by Michael Wood
‘Because it didn’t seem professional to have one of David Tennant.’
‘If you’re after a celebrity pin-up, I’ve got one to show you.’ Matilda rummaged in her bag for the Radio Times she’d found in Iain Kilbride’s flat. She flicked through to the photograph of him as a teenager sitting on a bale of hay, all moody brow, wavy hair and leather jacket. ‘What do you think of him?’
‘Not bad. A bit on the young side for me. I do like a man who can fill a leather jacket though,’ Adele said. ‘Who is he?’
‘You’ve just cut him open.’
‘What?’
‘This is Iain Kilbride in the eighties. He used to be in Emmerdale.’
‘Are you sure it’s the same man?’
‘As sure as we can be.’
‘Bloody hell. It’s lucky we can’t see what we end up like in the future isn’t it?’
‘So if David Tennant landed in his TARDIS you wouldn’t want him taking you to 2040 Sheffield to see what you were up to?’
‘God no! I’d like him to take me to Renaissance France; the artistic and cultural rebirth of Europe. Well, first I’d like him to do some very naughty things with that sonic screwdriver of his with me, and then show me around France.’
‘How romantically put. Shall we move swiftly on?’
‘What? Oh yes, of course. I was just starting my report when you arrived. I’ve sent his blood off for analysis but I wouldn’t be surprised if the results show he had all kinds of things wrong with him.’ She rummaged around her desk for her notes.
‘What do you mean?’
‘For a start his stomach contents reeked of alcohol. His liver is practically pickled. His lungs are black and there was something very suspicious on one of his kidneys. I’ve called up his medical records and he hasn’t been to see his GP in more than eighteen months. If there was something seriously wrong, he wouldn’t have known about it.’
‘What do you think was wrong with him?’
‘Take your pick – cirrhosis of the liver, lung and stomach cancer, the early stages of kidney failure. He had at least one of those if not more.’
‘With everything that’s wrong with him, would he have known he was ill?’
‘Yes. He might not have seen a GP but he would have been in great discomfort. We’ve found traces of blood in his mouth and there’s bruising on his lungs. I think he would have been coughing up blood for some time.’
‘Why wouldn’t you go to see your doctor though?’
‘Some people are like that, especially men. If he went from being a hunk in a soap to living in a sad little flat in Sheffield, maybe he was more than happy to drink himself to death.’
‘So what killed him?’
‘The head wound got to him before his body let him down. His skull was cracked and air was allowed to get into his brain causing a massive embolism. I dug out some grit from the wound on his head, which, as he was indoors, I’m guessing came from the weapon. I think you’re looking for a rock or brick of some kind.’
‘Any sign of sexual intercourse recently?’
‘Who? Me?’ Adele asked with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’
‘I’m talking about Iain, you cheeky tart,’ Matilda laughed.
‘I don’t think so, no. Judging by what he’s got wrong with him, I’d add erectile dysfunction to the list too. Caused by heavy smoking, kidney, liver and breathing problems, and a lot of alcohol. I don’t think he would have been having much sex. Why do you ask?’
‘A neighbour said he thought Iain had visitors in the evenings. As he was on his own I wondered if they might have been women.’
‘Prostitutes?’
‘Maybe. Or regular friends.’
‘Well if he did they were probably just friends, no touching I’d have thought.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Fancy a bite to eat tonight?’
‘Better not. I want to go and see what James has done to my home in the ten hours I’ve been out.’
‘Come round later in the week, both of you, and we’ll have a meal. I’ll cook.’
‘You’ll cook? Really?’ Matilda asked, pulling a face.
‘If you’re going to be like that I’ll serve you liver and onions, and I know just where to get a nice piece of liver from,’ she laughed.
‘You’re a ghoul, Adele.’
Chapter Nine
The house was empty of people and furniture. There was no evidence of any renovations or building work having started at all. Matilda stood in the hallway and looked around. With hands on her hips and a heavy frown on her face, she was decidedly unhappy.
‘What are you doing in here?’ James asked coming down the stairs carrying Matilda’s red suitcase.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said what are you doing in here?’
‘Sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of drilling and walls being knocked down,’ Matilda replied with a thick layer of sarcasm.
James smiled and shook his head. ‘Matilda, you don’t just come in on day one and start tearing walls down.’
‘It looks like day one consisted of putting the kettle on and discussing the weekend football results.’
‘Day one is all about stripping the house back, getting everything prepared, turning off the gas supply. That’s what’s happened today,’ James said, placing the heavy suitcase at the bottom of the stairs.
‘What about day two?’ Matilda asked, looking dejected.
‘Perhaps it would be best if you didn’t come into the house every day. You’re not going to see a great deal of progress straight away.’
‘I love this house, James. Promise me you won’t do anything too … drastic.’
‘You’ve seen the plans and the artist impressions. You know what the final result will be.’
‘I know you, too. You get an idea in your head and you just go with it. I don’t want to come in and find you’ve decided to replace the staircase with a water slide or something.’
James laughed. ‘Come on, let’s go. I’ve made you a very romantic meal in the caravan and you can tell me all about your day.’ He placed a strong arm around her shoulders and led her out of the back door, down the steps to the garden and the slanting caravan.
The romantic meal was fish and chips from the local takeaway by candle light at the foldaway Formica table. The wine was warm, the chips were soggy and they ate from one plate as there wasn’t enough room for two.
‘We’re not going to eat like this every night. Also, once the Winnebago arrives, we’ll have more space,’ James said, optimistic as ever.
‘Adele has invited us to her house for a meal one night this week.’
‘Excellent. That’ll be nice. How is Adele?’
‘She’s ok. I think she’s a bit lonely. Chris is out more with his new college friends and then there’s university. She’s realizing how much she’s given up to bring Chris up on her own and now he’s getting on with his own life, she doesn’t have anyone.’
‘She’s got us.’
‘It isn’t the same though, is it?’
‘No. Well, we’ll have her over here more and I know loads of people I can introduce her to,’ James said. ‘There’s Fat Stan at the builder’s yard. He’s single now.’
‘I don’t think Adele would like to go out with a bloke known as Fat Stan.’
‘All right. What about Dodgy Darren?’
‘Do I want to know why he’s dodgy?’
‘Probably not. Actually, now I come to think of it, he’s back inside.’
‘Perhaps matchmaking isn’t your strong point, James. Stick to being an architect.’
‘Award-winning architect, if you don’t mind.’
‘You feel tense, anything worrying you?’
James was sat up on the bed with Matilda in front of him. While a repeat of The Simpsons played out on a poor-quality portable television, James massaged his wife’s stiff shoulders.
‘Not really.’ Where do I begin? S
he groaned with pleasure at the strength in his firm grip. ‘A man was found dead in his flat this morning at Hallam Grange. He used to be famous.’
‘Used to be?’
‘Yes. He was on Emmerdale in the eighties.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘Fractured skull. His career ended years ago. He wasn’t looking after himself, drinking, smoking, bad diet. It was sad.’
‘Some people find it difficult to adjust to a new life,’ James said as he kneaded her shoulders harder.
‘Do you ever think about the future? Where we’ll be in thirty or forty years’ time?’
‘Well, I don’t look that far ahead, but of course I think about the future.’
‘What do you see for us?’
‘Oh I won’t be with you. We’ll have divorced and gone our separate ways by the time I’m fifty,’ he said with a smile in his voice. Matilda elbowed him in the stomach. ‘Only joking,’ he kissed the top of her head and placed his arms around her, holding her in a tight embrace. ‘I picture us living in our dream house, maybe not this one. I see us being happy, getting a dog or two. Perhaps even retiring abroad.’
‘I like the sound of that.’
‘Where do you see us in thirty years?’
‘Probably still in this pissing caravan.’
Chapter Ten
Wednesday 8th December, 2010
More snow had fallen over night and with only seventeen days left until Christmas, bookies had slashed the odds on a white Christmas. James Darke was pleased. Every January he placed his one bet of the year that there would be a white Christmas. £50 that it would snow on December 25th. He’d lost more money than he’d won.
Matilda was late getting into work as traffic was crawling through the thin layer of snow. She wasn’t the last one in, which made her feel better. By the time she had brewed coffee, checked her emails, confirmed the man in custody was indeed the illusive Craig Matthewman, and had a brief gossip with Sian, the MIT had fully arrived and were ready to begin.
‘So, who went to Barnes Coaches to interview Iain’s colleagues yesterday afternoon?’
‘Me and Rita popped down, ma’am,’ DS Tanner said, trying to balance his wet shoes on the radiators so they dried before he had to go out again.
‘And?’
‘They all said roughly the same thing. Basically, Iain Kilbride was great at his job, would do anything for anyone, but when it came to going down the pub or having a laugh in the staff room he was nowhere to be seen.’
‘What did his colleagues make of that?’
‘At first they thought he was shy, you know, a bit quiet, but as the months and years went on, they accepted it. There was no, what’s the word …?’
‘Animosity,’ DC Rita Morgan helped him out.
‘Exactly. None of that,’ he concluded.
‘Did any of them know that he was in Emmerdale for twelve years?’
‘No,’ Rita said, trying to hide a smile. Rita Morgan was a small woman in her mid-twenties. She had elfin features, beautiful clear skin and dyed black hair. She had been asked out by the majority of the male officers in Sheffield and had turned them all down which made Matilda smile. Who wanted to date a copper?
‘What’s so funny?’ Matilda asked.
‘Well, when we brought it up, they didn’t believe us. Richard got his phone out and we found some clips of him on YouTube. Let’s just say I’m surprised he lasted twelve years on the soap.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, he was no Sir Laurence Olivier.’
‘Oh. He couldn’t act?’
‘Not really. I’ve been looking online at some interviews in soap magazines. Did you know there are so-called soap experts?’
‘Nothing would surprise me anymore,’ Sian said. ‘There was a story in the newspaper last week about a girl who’s writing her university thesis on Barbie. Can you believe that? What a waste.’
‘Anyway, Rita, you were saying?’
‘I found a feature from this soap expert that basically said Iain Kilbride was axed because he’d grown up and lost his looks. When he first joined in the eighties he was young, good looking, fit and lean. Over the years he filled out, gained a few wrinkles, his hair thinned and he didn’t fit his character anymore.’
‘That’s a bit of a cop out isn’t it?’ Sian asked. ‘I thought soaps were supposed to reflect real life. People grow up, they change and adapt. That’s what happens.’
‘It doesn’t make for good TV though, Sian,’ Matilda said. ‘So he was hired for his looks rather than his ability. When he grew older he was fired and couldn’t get any other work because he wasn’t a good actor.’
‘That’s basically his life in a nutshell,’ Rita confirmed.
‘Didn’t you say there was an article about him living in Chester?’
‘Yes.’
‘So we need to find out what made him leave Chester for Sheffield. Was there an ex-wife?’
‘Yes,’ Sian said. ‘According to Andrea Barnes, Iain Kilbride’s next of kin is Judy King.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘His ex-wife. Iain Kilbride is really Iain King. He changed his name after taking up acting. There was already an Iain King in Equity.’
‘They’re still in regular contact then?’
‘It would appear so. She lives in Greenhill but works in Waterstones in Orchard Square.’
‘Right, grab your coat and a few bars of chocolate then Sian.’
Chapter Eleven
With only two weeks until Christmas, shoppers were out in force. The hardy gift buyers were wrapped up against the bitter elements as they braved the arctic freeze to ensure their loved ones had a merry Christmas. Heavy winter coats, hats, scarves, gloves, and a good strong pair of comfortable shoes were the standard uniform of shoppers in Sheffield city centre.
Matilda left Sian in the car parked on double yellow lines, with the hazard lights flashing. As she made her way through the throng of shoppers, she saw the looks on their pinched red faces; steely determination. These people had a list and they would get every item regardless of whom they had to stand on to get it. Militant shoppers were to be avoided at all costs.
Waterstones was a large book shop on two levels with a welcoming Costa franchise upstairs. There was something about the lingering smell of freshly brewed coffee and books that made it so inviting. The effect was lost on Matilda. She read occasionally, mostly when on holiday, but she wasn’t a big reader.
The store was heaving with people. Shelves and tables were stacked high with the bestsellers and carols played on a loop through the sound system.
‘Excuse me, I’m looking for Judy King. Is she working today?’ Matilda asked one pale-looking shop assistant.
‘Yes she is. I last saw her in cookery. Follow me.’ Without smiling, he turned and led the way upstairs.
‘Is the new Lee Child out?’ Matilda asked, thinking of a possible gift for her husband. She knew he was a fan of the thriller writer.
‘Yes,’ the assistant said, stopping halfway up the stairs and looking at Matilda. ‘It came out in August.’
‘Oh. Thank you.’
The bookseller led Matilda up the stairs and around the corner into the cookery section. ‘Judy, you have a visitor.’
Judy King was standing in an alcove straining under the weight of half a dozen hardback cookery books in her arms. She was tall, slender and in her mid-forties. She had dyed brown hair and the face of a woman who had been through many troubles. She was drawn around the eyes and her mouth hung down at the corners. She looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment.
‘I’m DCI Matilda Darke from South Yorkshire Police. Would it be possible to have a word?’
‘Oh. Yes, sure,’ she said, taken aback.
The young assistant left them. Judy placed the books carefully on the floor in front of her.
‘Is he all right? He looks like death warmed up,’ Matilda smiled.
‘Jonathan? Oh, he’s harmless. W
hat can I do for you?’
‘Judy,’ Matilda said, stepping forward and lowering her voice. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your ex-husband, Iain, was found dead at his home earlier this morning.’
‘Iain’s dead? Oh my God. What happened?’ Her right hand went up to her necklace from which hung a large depiction of Jesus on the cross.
‘It looks like he’s been murdered.’
‘Oh my …’ and with that, Judy collapsed to the floor.
Matilda had heard about people fainting upon hearing bad news but she had never seen it happen. Until now. Judy King had dropped to the floor with a loud thud. People turned to look at them, and a couple of staff members rushed over to help. Matilda was given dirty looks from shoppers as if she were directly responsible for Judy’s fall. In a way, she was.
Judy soon opened her eyes and was helped into the staff room where she was given a plastic cup of water from the cooler. Matilda managed to win the staff round and eventually they were left alone.
‘I’m sorry,’ Judy said, wiping her brow. ‘I’ve never fainted before.’
‘That’s perfectly understandable. You’ve had a shock.’
‘Well, yes. It was awful. When you said Iain had died I thought you were going to say he’d choked on his own vomit or something.’
‘Why would I say that?’ Matilda frowned.
‘He’s been drinking heavily lately. God only knows what it’s been doing to his insides. I haven’t seen him too often over the last few months but each time I have he’s looked worse and worse.’
‘Has he always been a drinker?’
‘No. Well, I mean, he likes a drink, but don’t we all? Lately he’s been having more than usual. I’m surprised he’s kept hold of his job.’
‘Is there a reason he’s been drinking more?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Were you close?’
‘Well, we were married for twelve years. You don’t just forget twelve years. It’s a large part of your life. We haven’t seen much of each other recently. I work, and he worked, and we never made arrangements to meet up. We just kept in touch. Neither of us seemed to have a lot of people in our lives so we kept an eye on each other.’