by Michael Wood
‘Is there any chance I could speak to DI Spicer?’
‘I very much doubt it. Last week he became Superintendent Spicer. He’s very busy learning his new role. Besides, I don’t think he would be too happy to find out you’re meddling in one of his cases.’
‘I’m not meddling,’ Pat protested. ‘I’m … concerned,’ she said, choosing her words carefully.
‘Why does DCI Darke think Thomas Hartley is innocent? What’s she got to do with this?’
Pat leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘There’s been an incident at Starling House. She met Thomas Hartley and believes him to be innocent.’
John thought for a while. ‘There is someone you can talk to.’
‘Who?’
‘Thomas’s father, Daniel, had a sister, Debbie. I think she still lives in Manchester.’
‘Could you get me her address?’
‘Mum, I don’t want you stirring anything up here.’
‘I’m not going to stir anything up. I just want to satisfy my own mind. I don’t like the thought of an innocent man – or in this case, boy – imprisoned for something he didn’t do. If he is innocent then the killer is still out there. And judging by how disturbing that crime was, who knows if the killer will strike again knowing he got away with it the first time.’
THIRTY
As she made her way to leave Starling House for the day something caught Matilda’s eye. She looked into the room through the small glass window in the door and saw one of the inmates sitting alone at a table. His head bowed over a book. Matilda moved closer to the door and looked through the glass. It was Thomas Hartley.
She opened the door to the library and stepped inside. The door closed behind her with a bang but didn’t seem to register with Thomas, so engrossed was he in whatever he was reading. Looking around her, Matilda saw the library was empty apart from Thomas. She wondered where the other inmates were until she heard laughter coming from the small gymnasium.
It wasn’t a large room and there couldn’t have been more than a few hundred books to choose from. Since she had inherited the collection from Jonathan Harkness, there were probably more books in her home than in this so-called library. Her eyes fell on similar editions to the ones she had, though hers were in much better condition. Books by Simon Kernick, Tom Rob Smith and Peter Robinson stood out and made her smile. She felt comfortable and at home among books, just like Jonathan Harkness had.
She coughed to make her presence felt. Thomas jumped and placed a hand to his chest.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.’
‘That’s OK.’ Thomas closed his book and stood up. To Matilda it looked like he was standing out of respect for a woman entering the room, or was it to attention?
‘Is it a good book?’
‘Yes.’
‘What is it?’
He lifted up the book and showed Matilda the cover: The Legacy of Hartlepool Hall by Paul Torday.
Matilda smiled. ‘I’ve only read Salmon Fishing in the Yemen.’
‘I read that last week.’
‘Do you spend a lot of time in here?’
‘Yes. I think I’m the only one here at the moment who reads for pleasure.’
‘Do you mind if I sit down?’
‘No. Go ahead.’
Matilda sat on the opposite side of the table to Thomas. He waited until she was settled before he pulled out his chair and sat back down. He played with the dog-eared book in front of him. His fingers were thin and shaking. Matilda looked at his stiff frame. She tried to read the expression on his face but there was nothing there. His eyes darted rapidly from left to right. It was as if he wanted to make eye contact with Matilda but couldn’t.
‘Is Paul Torday your favourite author?’ Matilda asked, not really knowing what to talk about.
‘I don’t have a favourite. I read a couple of Agatha Christie books a few weeks back. They were good.’
‘Poirot?’
‘Yes. Death on the Nile and, I can’t remember the other. A young man was on death row and Poirot helped to get him off.’
‘Mrs McGinty’s Dead.’
Blimey, how did I know that?
‘That’s the one. I liked that one.’ He smiled which seemed to light up his face, briefly.
‘I have quite a collection myself. Mostly crime fiction.’
Thomas sniggered. ‘As a detective you’d think you’d want something else to relax with at the end of the day.’
‘Well, I inherited the collection.’
‘That was very generous. Handed down through generations.’
‘No. It was from a fr—’ Jonathan Harkness could hardly be called a friend, though she did like him. What was he? An acquaintance?
‘Do you want to question me about Ryan Asher again?’ he asked.
‘No. I was passing and thought you could do with some company for a few minutes.’
‘Company?’
‘Yes. A chat maybe.’
‘About what?’
‘I don’t know. Is there anything you’d like to talk about?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Thomas frowned.
‘Have you seen the film of Salmon Fishing in the Yemen?’ Matilda asked after an awkward silence.
‘Yes. I didn’t like it.’
‘Neither did I. Thomas, can I ask you a personal question?’
This time he did make eye contact with Matilda. She was taken aback. She saw straight through his stare and into an empty and broken soul.
‘OK.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘Because they think I killed my mum and dad and my sister,’ he replied, his voice breaking slightly.
‘And did you?’
It was a while before Thomas could speak. He swallowed and opened and closed his mouth a few times as if trying to get the words out before the tears came.
‘No,’ he croaked.
Matilda could feel her heart beating rapidly inside her chest. ‘So who did?’
‘I don’t know. All I know is that it wasn’t me.’
It would be wrong of Matilda to say she would help him get released. It would be wrong for her to go around to his side of the table, hold him and tell him everything was going to be all right. However, that’s what she wanted to do. She knew the second she laid eyes on him that he didn’t belong in Starling House, and she now had confirmation, of sorts.
She sat back in her chair and looked intently at the young man in front of her. What was going on behind those wide, dull eyes? He obviously spent his days reading to try to block out the nightmare he was living, but what about at night when he was locked in his room? His mind was probably torturing him, trying to make sense of the cruel hand life had dealt him. He looked sad and resigned to the fact he would be spending the rest of his life behind bars. Had he given up? Had he accepted his fate? It would appear so.
‘Are you OK here? Any trouble?’
‘No, to both questions.’ He gave an awkward smile. ‘Well, there wasn’t any trouble until Ryan was killed.’
‘I meant are you having any trouble? Some of the inmates seem a bit … well, full of themselves.’
‘Callum Nixon? I’ve learned to ignore him.’
‘Good.’
‘I read about you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘On the internet. The Carl Meagan case.’
‘Oh that. Yes. Not my finest hour.’ She gave a nervous smile.
‘You’re a good copper though. I was reading about the Jonathan Harkness case. You got him after twenty years. That’s something to be proud of, surely?’
Except I thought he was innocent.
‘I should be going,’ Matilda said, scraping back her chair. She wanted to question him further about his family, their background and what led to their deaths, but the mention of Carl and Jonathan made her want to flee.
‘Sorry. Have I said something I shouldn’t?’
‘No. I just need to get back to work.’
Ma
tilda stood at the door, her hand gripping the brass handle. She turned back to see Thomas engrossed once again in his book. She opened her mouth to say something but nothing came out. What could she say?
Matilda left the building quickly. There was a stiff breeze blowing as she made her way over to her battered Ford Focus. Before she drove away she looked back at the threatening building. Behind those thick walls were murderers, arsonists, and rapists. There was also one innocent and petrified young man.
THIRTY-ONE
Matilda wasn’t hungry when she arrived home. She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten, and, despite her stomach rumbling, she didn’t feel like eating. That was the problem of living alone – what was the point in getting all the pots and pans out, all the ingredients, and making a meal from scratch just for one? If she sat at the dinner table on her own she’d feel sadder than she already did.
The cupboard contained tins of beans, soup, and rice pudding. She could heat one of those up and sit on the sofa in front of the television, but that was one step away from eating it cold straight from the tin. In the end, she decided on a cup of a tea and a packet of Bourbon biscuits. Not very nutritious, not filling, but it was something at least. She took the tea and the biscuits upstairs to her library.
There were two hardback books on the table next to the reclining chair. One was the Val McDermid novel she was thoroughly enjoying, the other was Carl by Sally Meagan. She picked up the book with the blond-haired, smiling, blue-eyed boy on the cover. He had the face of an angel; his entire life ahead of him. What horrors had he seen out of those innocent eyes?
Matilda placed it back on the table beside her. Why was she torturing herself like this? Just because Sally had hand delivered the book with a threatening inscription didn’t mean she had to continue the agony by reading it. Would reading it bring Carl back? No, it wouldn’t. Would going over every single moment suddenly release some hidden clue leading to where Carl was being kept? No, it wouldn’t.
She knew what James would say if he were still here. He’d take the book from her and throw it out and tell her to get on with her life. Yes, it was fine to think about Carl, to cry for him even, but not to give up your life. You had to move on.
‘You’re right,’ Matilda said out loud. She picked up her Val McDermid hardback and went into her bedroom. She wouldn’t allow Carl in there.
Before getting into bed she looked out of the window. The sky was cloudless, and the moon was full and bright. She had so many questions running around her mind but no energy to answer them. She should concentrate on finding Ryan’s killer, on trying to prove Thomas Hartley’s innocence, but there was nothing left of her tonight. She was spent. Her grief for James and Carl saw to that. She left the curtains open just enough so she could see the moon from her bed. It was comforting.
Matilda had read three chapters when the phone started to ring. She looked at the alarm clock: 23:47.
‘Hello?’ she answered cautiously. An anonymous call at this time of night would never be good news.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Matilda Darke?’ the caller asked.
‘Speaking.’
‘I’m Danny Hanson. I’m a crime reporter on The Star. Is it true an inmate of Starling House has been murdered?
Matilda knew she wouldn’t get much sleep following the call from the crime reporter. She rummaged around in the bathroom cabinet for her sleeping tablets, took two and went back to bed. However, sleep did not come. Still awake at 2 a.m. she kicked back the duvet and went downstairs.
The rain had started and was coming down in stair rods, as her father said. She stood at the living room window looking out onto the dark street ahead watching the rain pouring down. She missed the moon. Another thing her father said was that a good storm washed away all the detritus of the city. Once the storm passed the air would smell fresh and clean, and so would the mind.
Matilda moved into the conservatory. Was it too early to go on the treadmill? Probably. Maybe she should join a twenty-four-hour gym. At this time of the morning there definitely wouldn’t be anybody there for her to feel self-conscious around. She could use the weight machines or go for a swim.
The rain was bouncing hard on the conservatory roof. Against the backdrop of the night’s silence it sounded loud and each drop echoed. Matilda sat on one of the easy chairs and listened, trying to focus on every single drop. It was calming, relaxing. It was pleasant hearing noise in an ordinarily silent house. She leaned back and closed her eyes while the rain washed away her dark thoughts.
Twelve stab wounds.
Ryan Asher’s body on the pool table came to mind, and Matilda’s eyes shot open. He had been laid out perfectly. Posed. Why? It was obviously a message but to whom and what was the message? Ryan was laid out on his back, his legs straight and his arms by his side like he was in a coffin. Was that the message? A way of saying he deserved to die; a nod to bringing back the death penalty for killers like Ryan Asher. If that was the case then why Ryan? He had only arrived at Starling House the night before his death so why had he been chosen?
Twelve stab wounds.
Why did that keep coming back to haunt her? What was the significance of twelve stab wounds? If Ryan had been drugged and incapacitated then the killer could have struck many more blows: twenty, forty, a hundred. So why only twelve?
Twelve disciples.
Twelve signs of the zodiac.
Twelve months in a year.
Twelve days of Christmas.
Twelve Labours of Hercules.
Twelve inches in a foot.
Twelve members of a jury.
Matilda shot up out of her chair. That was it. Twelve members of a jury. That was the significance of Ryan being stabbed twelve times. The killer was the judge, jury, and executioner sentencing Ryan Asher to death.
Twelve stab wounds. Twelve members of a jury. Murder on the Orient Express. Agatha Christie. Thomas Hartley was reading Agatha Christie last week.
She shook the thought from her head and turned her attention to the victim. Ryan Asher. Maybe Ryan was the first because his surname began with ‘A’ and the killer was working in alphabetical order. The other boys at Starling House were also potential victims, and as there was no evidence of a break-in the only possible killer had to be a member of staff.
Matilda ran into the hall and searched through her bag. She pulled a dog-eared notepad and quickly flicked through the pages until she found what she was looking for:
Ryan Asher.
Jacob Brown.
Lewis Chapman.
Thomas Hartley.
Craig Hodge.
Lee Marriott.
Callum Nixon.
Mark Parker.
They were the boys currently residing at Starling House. Eight inmates. Eight killers. One was already dead, and Thomas Hartley was in the top half of the list.
THIRTY-TWO
Matilda had briefly nodded off around four o’clock. Two hours later and a passer-by with a barking dog woke her up. She had fallen asleep on the sofa in an uncomfortable position. Now her neck ached; her legs were cold; her back was stiff and her eyes were heavy. She’d taken two sleeping tablets the night before and only managed two hours’ sleep. Her body was screaming to return to the comfort of her double bed and spend the rest of the day catching up on much needed sleep. However, her mind wasn’t prepared to listen to her body. It was chock-full of theories about a potential serial killer bumping off convicted killers in a secure unit for young offenders. Sleep would have to wait. So would the treadmill.
A quick shower while the coffee was brewing and bread was toasting. She ran downstairs and ate the toast at speed, tearing off large bites while she poured the strongest black coffee she could stomach into a travel thermos. She grabbed her bag, coat, and a couple of pieces of fruit from the bowl and left the house, slamming the door behind her. The rain had eased slightly, but she still dashed to the car.
Today was the first day since her return to work in almost
a year that she had not said goodbye to her husband. Every day she looked at his handsome smiling face, those piercing, ice-blue eyes, and that heart-melting smile and told him she loved him and asked him to give her the strength to make it through another day without him. Today she didn’t do that. Why? Had she simply forgotten or didn’t she need James anymore?
Matilda bounded into the briefing room at South Yorkshire Police HQ to find the room already full. She looked at her watch: 8:20. What time did she have to get here to be the first one in? Now that the majority of the crime scene work and interviews had finished at Starling House, there was no need for the detectives to work permanently from there. She signalled to DI Christian Brady that she was ready to begin and had a quick word with Aaron Connolly and asked how his wife was doing.
‘She’s back home now and resting. She’s going to need regular check-ups at the hospital to make sure she isn’t bleeding internally, but she’s fine. She just needs to take it easy. The next six months are going to be a nightmare.’
He had been all smiles on Tuesday. The first time any of them had seen him smile in all the years they had known him. Now, the smile was a distant memory, confined to the pages of history. His face was a map of worry and angst.
‘Good morning, everyone,’ Matilda began from the top of the room. ‘I had a phone call last night from Danny Hanson, a reporter on The Star, asking me if an inmate of Starling House had been murdered. I put him off as much as I could but I don’t think he believed me. Did anyone here talk to the press yesterday?’
Everyone looked at each other and shook their heads.
‘I’m guessing some of you will have spoken to your partners, relatives, friends, et cetera. Could any of them have contacted the press? Have a think. I’m not asking you to tell me but you need to know for yourself. This kind of news cannot be allowed to leak out. It has to come from us in an official statement. If any of you do get a call from the press, act dumb and end the conversation as quickly as possible. Is that clear?’
There were nods and quiet assents from around the room.
‘Now, what’s been niggling me about this crime is the way Ryan Asher was placed on the pool table as if he was posed.’ She pointed to the blown-up photograph of the crime scene on the whiteboard behind her. ‘This position he was laid in is significant. As was the number of times he was stabbed. So, any suggestions?’
