by Michael Wood
Danny choked. He grabbed for the scarf, but it was no good. His woollen gloves were useless for getting any kind of purchase. He tried to scream but no sound came out. He grabbed at his neck, scratching, pulling at the scarf, desperate to breathe.
Danny fell forward onto the cold, hard ground. He ripped at the scarf, pulled it off his neck and began gasping for air. He turned onto his back and looked up at his attacker as a tall figure loomed over him.
‘You should be careful who you meet in the dark, Danny. You never know what kind of trouble you’re going to get into.’ The voice was low and deep, menacing.
‘Who are you?’
‘You should realize your actions are going to have consequences. Think of that the next time you write your shite in the paper.’
‘Who the hell are you?’ Danny said, louder this time as his breathing began to return.
His attacker said nothing. He turned on his heel and ran off into the darkness, leaving Danny Hanson behind in the cold. As he looked up at the retreating figure running under a lamp post, he caught a glimpse of dark red hair.
After a hot shower, which thawed Matilda and set the blood flowing freely throughout her body again, she made herself a large cup of tea and went into the living room. Usually she would sit with a book and a packet of biscuits, but with Scott’s words ringing in her ears, she decided to leave the cookie jar alone.
‘I’m doing this for you, James,’ she said to the wedding photo on the mantelpiece. She was looking at her husband, but as soon as she said his name she immediately pictured James Dalziel. She closed her eyes and shook the image from her head. There was no comparison to James Darke. Her husband was tall, good-looking, intelligent, funny, romantic, an excellent kisser, great in bed, useless in the kitchen, always chose the best restaurants, struggled to pronounce the word ‘prepared’, which was very sweet, and made a wonderful cup of tea. He was the perfect man. Well, maybe ninety-five per cent, there’s no such thing as the perfect man. Ninety-eight per cent.
Matilda’s mobile vibrated on the sofa next to her. A text message had come through from someone not saved in her phone book.
Have you done anything you haven’t paid the price for?
It was the killer. So maybe she was right: he had killed Brian Appleby and Joe Lacey because he believed they hadn’t paid correctly for their crimes.
Matilda stared at the message for so long the screen went blank. She turned the phone back on and looked at it again. She shouldn’t reply. Valerie told her to call her at any time of the day or night should she receive another message from the killer. The clock on the mantelpiece told her it was almost midnight. She should phone Valerie.
Although, Valerie would want to see the message for herself, and she would probably want James Dalziel to take a look before deciding what to do about it. The killer obviously wanted to chat now, to open up a dialogue between himself and the police. By the time she’d gone through the rigmarole of contacting her boss and the criminal psychologist, he could have changed his mind. No, Matilda needed to use her initiative. She needed to reply now.
No. I haven’t.
Matilda sent the reply and sat back in the sofa. She waited. The screen on the iPhone went black. She didn’t move. She didn’t dare leave the sofa in case she missed the beep of an incoming text.
Matilda contemplated going to bed. She was starting to get cold, but there wasn’t a great signal on her phone in her bedroom. In the living room, it was on five dots. She should wait.
Ten minutes later, the phone beeped and she quickly picked it up.
Two words: Carl Meagan.
Chapter Twenty-One
‘What did I tell you?’
Valerie Masterson was fuming. It wasn’t the first time Matilda had defied her orders, and it wouldn’t be the last either.
Matilda had called her boss first thing in the morning. She had had a sleepless night wondering if she should reply and start a conversation with the killer who was obviously delighting in taunting Matilda. In the end, she had turned her phone off. Before going to Valerie’s office, she had the killer’s number traced. Once again it was from a burner phone.
‘Who’s Carl Meagan?’ James Dalziel asked.
Matilda and Valerie both looked at him as if he’d just asked who The Beatles were.
‘What? I’m Scottish,’ he replied, as if his nationality was an excuse.
‘Carl Meagan was a seven-year-old boy who was kidnapped from his home a couple of years ago …’
‘March 25th 2015,’ Matilda interrupted.
‘A ransom demand was sent to his parents. They own a chain of organic restaurants throughout South Yorkshire. Matilda was leading the case and was the point of contact for the exchange. Unfortunately, a series of errors led the kidnappers to flee, and Carl hasn’t been heard from since.’
‘I vaguely remember the case.’ James nodded. He noticed Matilda’s painful expression. ‘I’m guessing you blame yourself.’
‘On the day of the exchange, my husband died,’ she began, looking off into the middle distance. ‘He’d been ill for a while and I was constantly running from the hospital to work and back again. I didn’t sleep or eat. In hindsight, I should have handed the case over, but I didn’t. My husband died, and I went straight to the drop-off point with a quarter of a million pounds. I went to the wrong car park and the kidnappers panicked.’
‘Wow. I can see why you’d blame yourself. You’ve not heard from the kidnappers since?’
‘No,’ Valerie replied.
‘When they knew you were at the wrong car park, what happened?’
‘I said I’d go to the right one. I ran but when I got there, they’d gone.’
James took a lingering sip of his coffee. ‘I think it’s safe to say Carl Meagan was dead long before you went to the drop off.’
‘What?’ Matilda was shocked at his nonchalance. She had assumed Carl was dead, but she would never say it out loud, and not in company.
‘If Carl was alive, the kidnappers would have made contact again. It was a business transaction, they wanted the money. There is only one reason why they didn’t call and that’s simply because Carl was dead.’
Simply? ‘Maybe they killed Carl after I ballsed-up,’ Matilda said.
‘No. You were prepared to go to them. They panicked as they assumed they’d be found out for having already killed Carl. They were chancing their arm in asking for a ransom, and it didn’t work. They got scared and ran.’
‘So you think Carl Meagan is dead?’ Matilda asked slowly.
‘I do. Obviously I don’t know how. Maybe it was an accident, who knows? I don’t think you should beat yourself up about it, though.’
Matilda let go of the breath she was holding and visibly slumped in her chair.
‘Getting back to the point,’ Valerie said. ‘The killer seems to think Matilda should pay for what happened to Carl Meagan.’
‘Who knows about Matilda’s involvement with the Carl Meagan case?’
‘Any of the thousands of people who have read the book,’ Matilda said, looking at the floor. Her body may have been in Valerie’s office, but her mind was elsewhere, always the case whenever Carl Meagan was mentioned.
‘There’s a book?’
Valerie went over to a cabinet on the far side of the room. She unlocked the top drawer and took out her own personal hardback copy of Carl written by his mother, Sally Meagan. She handed it to James. ‘DCI Darke and South Yorkshire Police are the bad guys.’
‘It was in the Sunday Times top ten for seven weeks. It will have sold thousands,’ Matilda said flatly.
James flicked through the pages. ‘May I borrow this?’
‘Of course.’
‘Matilda, can you think of anyone who has a grudge against you? I don’t just mean in the Carl Meagan case; that could be a smokescreen. Is there anyone in your work or personal life who could taunt you like this?’
Matilda took a deep breath. She looked at Valerie, but her face
was expressionless. Matilda could only think of one name, and she didn’t want to say it out loud.
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘Are you going home?’ Sian Mills said as she entered Matilda’s small office. Everybody else had left for the day.
‘Soon. I was just thinking.’
‘You’ve been in a very thoughtful mood all afternoon. Anything I can help you with?’
‘No. You get off home to your family.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Go on.’
‘OK. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Goodnight, Sian. Sian,’ Matilda said, calling her back, ‘as far as I’m concerned you know this team better than anyone. Who do you think could be talking to the press?’
She blew out her cheeks. ‘I’ve no idea. I have thought about it and I can’t see any of them going behind our backs to the papers. Either that or I don’t want to see it.’
‘I know what you mean. This is going to split the team, isn’t it?’
‘Only if we allow it.’
‘Go home, Sian. Take the night off. Put your brain into sleep mode and relax.’
‘I’ll certainly try, but Stuart’s wallpapering the dining room at the moment. See you tomorrow.’
Matilda watched while Sian gathered her things and left the office. There was something at the back of her mind niggling away, gnawing at her brain. She couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but she had a frightening feeling she knew exactly what was going on.
Matilda didn’t drive straight home. Out of the station car park, she turned left and headed to the opposite side of town from where she lived. Fortunately, she had missed the rush-hour traffic.
She found the road in Worrall easily, despite never having driven here before. She slowed to a crawl and looked out of the side window for the right house number. Eventually, she applied the brake and turned off the engine. She had arrived.
Matilda didn’t intend to get out of the car. She sat looking at the detached house. There was a light on behind heavy-looking curtains in what Matilda guessed was the living room. Someone was obviously home. Should she walk down the drive and knock on the door? The thought of what would happen when her call was answered filled her with dread. She couldn’t face the barrage of abuse she knew she’d receive.
‘Go home, Matilda,’ she berated herself.
She didn’t. She remained still, her eyes fixed on that barely lit window, waiting for something, anything, to prove there really was someone home. She had a long wait. It was seven minutes (though it felt longer) before there was a glimmer of life. A shadow moved across the window. A light came on in the room on the other side of the front door. The curtains were open, and the kitchen was lit up in a brilliant white light. She saw clearly what she had come to see: the sad face of the occupant.
Surprisingly, Matilda breathed a sigh of relief. She felt relaxed. There was someone there, where they should be. She turned on the engine and performed a five-point turn on the narrow road before heading for home.
***
Matilda kicked the door to the dining room closed behind her and slammed a large pile of files down on the table.
‘I’m sorry, James, but this is a matter of importance.’
As usual, Matilda was alone in the house. With the television off, no radio, no background noise apart from the sound of clocks ticking and the fridge humming, Matilda spoke to James to stave off the suffocating silence.
‘I told you at the time we didn’t need a six-seater dining table. We were hardly the dinner-party type. I think the most we’ve had around this table is that time Adele and Chris came over, and then it was only for fish and chips. Although,’ she said with a grin spreading across her face, ‘I seem to remember us celebrating our third wedding anniversary in this room.’ She blushed and was thankful, for once, she was alone.
She spread the files on the table and took out several photographs from the top one. Blown-up images of Brian Appleby and Joe Lacey hanging, their heads covered with white pillowcases. She had stolen a packet of Blu-Tac from the stationery cupboard at work and began to stick the photographs on the wall of the dining room. An hour later it resembled the briefing room back at the station. She pulled out one of the oak chairs and sat down, looking at the wall adorned with crime scene and post-mortem photographs, close-ups of rope burns on necks, fingernails with blood and skin samples beneath them.
‘So, Brian Appleby was a paedophile and Joe Lacey caused death by drink-driving. They served their sentences and were released from prison to become members of society once again. Something, or someone, links these two men. Who or what? I’ve been told I can rule out George Appleby,’ she said to herself sticking up a photo of George she’d managed to get from the student union. ‘But do I want to? This doesn’t feel like a son killing his father and I haven’t even met him, so why is he texting me?’
Matilda’s phone beeped an incoming text message. She looked for her bag among the stacks of files and paperwork. Again, it was from a number she didn’t recognize:
According to the news, Sheffield appears to have a serial killer on its hands.
Matilda ran into the living room and turned on the television to the BBC News channel. A man wearing a ridiculous tie was talking about football. At the bottom of the screen, the ticker gave the latest headlines:
BREAKING: TWO PEOPLE MURDERED IN SHEFFIELD LINKED TO ONE KILLER.
‘Shit,’ Matilda said quietly.
She wondered if ACC Masterson was at home watching the news right now. Whoever was leaking this information to the media, Matilda hoped it was worth it, because when Valerie found them, she would crucify them.
Matilda waited for the main headlines, but nothing more was mentioned. They probably didn’t have all the information yet. She went into the kitchen and flicked the kettle on. As it boiled she wondered what was worse: having someone on her team leaking secrets or the panic on the streets of Sheffield when people woke up tomorrow morning to find news of a serial killer on the front pages.
The kettle boiled, but Matilda, in her own reverie, leaned against the kitchen counter staring into space as her mind went through the members of her team. Let’s start with Faith… The security light from outside came on. A brilliant white seeped into the kitchen from the side of the curtains. Matilda looked up. Someone was in her garden. The house next door was still empty. On the other side were an elderly couple. Their Jack Russell used to come through to her garden, but Mr Selby had blocked the gap in the fence.
She stood still, waiting, hoping for the light to go out. From the living room, her mobile phone signalled an incoming text message. She ignored it, her eyes fixed on the window. The sensor should have turned off by now if it had just been a passing cat or a low-flying bird. Eventually, it went out and Matilda visibly relaxed. She had been holding her breath. Her mobile burst into life once more. She was about to leave the kitchen when the security light came on again. There was definitely someone in her garden.
Shit!
She picked up a marble rolling pin from the counter and made her way slowly to the door. The roller blind was down. She peeled back the edge enough to peek round and see into the garden. There was nothing there. The security light went out, and she moved away from the door. Maybe it was a fox.
Matilda returned to the counter to make her cup of tea. Again, she heard her phone once more from the living room. She ignored it. The security light came on. This time, Matilda acted fast. She grabbed the rolling pin and the key from the hook on the wall and ran to the back door. She unlocked it, swung it open and stepped out into the pitch-dark, freezing cold night. The security light went out and immediately came back on again. She went around to the side of the conservatory and stopped. She dropped the rolling pin onto the paving slab opened her mouth and screamed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Land Rover pulled up. The front passenger door was opened before it came to a complete stop. Valerie Masterson jumped down and slammed it closed
behind her. She had been in bed when the call came through and dressed quickly in the dark. It was unlike her to leave the house looking dishevelled in skinny jeans, a baggy sweater and wellington boots. Her overcoat was full of muddy splashes from long walks with her dogs near her home in the Derbyshire countryside.
She walked down the driveway and looked at the uniformed officer standing on the doorstep. He didn’t need to ask to see her ID. He knew who she was. He nodded and said good evening. She smiled and walked past him into the warm house. Without taking off her boots, she turned into the living room where Matilda was sitting on one of the sofas with DS Sian Mills next to her, both were holding mugs of strong tea.
‘Matilda, how are you?’ Valerie asked.
‘I’m fine, ma’am. Thank you.’
‘You’re not hurt?’
‘No. Just shaken up a bit.’
‘Is it still there in your garden?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Right.’
Valerie made her way through the living room and kitchen and out into the back garden. Floodlights had been erected and a team of scene of crime officers were scouring the area, looking in bushes and hedges for traces of the intruder. In the middle of the garden, swinging from a barren oak tree, was a mannequin, hanging by the neck as if it had been executed. The wig was identical to Matilda’s hairstyle and the clothes were similar to an outfit she had worn recently.
‘Same rope as the others,’ a forensic officer on a stepladder next to the mannequin shouted. ‘Hangman’s noose again, too.’
‘Get it cut down as soon as you can,’ Valerie said. She turned and went back into the house, shaking her head. The killer was playing games, using her officers for their own sick pleasure.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Valerie asked for the third time.
‘I’m fine. Just shocked that’s all.’
‘That’s understandable. I don’t want you staying here tonight. Do you have somewhere to go?’