by Michael Wood
‘It’s mostly budgetary reasons. South Yorkshire Police is under intense scrutiny, as you’re aware; we’re still under the microscope with the Hillsborough inquiry and the level of sexual abuse that has emerged in Rotherham has taken its toll. We’ve got representatives from the National Crime Agency looking into this sex abuse scandal. They’ve uncovered more than three hundred potential abusers. I’m lucky to still be sitting here. As we’ve been underperforming, so they say, we’re having our budget cut. Another reason is that the levels of murder within South Yorkshire have dropped. The Chief Constable believes that a dedicated murder unit is no longer necessary.’
‘I’m guessing he hasn’t heard about the double shooting last night,’ Matilda said with a hint of sarcasm.
Valerie gave a half-smile. ‘That has come with unfortunate timing. However, the Murder Room still exists at present and you have the full backing of the force.’
‘Just not the resources.’
‘Whatever you need to help you solve this case you will have.’
‘I want more detectives.’
Valerie sighed. ‘I will do the best I can for you; however, with these aggravated burglaries occurring left, right, and centre, CID are stretched as it is. Besides, you have Mills and Connolly, Fleming and … what’s his name, blond hair?’
‘Scott Andrews. I need a replacement DI.’
‘And you’re getting one. I have several candidates to interview in the coming days.’ That was a lie. Valerie had one person left to interview. It appeared that South Yorkshire Police’s reputation was not favourable with people seeking to improve their position. It would appear nobody wanted to be associated with the force.
‘Can’t I have one from CID? What about Brady?
‘DI Brady is working round the clock on these burglaries.’
‘Brady has been in this job longer than I have and you’ve got him working on burglaries. It’s not using him to his full potential.’ Matilda’s frustration was mounting. ‘With the Murder Room closing you’re sending dedicated detectives back to menial tasks. They won’t stand for it and they’ll leave. You’ll end up with a force like a ghost town and below-par coppers out of their depth when a serious crime occurs.’
Matilda paused for breath. ‘If the Murder Room closes the inevitable is bound to happen – the more experienced detectives will apply for a transfer to a force with dedicated units and South Yorkshire will be left with the dregs, and before the Chief Constable can polish his buttons crime will rise and the region will be crying out for a dedicated Murder Investigation Team, but there’ll be nobody skilled enough to run it.’
Valerie didn’t seem to be listening as she looked for a folder on her desk. ‘A warehouse in Snig Hill was broken into; £15,000 of computer equipment stolen, the whole place trashed and a security guard with a fractured skull. A house on Dore Road was broken into; elderly man and woman tied up while their house was ransacked. The woman was threatened with rape if she didn’t take off her wedding ring. A man was severely beaten in Heeley and had expensive watches and computer equipment taken. He was tied up with duct tape and doused in petrol. Need I go on? These are not just teenagers pissing about, Matilda.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly, her head bowed. ‘I had no idea of the level of violence involved. Christian Brady is a fine detective. He’ll do well on the burglaries. I just feel like I’m fighting a war single-handed. There’s no way I can win so why bother with the battle?’
‘Matilda, I understand your frustration, and your anger. I will do everything in my power to help you but I’m limited in what I can do. What you did with the Harkness case before Christmas was beyond excellent. I’m not going to placate you but I do believe you can work this case with the minimum of officers and still get a result.’
‘Why should I, though? Why should I work my arse off and get a result when it’s not appreciated? The Chief Constable is closing us down; I’m guessing there will be redundancies and I’m guessing I’ll be one of them. Why should I sweat blood just to be given my cards in a few weeks’ time?’
‘I’ve been assured there will not be any redundancies. It’s about having a CID and an MIT running side by side when it isn’t necessary. Combined you can have pockets of teams working individual cases with one or two senior officers overlooking the whole department.’
Those words may have been spoken by ACC Masterson but they were written by the Chief Constable, and, judging by the look on Matilda’s face, she knew that too. Matilda stood up to leave.
‘Before you go, did you see The Star last night?’
‘I’m afraid I did, yes.’
Valerie pulled out her dog-eared copy and laid it flat on her desk. It was open at page seven: ‘CARL MEAGAN: ONE YEAR ON’. Her stomach began performing somersaults.
Robert Walpole, Spencer Compton, Henry Pelham, Thomas Pelham-Holles, William Cavendish.
It had been a long time since Matilda had recited the names of the British Prime Ministers as an aid to relaxing. She hadn’t needed them since she’d given up drinking and learned to channel her grief. It seemed it only took the mere mention of Carl Meagan’s name and she was plunged back into her paranoiac nightmare.
‘We don’t come out very well I’m afraid. Were you contacted yesterday to contribute to this travesty?’
‘No.’
‘I thought not. It says you were unavailable for comment.’
‘I know,’ Matilda said, looking away from the paper. She didn’t need to see it; it was imprinted on her memory. ‘Why do they have to keep raking it up?’
‘It’s been a year. The parents want to keep the story alive. It’s understandable. He’s their son.’
‘I know,’ she said, bowing her head. ‘But I can’t keep doing this if I’m smacked in the face with Carl Meagan every time I’m working on a case.’
‘Matilda, leave the press to me. Do your job, a job you do incredibly well, and defy them all. I know you don’t believe this Matilda, but I’m with you 100 per cent,’ Valerie said when the expression on her DCI’s face remained hollow and drawn.
‘You’re right, I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it at all.’ She turned and left the room, not caring if there was more to the meeting.
Matilda didn’t have the energy to storm out and make a scene. What was the point in shouting and screaming from the rooftops if nothing was going to change? As Matilda walked away from the door and headed to the nearest toilets she was reminded of the saying ‘no man is an island’. Maybe not, but a high-ranking woman in the police force certainly was.
SEVEN
Matilda entered the pathology suite and was met immediately by a team of police officers milling around. It was imperative the body of Kevin Hardaker was not left alone at any time for fear of evidence tampering.
‘Morning Adele,’ Matilda said. ‘I see you’ve got a full house.’
‘We certainly have. The coroner has given the go-ahead for the Digital Autopsy.’
‘I’ve never seen one before. What are they like?’
‘It’s just looking at scans on a computer screen,’ she said, folding her arms.
‘You don’t seem impressed. Worried it might make you redundant?’
Three years before, Sheffield had become the first city in the country to open a state-of-the-art, non-invasive Digital Autopsy Facility. Its aim was to establish the cause of an unnatural death using sophisticated visualization software and a scanner rather than a scalpel. With the results available almost immediately, it was a huge step forward for the Sheffield police force, but Matilda could see why Adele might be concerned.
‘No, of course not. It actually makes my job a whole lot easier. You can rotate a body 360º without getting your hands dirty. I’m all for that.’
The doors opened and the radiologist, Claire Alexander, stepped out. She was a small woman in her mid-thirties, with long brown hair, tied back in a severe ponytail. She was wearing hospital scrubs that were a size too big for her.
‘M
orning Claire, happy birthday,’ Adele said.
‘Thank you. I see you’ve got me a present.’ She nodded towards the black body bag containing Kevin Hardaker.
‘I certainly have. No peeking.’
‘We’re all set next door if you are.’
Victoria Pinder, Adele’s Assistant Technical Officer, led the way with the trolley. It was a short narrow corridor leading into the Digital Autopsy suite and the trolley banged loudly against the walls and door.
‘Mind my paintwork. It’s just been redone,’ Claire said.
The mood as everyone entered the suite quickly changed from one of levity to sombre professionalism. They were all here because of a dead man: a person whose life had been brutally cut short. He deserved respect and dignity.
The machine was simple in design. It reminded Matilda of the many times she accompanied her husband to the hospital in the early days of his diagnosis and the many scans he had to endure. This scanner didn’t seem as bulky as the one at the Northern General; it was obviously a newer model. It looked less daunting and not as claustrophobic.
Victoria and Claire lifted Kevin, still in the bag, onto the scanner and secured him in place using Velcro straps. Everyone then made their way into the control room.
The small room, with a bank of five large computer screens, was packed with police officers and technical staff. Claire squeezed her way through and seated herself behind a computer in front of the window looking out into the main room. She clicked a few buttons and the scan began.
‘What’s happening now?’ Matilda whispered to Adele.
‘You know those annoying Slinky things that go down stairs on their own?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, imagine you’re standing in the middle of a large Slinky. The scan circles around the body from top to toe. Claire can adjust the thickness of the spirals to get a more detailed view of the body. The smaller the gap, the more detail we can pick up.’
‘So why is Claire doing this and not you, if you’re a pathologist?’
‘The scan works like an X-ray and you have radiographers for that. That’s what Claire is. All I do is interpret the results.’
‘It’s not noisy is it?’ Matilda whispered. ‘I remember going to an MRI with James and I could have done with earplugs.’
‘Everything is less noisy these days; with the exception of a Dyson vacuum cleaner.’
A ghost image of Kevin’s body appeared on the screen and looked like an X-ray. Leaning forward, Matilda frowned at the bright white objects on the body, but didn’t ask any questions. She’d save that for later.
Claire singled out the head and rescanned to get a better image. A full 3D picture of Kevin’s head filled the screen. She rotated it several times to get a good look at it from all angles; something that wouldn’t be possible in a traditional post-mortem without physically turning the body over.
‘The entry wound of the bullet was just below the left eye. You can see the bevelling of the bone as it enters. The exit wound,’ Claire said as she tilted the 3D image to view the back of the head, ‘is here. Just above the base of the skull. Those white specks are metal fragments from the bullet.’
Matilda’s question was answered.
‘What about the second bullet?’
Going back to the full body scan, Claire selected a second region of interest, the chest, and looked closer. The impact the bullet had on the body was shocking to see in glorious technicolour. The ribs and organs were easily identifiable but were in a condition Matilda had never seen before.
‘The bullet entered the chest just below the heart.’ Claire pointed to a bright white object the exact shape of a bullet, which was firmly lodged in Kevin Hardaker’s body. ‘It shattered the ribs, as you can see. The rib fragment has punctured his left lung, which is why it’s deflated. He suffered a pneumothorax.’
‘Is that what killed him?’
‘It depends which bullet came first. Either one was enough to kill him.’
‘What about the beating he received? Would that have led to his death?’
‘It’s not easy to pick up bruising on these scans but we can see where blood has settled. Look here,’ she said, pointing to the screen, ‘on the right side of his ribcage there are several fractures in the ribs. This doesn’t follow the trajectory of the bullet in his chest, so must have come from where he was kicked or beaten with something.’
‘So the killer was standing over Kevin while he was on the ground, and shot him?’
‘It wasn’t at point-blank range,’ Adele said. ‘There were no burns on the skin.’
‘My point is the beating came first. He’s given a kicking, fractured ribs, bruising, the works. Then, when he’s down, the killer fires into his chest and face, finishing him off.’
‘That’s about the shape and size of it, yes,’ Claire said.
Matilda gave the nod to Adele and they left the room. The scanner room was hot and Matilda had a sheen of sweat on her face. Neither of them said a word until they were in Adele’s office.
‘Bloody hell, how do you stand it in there?’ She picked up some tissues from Adele’s desk and wiped her face.
‘It does get a tad warm. Are you OK? You look flushed.’
‘I’m fine. Poor bloke. He wasn’t shown an ounce of mercy was he?’
‘Not in the slightest. I don’t envy your job at all. Whoever did it sounds like a nasty piece of work. What do you think of our new equipment?’
‘It’s very impressive. It’s a bit ghoulish watching a floating head rotate a full three-sixty but I can’t believe how clear everything is. You can actually see the path the bullet takes in the body. Frightening, but fascinating.’
‘I’m pleased you think so.’
‘So you won’t have to cut him open now?’
‘No. Well, not for a post-mortem. We’ll need to get the bullet out of him, obviously, so your forensic people can find out what kind of gun was used. We’ll get a report and I’ll read it and the coroner will read it but I think it’s pretty self-explanatory how he died. There should be no need to go in with a scalpel.’
‘It’s a bit more dignified isn’t it?’
‘Absolutely. It’s not nice for the family knowing their loved ones are naked on a slab having their insides removed.’
‘It depends if you like them or not,’ Matilda laughed. ‘Is anyone working on developing a scan that will reveal the name of the killer?’
‘I think for that you’ll need a doctor more qualified than I am. Preferably one with a sonic screwdriver.’
EIGHT
Martin Craven approached the front desk of the police station like a member of the walking dead. His eyes were circled red and bloodshot, his hair a tangled mess, and his face was grey and sallow. His suit, one he had worn for work the previous day, was creased and stained.
‘I want to report my wife missing,’ he said in a voice affected by lack of sleep and too much caffeine.
The uniformed sergeant behind the desk didn’t even blink. He had seen it all over the years; people came to the counter with all kinds of stories ranging from the bland to the bizarre. A missing person was banal in comparison.
‘When did you last see your wife, sir?’
He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. Holding on to the counter for balance he spoke slowly with determination. ‘She left for work yesterday morning. She was due home about eight o’clock last night, but never arrived. Her mobile was going straight to voicemail. By ten o’clock I started phoning around her friends but they hadn’t heard from her. This morning I called her work but she hasn’t turned up. They said she was there until five o’clock yesterday and left as normal. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened at work either. She’s disappeared. I need you to find her.’
DC Joseph Glass hoped training as a Family Liaison Officer would impress the bosses when it came to promotion time. He had been on several health and safety and first aid courses and was even a fire officer at South Yorkshire HQ.
What he hadn’t expected was how unbelievably boring being an FLO was.
He had spent most of the night wondering what to say to a tearful and desperate Alice Hardaker.
‘Should I wake the kids and tell them or wait until morning?’
‘Only you can answer that, Alice. I’ll provide you with whatever support I can though.’
‘How sure are you that it’s really Kevin?’
‘As sure as we can be at the moment.’
‘Do you think he suffered?’
‘I honestly don’t know, Alice.’
This went on until the small hours of the morning until, physically and mentally drained, she had fallen asleep sitting up on the sofa. He had taken the eighth undrunk cup of tea from her hands and placed a throw over her to keep her warm. He returned to the armchair and waited. He managed an hour’s sleep at about three o’clock but woke with a start; his subconscious telling him he was in unfamiliar surroundings. He made another cup of tea, something he was becoming an expert in, and waited for Alice to wake up.
At four o’clock, knowing his sister would have come off the late shift at the Children’s Hospital, he gave her a call.’
‘Morning, you’ll never guess what’s happened,’ he spoke quietly into his phone from the kitchen so as not to wake the snoring Alice. ‘There’s been a shooting on Quiet Lane.’
‘I know. We’ve heard. Tom’s girlfriend works at the Northern. She phoned earlier.’
Feeling downhearted at not getting in first with the gossip, Joseph added, ‘Yes, well, guess who’s FLO for one of the victim’s family?’
‘You’re not!’
‘I bloody am.’
‘Good for you. How is it?’
‘Boring. I’ve lost count of the amount of cups of tea I’ve had and they’ve only got plain biscuits. Two kids and not a single bit of chocolate in the house.’
‘Sod the biscuits, Joe. Let’s have some juicy details.’
‘I haven’t got any. Like I said, it’s boring. Hang on, I think I can hear movement upstairs. I’ll call you later.’
He hung up without saying goodbye and listened intently to the noise from upstairs. He heard the sound of feet padding lightly along the hallway, a toilet flushed and then more footsteps. One of the children going to the toilet. He sighed and returned to the living room.
