by Michael Wood
‘Almost.’
Matilda stood back and watched while Adele slowed down to a trot. She turned the machine off.
‘I just did 5k,’ she said, barely out of breath.
‘How long did it take you?’
‘Twenty-two minutes,’ she said, reading the display. ‘What are you on?’
‘I can’t remember off the top of my head,’ Matilda replied, trying hard not to be jealous that Adele was ten minutes faster.
The phone started ringing just as Matilda stretched her limbs.
‘Would you like me to get it?’ Adele asked.
‘Please.’
By the time Adele returned, Matilda was trotting on the treadmill to give her legs the chance to wake up properly. Her left leg felt a bit stiff this morning.
‘Matilda, you’re not going to believe this …’ Adele began. The look on her face said it all.
Matilda turned off the treadmill. ‘What’s happened?’
‘There’s been a murder.’
‘Someone I know?’
‘What? No, nothing like that. An inmate at Starling House has been killed.’
There was nothing Matilda could say. Starling House was a bone of contention for Sheffield. Everyone would prefer that it was closed down. They hated the fact their city was synonymous with a home for evil young boys. This could be the answer to their prayers.
SIX
‘How long has Starling House been open, now?’ Adele asked from the front passenger seat of Matilda’s silver Ford Focus.
‘I’ve no idea. Mid ’90s wasn’t it?’
‘Something like that. Have you ever been inside?’
‘No. I know people aren’t too happy about it being used as a prison. However, there’s never been any trouble – no riots, no break-outs, no deliberate fires or anything.’
‘Until now.’
Matilda looked across at Adele. ‘The press are going to have a field day, aren’t they?’
‘They certainly are. If this isn’t a hot topic I don’t know what is.’
Matilda turned down Limb Lane. With drystone walls and tall trees on each side, they were plunged into darkness as the thick branches blocked out the autumn sun. On the right was farmland, on the left was an open playing field. Matilda indicated left and they turned onto a dirt track. The car struggled over the cavernous potholes and breaks in the single lane road. They pulled up at the security gates, and Matilda leaned out of the window to press the intercom.
‘Yes?’ asked a tired voice.
‘DCI Matilda Darke from South Yorkshire Police and Doctor Adele Kean.’
There was no reply, just a long wait while the gates slowly opened. The second set of gates were already wide open to avoid any delay to the emergency vehicles.
At the end of the long drive, a fleet of marked and unmarked police cars, along with a Crime Scene Investigation van were parked haphazardly. All vehicles were empty. As Matilda pulled up, DC Rory Fleming stepped out of the building as if he had been waiting just inside the door. Always the gentleman, Rory opened the door for her.
‘Good morning, Rory.’
‘Morning, boss. Nice day off yesterday?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘You know, I’ve never taken much notice of this building before. It’s gorgeous. Have you seen those gargoyles?’ He looked up at the imposing building and marvelled at the intricate architecture. ‘According to one of the staff, this place was built in—’
‘Perhaps we can save the history lesson for another time, Rory. I’ve been told there’s a little matter of a dead body?’
‘Yes, sorry. He’s through here. Follow me.’
Rory led the way with a scowling Matilda and a smiling Adele following.
This was the closest Matilda had ever been to Starling House. Up close it was an ugly, dark, crumbling building. The brickwork was gnarled from centuries of harsh Yorkshire weather battering it. The features on the gargoyles had almost been rubbed away; yet their unwelcoming stare and toothy grins were frighteningly detailed. Matilda turned to look at an upstairs room and saw a curtain twitch. Alfred Hitchcock would have loved this place.
‘Where are all the inmates?’ she asked as she looked around the large open foyer, finding nobody.
‘There are currently only eight boys staying here – well, seven now – and they’re all in the dining room.’
‘Staff?’
‘The manager is Kate Moloney. She was down at the recreation room when I left. She’s milling around trying to show her authority but she’s just getting in everyone’s way. A couple of the guards are in the dining room with the inmates along with a few PCs. I think the remainder of the staff are in the staffroom. Aaron’s told them all to stay there until you decided what you want to do.’
‘Good. So what—?’
‘Speaking of Aaron – Katrina’s pregnant. Can you believe that? I didn’t think he had it in him.’
‘That’s brilliant news,’ Adele chimed in. ‘I know they’ve been trying for ages. Aaron said Katrina’s had a few miscarriages in the past. How far gone is she?’
‘About three months I think he said.’
‘Oh I am pleased. Do they know what they’re having yet? I’ll have to—’
‘Any chance of getting back on topic here?’ Matilda interrupted. ‘Rory, what do we know so far?’
They turned down corridor after corridor. Rory stopped suddenly at one point to get his bearings.
‘Well, the young lad is Ryan Asher. He arrived on Sunday night under the cover of darkness by all accounts. Very military. He was locked in his room at nine o’clock last night, which is normal, and this morning he was found dead on the pool table in the rec. room.’
‘Who found him?’
Rory looked at his notebook. ‘One of the senior officers, an Oliver Byron. Apparently, when Ryan didn’t turn up to breakfast Mr Byron went looking for him and discovered him in the recreation room.’
They arrived at the room which had been sealed off by crime scene tape. Inside, a team of forensic officers was examining the scene. Floodlights had been erected and white suited CSIs were busy looking for evidence. Adele slipped into a blue forensic suit and went to join her assistant, Victoria Pinder, who had arrived shortly beforehand and was busy laying foot plates on the floor.
‘Rory,’ Matilda took the young DC to one side and lowered her voice. ‘The press is going to be all over this but I don’t want anything getting out until it’s absolutely necessary. Get uniform to give you a hand and move all the vehicles at the front to the back of the building. I don’t want photographers taking snapshots and making up their own stories.’
‘Will do. Oh, by the way, the ACC is on her way over.’
‘I thought she would be. Thanks for the heads-up.’
The Assistant Chief Constable rarely attended a crime scene. The fact she was on her way was testament to how serious this case was going to be. Obviously, every murder was serious, but this was Starling House. The place was already swarming with killers. This is the kind of case tabloids have wet dreams about.
DS Sian Mills handed Matilda a forensic suit and waited while the senior officer struggled to get into it. Once inside the recreation room, Matilda stood in silence and surveyed the scene. She wanted to take it all in: the dimensions, the furniture, the layout. This room was going to be vital in solving this case, she could feel it.
It was a large room at the back of Starling House and looked out onto a wide open space of well-kept garden. The room was decorated in magnolia and the carpet was hard-wearing, but looked tired. There were scuff marks on the walls, and the carpet was stained. In the corner of the high ceiling, a few dark cobwebs hung down, evidence of a lack of regular cleaning.
‘Right, Sian, talk me through it.’
‘Well, I’m sure you know who Ryan Asher is.’
‘Is there anyone in this country who doesn’t?’
‘Sadly, I did have to explain him to Rory. Anyway, Ryan Asher arrived on
Sunday night. He spent the whole day yesterday being shown around, introduced to the various members of staff and the other boys. In the evening he and the others spent a few hours in here playing pool, watching TV or what have you, and then they were tucked up in bed by nine o’clock.’
‘Fast forward to this morning.’
‘The doors are unlocked and the boys make their way to the dining room for breakfast. However, one of them is missing. Off goes an officer to find him, and there he is.’ Sian pointed to the pool table.
Lying on his back in the centre of the pool table was the cold, lifeless body of fifteen-year-old Ryan Asher. He had been posed: legs straight and arms by his sides. His body was saturated in his blood, which had run into the pockets of the pool table and dripped onto the floor.
Matilda slowly approached the table. It was never easy attending a crime scene. It didn’t matter who the victim was: a person; a former human being with feelings and emotions who had been subjected to the most heinous crime imaginable. Their life had been tragically stolen from them and their body just dumped. The fact the body, in this instance, was that of a convicted killer made no difference. He was still someone’s son.
Matilda looked down at the pale face of Ryan Asher. He looked much younger than his fifteen years. His eyes were closed. He looked at peace, as if he were in a deep sleep. The splashes and flecks of blood on his face told her he would never be waking up.
‘I’ve counted twelve stab wounds,’ Adele said, breaking the silence.
‘Jesus.’
‘I know. A frenzied attack.’
‘Was he killed here?’
‘Yes. There’s far too much blood around to suggest otherwise. A lot has been soaked up in the – what is this, felt?’ she asked stroking the pool table.
‘Baize,’ Victoria Pinder replied.
‘What is baize?’
‘It’s a felt-like woollen material.’
‘What’s the difference between felt and baize?’
‘Can we do this another time?’ Matilda interrupted.
‘Sorry. Anyway, best guess is he was laid out on the pool table and stabbed to death.’
‘Surely he didn’t voluntarily lie down on the table while someone stabbed him.’
‘I don’t know about that. He may have been drugged. We’ll have to wait for toxicology before we find out.’
‘Any sign of a murder weapon?’
‘Not so far. The stabs are large and appear to be very deep. I’d say you’re looking for a seven-inch blade, smooth edges. A kitchen carving knife, perhaps.’
‘There are no splatter marks,’ Matilda said, looking down at the pool of blood on the floor. ‘It’s not been smudged in any way. It’s like he just bled out while lying on the table.’
‘It does look like it’s been staged, doesn’t it?’
‘I don’t like the feel of this at all.’ Matilda shuddered. ‘Sian, were those doors locked?’ she asked, moving away from the table and indicating the patio doors.
‘Yes. They’re double-bolted and there’s an alarm too. If they’re tampered with in any way, it’ll go off.’
‘And did it?’
‘No.’
‘Is it working?’
‘Apparently, yes.’
‘I want it tested.’
‘Will do.’
‘I see there are cameras in here too,’ Matilda said. She pointed to a couple of outdated CCTV cameras in the corners of the room. ‘I want the recordings. Not just from the ones in here but from everywhere else in the building.’
‘OK.’
‘Sian, I’m going to want to talk to the bloke who found him, and the woman in charge. Get a room set up for us to use too. All the staff and the inmates will need interviewing. I want you and Aaron to lead the interviews. Get all the files pulled on all the inmates. I want us to know everything about them, and their crimes, before we interview them. I don’t want anyone going in blind.’
‘No problem.’
‘DCI Darke?’ Matilda turned at the mention of her name to see ACC Valerie Masterson standing in the doorway of the recreation room.
‘Shit,’ Matilda said under her breath. ‘I’ll be back in a bit, Sian. Oh, find out if there are any knives missing from the kitchen.’
Matilda headed for the exit, ducked under the crime scene tape and followed the ACC down the corridor to a quiet corner.
‘It’s definitely Ryan Asher?’ Masterson asked.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Bloody hell. I always knew something like this would happen here. I’ve never liked this place. I want this solved quickly, Matilda. No pissing about.’
Matilda had to bite her tongue. A few months before she’d led a very prestigious Murder Investigation Team dedicated to hunting killers within South Yorkshire. Budget cuts, apparently, had called time on the MIT and Matilda, and her team, were transported back to CID. Suddenly, a major case occurs and she is expected to move heaven and earth without the necessary resources.
‘Ma’am, I never piss about on a murder case. This will get the full attention of my officers, and we will work to the best of our ability.’
‘You’re not giving a press statement, Matilda. Now, is there anything you need?’
‘I’m going to need the case files of all the inmates. These are dangerous boys here; I need to know who I’m dealing with.’
‘I’ll get them sent to you. Anything else?’
‘Just a full team at my disposal.’
‘You’re in charge of CID now, Matilda, use whoever you need on this. Just get it solved and get it solved quickly. Oh, and not one word to the media.’
With that, the five-foot-nothing ACC stormed past Matilda and disappeared around the corner.
It was no exaggeration to say that ACC Valerie Masterson had been under a cloud in the last year or so. She was criticized by the media for allowing Matilda to return to work following the collapse of the Carl Meagan case. Add to the mix the lengthy Hillsborough enquiry, the unprecedented levels of sexual abuse in Rotherham and the constant unrest at Page Hall, and the media was endlessly on Masterson’s case demanding answers. A murder in the most secure and controversial place in South Yorkshire could be the final nail in the coffin of her career if it wasn’t successfully solved. Matilda could understand her brusque behaviour.
Matilda walked back to look at the crime scene. With hushed tones everyone seemed to be engrossed in their task. Matilda went over to the pool table and looked down at the dead teenager. Ryan Asher, fifteen years old: face of an angel; soul of the devil, if the press were to be believed.
‘Why here?’ Matilda asked whoever was in earshot.
‘Sorry?’ Sian asked.
‘He was locked in his room at nine o’clock last night. If anyone was going to murder him surely the best time to do it would be while he was in bed. Why risk being seen bringing him down to the recreation room to kill him?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Look at him, he’s been posed. This is a stage. This is drawing attention to his killing.’
‘What does that tell us?’
‘It tells us that this is a killer with a message. And if we don’t understand the message straightaway, there’ll be another body.’
SEVEN
The staffroom was usually a quiet, lifeless room. As their breaks were staggered there were rarely more than two or three people there at any one time. It was a case of make a coffee, drink your coffee, rinse your cup, then leave. The room wasn’t enticing either. Painted in drab creams and browns almost a decade before, it was dirty and there was a smell of rubbish coming from an overflowing bin. The painted door was covered in handprints, the mis-matched chairs were rickety and the table wonky. Even the microwave was ancient and when in use loud enough to shake the foundations.
Now, it was a buzz of conversation and gossip as officers, cleaners, and cooks gathered to talk about what had occurred overnight.
‘You know what he did, that Ryan Asher, don’t y
ou? He killed his grandparents. I remember reading about it in The Sun – he beat them to a pulp, the bastard.’
‘He got what he deserved then, didn’t he? Some of the lads in here – locking up’s too good for them. They ought to bring back hanging for some of these killers,’ one of the cleaners, Roberta Del Mar said. ‘I hate having to go in that recreation room, especially when they’re in there. I just give it a quick flick then come straight out.’ She shuddered at the memory.
The door opened and a slim, short officer in her mid-twenties entered the room, closing the door behind her.
‘Rebecca, I didn’t know you were back,’ Doris Walker said, cheering up at the sight of one of her favourite co-workers.
‘I came back yesterday.’ She smiled.
‘You picked a great time, didn’t you? What’s going on out there?’
‘The police have arrived and they’ve sealed off the room. The inmates are all in the dining room.’
‘I hope they’re not making a mess,’ Roberta said. ‘I only polished that floor last night.’
‘Is it true he was stabbed twenty times?’ Doris asked.
‘I’ve no idea. Nobody’s saying anything. The police are all talking in hushed tones.’
‘They would do,’ Roberta said, taking another biscuit from the tin and dipping it in her tea. ‘When we were burgled a few years ago and the coppers came out, I heard a few of them whispering. They were only criticizing my carpet, cheeky buggers.’
‘I hope you put a complaint in,’ Doris said.
‘I bloody did. I got a half-hearted apology from some short woman in a hat about three sizes too big.’
‘They’ll have a lot to criticize about this place. It’s a dump,’ Rebecca said.
‘Don’t go looking at me. I work my fingers to the bone here,’ Roberta defended herself. ‘I can only work with the equipment I’m given. I’ve been asking for a new mop for three months.’
‘Did you see the body?’ Doris asked Rebecca eagerly, wanting to get back onto the more exciting topic.
‘No. You should have seen Oliver’s face though; he was so white, bless him. He could have had a heart attack.’
