by Michael Wood
You’re a murdering bitch! There’s blood on your hands Detective Chief Inspector Matilda Darke.
THIRTEEN
Dr Adele Kean pulled open the glass doors to the Murder Room and stepped inside. She immediately noticed the lack of activity and the lack of officers. ‘It’s like a closing-down sale in here,’ she remarked without thinking. Matilda had told her she wasn’t telling the rest of the team the Murder Room was closing.
‘Morning Sian, where is everyone?’
Sian looked up from her computer, probably for the first time that morning. She breathed out and answered Adele, glad at the chance of a break. She leaned back as far as she could in her chair, stretched her aching muscles and enjoyed a very wide yawn.
‘Well, Rory’s with forensics, Scott’s … I’ve no idea where he is actually. I think Aaron’s in … Do you know what, I don’t know where anyone is. I didn’t realize I was on my own in here.’
‘You’re busy then I take it?’
‘You could say that. I’ve been here since six and I haven’t shifted from this desk yet. Anyway, what can I do for you?’
‘Well, I came to see Matilda.’ Adele noticed a tray of muffins next to the kettle. ‘Ooh, are they to share?’
‘They were. Nobody’s had time for a break yet. Help yourself.’
‘Thanks. What’s the occasion?’
‘It’s my wedding anniversary today.’
‘Oh congratulations. How many years?’
‘Thirteen. We’ve been together about twenty years though. It took him six years to propose, bless him.’
‘A bit slow on the uptake?’ Adele asked, still trying to choose a muffin.
‘You could say that. I gave up hinting in the end and just came out with it. I said, “Stuart Mills, are you ever going to propose or should I start making eyes at your brother?”’
Adele laughed. ‘What did he say to that?’
‘After he finished choking on his beer he asked me to marry him. I told him I’d have to think about it.’
‘These are gorgeous, Sian,’ Adele said, her mouth full of chocolate sponge. ‘Did you make these?’
‘Yes. They’re Mary Berry’s.’
‘Well next time you speak to Mary tell her thank you. Are you doing anything special tonight?’
‘You’re joking! By the time Stuart remembers it’s our anniversary it’ll be time for the next one. Do you think you’ll get married one day?’
Adele almost choked on her muffin. ‘God no. Men are only useful for one thing and half the time they’re no use at that. Anyway, I won’t keep you. I’m actually looking for Matilda. Is she in yet?’
‘I haven’t seen her. Mind you, a marching brass band could have walked through and I wouldn’t have noticed.’
‘Well, I’ve got some information about your double shooting. You couldn’t tell her for me could you?’
‘Sure.’
‘Now, let me show you something.’ In the folder she had been cradling in her arms she produced some close-up photographs taken by the scene of crime officers. ‘This is a photo of fibres taken from under Lois Craven’s right hand. They’re black and man-made.’ She took another photograph out of the file. ‘Now, on the night of the shooting I was called out to a suicide on London Road. This is a photograph of the jumper’s right hand. Under the forefinger and middle fingernails there are identical fibres.’
‘So, what are you saying? The bloke committed a double shooting then went to London Road to kill himself? Why not just shoot himself in the head?’
‘No. I’m not saying that. Look at these,’ Adele took out the remaining photographs from the suicide. ‘These are photos of Gerald Arthur Beecham aged 80. Apparently he jumped off the roof of a high-rise block of flats and landed face down on the paving slabs below.’
‘Why apparently?’
‘Look at this one; there’s blood on the back of his jacket.’
‘So?’
‘If he jumped, why would he have blood on the back of his jacket?’
‘Good question. Is it definitely his blood?’
‘Another good question. I’ll answer that in a bit. When we got him back to the mortuary and removed his clothes we found him covered in very fresh bruises. He didn’t jump. He was either pushed or thrown.’
There was silence while Adele allowed Sian to take in what she had just said.
‘Why would anyone want to throw an 80-year-old man from the roof of a block of flats?’
‘I’ve no idea. Fortunately, I don’t have to find the answer to that question, that’s your job.’
‘So, tell me whose blood it is then.’
‘Are you ready for this?’
‘If you decide to cut to a commercial break I’ll slap the make-up off your face.’
‘The blood belongs to Lois Craven.’
‘What? How?’
‘My best guess is that whoever committed the shooting in Ringinglow went to London Road, for whatever reason, got into a bit of a tussle with poor old Mr Beecham, and pushed him over the edge,’ Adele said. She sat back in her seat and folded her arms. She had a slight smug look on her face, a look she always had when she delivered ground-breaking news.
‘This is very … I don’t understand this at all,’ Sian readily admitted. ‘You need to speak to Matilda.’
‘Well I’ve called her mobile but she’s not answering. I think I’ve filled up her voicemail.’
‘What about her landline?’
‘Straight to answer machine. I didn’t see her much yesterday after the post-mortem. How was she?’
‘I hardly spoke to her.’
Aaron stormed in and kicked the door closed behind him. ‘Thirty minutes I’ve just spent on the phone, twenty of them on hold, only to be told that Kevin Hardaker’s manager is off sick and the relief was from a store in Derby and didn’t know him. Why couldn’t the bloke who picked up the phone tell me that? No wonder their sales are falling. Gormless pillocks.’
‘Good morning to you too, Aaron,’ Sian said over the top of her computer.
‘Yes, whatever.’
‘You haven’t seen Matilda on your travels have you?’
‘No.’
‘How was she last night before you left?’ Sian asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Was she happy, sad, fed up, excited, what?’
‘Well she was a bit low. There was an article in The Star about the Carl Meagan anniversary the other day. I saw her reading the story a couple of times in her office. Then there was something in last night’s edition about a conversation she’d had with the new crime reporter. The ACC called her in towards the end of the day but I didn’t see her after that.’
‘How was she when she went to the ACC?’
‘A bit stressed.’
‘Right. OK. Cheers, Aaron.’
When Aaron was out of earshot Adele turned back to Sian and said, ‘I think I’m going to pop round to her house, see if she’s OK.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No. Look, hold the fort here and cover for her. If anyone asks, tell them she’s come to see me about this development. I’ll let you know as soon as I find anything out.’
At exactly 9.30, Matilda’s landline began to ring. As she knew it would. She took a deep breath and answered the phone.
‘Matilda?’
‘Yes.’
It’s Doctor Sheila Warminster.’
As usual, Dr Warminster called Matilda on the morning of her appointment for a quick chat about how she had been coping since her last therapy session and if there was anything in particular she wanted to discuss once she was in the hot seat later that day.
Sheila Warminster found this helped with the majority of her clients. Usually, once they were sitting face-to-face, many people clammed up and gave unresponsive answers to probing questions, a shrug or a monosyllabic reply. In a pre-arranged phone call, the client could be in their own environment, comfortable, and not feel under any stres
s or embarrassment about answering questions on their behaviour.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’m OK, thanks,’ Matilda said. She was in the kitchen sitting at the breakfast bar. She was picking the label off a bottle of water, just to give her hands something to do.
I saw the article in The Star about Carl Meagan. It must have brought back some shocking memories.’
‘It did.’
‘How did it make you feel?’
‘I was upset. It should have been an article about Carl, one year on, etcetera, but they had to put me in there and twist it. They can’t seem to leave that part alone.’
‘What did you do after you’d read it?’
‘Well, as you know, I’ve allocated time to sit with my wedding album and have a bit of a weep, which I did. That helps a great deal. I always feel better afterwards. Then I was called out to a shooting so everything else was put on the back-burner.’
‘I heard about that on the radio. I’m guessing you’re heading the investigation.’
‘That’s right.’
‘The last time we met you mentioned the lack of detectives in your team and you were feeling a little overwhelmed. Is that still the case?’
‘Well, I am short of detectives, yes, and … I suppose I am a little overwhelmed.’ Matilda surprised herself by admitting the truth. She was annoyed with the state of the Murder Room but it certainly wasn’t causing her the personal distress it would have done a few months ago. ‘I have an excellent team. We’re small in number but we’re dedicated. I trust them to do their job and do it well.’
‘The anniversaries of James’s death and Carl’s disappearance are coming up. Are they weighing on your mind?’
Matilda sighed and sank back into her chair. ‘Yes they are. I’m trying my best not to let them but it’s not easy. I think if I keep myself busy then I’ll be fine.’
‘You need to take some personal time though too, Matilda. It can’t all be about work.’
‘It won’t. I’ve got the Hannibal box set to work through,’ she said with a smile.
It felt strange having a light-hearted moment with her therapist. In the beginning she loathed the woman on sight. The sound of her voice, so sickly sweet and hushed, made her want to smother her with one of her handmade throw pillows she had in her office. However, over the weeks and months, Matilda had warmed to her and she found herself opening up and gaining something from their sessions.
‘It’s good you have outside interests, even if they are programmes about a cannibal,’ there was a smile to Sheila’s voice. ‘I’m pleased you’re feeling a tad more positive too. You sound brighter. Is there anything in particular you would like to talk about this evening?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I think I’d like to just have a chat if that’s all right?’
‘That’s perfectly fine. These are your sessions, Matilda. It’s entirely up to you what we talk about. I’ll let you get on with your work.’
‘Thank you. Thanks for calling.’
Matilda hung up. She took a deep breath and relaxed. She felt better. It seemed therapists were good for something after all.
The drive from South Yorkshire Police Headquarters to Matilda’s house on Millhouses Lane took thirty minutes thanks to Sheffield’s never-ending road works, road closures, and detours.
Adele was worried for Matilda’s state of mind. Her return to work last December seemed to have given her best friend a new lease of life. She thought Matilda had moved on from the fallout of the Carl Meagan investigation and was learning to manage the grief for her husband. However, with the first anniversaries of both less than one week away it would appear that the black dog had returned to torture her.
Matilda’s car wasn’t in the driveway. Adele couldn’t decide if this was a good sign, or not. It could simply have been in the garage but Matilda rarely used it in case she needed to leave the house quickly.
Adele pulled up in her Vauxhall Astra and ran to the front door. She pressed the bell and knocked several times. Impatiently, she stepped back and looked up at the house. The curtains were open in all the rooms but it seemed to be enshrined in silence. She knocked again.
‘Matilda, it’s me, Adele. Are you home?’ She called through the letterbox. She knocked and rang the bell another few times, the knocks becoming louder.
When Matilda’s husband was in the final throes of his illness, she had given a key to Adele to let herself in whenever Matilda was working so someone could always be with James. After his death, Adele kept hold of the key so she could keep an eye on Matilda. Fortunately, she still had it.
Racing back to her car, she tipped the contents of her handbag on the passenger seat and rummaged around the mound of rubbish for her keys. She found them and was about to go back up the drive when she was interrupted by a neighbour.
‘Is everything all right?’ asked a young woman cradling a baby.
‘Jesus, you scared the life out of me,’ Adele said, stopping in her tracks, hand on heart. ‘You haven’t seen Matilda today have you?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
‘A couple of nights ago. She was going out as I was coming in. Is something wrong?’
‘No, probably not,’ Adele said with a fake smile and a nonchalant shrug.
She waited until the neighbour turned away before letting herself in and locking the door behind her. If Matilda was somewhere in the house, potentially lying in a drunken stupor, she wouldn’t want a nosy neighbour creeping in and seeing her.
‘Matilda?’
‘Adele? Is that you?’
‘Yes. Where are you?’
‘I’m in the shower.’
Adele visibly relaxed and sat on the padded seat in the corner of the hallway. She looked down at the three black bin bags, which had been there for the past few weeks. Matilda had made a step forward in clearing out James’s wardrobe, but not gone as far as taking them to a charity shop. A few seconds later Matilda stumbled out of one of the bedrooms, tying a dressing gown around her waist.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Looking for you.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘Nothing. I went to the station and you weren’t there.’
Matilda frowned. ‘You look flustered. What’s really going on?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘Aaron said you looked a bit down yesterday and he mentioned the article in the newspaper and as you weren’t there this morning and not answering your phone, I thought—’
‘You thought I might have topped myself?’
‘No,’ she lied unconvincingly.
‘And the truth would be?’
‘Yes,’ she looked at the ground. ‘I’m so sorry, Mat.’
‘Adele, you need to be able to trust me. I’m not going to fall to pieces just because a journalist reports lies about me.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.’
‘Look, why don’t you make me a coffee while I go and get dressed?’
Adele walked into the kitchen and set about making coffee. She filled the kettle and put it on to boil. While waiting she looked around. Her eyes fell on the dresser, on the note delivered last night:
You’re a murdering bitch! There’s blood on your hands, Detective Chief Inspector Matilda Darke.
‘Who sent you this?’ Adele asked when she heard Matilda walk into the room.
‘I’ve no idea. I’ve been getting phone calls too. Silent ones. I can hear someone breathing but they don’t say anything. Then they hang up.’
‘You don’t seem overly worried.’
‘I’m not. It’s just someone messing about. You know what some people are like; they read the paper, they pick someone out they don’t like and target them. They’ll move on when ’Wednesday are relegated at the end of the season.’ She smiled.
‘So how come you’re not in work yet?�
�
‘I had a phone therapy session with Dr Warminster this morning. I’d rather have it at home than in my office.’
‘Phone therapy?’
‘Yes. Don’t snigger.’
‘I’m not. Does it work?’
‘Yes it does. I know I didn’t take to Dr Warminster very well in the beginning, but she’s very insightful. When we finish chatting I actually feel better.’
‘That’s because she’s impartial. It’s good to talk to someone on the outside rather than a friend.’
‘I suppose that’s true,’ Matilda said, realizing for the first time she appreciated talking to someone who didn’t know her on a personal level and who wasn’t going to judge her. ‘Look, pour that coffee into travel mugs, we’ll take it with us.’
Outside, Matilda and Adele chatted for a few minutes. It was light-hearted and they were both smiling. Adele caught the eye of the neighbour next door.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ Adele asked, nodding towards the living room window where Jill Carmichael was looking at them while cradling a baby.
‘Jill? Nothing why?’
‘She’s having a right gawp at us.’
‘She’s been trying to chat to me quite a bit lately. I think she’s feeling a bit down since the baby was born, you know, lack of adult contact, that kind of thing. She’s harmless enough.’
‘She’s got a black eye.’
‘Kick-boxing.’
‘Ouch. She should take up spinning.’
‘And swap a black eye for a black arse?’
They both laughed.
Adele kissed Matilda on the cheek and headed for her car. A few seconds later Matilda opened the garage door and reversed her car up the drive before closing the door with a remote. She gave an awkward wave to Jill Carmichael who didn’t respond and drove off in the direction of the police station.
