by Michael Wood
While driving out of Sheffield she’d found a dirt track she had never seen before. Being Sheffield born and bred, Matilda thought she knew the city like the back of her hand, obviously not. Curious to where it might lead, she felt every bump in the road, and hit her head on the roof of her car twice as she plunged into cavernous pot holes. This was a bad idea. Her car wasn’t used to such roads, but something told her to continue. She almost became stuck at the sharp turn and the wheels spun on the incline, but she made it to the top eventually. She was glad she did.
A dilapidated farmhouse with four unstable chimneys, tiles missing from the roof, uncared for brick work, tired window frames with dirty panes, an overgrown garden, untended driveway and a front door that probably only required a swift kick to open. Matilda was in love. She got out of the car and walked up the driveway, her eyes fixed on the unloved house. There was a ‘for sale’ sign that had fallen down at some point, lying in the tall grass. Surely this was fate giving her a sign.
The house needed work doing to it before Matilda could even think about moving in. As her home sold quickly, she moved in with Adele while her new home, the aptly named Hope Farm, was made habitable. Fortunately, James had known many people in the building industry, and she contacted one of his trusted friends, Daniel Harbison. He’d been more than happy to help out, and when he had seen the enormity of the project, he rubbed his hands with glee. The windows were replaced, as was the roof. The chimneys were made safe, the whole house was rewired, the kitchen and bathrooms were ripped out and new, modern ones installed. Matilda and Adele spent many evenings going over colour charts and carpet samples and soon the house was ready for her to move in. There was just one room that needed finishing. On the ground floor, behind the living room, tucked away in a corner was a split-level room that led to the conservatory. This would make a perfect library, and as this was the room she would spend most of her time in, she wanted to make all the decisions herself.
Now, she stood in the doorway to the library and looked around at the floor-to-ceiling shelves which Daniel had designed and installed. The wood had been treated and needed a few days to settle before Matilda could unpack the many boxes of books she had piled up in one of the spare bedrooms. This was to be her sanctuary. When work got on top of her, when life became too difficult, she would come in here, close the door behind her, relax in the Eames chair and lose herself in a novel.
Matilda went into the living room and curled up on the large Chesterfield sofa. The walls were painted a deep red, the log fire was burning, and the entire house was warm, homely and welcoming.
On the reclaimed railway sleeper above the wood burner, was a framed photograph of her and James on their wedding day. The marriage only lasted five years before James was cruelly taken from her, another cancer statistic. She used to spend hours with the photo in her hands, crying hysterically, screaming for him to be returned to her. Now, she looked into his ice-blue eyes and smiled.
‘You’d hate this house, wouldn’t you?’ she asked him with a laugh in her voice. Of course he would. James was an architect. As much as he admired period buildings, his job was creating new ones. That’s what he loved. Hope Farm was built in 1891, the same year Conan Doyle moved his Sherlock Holmes stories to The Strand Magazine. Everything about it screamed Victorian.
Matilda was finally home. She was settled. She was almost happy.
Following a couple of hours of reading the new Eva Dolan novel in the lounge, she felt her eyes grow heavy and decided to go up to bed. She closed the door on the wood burner so no burning embers would fall out and set the house on fire while she was sleeping, picked up her book and made her way upstairs.
The house was deathly silent, apart from the usual noises houses made as they cooled down. She stood at the top of the stairs and looked over the bannister at the floor below. Through the stained glass in the front door, she could see thick branches swaying. They cast long shadows on the tiled floor in the hallway. They looked like gnarled fingers, crawling under the door, scraping across the floor. She shuddered at the thought. She’d have to buy a heavy curtain or something to hang in front of the door, block out the light.
Something woke her. She opened her eyes to find she was still sitting up in bed. The lamp on the bedside table was still on, and the hardback novel was open on her lap. She looked at the clock; it was just past one o’clock. She placed a bookmark between the pages, closed the book and placed it next to another framed photo of James on the table. She turned out the light and was about to turn over to hunker down under the duvet when she heard a noise from downstairs. Her eyes widened. She remained still and listened intently. She heard the noise again. It was a creaking sound followed by a tap. Was it the floorboards or the stairs? Was somebody coming up? Matilda sat bolt upright and turned the lamp back on. A few seconds later, she heard the same noise again.
‘Shit,’ she said to herself.
Matilda flung back the duvet and climbed out of bed. Next to the bedside table, one of James’s old cricket bats was leaning against the wall. She’d never had cause to use it in the past, but always felt safer knowing a weapon was to hand if she should ever need to defend herself.
She put on her dressing gown, tying it at the waist and went over to the bedroom door. The brass knob was cold. She twisted it carefully to the right so as not to make a sound, pulled the door towards her and stepped out onto the unfamiliar landing.
‘Hello,’ she called out. Her shaking voice echoed around the empty house. ‘Is anyone there?’
Creak. Tap.
Her mouth dried. She tried to swallow but couldn’t. She gripped the bat hard and went to the bannister to look over the edge and into the hallway. There was nobody there.
She was halfway down the stairs when she heard the creak and the tap again. It was coming from outside the front door.
Creak. Tap.
A branch outside the house creaked each time the wind blew and the tip of it tapped against the door.
Matilda released her breath and sighed. She almost laughed. First thing in the morning, she was cutting that branch off. Standing on the stairs, cricket bat aloft, she suddenly realized how ridiculous she was being. Is this how life was going to be from now on? Every time she heard a noise, would she think someone had broken in or the ghost of Ben Hales had followed her here to torture her all over again?
In the old house, even living on her own, she had never felt this frightened, this paranoid before. Was the fact she was living in the middle of nowhere worrying her? The isolation, the rolling countryside views from almost every window, the lack of neighbours – that was what had sold her the house in the first place. It was perfect. It was everything she had been looking for. She had thought.
Maybe I do want people around me.
Instead of returning to bed, Matilda headed for the living room. She pushed open the door and felt the warmth, despite the fire having died a couple of hours since. She turned on the light and almost screamed.
The walls. The walls she had agonized over the colour of for weeks, the deep red which made the room warm and homely, in the haze of the room, looked like blood dripping down. She immediately thought of the Mercer house, the lifeless, mutilated bodies of Clive, Serena and Jeremy. She looked at her hands, still wrapped around the cricked bat, and for a split second she thought they were covered in blood. She dropped the bat and staggered out of the living room.
She would have to redecorate.
Chapter Eleven
Matilda woke to the sound of her mobile ringing. She turned on the light, and, while her eyes adjusted, she fumbled on the bedside table for it. She answered without looking at the display.
‘Hello,’ she croaked. She sat up and looked around her. She couldn’t remember coming back to bed, but she’d obviously dragged herself back up somehow. She threw back the duvet and looked down at her body. There was no blood.
What the hell was I dreaming about last night?
‘Morning, Mat. Haven�
�t woken you, have I?’ Adele asked. Her voice didn’t have the usual bounce and lightness to it.
‘No. I was just getting up,’ she lied. The clock told her it wasn’t even six o’clock yet. ‘You’re up early. Couldn’t sleep?’
‘No. I kept having bad dreams,’ Adele said. ‘How did you sleep?’
‘Fine,’ she lied.
‘I wanted to let you know that we’ll be removing the bodies from the Mercer house at some point this morning.’
‘That’s great.’
‘I’ll let you know when the post mortems are.’
‘Thanks. How’s Lucy?’
‘She was very quiet when I gave her a lift home yesterday. I’ll have a word with her this morning. Chris went for a run with Scott last night. He said he was behaving, erm, strangely,’ she said, choosing her words carefully.
‘Strangely? In what way?’
‘Well, when he asked him about it, he started crying.’
‘Oh,’ Matilda was surprised. Scott was well known for keeping his cards incredibly close to his chest. Sian had her husband to confide in. Aaron and Christian both had wives they could talk to. Rory used Sian as an informal therapist, but Scott was stoic. Matilda often wondered whether he had an outlet for his emotions, apart from running. She wouldn’t have guessed Chris.
‘Scott told Chris not to say anything and Chris told me not to say anything.’
‘So you’re telling me,’ Matilda said with a smile.
‘Well, we have to look out for the people we work with, don’t we?’
‘And we all know you love a gossip.’
‘True. You won’t tell Scott, will you?’
‘No. I noticed he was quiet in the evening briefing anyway. I’m going to keep my eye on him. Fancy meeting for lunch?’
‘If I get time for one, yes.’
Matilda ended the call and decided to get up. She had a quick shower while the coffee was brewing then found a cereal bar in one of her many empty cupboards; that would keep her going for a couple of hours. She really needed to do some shopping. She left the house, snapping off the brittle branch that had caused her such panic last night, and headed for her car. Her mind kept going back to Scott. He had been quiet and more thoughtful looking before the Mercer killings. It couldn’t just be the carnage he’d witnessed that was causing such angst. What else was going on in his life to warrant such a change in his personality?
He woke up in agony. A night spent slumped between two industrial bins at the back of a petrol station was not anyone’s idea of a comfortable evening. He ached in places he didn’t realize he could ache and he was chilled to the core. Slowly, he unfolded himself from the position he had been curled up in and managed to stand up amid the sounds of clicking bones. He stretched, yawned, scratched and breathed in a lungful of rancid exhaust fumes and petrol. There was a hint of pleasure; freshly ground coffee coming from the kiosk. He emptied his pockets and counted the money he pulled out – £47.63. That was all he had in the world. Less than fifty pounds between him and poverty. It needed to last.
He went into the petrol station and headed straight for the toilets at the back. He washed his face with the pink handwash above the sink. He took off his sweater and washed under his arms. He was beginning to smell and didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He looked in the mirror at his tired face, his blond stubble and unkempt hair. He could go another couple of days without shaving, but soon he would look like a vagrant, and he’d never get a lift to mainland Europe without drawing suspicion. He’d think of something once he was at Dover. There was plenty of time, he was sure of it.
He bought himself a large black Americano, as strong as he could stomach it, and a bacon sandwich. If the forty pounds he had remaining was going to last, he would need to shop more creatively. No more chain coffee shops. He went back to the bins and picked up his ‘London’ sign before heading for the motorway.
It was still early in the morning, but it was filling up nicely with commuters. Cars with just one person in them flew past without giving him a second glance, as did coaches and mini buses. His best chance of a lift would come from a lorry. He walked along the hard shoulder, sign in one hand, coffee in the other, cursing every single vehicle that failed to stop.
‘Bastard!’ he shouted at an oil tanker that had applied its brakes, slowed down, only to quickly speed up again and beep its horn.
People were twats. That was something he’d discovered a long time ago. Nobody cared about anything but themselves. He’d tried his best, but he’d been screwed over too many times. Is there no wonder he turned to crime? It started with a bit of shoplifting; he’d been good at it too. It soon escalated. His mother told him he was on a slippery slope. It wouldn’t be long before he found himself in a situation he wouldn’t be able to get out of. He should have listened. She was right. If the police found him now, he was fucked. He should never have taken a glove off. The bloody latex made him itch. He’d left a print behind. He knew it.
Chapter Twelve
Sian didn’t attend the morning briefing. She sent a text to Matilda saying she couldn’t sleep and had called Rose Bishop to see if she could visit her early. Fortunately, Rose also had trouble sleeping and looked forward to having some company.
When Sian arrived, the briefing was almost finished. The main task of the day was getting into the Mercer house and finding out who the family really was. For someone to kill and destroy a whole family like that was personal. According to the neighbours, they were the perfect family. Matilda and her team, from experience, knew there was no such thing. There had to be something lurking in their past that someone would kill for.
Matilda was in her small office with DI Christian Brady when Sian knocked on the glass door.
‘Anything?’ Matilda asked.
‘I managed to get the name of the hotel Leah and her new husband are staying at in Paris out of her. I’ve contacted the Foreign and Commonwealth Office in London. They’re going to contact the British Embassy in Paris and send the local police round.’
‘That’s great work, Sian. Did she tell you anything else?’
‘No. She’s a mess. Her hands were shaking, she keeps crying, and I swear she’d already had a drink when I got there. I mentioned the photos and she’s going to try and come in later today to go through them with Finn.’
‘Is she married?’
‘Yes. Her husband had gone to work.’
‘How considerate of him,’ Christian said with sarcasm.
‘She took a few photos herself on her phone. She started showing them to me but began crying. I told her to email them over.’
‘I bet a number of other guests took their own photos too,’ Christian said. ‘It might be worth setting up an email address for people to send them to. We could get Finn to see what matches up.’
‘Good thinking, Christian. Call tech and get them to set it up. Also, I’m assuming they had an official photographer too, especially to take photos outside the church. We’ll need copies of those.’ Matilda looked up through the glass and saw the young TDC Finn Cotton at Faith’s old desk, staring intently at his computer screen. ‘We’ll use Finn for all the photos so nothing is missed. Sian, can you liaise with him?’
‘Not a problem.’ She was about to leave the office when Matilda called her back in.
‘Close the door, Sian,’ Matilda said. She lowered her voice. ‘While you’re both here, I need to ask a favour. Now, we all know how bad the scene was yesterday, but you two are my toughest officers.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Sian interrupted. ‘I was crying on Stuart’s shoulder for most of the night.’
‘I just went to bed early. Jennifer knows not to ask about work. I talk to her when I’m ready.’
‘I’m worried about Scott and Rory,’ Matilda said. ‘They were both quiet yesterday and this morning. I don’t want them bottling anything up. They’re also not the type to freely talk about how they’re feeling, especially Scott. Now, I think we should
limit the amount of people going to the crime scene. Aaron went to the house but didn’t go inside, neither did Ranjeet. So we’ll keep them here. The less people caught up in this the better.’
‘I agree,’ Christian said. ‘Well, I’ll keep an eye on Scott and Sian can keep an eye on Rory.’
‘And I’ll keep an eye on the both of you,’ Matilda smiled.
‘But’s who’s watching the watcher?’ Christian asked, a menacing tone added to his voice.
Matilda’s mobile rang. It was ACC Masterson. She held it up and showed them both. ‘That’s who’s watching me.’
Chapter Thirteen
Matilda met with Crime Scene Manager Sebastian Flowers outside the Mercers’ house. He looked as if he had been there all night. Usually clean-shaven and neat hair, his black mane was uncombed, and his stubble was patchy. Strangely, the unkempt look suited him.
