by Michael Wood
‘Who’s Alec Routledge?’
‘He’s a sex offender.’
Chapter Six
The journey to the Northern General Hospital was conducted in silence. DC Faith Easter had volunteered to drive Matilda, and Kesinka Rani was in the back, reading through Alec Routledge’s file that Scott had emailed to her phone.
‘Alec Routledge is a paedophile,’ Kesinka punctured the silence with the disturbing statement. ‘Released from prison in 2013 and has lived in Sheffield ever since. He was a football coach and abused eight boys on his team between 1994 and 1997. Sentenced to twenty years and released after sixteen. Parole was refused three times before eventually convincing a panel he had been rehabilitated.’
‘What is so attractive about Sheffield to sex offenders?’ Faith asked.
‘Have there been any other incidents involving attacks on him recently?’ Matilda asked, ignoring Faith. She didn’t turn around in her seat to look at Kesinka. She sat facing forward, watching the outside world blur past her at forty miles per hour.
‘No. Well, if there have been he hasn’t reported them.’
‘So why now?’
‘No idea. According to uniform, neighbours heard a commotion during the night but, to be fair, when isn’t there a commotion on Gleadless? Alec was found by his sister when she came to pick him up this morning. He didn’t answer the door, so she let herself in with her key.’
‘Pick him up? Where were they going?’
‘To visit their mother in a nursing home.’
‘Do you have a photograph of Alec Routledge?’
Kesinka handed her phone to Matilda. Alec was in his mid-sixties. He was only five-foot seven inches tall, slight build, grey hair, what was left of it, and a harsh, weather-beaten face.
‘Is this a recent photograph?’
‘Last couple of years or so.’
‘Hmm,’ Matilda mused.
‘What is it, ma’am? Don’t you think it’s related?’
‘No. Brian Appleby was hanged. He was over six foot, well-built and broad, yet someone managed to hang him. Why couldn’t they do the same to Alec Routledge? He wouldn’t have taken any time to overpower.’
Standing outside the room in ICU was PC Steve Harrison. He stood tall and cut a dashing figure in his uniform. The impression his face was giving was one of boredom.
‘Any news?’ Matilda asked.
‘None whatsoever. A fine way to spend your birthday.’
‘Is it your birthday?’ Kesinka asked, a grin on her face. ‘Happy birthday. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-nine.’
‘Are you doing anything to celebrate?’
‘I’m going out for a meal with my girlfriend. With any luck,’ he said, stealing a sidelong glance at Matilda.
Matilda wasn’t listening. She was staring through the window at a comatose Alec Routledge, hooked up to tubes and wires leading to breathing machines and heart rate monitors. His face was a mess of purple bruises, red marks and white padding. His features were unrecognizable. A woman sat by his bed, who Matilda took to be his sister, looking down at the floor and dabbing her eyes with a crumpled tissue.
‘Kes, go and have a word with her. I want to know everything about him, especially who he interacts with. Faith, speak to the nurses, see what his chances are.’
‘What about me, ma’am? Do I have to stay here?’ PC Harrison asked.
‘For the time being, yes,’ she replied while walking away to the end of the corridor.
Last November, DC Rory Fleming had been attacked by a convicted killer while he was being interviewed at the station. The teenager had leapt across the table and began senselessly pummelling Rory with his fists, raining down blow after blow. By the time Matilda reached him Rory was unconscious. He was rushed straight to theatre where he underwent an operation to relieve swelling and internal bleeding on his brain. When he eventually woke up, the first thing he was concerned about was his hair, which had been shaved.
He had been signed off work for the rest of the year and returned at the end of January. The bruises had gone, and his hair had grown back. The once well-built and toned detective was now slightly thinner and had a gaunt look about him. He took this as an excuse to raid Sian’s snack drawer at every opportunity.
While on her way to the Northern General, Matilda had sent Rory a text asking where he was. She found him in a large waiting room staring up at a silent television screen showing a dull mid-afternoon antiques programme with subtitles. She sat down next to him.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Hello, boss. I’m OK. I had enough of daytime TV when I was at home recovering, now I’ve got it here too.’ He nodded towards the television.
‘Just a routine check-up, is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any problems?’
‘No.’
Matilda blamed herself for Rory’s attack. She should have kept a closer eye on him. He had taken the Starling House case to heart, was eager to know what turned a teenage boy into a killer. His questions had led to him being beaten, and Matilda would never forgive herself.
‘Is everything OK?’
‘Yes, everything’s fine. I’m expecting to get discharged today. If they ever call me in.’
‘Running late?’
‘Yes. Forty minutes. I’ve been X-rayed, had my blood pressure checked, and spoken to a psychiatric nurse. I’m just waiting to see the consultant. They don’t rush, do they?’
‘They don’t have to. I had a call yesterday about Callum Nixon.’
Callum Nixon was the teenage killer who had attacked Rory. He had been sentenced to life in prison for murdering two teachers in Liverpool. He had recently been moved to a YOI yet spent most of his days isolated from the rest of the inmates.
‘He’s had another ten years added to his sentence.’
‘Considering he was in prison for life it’s hardly going to make any difference, is it?’ he shrugged.
‘Not really. Are you still living at home?’ Matilda asked. Rory had moved back home late last year after splitting with his long-term girlfriend.
‘For now. Me and Scott are thinking of getting somewhere together, you know, share the cost. It’s doing my head in at home. My mum’s treating me like I’m a child again. She keeps saying I should get a safer job in a call centre or something. If I worked in one of those places, I’d go mad and end up going on a shooting spree.’
Matilda smiled. ‘She’s just worried about you.’
‘I know she is, but … listen, if I kill her, will you help me hide the body?’
Matilda laughed. A hearty laugh from the pit of her stomach, something she hadn’t done for a while. ‘I think I’ll go before you start asking me for the best method in which to do it. I’ll see you back at work tomorrow.’
‘Thanks, boss.’
As Matilda left the hospital she looked at an email on her phone. The post-mortem on Brian Appleby had been delayed. Obviously Adele Kean couldn’t do it, so a pathologist had to be drafted in from another district. Scene of crime officers had finished at Brian’s house. No foreign fingerprints had been found, no fibres, no DNA, nothing that couldn’t be explained. There was no sign of a forced entry, no broken locks, tampered windows. There was a key in the back door, which suggested maybe Brian had hidden a spare outside. The killer hadn’t needed to break in. Whoever murdered Brian Appleby was so skilled and knowledgeable about forensics they knew exactly how to leave no trace. Matilda found that incredibly frightening. She couldn’t help thinking this was going to be a long-running case.
Chapter Seven
‘Am I allowed in?’ Matilda asked, standing on the doorstep of Adele’s home in Hillsborough.
‘Of course you are,’ Chris laughed. ‘She’s in the living room. Go on in. Would you like a glass of wine or something?’
‘Wine would be perfect, thank you.’ She felt as if she could down a whole case of the stuff after the day she’d had.
Matilda made her
way into the living room. She peered around the door and saw Adele in the centre of the sofa. Her face was a question mark of confusion. Wearing no make-up, her eyes were red from crying, which made her black eye and worry lines more prominent. She looked older, sadder.
‘Do you know what I love about this time of year?’ Matilda said, walking in with two heavy plastic bags.
Adele was startled at Matilda’s brash entrance and looked up. ‘What’s that?’ She tried to sound like her usual self. She smiled but it was obviously forced.
‘All the boxes of chocolates and Easter eggs on the shelves. I was like a child,’ Matilda said, raising the bags. ‘I’ve got your favourites, Ferrero Rocher.’ She took out a large box of the chocolates and handed them to Adele. ‘I couldn’t decide on Dairy Box or Milk Tray, so I bought both. I’ve got us a couple of giant Easter eggs too. Only a fiver.’
‘Easter isn’t for another month,’ Adele laughed.
‘That doesn’t matter. I thought tonight we could watch a film on Sky, get pissed and give ourselves diabetes with this lot. What do you think?’
Adele’s face lit up and she looked ten years younger. ‘Don’t you have a murder to solve?’
‘I do. But my best friend needs a bit of pampering. Brian’s still going to be dead in the morning.’
Chris walked in with a fresh bottle of wine and three glasses. His eyes widened at the coffee table laden with treats. ‘Ooh, can I join in, or is this girl’s night?’
‘You’re more than welcome, Chris, providing you let me paint your toenails.’ Matilda smiled.
‘I think I’ll give it a miss. I might go round to see Josh. Mum, do you mind if I go out?’
‘Chris, you don’t need to ask my permission,’ Adele scoffed.
‘I know. I meant, are you OK, on your own?’
‘I’m not on my own, Matilda’s here.’
‘OK. Well, I won’t be long.’ He leaned over and kissed his mum on her cheek, said goodbye to Matilda and left the house.
‘He’s a good kid,’ Matilda said.
‘He’s not a kid, he’s a grown man.’ Adele had a faraway look in her eye. ‘He’s not my boy anymore.’
‘He’ll always be your boy. It’s just … he’s grown up. That’s what we do. We evolve and move on. Blimey, Milk Tray have changed since I last had a box. Apple Crunch? You can have that one,’ Matilda said, reading the back of the box.
‘I’m not doing much moving on,’ Adele said wistfully.
‘No. Neither am I. But we’re going to change that.’
‘Are we?’
‘Oh yes.’ Matilda smiled. ‘It’s a bit late for New Year resolutions, but we’re going to grab 2017 by the balls and make it a good year for both of us.’
‘Are we? How?’
‘Well.’ Matilda thought for a moment. After a pause, she said, ‘We’ve got the half-marathon next month, we’re training for that …’
‘Some training,’ Adele nodded at the boxes of chocolate.
‘We’re allowed a night off. Anyway, after the half-marathon and after we’ve been released from hospital, you and I are going on a holiday.’
‘Really?’ Adele asked with a hint of a smile on her face. ‘Where?’
‘I haven’t decided yet. Somewhere warm where the sea is blue, the sand is golden, and women in their forties wearing a swimming costume aren’t sneered at.’
‘Oh. We’re going to Worthing?’ Adele wrinkled her nose before laughing.
***
‘Do you know what I can’t get my head around?’ Adele asked.
They were on their third bottle of wine, though Adele had drunk most of it. The floor was strewn with screwed-up chocolate wrappers, and Matilda and Adele were slumped on the sofa, balancing a box of chocolates on their laps. Captain America: The Winter Soldier was just finishing; the credits were rolling.
‘How Bucky managed to survive that fall from the train in the first place?’
‘No, about last night.’
‘Oh. Go on.’
Their voices were slow and relaxed. Adele’s was slightly slurred.
‘How charming Brian was. He genuinely seemed like the perfect gentleman, yet he turned out to be a sex offender. How could he put on an act and be so convincing?’
‘I don’t know, Adele. I’ve been thinking about that myself all day. Maybe he had atoned for his crimes. Maybe he was moving on from his past and trying to rebuild his life.’
‘I understand prison is all about rehabilitation and once they’re released they should be able to return to normal society, but … I don’t know.’
‘Go on,’ Matilda urged.
‘Say, for example, we went on a second date, and a third, and we started to get close. Would he have eventually sat down and told me what he’d done? If so, how would I have reacted? I like to think I’m a forward-thinking person who could have seen past his crimes to the man he now was, but, what if I wasn’t? What if I was a bigot who thought he should have rotted in jail? This has really made me question what kind of a person I am.’
‘You know what kind of a person you are. You’re kind, gentle, intelligent, honest. You would have approached what he told you with an open mind.’
Adele shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘OK,’ Matilda said, sitting up to be more comfortable. ‘Pass me the Ferrero Rocher. Now, based on your first date, you said he came across like the perfect gentleman. Keeping that in mind, what if he had visited you this morning and said “Adele, you’re a great woman, I had a lovely time, but you should know I served eight years in prison for sex-related crimes”. What would you have done?’
Adele thought for a while. She had another sip of her wine, then finished the whole glass. ‘Honestly? I would have admired him for telling me the truth. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t have felt safe being alone with him. I wouldn’t have wanted him touching me. If he’s raped someone, how do I know he’s not going to rape me?’
‘That’s a very honest answer.’
‘But does that make me a bad person?’
‘No. It makes you human.’
‘We’re taught from an early age to forgive and move on. But there’s no way I could have made any kind of life with Brian, knowing he was a sex offender.’
‘There are some crimes that are unforgiveable, Adele. Even when they’ve served their time, criminals can’t expect to fully return to a normal life. There is no excuse for what Brian did. He may have been trying to put his past behind him, but that’s not always possible. Don’t beat yourself up for having a normal, human reaction.’
‘He was charming, but he was scum,’ Adele said.
‘Was that on his dating profile? If so, you’ve only got yourself to blame.’
For the first time that evening, Adele threw her head back and let out a loud laugh.
‘Captain America: Civil War?’
‘Definitely. Hawkeye’s in this one.’
Danny Hanson, only crime reporter on The Star, lived in a shared terraced house just off Ecclesall Road overlooking Endcliffe Park. He hated his attic room. It was cold in winter and boiling in the summer. All his possessions were in cardboard boxes and he couldn’t move without having to stride over them. His housemates were two trainee nurses he hardly ever saw and a student from China who had very limited English. Unfortunately, this was all Danny could afford, and on his meagre wages, it was all he was likely to be able to afford for years to come.
Sitting on his single bed with his laptop open, he was on a forum page about Sheffield life. He was hoping for some gossip about the dead body found at Linden Avenue this morning, but so far, there was nothing.
His mobile started ringing. He looked at the screen, but the caller’s ID had been withheld. He was tempted to ignore it, believing it to be another sales call about his broadband provider.
‘Hello,’ he answered, sounding bored.
‘Danny Hanson?’
‘Speaking.’
‘I hope you’ve got a pad and pen to
hand.’
‘Who is this?’ Danny’s ears had been pricked.
‘The bloke found dead on Linden Avenue this morning was Brian Appleby. He’d been executed by hanging. He was a paedophile from Essex.’ The caller hung up.
A smile spread across Danny’s face. He looked at his phone. The screen was blank. Had he just dreamed that phone call? He logged on to Google, typed in ‘Brian Appleby’ and saw stories about a man who had been sentenced for sex offences against underage girls. He opened a blank Word document and began typing, his fingers hammering hard on the keyboard. Once he’d written the basic story, he’d give someone in the police a call, see if they could confirm it. If not, he’d pass it on to his editor. She’d know whether to risk publishing it or not. He could almost smell the print on his first front-page splash.
Chapter Eight
Danny Hanson left work early Saturday afternoon. He’d been busy since first light trying to get confirmation for his story. He’d spoken to a few detectives in CID who had refused to comment, giving him the stock reply that a statement would be released in time. However, Danny wasn’t satisfied with that. In the end, he decided to use underhand tactics to get through to someone lowly.
‘Hello, my name’s Gerald Wiley. I was mugged last week. I spoke to a lovely girl in uniform who said she’d help find whoever it was stole my watch. I didn’t get the lass’s name. Do you think I could speak to someone, please?’ Danny asked into the phone, putting on his best old-man voice.
He was transferred from the switchboard and a young-sounding PC answered who was more than happy to talk to Danny. He quickly launched into his spiel about how he knew who the dead man in Linden Avenue was and just wanted his research efforts confirming. The PC refused to give his name, but his comments would definitely be enough to use in the paper. It helped that Danny had his iPhone held up to the receiver, recording the conversation.
At just after two o’clock in the afternoon, Danny left work. As he made his way for home, he saw a board outside a newsagent’s advertising the local paper. There it was, his first ever front-page story.
