman’s groans. Scott couldn’t remember her name. He gave up learning names around the fourth one. He knew them as the blonde one, the dark one, the thin one, the one with glasses, the American one …

As Scott stripped off in the kitchen and put his running gear into the washing machine, the sounds became louder, the banging on the wall harder.

‘Jesus, Rory, for fuck’s sake, stop, you’re hurting me.’

By the time Rory came out of the bedroom, Scott was in the living room in his dressing gown, eating a bowl of cereal.

‘What’s wrong?’ Scott asked.

‘Nothing. Why?’

‘Didn’t sound like it.’

‘I think I got a bit carried away,’ he said, sheepishly.

‘Everything all right?’

The Scottish one came into the lounge, putting her earrings in. ‘I’m going now. Do me a favour, Rory, lose my number. Nice to see you again, Scott.’

Scott smiled. They both remained silent until the door slammed closed.

‘Don’t judge me,’ Rory said, taking in Scott’s hard stare.

‘I’m not judging.’

‘I was feeling a bit … I don’t know … I just wanted to let off some steam, that’s all.’

‘You should have come for a run with me and Chris.’

‘I hate running.’

‘You’re going to need to apologize to her.’

‘You heard her. She just told me to lose her number.’

‘She didn’t mean it. Apologize. Tell her you had a rough day.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s not like it was going anywhere. We were just having fun.’

‘You said the other night you really liked this one.’

Rory stood up and went to get a bottle of lager from the fridge. ‘Did it work for you?’ he asked, ignoring Scott’s comment.

‘What?’

‘Going for a run. Did it help you to get the crime scene out of your mind?’

‘Yes, it did.’

‘You’re a bad liar, Scott.’

‘I’m going to bed,’ he said, placing his half-eaten bowl of cereal on the coffee table.

‘It’s not even ten o’clock yet.’

‘I’m tired.’

Scott had a quick shower then went into his room, locking the bedroom door behind him. He picked up his phone from the bedside table and began scrolling through the photos. He smiled. There was one of Matilda and Adele crossing the finishing line of the Sheffield Half Marathon last year. They both looked like they were ready to drop dead. There was one of Chris crossing the line in the same race. Then Chris sat at the side of the road panting, sweat running down his face. Chris in the pub afterwards drinking a much-needed pint. Chris, once again in his running gear. Chris running. Chris running. Chris. Chris. Chris.

Chapter Ten

The man had been dropped off in Luton. He’d fallen asleep just after Nottingham and hadn’t woken up until Milton Keynes. Now, it was dark. He was still in Luton and he wasn’t tired. He needed to get to London. He knew that if he could get to the capital, it would be easier to get to Dover, and then through the Channel Tunnel and into France. Once he was on mainland Europe he could go anywhere. He thought briefly about his sister. Would she be sad if she never heard from him again? Probably not. He had caused her nothing but trouble their whole life. He remembered their last conversation, the argument they’d had. He called her a frigid, stuck-up bitch. She called him a loser and a waste of space. They were probably both right. Chalk and cheese, they’d never got on, even as children.

Well, he wouldn’t bother her anymore. She wouldn’t have to think about him again. Once he was in France, he knew he’d be safe. He could go anywhere from there.

He stole a biro from a petrol station, found a piece of cardboard in a bin and wrote LONDON in large capitals on it. He would have to wait until morning to be seen by drivers. He found shelter between two industrial bins and tried to get comfortable on the cold tarmac. At one o’clock he was still awake. The smell of rotting food didn’t help. He wasn’t tired. He was freezing cold and he was trying to work out where that rat had run off to as he quickly tucked his jeans into his socks.

Matilda Darke missed her silver Ford Focus. It was comfortable, familiar, and she felt safe in it. Unfortunately, it was no longer practical, and, as she turned from the smooth tarmac on Ringinglow Road down the bone-shaking track, she realized she had made the right decision in upgrading to a Range Rover. She could hardly feel the pot holes, the broken road, the jagged edges as she headed for her new home. A mile down the track, a narrow turn to the left and a sharp incline and there it was – the farmhouse she had bought because she felt sorry for it.

After former Detective Inspector Ben Hales had committed suicide in her house – the house her dead husband built – she no longer felt like it was home. That had been Ben’s plan; to ruin the last thing left in her life she truly loved. The bastard. It was in that house where she had felt a connection to her husband, as if he was still alive. He had designed the house, he had put his heart and soul into the place. Whatever room she went in she remembered James enthusing about it. Once it was built, once the decorators had left, the furniture had been moved in and it was just the two of them, alone, James had grabbed Matilda, lifted her up onto the granite worktops in the kitchen and made love to her right there. It was the best sex they had ever had. It wasn’t long before they had christened every room, including the double garage which wasn’t the most romantic place to make love in, and the toilet under the stairs was just silly and resulted in James pulling a muscle in his back. However, in the long lonely nights since James’s death, she remembered these moments of happier times and she smiled. She’d go into the downstairs toilet and she’d laugh as she remembered how James had struggled to get up off the floor and hit his head on the sink. She went out into the hallway, looked at the chair in the corner and … no, all she saw in the hallway now was Ben’s lifeless body hanging from the bannister above. The house had been ruined for her. She’d had to move.

While driving out of Sheffield she’d found a dirt track she had never seen before. Being Sheffield born and bred, Matilda thought she knew the city like the back of her hand, obviously not. Curious to where it might lead, she felt every bump in the road, and hit her head on the roof of her car twice as she plunged into cavernous pot holes. This was a bad idea. Her car wasn’t used to such roads, but something told her to continue. She almost became stuck at the sharp turn and the wheels spun on the incline, but she made it to the top eventually. She was glad she did.

A dilapidated farmhouse with four unstable chimneys, tiles missing from the roof, uncared for brick work, tired window frames with dirty panes, an overgrown garden, untended driveway and a front door that probably only required a swift kick to open. Matilda was in love. She got out of the car and walked up the driveway, her eyes fixed on the unloved house. There was a ‘for sale’ sign that had fallen down at some point, lying in the tall grass. Surely this was fate giving her a sign.

The house needed work doing to it before Matilda could even think about moving in. As her home sold quickly, she moved in with Adele while her new home, the aptly named Hope Farm, was made habitable. Fortunately, James had known many people in the building industry, and she contacted one of his trusted friends, Daniel Harbison. He’d been more than happy to help out, and when he had seen the enormity of the project, he rubbed his hands with glee. The windows were replaced, as was the roof. The chimneys were made safe, the whole house was rewired, the kitchen and bathrooms were ripped out and new, modern ones installed. Matilda and Adele spent many evenings going over colour charts and carpet samples and soon the house was ready for her to move in. There was just one room that needed finishing. On the ground floor, behind the living room, tucked away in a corner was a split-level room that led to the conservatory. This would make a perfect library, and as this was the room she would spend most of her time in, she wanted to make all the decisions herself.

Now, she stood in the doorway to the library and looked around at the floor-to-ceiling shelves which Daniel had designed and installed. The wood had been treated and needed a few days to settle before Matilda could unpack the many boxes of books she had piled up in one of the spare bedrooms. This was to be her sanctuary. When work got on top of her, when life became too difficult, she would come in here, close the door behind her, relax in the Eames chair and lose herself in a novel.

Matilda went into the living room and curled up on the large Chesterfield sofa. The walls were painted a deep red, the log fire was burning, and the entire house was warm, homely and welcoming.

On the reclaimed railway sleeper above the wood burner, was a framed photograph of her and James on their wedding day. The marriage only lasted five years before James was cruelly taken from her, another cancer statistic. She used to spend hours with the photo in her hands, crying hysterically, screaming for him to be returned to her. Now, she looked into his ice-blue eyes and smiled.

‘You’d hate this house, wouldn’t you?’ she asked him with a laugh in her voice. Of course he would. James was an architect. As much as he admired period buildings, his job was creating new ones. That’s what he loved. Hope Farm was built in 1891, the same year Conan Doyle moved his Sherlock Holmes stories to The Strand Magazine. Everything about it screamed Victorian.

Matilda was finally home. She was settled. She was almost happy.

Following a couple of hours of reading the new Eva Dolan novel in the lounge, she felt her eyes grow heavy and decided to go up to bed. She closed the door on the wood burner so no burning embers would fall out and set the house on fire while she was sleeping, picked up her book and made her way upstairs.

The house was deathly silent, apart from the usual noises houses made as they cooled down. She stood at the top of the stairs and looked over the bannister at the floor below. Through the stained glass in the front door, she could see thick branches swaying. They cast long shadows on the tiled floor in the hallway. They looked like gnarled fingers, crawling under the door, scraping across the floor. She shuddered at the thought. She’d have to buy a heavy curtain or something to hang in front of the door, block out the light.

Something woke her. She opened her eyes to find she was still sitting up in bed. The lamp on the bedside table was still on, and the hardback novel was open on her lap. She looked at the clock; it was just past one o’clock. She placed a bookmark between the pages, closed the book and placed it next to another framed photo of James on the table. She turned out the light and was about to turn over to hunker down under the duvet when she heard a noise from downstairs. Her eyes widened. She remained still and listened intently. She heard the noise again. It was a creaking sound followed by a tap. Was it the floorboards or the stairs? Was somebody coming up? Matilda sat bolt upright and turned the lamp back on. A few seconds later, she heard the same noise again.

‘Shit,’ she said to herself.

Matilda flung back the duvet and climbed out of bed. Next to the bedside table, one of James’s old cricket bats was leaning against the wall. She’d never had cause to use it in the past, but always felt safer knowing a weapon was to hand if she should ever need to defend herself.

She put on her dressing gown, tying it at the waist and went over to the bedroom door. The brass knob was cold. She twisted it carefully to the right so as not to make a sound, pulled the door towards her and stepped out onto the unfamiliar landing.

‘Hello,’ she called out. Her shaking voice echoed around the empty house. ‘Is anyone there?’

Creak. Tap.

Her mouth dried. She tried to swallow but couldn’t. She gripped the bat hard and went to the bannister to look over the edge and into the hallway. There was nobody there.

She was halfway down the stairs when she heard the creak and the tap again. It was coming from outside the front door.

Creak. Tap.

A branch outside the house creaked each time the wind blew and the tip of it tapped against the door.

Matilda released her breath and sighed. She almost laughed. First thing in the morning, she was cutting that branch off. Standing on the stairs, cricket bat aloft, she suddenly realized how ridiculous she was being. Is this how life was going to be from now on? Every time she heard a noise, would she think someone had broken in or the ghost of Ben Hales had followed her here to torture her all over again?

In the old house, even living on her own, she had never felt this frightened, this paranoid before. Was the fact she was living in the middle of nowhere worrying her? The isolation, the rolling countryside views from almost every window, the lack of neighbours – that was what had sold her the house in the first place. It was perfect. It was everything she had been looking for. She had thought.

Maybe I do want people around me.

Instead of returning to bed, Matilda headed for the living room. She pushed open the door and felt the warmth, despite the fire having died a couple of hours since. She turned on the light and almost screamed.

The walls. The walls she had agonized over the colour of for weeks, the deep red which made the room warm and homely, in the haze of the room, looked like blood dripping down. She immediately thought of the Mercer house, the lifeless, mutilated bodies of Clive, Serena and Jeremy. She looked at her hands, still wrapped around the cricked bat, and for a split second she thought they were covered in blood. She dropped the bat and staggered out of the living room.

She would have to redecorate.

Chapter Eleven

Matilda woke to the sound of her mobile ringing. She turned on the light, and, while her eyes adjusted, she fumbled on the bedside table for it. She answered without looking at the display.

‘Hello,’ she croaked. She sat up and looked around her. She couldn’t remember coming back to bed, but she’d obviously dragged herself back up somehow. She threw back the duvet and looked down at her body. There was no blood.

What the hell was I dreaming about last night?

‘Morning, Mat. Haven’t woken you, have I?’ Adele asked. Her voice didn’t have the usual bounce and lightness to it.

‘No. I was just getting up,’ she lied. The clock told her it wasn’t even six o’clock yet. ‘You’re up early. Couldn’t sleep?’

‘No. I kept having bad dreams,’ Adele said. ‘How did you sleep?’

‘Fine,’ she lied.

‘I wanted to let you know that we’ll be removing the bodies from the Mercer house at some point this morning.’

‘That’s great.’

‘I’ll let you know when the post mortems are.’

‘Thanks. How’s Lucy?’

‘She was very quiet when I gave her a lift home yesterday. I’ll have a word with her this morning. Chris went for a run with Scott last night. He said he was behaving, erm, strangely,’ she said, choosing her words carefully.

‘Strangely? In what way?’

‘Well, when he asked him about it, he started crying.’

‘Oh,’ Matilda was surprised. Scott was well known for keeping his cards incredibly close to his chest. Sian had her husband to confide in. Aaron and Christian both had wives they could talk to. Rory used Sian as an informal therapist, but Scott was stoic. Matilda often wondered whether he had an outlet for his emotions, apart from running. She wouldn’t have guessed Chris.

‘Scott told Chris not to say anything and Chris told me not to say anything.’

‘So you’re telling me,’ Matilda said with a smile.

‘Well, we have to look out for the people we work with, don’t we?’

‘And we all know you love a gossip.’

‘True. You won’t tell Scott, will you?’

‘No. I noticed he was quiet in the evening briefing anyway. I’m going to keep my eye on him. Fancy meeting for lunch?’

‘If I get time for one, yes.’

Matilda ended the call and decided to get up. She had a quick shower while the coffee was brewing then found a cereal bar in one of her many empty cupboards; that would keep her going for a couple of hours. She really needed to do some shopping. She left the house, snapping off the brittle branch that had caused her such panic last night, and headed for her car. Her mind kept going back to Scott. He had been quiet and more thoughtful looking before the Mercer killings. It couldn’t just be the carnage he’d witnessed that was causing such angst. What else was going on in his life to warrant such a change in his personality?

He woke up in agony. A night spent slumped between two industrial bins at the back of a petrol station was not anyone’s idea of a comfortable evening. He ached in places he didn’t realize he could ache and he was chilled to the core. Slowly, he unfolded himself from the position he had been curled up in and managed to stand up amid the sounds of clicking bones. He stretched, yawned, scratched and breathed in a lungful of rancid exhaust fumes and petrol. There was a hint of pleasure; freshly ground coffee coming from the kiosk. He emptied his pockets and counted the money he pulled out – £47.63. That was all he had in the world. Less than fifty pounds between him and poverty. It needed to last.

He went into the petrol station and headed straight for the toilets at the back. He washed his face with the pink handwash above the sink. He took off his sweater and washed under his arms. He was beginning to smell and didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He looked in the mirror at his tired face, his blond stubble and unkempt hair. He could go another couple of days without shaving, but soon he would look like a vagrant, and he’d never get a lift to mainland Europe without drawing suspicion. He’d think of something once he was at Dover. There was plenty of time, he was sure of it.

He bought himself a large black Americano, as strong as he could stomach it, and a bacon sandwich. If the forty pounds he had remaining was going to last, he would need to shop more creatively. No more chain coffee shops. He went back to the bins and picked up his ‘London’ sign before heading for the motorway.

It was still early in the morning, but it was filling up nicely with commuters. Cars with just one person in them flew past without giving him a second glance, as did coaches and mini buses. His best chance of a lift would come from a lorry. He walked along the hard shoulder, sign in one hand, coffee in the other, cursing every single vehicle that failed to stop.

‘Bastard!’ he shouted at an oil tanker that had applied its brakes, slowed down, only to quickly speed up again and beep its horn.

People were twats. That was something he’d discovered a long time ago. Nobody cared about anything but themselves. He’d tried his best, but he’d been screwed over too many times. Is there no wonder he turned to crime? It started with a bit of shoplifting; he’d been good at it too. It soon escalated. His mother told him he was on a slippery slope. It wouldn’t be long before he found himself in a situation he wouldn’t be able to get out of. He should have listened. She was right. If the police found him now, he was fucked. He should never have taken a glove off. The bloody latex made him itch. He’d left a print behind. He knew it.

Chapter Twelve

Sian didn’t attend the morning briefing. She sent a text to Matilda saying she couldn’t sleep and had called Rose Bishop to see if she could visit her early. Fortunately, Rose also had trouble sleeping and looked forward to having some company.

When Sian arrived, the briefing was almost finished. The main task of the day was getting into the Mercer house and finding out who the family really was. For someone to kill and destroy a whole family like that was personal. According to the neighbours, they were the perfect family. Matilda and her team, from experience, knew there was no such thing. There had to be something lurking in their past that someone would kill for.

Matilda was in her small office with DI Christian Brady when Sian knocked on the glass door.

‘Anything?’ Matilda asked.

‘I managed to get the name of the hotel Leah and her new husband are staying at in Paris out of her. I’ve contacted the Foreign and Commonwealth Office in London. They’re going to contact the British Embassy in Paris and send the local police round.’

‘That’s great work, Sian. Did she tell you anything else?’

‘No. She’s a mess. Her hands were shaking, she keeps crying, and I swear she’d already had a drink when I got there. I mentioned the photos and she’s going to try and come in later today to go through them with Finn.’

‘Is she married?’

‘Yes. Her husband had gone to work.’

‘How considerate of him,’ Christian said with sarcasm.

‘She took a few photos herself on her phone. She started showing them to me but began crying. I told her to email them over.’

‘I bet a number of other guests took their own photos too,’ Christian said. ‘It might be worth setting up an email address for people to send them to. We could get Finn to see what matches up.’

‘Good thinking, Christian. Call tech and get them to set it up. Also, I’m assuming they had an official photographer too, especially to take photos outside the church. We’ll need copies of those.’ Matilda looked up through the glass and saw the young TDC Finn Cotton at Faith’s old desk, staring intently at his computer screen. ‘We’ll use Finn for all the photos so nothing is missed. Sian, can you liaise with him?’

‘Not a problem.’ She was about to leave the office when Matilda called her back in.

‘Close the door, Sian,’ Matilda said. She lowered her voice. ‘While you’re both here, I need to ask a favour. Now, we all know how bad the scene was yesterday, but you two are my toughest officers.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ Sian interrupted. ‘I was crying on Stuart’s shoulder for most of the night.’

‘I just went to bed early. Jennifer knows not to ask about work. I talk to her when I’m ready.’

‘I’m worried about Scott and Rory,’ Matilda said. ‘They were both quiet yesterday and this morning. I don’t want them bottling anything up. They’re also not the type to freely talk about how they’re feeling, especially Scott. Now, I think we should limit the amount of people going to the crime scene. Aaron went to the house but didn’t go inside, neither did Ranjeet. So we’ll keep them here. The less people caught up in this the better.’

‘I agree,’ Christian said. ‘Well, I’ll keep an eye on Scott and Sian can keep an eye on Rory.’

‘And I’ll keep an eye on the both of you,’ Matilda smiled.

‘But’s who’s watching the watcher?’ Christian asked, a menacing tone added to his voice.

Matilda’s mobile rang. It was ACC Masterson. She held it up and showed them both. ‘That’s who’s watching me.’

Chapter Thirteen

Matilda met with Crime Scene Manager Sebastian Flowers outside the Mercers’ house. He looked as if he had been there all night. Usually clean-shaven and neat hair, his black mane was uncombed, and his stubble was patchy. Strangely, the unkempt look suited him.

‘My wife’s two days overdue. I keep seeing red patches every time I close my eyes and I haven’t had a decent meal since breakfast yesterday morning.’

‘Oh. Good morning to you too, Sebastian,’ Matilda said as she approached him.

‘The bodies have gone and forensics finished up about an hour ago. You’re still going to need overshoes and a face mask,’ he said before disappearing into the house.

‘Really?’

‘Unless you want to ruin your shoes.’

She glanced down at her cheap, sturdy slip-ons. ‘They’re hardly Jimmy Choos, but fair enough.’

In the hallway, Matilda looked at the framed photographs on the wall as she struggled into the paper suit. There was a different atmosphere to the house now the bodies had been removed. There was still a chilling darkness about the place, a sense that something horrific had happened here, but the immediate tension had lifted and been replaced with a great sadness.

The framed photographs on the walls showed the family at different stages in their lives. There was one of a handsome young man wearing his graduation outfit of cap and gown. His smile was beaming, and he was flanked either side by proud parents. They were now all dead. Butchered. Usually, Matilda reserved judgement as to the type of person who could commit this level of crime, but now, here, she didn’t care what excuse he used, was he mentally ill, high on drugs, to her, he was an evil, cold-blooded killer, and she would relish catching him.

‘I do have other crime scenes to attend,’ Sebastian called to her from the bottom of the stairs.

‘Sorry. I was looking at the photos.’

‘OK,’ he began, reading from his iPad, ‘this is where Jeremy Mercer was found. As you can see he lost a lot of blood, so the killer hit his target. Jeremy wasn’t stabbed as many times as his parents, but Adele can fill you in on that. Why is he on the stairs? Well, best guess is that he got up in the middle of the night and surprised the killer. There’s no sign of a head wound, so he wasn’t pushed or fell down the stairs. As you can see from the stains on the stairs there are some good shoe prints. Hopefully, we’ll be able to identify what kind of shoes. You can see the distinctive Nike tick logo in one on the landing.’

‘What about fingerprints?’ Matilda asked as Sebastian made his way carefully up the stairs.

‘This was a high traffic area. Don’t forget, there was a wedding here on Sunday. People will have been up and down the stairs on a regular basis. The bannister is covered with prints. None of them identifiable.’

‘Point of entry?’

Sebastian stopped once again mid-way up the stairs. He gave an audible sigh. ‘The marquee at the back of the house. The patio doors were open. The front door was locked and bolted from the inside. Nothing broken on any of the windows. No sign of forced entry. It’s all in my report which is in your inbox. Onwards and upwards,’ he said in a flat monotone as he returned to going up to the first floor.

Matilda remained where she was, looking at the amount of blood soaked into the carpet, and sprayed onto the walls. She wondered what had killed him: the loss of blood as his heart stopped pumping – a slow and agonizing death – or the stab wounds. She took a deep breath and headed up the stairs. She knew the sight that would greet her: the pool of blood where Clive Mercer had been murdered. As Sebastian was in the doorway of the room Rachel was found in, she went straight in there, leaving the horrors of what lay on the landing until she needed to see it.

Reading from his iPad again, Sebastian ran through what had been found in this room. ‘As you know Rachel Mercer was found tied to the chair. She was tied with a dressing gown belt which matches the one hanging on the back of the door, so the killer didn’t come equipped to tying anyone up. It’s been sent for analysis. There are three sets of identifiable latent fingerprints on the bedside table, fortunately it’s a nice smooth silk finish so we’ve been able to get some prints.’

The bed had been stripped of the bedding, including the mattress, so all that remained was the oak frame. There was no blood on the walls, but the carpet was stained with flecks of blood and small bloody paw prints.

Although Matilda was listening to the crime scene manager, her eyes were darting around the room. She wondered how long Rachel had been held prisoner here: what had she been forced to endure? Had she known all along that her family had been killed? If the murders had taken place in the early hours of Sunday morning and Rose hadn’t found them until just before ten o’clock, that was possibly six to eight hours of being tied to a chair, terrified, cold and hungry. What would that do to her mental health?

‘Did you hear what I said?’

‘Yes, you’ve got good prints from the bedside table.’

‘No. I was telling you about the stains in the carpet.’

‘Oh. Sorry. Go on.’

Sebastian rolled his eyes. ‘As you can see, forensics have cut a patch out of the carpet. Depending on what they get from them they may need to come back for more. This is going to need to remain an active crime scene for a while.’

‘Not a problem.’

‘The little girl—’ he looked down at his iPad. ‘Rachel. She wasn’t physically harmed in any way. So, identifying the various blood groups will give you information as to who was killed in relation to when Rachel was tied up. No tampering with the window. The main light was on when she was found. Now, this is interesting,’ he said, going to the bedroom door.

Sebastian closed the door and Matilda suddenly felt her blood run cold. She inhaled a deep breath and held it for several seconds longer than usual. There was the distinct aroma of metallic blood with a hint of dog in the air. She put herself in Rachel’s shoes; trapped in the bedroom, tied to the chair, covered in the blood of her dying relatives. She shivered at the thought.

‘On the back of the door is a very clear print of an ear.’

‘An ear?’

‘Yes. Only small, so we’re assuming it’s Rachel’s.’

‘Why would her ear print be on the back of the door?’

He shrugged. ‘Best guess is she heard something out on the landing and pressed her ear against the door to have a listen. We’ve all done that at some point in our lives, to be nosy.’

‘So she could have heard – I don’t know – raised voices or something,’ Matilda surmised. ‘Maybe she heard the killer arguing with her dad. Perhaps.’

Sebastian raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t relish you interviewing her. Poor thing,’ he said in his usual monotone.

He opened the door. Matilda was relieved. She was beginning to feel trapped.

‘Now, on to the landing.’

Matilda swallowed hard. All she could see when she thought about the landing was the head hanging off the body.

‘Nothing of interest here forensically, so we’ll move on upstairs.’

‘Really?’ Matilda asked. She was pleased not to have to linger but was surprised by the lack of forensics.

‘Everything around here has been fingerprinted, the doors, the walls, the bannister, and we’ve found nothing. Obviously, not nothing, the bannister was full of prints, but all of them smudged. Don’t forget, this is the landing – a main thoroughfare of the house. People will have come up to use the toilet, get changed. We haven’t found a decent print at all.’

‘It was a frenzied attack,’ Matilda said, looking up at the ceiling at the sprays of blood. ‘There must have been something, hairs, anything under his fingernails.’

‘Nope. Shall we?’ he said, eager to get to the next bedroom.

Matilda frowned. When a crime scene was as frenzied as this one, when it was obvious the victim had put up a fight, something was usually left behind of the assailant – a hair, a fingerprint, a fibre from his clothing, a bead of sweat. She would have a word with Adele, see if she could find anything from under their fingernails.

‘Are you sure? What about something in the fibres of the carpet?’

‘Matilda, every scene of crime officer who was here has had more than five years’ experience on the job. If they’d have found something they would have documented it and I would have known about it.’

‘I’m not doubting the SOCOs. I’m just saying, a man was stabbed so many times he was almost decapitated, yet the killer left nothing of himself behind.’

‘I can only tell you what we find,’ he said, hugging the iPad close to his chest and walking slowly up the attic stairs.

Matilda remained on the landing. The image of Clive Mercer’s stricken body was etched on her brain. He was white from having bled out. The number of stab wounds to his neck were many. The attack was frenzied. How could the killer not have left something, anything of him behind? This crime scene did not make any sense.

The stairs leading up to the attic were also smudged with bloody footprints where the killer had run up and down. The wall behind the bed was an explosion of blood. The sprays were high and long. It was difficult to understand how one person could perform such a lengthy, brutal attack, unless they had superhuman strength. Unless there was more than one person involved.

‘We managed to get an excellent bloody footprint from the left side of the bed.’ Sebastian pointed to where a square of carpet had been cut out. ‘Now, judging by the shoes in front of the wardrobe, Clive Mercer was a size eight. The bloody print was from a size ten.’

‘Only one print?’

‘Yes. Best guess is he put his foot up on the bed, for whatever reason, stood in the pool of blood, and placed it back on the carpet. It also matches the print from the landing with the Nike tick.’

‘Is that the only decent print in this room?’

‘Yes.’

‘Shouldn’t there be more prints? What about when he left the room? Unless he levitated.’

‘There probably were, but look around you, the carpet is saturated.’

Matilda looked at the floor. Her overshoes were stained red. She pondered the sight before her. She looked at the route the killer would have taken from the left side of the bed to the door after killing. The single footprint didn’t make sense.

‘What happened here?’ Matilda asked looking at a large smudge of grey powder by the dressing table.

‘Lindsay knocked over her fingerprint kit. Lucky the carpet’s stained with blood or she’d have a hefty cleaning bill on her hands,’ he said with a smile. ‘Anyway,’ he said, clearing his throat, ‘you’ll like this next bit.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh yes. We have a hair.’

‘Just one?’

‘Sometimes it only takes one. It was under the woman’s little finger on her right hand. It’s only small but the root is attached.’

‘Fingerprints and a hair, I’ll take that.’

‘You can’t commit a crime this frenzied and leave nothing of yourself behind,’ he said, unknowingly echoing her earlier thoughts.

But he didn’t on the first-floor landing, she thought.

‘Have forensics finished now?’

‘No. They’ve finished up here but there’s the marquee in the back garden. I doubt we’ll get anything from there as there will have been hundreds of guests here for the reception. However, it has to be done.’

‘True,’ Matilda said. ‘Well, thank you for this, Sebastian. You and your team have done an amazing job.’

‘That’s what we’re here for. Obviously, the fun starts now, back at the lab. As soon as we’ve got anything, I’ll let you know. I’ll email you across the crime scene photos once I’ve been through them all. As you can guess, there’s a lot to go through.’

‘Thanks, Sebastian.’

‘Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’m off to see if my wife has gone into labour yet.’

‘Give her my best.’

‘Will do,’ he said, waving as he left the room.

Matilda stood in the middle of the bedroom and looked around her. She went over to the dormer window and looked outside. It was a beautiful area of Sheffield. She pushed open the window and leaned out. It was a cold morning and she shivered as a stiff breeze entered the room. Looking down, she saw white-suited forensic officers going in and out of the marquee. Everything had to be bagged and tagged. It was probably useless and no relevance to the case, but, maybe the killer had taken a sneaky drink from a champagne bottle, or bit into a lump of cheese and left behind a pattern of some distinct dental work.

Wishful thinking.

She turned back and looked at the bloodbath before her. Serena Mercer had been obliterated. She frowned as she thought. Jeremy Mercer was stabbed only a few times, and, according to Sebastian, it appeared he surprised the intruder, which meant he was killed first. If that was the case, why did he receive only a couple of incapacitating stab wounds while his parents were subjected to a fierce attack? He was a young man. He was tall. He wouldn’t have been as easy to overcome as a couple in their sixties. What did that mean? Was it just the couple who were the focus of the murder? Did the killer think they were alone which is why Rachel was unharmed?

‘Ma’am?’

Matilda jumped at the sound of being called. She turned to see Scott standing in the doorway.

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.’

‘No. It’s fine. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. We’ve found a few laptops and tablets we’re taking back to the station. I’ve found a file in the boxroom being used as a study. It’s got a load of bank statements. I thought you might want to have a look.’ There was definitely something wrong with Scott. He was subdued, and he had a permanent worry frown on his forehead, giving him the impression he was about to burst into tears at any moment. Maybe he was.

‘Sure,’ she replied. ‘So, is everything all right?’ she asked as they carefully made their way down the stairs.

‘Yes. Fine.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. Fine,’ he repeated, more firmly.

He stormed into the boxroom at the end of the corridor and opened the top drawer of a filing cabinet.

Matilda immediately went to the bookshelves. Since she had acquired the book collection from Jonathan Harkness, a killer she hadn’t wanted to be guilty, she had been addicted to reading, and collecting books in general. Whenever she went into someone’s house, she headed straight for the bookcase to see what they had in their collection. The Mercers had no crime fiction. They were mostly biographies of historical figures and international monarchs. Although some of the covers were striking, the content held very little interest to Matilda, so she joined Scott at the filing cabinet.

‘They were very meticulous people,’ Scott said. ‘A file for everything. Gas, electricity, phone, water, council tax, pension plans.’

‘Anything juicy in the bank statements?’

Scott handed his boss a box file from the top of the cabinet. ‘All in monthly order.’

Matilda placed the box on the desk, now free of the desktop computer, and opened it. ‘Bloody hell look how much they made every month. I’m in the wrong job. What did they do, again?’

‘She was a neurosurgeon and he was an anaesthetist. Or it could have been the other way round.’

‘There doesn’t seem to be much of interest here,’ Matilda said, scanning the statements. ‘They have quite a few direct debit payments to charity. They really are the perfect family.’

‘Were,’ Scott corrected.

‘Take them back to the station and see if you can find anything. Don’t spend too long on it, though.’

‘Will do.’ He took the file from her and headed for the door.

‘Why would someone want to kill an entire family, and in such a horrific way?’ Matilda mused.

Scott stopped in the doorway. He turned back to his boss but gave her a shrug for a reply.

‘I mean, all killers believe they’re killing for a reason. So, if you have a gripe with someone, fair enough, you come in and you kill them, but this? This is overkill. And if someone has that level of anger towards them, then surely their friends or neighbours would know about it. Yet, according to everyone around here they’re Mr and Mrs Perfect. What aren’t we seeing?’ she asked, folding her arms.

‘A secret life. Maybe they’re in the witness protection programme and they’ve been found out.’

It sounded far-fetched but, in this instance, it had a sense of realism about it.

‘I get the feeling this is going to be a very complex investigation.’

Scott didn’t say anything. He stayed where he was and looked at Matilda, as if waiting for her to continue. When she didn’t, he turned and left the room. Matilda followed.

‘Scott, come into the living room for a moment,’ Matilda said once they were at the bottom of the stairs. She took off her overshoes and went in.

‘What is it?’ he asked, standing in the doorway, still holding the file.

‘Put the file down and take a seat.’ She patted the seat next to her on the large sofa, but he went over to the armchair. ‘Scott, what’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. I’m fine.’

‘You’re not. You’ve been quiet for weeks. Are you having personal problems?’

‘No.’

‘Everything all right at home? Rory isn’t pissing you off or anything?’

‘No. We get on well.’

‘How’s the training for the marathon?’

‘Fine.’

‘You can talk to me, you know, Scott.’

‘I know I can, but I’ve nothing to say,’ he said. Not once had he made eye contact with Matilda.

‘OK,’ she gave in. ‘I don’t believe you, but OK. Look, if you want to talk to me, about anything, please, come and see me.’

‘I will.’

‘Either in the office or you can come to my house. You know where I live. I may give you a paintbrush, but you’re welcome.’

‘Thanks,’ he said with a fake smile. He stood up and left the room, taking the file of bank statements with him.

Matilda’s phone rang. It was Sian. ‘I’ve heard back from the FCO,’ she immediately said. ‘Leah and Oliver are going to get the next available plane back to England. They should be in Sheffield by this evening. They’ve been told to come straight to the station.’

‘How did they take it?’

‘Well, language barrier aside, Leah didn’t seem to believe what she was being told.’

‘I can understand that. We’ll meet her at the station and take her to the hospital when we’ve had a word with her. She’ll want to be with her niece.’

‘Adele called as well; she wants you to pop in and see her at the mortuary.’

‘Will do.’

‘Oh, and one more thing,’

‘Go on,’

‘Rory’s handed in his resignation.’

Chapter Fourteen

Matilda sat behind the wheel of her car. She had a perplexed look on her face. She didn’t have a clue where this case was heading. The neighbours painted Mr and Mrs Mercer as Mr and Mrs Perfect. Nobody saw anything suspicious as they were all suffering the effects of the wedding reception. Now, her team was falling apart. She couldn’t have that. She needed them.

She lowered the window and allowed the sub-zero degree air to roll in. It instantly helped her relax as she took in a deep breath. She would need a clear mind to think straight if she was going to keep a strong hold of the case and her team. No distractions were allowed. She looked at her mobile and saw three more missed calls from Sally Meagan. This was one distraction she didn’t need.

Matilda called Sally. It was ten minutes before she was able to get a word in. It was obvious she’d been drinking, despite it not being lunchtime yet. She tried to tell Matilda about the phone call from Carl, but her words came out of her mouth so quickly they were falling over themselves into one long garbled mess. In the end, Matilda interrupted. She apologized for not contacting her, told her, briefly, about her current workload and talked-up the excellent skills of retired Detective Inspector Pat Campbell who was coming out of retirement to help her. Once placated, Matilda ended the call. She felt exhausted.

She started the engine and drove away looking in the rear-view mirror as she went. The house belonging to the Mercers was a beautiful stone-built building, tastefully decorated, in manicured grounds. She wondered if it would have to be knocked down. The house would now be synonymous with a multiple murder. It was such a waste of a stunning building.

Matilda’s to-do list was growing all the time. On her way to the mortuary on Watery Street on the outskirts of Sheffield city centre, she planned in her head everything she needed to do. There were the post mortems to attend, Rory to talk to, forensics to liaise with, Valerie to brief, Leah returning from Paris, Rachel’s condition in hospital to keep an eye on. She may only be seven years old, but she was a material witness, and she would need careful handling.

Matilda drove along, not paying attention to the road signs or the speed limit. How she made it to Watery Street without causing a crash was anyone’s guess.

She pressed the buzzer and waited to enter.

‘Matilda, come on in.’ The door was opened by radiologist Claire Alexander who performed the digital autopsies. She was dressed in oversized scrubs. Her face was red, and her hair was stuck to her forehead from sweating. Despite the grim nature of her job, Claire always had a smile on her face and welcomed Matilda with open arms.

‘You’re going to love me when I tell you what I’ve found,’ Claire began, heading straight for the Digital Autopsy suite.

‘Oh,’ Matilda was slightly taken off guard. She was hoping for a cup of tea first, maybe five minutes to compose herself.

‘We’ve scanned all three victims this morning. I think Adele is ready to get started on the invasive post mortems. Are you on your own?’ Claire asked, stopping in the middle of the corridor and turning around.

‘For now. I’ve got Ranjeet coming down.’

‘Right. Come on through.’

Claire opened the door into the small ante-room next to the main suite. As usual, the heat was stifling due to the bank of computers and scanning equipment. The atmosphere was heavy, not purely because of the heat, but the knowledge of what went on in this room. It seemed to be embedded in the walls. The usually clear desk had birthday cards dotted about, a reminder than even though this was a place of death, life does go on.

‘Whose birthday is it?’

‘It was mine on Monday. I should probably take these down now.’

‘Many happy returns.’

‘Thank you. Don’t even think about asking how old I am; I’m trying to put it out of my mind.’

‘Did you do anything special?’

‘I had a meal out with a couple of friends and I’m off to London this weekend to see a play,’ she said, a beaming smile lighting up her face.

Matilda smiled back. It seemed strange to talk about the usual practices of everyday life in a mortuary. She often wondered how people like Claire and Adele were able to do their job without it encroaching on their private lives. Matilda often took her work home with her. She spent many sleepless nights going over conversations, interviews, and statements to see if she had missed anything. Watching Claire deftly hammer away on the keyboard, bringing up images of dead bodies on the large computer screens, she doubted Claire would still be awake at 2 a.m. torturing herself about a bullet entry wound.

‘I’m going to talk you through Serena Mercer’s killing first. Now, we believe this to be the last of the killings. I’ll come to the reason why in a moment. However, this is an image of Serena’s face and chest.’

A black-and-white X-ray filled the screen. Matilda had no idea what she was looking at. She didn’t know one artery from another. Fortunately, she didn’t have to.

‘As you know, the attack was frenzied. Now, it’s difficult to establish the trajectory of the stab wounds as there was a lot of haemorrhaging which is obscuring the soft tissue. However, air tracks through the soft tissue and we can follow the path of the air to the initial stab wound.’ She looked over at Matilda who had a blank expression on her face. ‘Do you follow?’

‘I think so.’

Claire turned to another computer screen where a more detailed image of Serena Mercer appeared. In glorious technicolour, Matilda could see every muscle and vein in the dead woman’s face, neck and chest.

‘From the outside, we can see that she was stabbed twenty-eight times. Eight in the face, six in the neck, five in the chest, and nine times in the stomach.’

‘Can you tell which one killed her?’

‘The ones to the neck did the most damage. They cut through the major nerves and arteries. Both the internal and external jugular veins were severed,’ she said, pointing to them on the screen.

‘I’d have thought you’d have said the ones that ripped out her intestines.’

‘She was most likely dead by then. Also, I think your killer was getting tired by that point too. You can see where the knife dragged along the stomach, almost tearing it open rather than stabbing. Either he was getting tired or his knife was getting blunt.’

‘So why do you think she was killed last?’

‘Ah, this is the clever part. Take a look here.’ She zoomed in close and pointed to the clavicle bone in the chest. ‘Do you see that white line?’

‘Yes,’ Matilda said, leaning in to look at the pure white, but incredibly small, line. ‘What is it?’

‘That is the tip of the knife.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes,’ she replied with a smile. ‘The knife hit the clavicle, the shoulder blade, and snapped the tip right off. Obviously, I don’t know how many knives your killer had but all three victims have similar size stab wounds. I’m guessing two different sized knives, but he could have had more than one with the same sized blade.’

‘Oh.’

Claire closed down the images of Serena and brought up the ones of her twenty-eight-year-old son.

‘Judging from where Jeremy Mercer was found, on the stairs, we can surmise he was the first victim. He also has the least amount of stab wounds – three. A fairly deep one to the trunk of the body but managed to miss the stomach. Another stab to the neck and one to the chest.’

Claire zoomed in on Jeremy’s stomach. ‘See this line, this is from a much larger knife compared to these two,’ she said, pointing to the stab wounds on his chest and neck. ‘Now, the tip from the large knife is what is embedded in Serena Mercer’s clavicle. The tip from the smaller knife is here,’ she pointed to a bright sliver of light in Jeremy Mercer’s chest. ‘It’s broken as the blade hit the sternum manubrium and it’s stuck here in the pectoral muscle.’

‘So, if he killed him first, damaged his knife, why haven’t we found it? Surely he would have thrown it to one side or something as his spree continued.’

‘In an attack this frenzied, knowing your killer had at least two knives, you’d imagine him to have one in each hand and be stabbing remorselessly. When one knife breaks you’d throw it away and keeping stabbing with the one you had left,’ Claire surmised.

‘That’s what I was thinking, too. He’s hardly going to stop, put the knife away, then continue.’

‘Unless he did throw it away then went back to collect it once he’d finished.’

‘Hmm,’ Matilda thought. ‘If he’s killed in the way he has done, with such ferocity, then gone back around the house to check he hasn’t left anything behind, that shows a man of such cold-blooded calculation. To walk around a house, having tied up one of his victims and leaving her alive, he is basically one disturbed and sick individual.’

Claire shuddered. ‘I am so glad I’m in here and not doing your job.’

‘Right now, I think I’d rather be doing your job too. This is one killer’s head I do not want to attempt to get into.’

Claire blew out her cheeks and unbuttoned her top button. It was getting stifling in the small room. ‘Do you want me to show you Clive Mercer or would you like to take a break?’

‘Let’s carry on,’ Matilda said. Her voice lowered and her eyes were wide. She was genuinely frightened by this killer.

‘Clive Mercer’s injuries were all to the neck. Thirty-seven stab wounds in total. His head was just hanging on with two tendons.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Matilda uttered.

‘He cut through the lot; the carotid artery, the auricular nerve, the supraclavicular nerve, the anterior jugular vein. He’s even managed to get through to the thyroid gland. This is taking frenzied to a whole other level.’

Matilda looked at the colourful image of Clive Mercer’s neck. The man was an anaesthetist. He was intelligent. He was on the board of two local charities. He was a regular churchgoer, and this was how his life ended.

‘Jesus Christ,’ she said under her breath. ‘Would the killer have been covered in blood?’

‘Absolutely. He would have been drenched in it. Unless …’

‘Unless what?’

‘Unless he was wearing a forensic oversuit.’

‘Well, you can buy anything on Amazon these days,’ Matilda half-smiled.

‘Now, I’ve saved the best until last. Are you ready for this?’ There was a glint in Claire’s eye which Matilda found almost sinister.

‘Go on.’

‘Clive Mercer was dying.’

‘I’m sorry?’

More tapping on the keyboard and up came a close-up of Clive’s head. She zoomed in on a dark patch. ‘That is a rather aggressive-looking tumour on Clive’s frontal lobe.’

Matilda swallowed hard. She should have noticed the shading of a tumour as soon as she saw it. She’d seen enough of James’s in the early stages of his illness.

‘Is it cancerous?’

‘Adele will take samples and we’ll find out the severity.’

‘Would he have known about it?’

‘I would have thought so. It will be in his medical notes.’

‘I haven’t seen them yet. Poor bloke.’

‘I know. A double blow to his family.’

‘What’s left of them.’

The door opened and Adele Kean entered. She wasn’t scrubbed up yet for the post mortems and was wearing black trousers with a beige sweater.

‘We’re all set next door when you want to come and join us.’

‘I feel sick,’ Matilda said.

‘Have you eaten this morning?’ Adele asked.

‘I can’t remember.’

‘How about we all go for an early lunch?’ Claire said.

‘That’s a good idea. Mat?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve got a lot on at the moment,’ Matilda said, running her sweating hands through her hair.

‘You need to eat.’

‘Maybe just a sandwich.’

Adele and Claire were the first to leave the room while Matilda stood looking into the main scanning suite.

‘Did Matilda tell you she’s seeing someone?’ Adele asked Claire.

‘No. Who?’

‘The bloke who’s renovating her new house.’

‘I’m not seeing anyone,’ Matilda shouted as she followed them into the corridor. ‘He took me for a meal last week, that’s all.’ She rolled her eyes at Claire.

‘I don’t blame you,’ Claire said. ‘The only way I’ll get involved with a bloke again is if I’ve seen his bank balance and a cardiogram first.’

‘You’re a ghoul, Claire,’ Adele said with a smile.

Matilda found herself smiling. Sometimes you needed to take a break from the horror of the day job, even if it was a quick lunch with two women who spent their days surrounded by dead bodies.

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