by Michael Wood
‘I interviewed Thomas Hartley at Starling House. The second I saw him I knew he didn’t belong there. You should have seen him, ma’am. He’s empty, broken, there’s nothing there at all.’
‘Guilt,’ Valerie offered in an off the cuff way.
‘No. It went deeper than that. His entire life has been ruined. He has no idea who did it and he’s petrified.’
‘He’s a good actor.’
‘No. Nobody could fake that. I believe he’s innocent. I honestly do.’ Valerie remained silent. ‘I’ve not reopened the case – it’s not mine to reopen anyway – all I’m doing is looking at it. I may be wrong.’ She shrugged. ‘But I need to satisfy myself.’
‘Is that why you’ve got Pat Campbell running between Sheffield and Manchester like she’s Miss Marple?’
‘Pat’s son works in Manchester. He worked on the original investigation. I asked Pat to have a quiet word with her son. It’s obviously got out. I’m sorry about that.’
‘I can’t condone this, Matilda. I cannot have you upsetting other forces and acting like a one-woman police force.’
Matilda took a deep breath. She needed her boss on her side. ‘Give me a few days’ grace. Let me and Pat look into it, informally, and see what we come up with. It could be nothing, but it could be something. There could be an innocent boy in Starling House. How good would that look for South Yorkshire Police if we were able to free an innocent teenager?’ She looked at Valerie whose face was expressionless. ‘One force sends an innocent boy to prison and we get him out.’
Valerie stood firm. ‘No. I’m sorry, Matilda. No. I cannot have a member of my force trying to overturn a solid conviction on the grounds of a feeling.’
‘It’s not a feeling,’ she protested.
‘Do you have evidence of Thomas Hartley’s innocence?’
As much as she wanted to lie, she couldn’t. ‘No,’ she replied, barely a whisper.
‘Then forget it. As far as Manchester are concerned they have their killer. That’s the end of it.’
No it is not.
‘Now, tell me what the hell is going on at Starling House.’
Matilda took a deep breath. The subject of Thomas Hartley was obviously over as far as Valerie Masterson was concerned. However, Matilda was more convinced than ever to carry on and find evidence of his innocence. Inside, Matilda was seething. She could feel a rage bubbling up inside her. She needed to calm down.
‘Jacob Brown disappeared last night. It seems he’s escaped. Personally, I think he was helped.’
‘Who by?’
‘I’ve no idea. But whoever did it also killed Ryan Asher, I’m certain.’
‘You’re sure it wasn’t a fellow inmate?’
‘Positive. They were all locked up. The cell doors cannot be unlocked from the inside. Besides, the more we look into Starling House the more we realize what a complete shambles it is. Kate Moloney’s falling apart before our eyes, and the staff should be locked up themselves.’
‘So what’s the next step?’
‘As soon as the flood water recedes, I’m having a search team go in to find Jacob Brown. Christian, Rory, and Scott are already on-site and will begin as soon as possible. I’m also having all the inmates and staff brought here so they can be interviewed under formal conditions.’
‘Logistically, that sounds like a massive task.’
‘It is but it’ll be worth it. We need to get the staff and the inmates out of their comfort zone.’
‘I really hope you know what you’re doing, Matilda.’
You’re not the only one.
FORTY-EIGHT
Matilda needed to get out of the police station. She had been blasted for allowing an inmate to escape while officers from South Yorkshire Police were supposedly guarding Starling House, but managed to come out of it with very few bruises. However, when it came to the Thomas Hartley case, she was skating on thin ice with heated blades.
She could feel the walls closing in as she made her way down the stairs and towards the back of the building where she was parked. She hoped nobody would stop her and try to talk. The message from Sian that Belinda Asher had been in touch was racing around her head. She should really call her back, but she wasn’t in the right frame of mind to do so. One hour. All she wanted was an hour to herself.
Turning left out of the car park, she passed the pack of rain-drenched journalists from all over the country who were eager to find out what was going on in Starling House.
Let someone else deal with it.
There were plenty of people within HQ who were more than capable of handling questions from the press: the ACC could release another statement, or DS Sian Mills could talk to the press. She would hate it but if it was her job then she would bite the bullet and do it.
Matilda pressed her foot to the floor and headed, without realizing it, for home. She needed familiarity. She needed somewhere she could fully relax. She needed James.
Following James’s death one of the things Matilda hated more than anything else was coming back to an empty house. As a freelance architect, James often worked from home, and whenever she stumbled in James was either working in the office with music blaring, or watching some ridiculous sport on television and shouting mercilessly at the officials.
Now when she entered the house she was presented with a heavy silence. The ticking clocks drove her mad, and was the fridge supposed to be that loud or was it on the verge of breaking down?
Leaving the Land Rover in the drive, she threw open the front door and slammed it behind her. She needed noise. She needed to hear activity. She felt James’s presence everywhere in the house but couldn’t hear him and she couldn’t see him.
‘Hello? Hello? James, it’s me. I’m home,’ she called out. Her voice, loud and maniacal, echoed around the large hallway. ‘Is there anyone home?’
If I receive a reply, I’ll probably wet myself.
She suddenly remembered that when she left the house in the early hours of the morning her father was there. If he was still here and heard her calling for James, he would think she had completely lost it.
Maybe she had.
There was a note held down by an ugly ornament on the hall table. Matilda picked it up and smiled at her father’s handwriting:
Matilda,
Thank you for the chat and keeping me company last night. I didn’t want to go home to an empty house. I suppose you’re used to it by now.
I finished off the cheese in the fridge and I washed everything up and ran round the living room with the hoover. I’ll give you a call later tonight. Don’t work too hard.
Love, Dad. xx
She wiped a tear from her eye and walked into the large kitchen, which was showroom-clean. She hardly used it anymore. When she did decide to sit down for a bite to eat in the evening it was either scrambled egg on toast or beans on toast. Sometimes she would go crazy and mix things up and have scrambled egg with beans on toast.
Matilda pulled open the fridge door and saw the packets of ready-made salads and microwavable meals for one. Her whole life was pathetic. She was completely alone. Yes, she had a friend in Adele Kean, and Pat Campbell was starting to feature in her life more, but they had their own lives. Adele had her son, Chris, and Pat had Anton and her army of grandkids to contend with. They didn’t want a manic depressive on their doorstep every night looking for company.
She took a bottle of water from the fridge and drank half of it in one gulp. Her mouth was dry. A drawer next to the sink contained her antidepressants. She didn’t like taking them. The thought of pumping goodness knows what inside her on a daily basis filled her with horror. Nobody knew what prolonged prescription drug use did to inner organs. However, occasionally, help was needed in the form of medication.
She felt angry at being told to lay off the Thomas Hartley case despite the fact that an innocent young man could be languishing in prison while the real killer was still at large. Surely even the slightest hint of suspicion should be f
ollowed up, not ignored for fear of upsetting someone across the Pennines.
She popped three Venlafaxine from the blister pack and threw them to the back of her throat, followed by another large slug of water. Hopefully they would start to kick in soon. She needed to get back to work. The floodwater at Starling House should have been pumped out by now so a minibus could collect the inmates and take them back to HQ. Or should it wait until tomorrow? It was gone three o’clock now. There was no chance they would be able to question all six remaining inmates. And what about Richard Grover, Fred Percival and the other staff who would need interviewing?
‘Fuck!’ Matilda kicked the dustbin, sending it skidding across the kitchen floor. It hit the dishwasher and toppled over, spilling its load all over the clean floor.
Her head was heavy with thoughts, doubts, questions, and Carl bloody Meagan.
Somewhere in the distance, Matilda’s mobile phone started to ring. She had no idea where it was. She didn’t care. She had no intention of answering it. All she wanted was some time on her own, an hour, half an hour, even ten minutes would do, but it would appear nobody could think for themselves anymore. They had to run everything past Matilda. DI Brady should be taking on more of the hassle.
The phone stopped ringing and then started again almost immediately.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Matilda hissed. ‘Can’t you leave me alone for just five minutes?’
She headed for the hallway where she had thrown her bag. The screen on her mobile phone was lit up and told her Rory was calling. Of course it was going to be Rory. It couldn’t have been anyone else, could it? DC Rory Fleming – all style and no substance.
‘What?’ she barked as she swiped a finger across the screen.
‘Sorry, boss. Am I interrupting?’
‘Not in the slightest, Rory. You know I’m always pleased to hear from you,’ her reply was laced with sarcasm but the thick-skinned DC didn’t acknowledge it.
‘We’ve found Jacob Brown.’
So much for an hour or two on my own.
FORTY-NINE
Scoutmaster, Murray Beck, was a difficult man to get hold of. Since he retired six months earlier from being stock controller of The Norwich Packaging Company, he had been busier than ever. He was an organizer of clubs and social events for the neighbourhood he lived in, helped out at the church and drove the minibus to take the elderly on day trips. His long-suffering wife, Millie Beck, hardly ever saw him. Reluctantly, she gave Faith his mobile number.
When Murray finally answered and Faith told him she was a detective constable with South Yorkshire Police, he spent the next five minutes trying to find somewhere private they could hold their conversation. Faith could hear noises in the background: Murray apologizing, saying this call was ‘incredibly urgent’, the sound of shuffling footsteps, doors opening and closing. Eventually, he found somewhere to settle. Judging by the echo on the line, Faith guessed he was in an empty room.
‘Mr Beck, thank you for answering my call. I promise I won’t take up any more of your time than I have to. You were a scoutmaster briefly; is that correct?’
‘That’s right. I gave it up about three years ago. I’m not as young as I was and I can’t keep up with the energetic pace some of these boys have. It’s my nephew who has taken over. If it’s a scout-related matter then I’m sure he’ll be able to help you. He’s a bit wet behind the ears but he’s a willing lad.’
‘No, Mr Beck, it’s you I need to speak to. It’s concerning Ryan Asher. I believe you knew him when he was in the scouts.’
‘Ah.’
‘Is there a problem, Mr Beck?’
‘Call me Murray, please. There’s not a problem as such, no. I just don’t like to talk ill of people.’
Faith found that hard to believe. A man who spent so much of his time within the community and had rebuked his own nephew probably enjoyed a gossip more than most. He was relishing the attention of a detective needing information and wanted it coaxed out of him. Faith had no intention of stroking his ego.
‘Mr Beck, I am investigating the murder of a teenager and I need to find out as much as I can about the victim so I can find his killer. Time really is of the essence here.’
‘I understand,’ he replied, swallowing loudly. ‘Well, Ryan Asher wasn’t with the scouts for long. When he started he was a very willing and capable lad but it wasn’t long before his attitude changed.’
‘Go on,’ Faith had to prompt when he stopped talking.
‘I remember speaking to his parents about it. They said he’d got some new friends, but they weren’t part of our scout group so I wouldn’t know who they were. Anyway, his whole personality seemed to change. He wasn’t as helpful, he slouched, he became cheeky and lackadaisical. And then he became violent.’
‘Violent?’ Faith’s eyes lit up. ‘In what way?’
‘He’d purposely pick fights with the other boys. He’d try and find their weaknesses and bully them into a reaction. I couldn’t have that among the other scouts. I gave him a warning. I even told his parents I might have to exclude him. Eventually I had no choice.’
‘How did he take it?’
‘I don’t think he was bothered. When I told him he was no longer welcome, he just shrugged. As he walked out of our meeting hall he kicked over a few things and smashed a window in the door, but, to be honest, I was just glad to be rid of him. He’d become … frightening.’
‘Do you think he may have started taking drugs?’
‘I did think that, yes. I even mentioned it to his father but he said Ryan wasn’t involved in that sort of thing.’
‘Did you hear of any other incidents Ryan may have been involved in?’
He scoffed. ‘Plenty. I’m assuming you know all about the Malcolm Preston incident?’
Faith had a copy of Ryan’s file from Norwich Police Force on her untidy desk. She quickly flicked through it. The name sounded familiar. ‘No, I don’t believe I do,’ she said.
‘Oh. Well you should look him up. I don’t like to say this about another person, especially a boy, but Ryan Asher was no victim. He was an evil and sadistic child. When it came on the news about him killing his grandparents I told my Millie that I wasn’t completely surprised. I had a feeling he’d commit murder one day. I just didn’t expect it to be so soon.’
‘You knew he’d commit murder?’ Faith was shocked. A community man like Murray Beck, a churchgoer, a scoutmaster – should he really be seeing evil in others?
‘Some people are rotten to the core. I’m not saying he was born evil. His parents tried their best for him, I know they did, but he got mixed up with some very dodgy young boys – boys who probably were born evil. Look up Malcolm Preston on that internet thing, there’s bound to be plenty of information about him. That’ll tell you what kind of a person Ryan Asher was.’
Faith thanked Murray Beck for taking the time to talk to her and hung up the phone. While he had given her more of an insight into what kind of a child Ryan was, Faith found she had more questions than answers. Clearing a space on her desk, she pulled her keyboard towards her and typed ‘Malcolm Preston Norwich’ into a search engine.
THREE YEARS IN LIMBO
John Preston spends every single day by his son’s bed. He reads to him from books, newspapers, and magazines. His conversations are one-sided but he believes his son can hear every word he is saying.
It will be three years next Tuesday since Malcolm Preston, then aged 12, was attacked, robbed, and left for dead in woodland surrounding Eaton Park, Norwich.
‘It was broad daylight and Malcolm was out riding his bike. It was something every normal twelve-year-old boy does. There was nothing for me or his mum to worry about. He was a sensible boy and we just assumed he would come home when he was ready for his tea.’
John continues, ‘When he didn’t come home his mother tried his mobile phone. It was answered but the person on the other end quickly hung up. She carried on trying but then whoever answered kept laughing at her down
the phone. She knew something had happened. She knew there was something wrong. On the sixth call, she asked where Malcolm was and a young voice said that as far as he knew Malcolm was lying dead somewhere.’
‘My Pauline was frantic. I couldn’t calm her down. I had a neighbour come round and sit with her while I went to find Malcolm. I sort of knew where he liked to cycle so I went on his route. I found his bike before I found him. The front wheel had been badly damaged and when I saw Malcolm’s leg sticking out from behind a tree I thought he’d had an accident.’
Doctors later described Malcolm’s injuries to be the most severe they had ever seen on a person to have survived. He had been kicked, punched, stamped on, been run over with his own bike, spat and urinated on. His trainers and mobile phone had been stolen.
Malcolm underwent four operations to relieve the swelling on his brain and to stop internal bleeding. He was placed in an induced coma where he has remained ever since.
‘Malcolm is breathing on his own.’ John said tearfully from his only son’s bedside. ‘He has regular brain scans to check it is functioning correctly but he just won’t wake up.’
At the time of the attack on Malcolm, rumours were rife over who the culprit was. However, with no witnesses and poorly stored forensic evidence, nobody was ever caught.
Malcolm is not the only victim in this senseless crime. A year after the attack, Malcolm’s mother, Pauline, was diagnosed with breast cancer. Despite extensive chemotherapy she lost her battle just three months later, never able to say goodbye to her son.
‘I still have hope. I have to have hope otherwise there would be no point in me being here. Malcolm will wake up again one day and he will tell me who did this to him and then we will have the proof we need to get a conviction. I don’t care how long that will take.’
Norwich Evening News – Friday 5 August 2016.