Stolen Children

by Michael Wood

  With the door closed, Matilda filled him in on the phone call she had had with Danny Hanson the day before and the potential fallout once Aaron’s affair with Leah Mercer was exposed.

  ‘What does the ACC say?’ He asked.

  ‘I called her last night. Her phone went straight to voicemail, so I left a message saying I needed to talk urgently. When I woke up this morning, I found she’d left me a message. Arthur’s had another stroke.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘She said she’ll see me on Monday, but I doubt she’ll be in.’

  ‘She’s not the type to take compassionate leave, is she?’

  ‘No. She should, though.’

  ‘If there’s not much for her to do at the hospital she probably thinks being at work is the best place to be.’

  ‘The thing is, I’m up against the clock here. Danny Hanson says he’s going to run the story about Aaron in Monday evening’s edition.’

  ‘Would it really jeopardise the Mercer case?’

  ‘Of course it would. You know what defence lawyers are like; they’ll look for any chink to try and get their guy off and I will not let someone walk away from three murders on a technicality that can easily be avoided,’ Matilda said. She took another biscuit from the packet and tore off a chunk. She ignored the crumbs that fell onto her chest. ‘Besides, Keith Lumb sacrificed his life to save mine. I know he wasn’t the most law-abiding person in the world, but I won’t let his death be in vain.’

  ‘I can understand that. So, what are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ve got two options. On the one hand I let Danny run his story. The fallout would be Aaron getting sacked and the Mercer case being thrown out of court at the cost of several million pounds and the murderer of three people potentially walking free. On the other hand, I give Danny a completely different story, he still gets his front-page story which will hopefully lead to a job on a national and he can fuck off out of Sheffield, the trial goes ahead in November as planned, and all Aaron has to do is deal with Katrina and go back to CID.’

  ‘That seems like the best option all round.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘What story are you going to give Danny?’

  Matilda took a deep breath. ‘The story I plan on giving him isn’t exactly moral.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘The only one I can think of is Carl Meagan turning up in France.’

  ‘Do you have the DNA results back yet?’

  She looked at her laptop. ‘Erm … no.’ BIG FAT LIAR.

  ‘Then you can’t give it to him.’

  ‘I could tell him Carl’s been found. He runs the story and if the DNA results come back and the boy in France isn’t really Carl then it’s Danny who’s for the chop and not me. I’ll deny everything.’

  ‘You’re not that type of person,’ Christian said, looking at Matilda over the top of his cup.

  ‘I could be.’

  ‘And what about the Meagans?’

  ‘That’s what’s causing the biggest headache. I’ll be getting their hopes up for nothing.’

  ‘I don’t know about this, Mat. You know how fragile Sally Meagan is. If she thinks Carl’s been found and then it turns out not to be him, who knows how she’ll react.’

  ‘I’m aware.’

  ‘Fucking hell,’ he said slowly. ‘Is there nothing else you can give Danny Hanson to stop him running the story?’

  ‘Not unless you can tell me the identity of Jack the Ripper.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Then I have no other choice.’

  ‘You can’t throw Philip and Sally Meagan to the wolves like this.’

  ‘I can’t allow a murderer to go free either.’

  ‘Won’t Danny wait for the DNA results if you tell him you may have found Carl? It will only be for a few days and it’ll buy you extra time.’

  ‘He’ll think we’re stalling him on purpose.’

  ‘I know the Carl Meagan case means a great deal to you. We all know what you went through and you have the support of the entire force behind you when the press criticises the way the case was handled. If you go ahead with this, you’ll lose all that if the boy in France turns out not to be Carl.’

  Matilda turned back to the laptop and saw her face reflected in the black mirror.

  ‘Then what do I do, Christian?’ She asked, raising her voice. She was clearly struggling with her inner moral compass. ‘What do I actually do next?’ Her voice quivered.

  He slowly shook his head. ‘If I knew, I’d tell you. There’s no chance the Mercer killer could change his plea to guilty, is there?’

  ‘He’s pleading diminished responsibility, but I know for a fact he knew exactly what he was doing when he entered that house. He butchered three people. He cannot be allowed to get away with that.’

  Christian pulled his buzzing phone from the pocket of his jeans. ‘That’s the wife; she’ll be wondering where I am. Look, whatever you decide, I’ll support you, but I can’t condone you betraying the Meagan family like this.’

  Matilda nodded her thanks. She was afraid to speak in case her emotions poured out. She waited until Christian left the office, watching as he walked out of the HMET suite with his head down. She looked around her. She loved how this team supported each other no matter what was thrown at it. It had taken years for her to build up the trust and respect of every member and there was a distinct possibility she was about to destroy it all and ruin the chance of a promotion to superintendent.

  She scrolled through the contacts in her phone and made a call. It didn’t take long for it to be answered.

  ‘DCI Darke, a pleasure to hear from you. I trust you’re having a lovely weekend,’ Danny’s cheerful voice chilled her to her very soul.

  ‘We don’t like each other, Danny, so cut the small-talk bollocks. We need to talk.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘In person.’

  ‘You’re not going to try to appeal to my better nature by telling me DS Connolly is an outstanding detective and one slip is going to ruin an illustrious career, are you?’

  ‘Danny, you don’t have a better nature. You’re the very definition of a parasite. No, I have a much better story for you.’

  ‘Unless it’s photographic evidence of Theresa May snorting coke through a rolled up fifty Euro note, I doubt I’ll be interested.’

  ‘Trust me, Danny, you’re going to be very interested in this one.’

  Matilda felt physically sick as she arranged a time and a place to sit down and have coffee with the devil himself.

  Chapter 45

  Dolly Richardson had lived in the Pitsmoor area of Sheffield for more than fifty years. She had seen many changes in the suburb where she’d brought up her four children, and not one of them good. Following the death of her husband in 1992, she moved out of the four-bedroom house and into a flat above a shop on Ellesmere Road. When she moved in it was charming, quaint, and a hubbub of friendly activity. Now, it was a forgotten area. Crime was rife, abandoned cars on every street, litter piled up, and people didn’t chat anymore. They went about their business with their heads down, not risking eye contact with anyone.

  Dolly lived above an ethnic food store. The smells emanating from downstairs made her hungry – not that she’d ever been in. She wouldn’t know how to go about cooking with pulses and chickpeas. At eighty-three, she was too set in her ways to attempt a chana masala or dhokla. Her cupboards were filled with Fray Bentos pies and tins of mushy peas.

  Taking the rubbish out to her bin, she sniffed up. That wasn’t the smell of spices, it was more like something had crawled into a hole and died.

  The iron staircase tacked onto the side of the building was rusting and rickety. Dolly really shouldn’t be living there. However, in her words, I’ll only move out of here when I’m in a pine box. Holding onto the railing for dear life, she descended the wet stairs slowly, and tossed the rubbish bag into the wheelie bin belonging to the shop below.

  She lim
ped around the corner, glancing up to the flat next door. She reached the Peugeot she’d seen parked opposite the green for the past couple of days and rapped hard on the glass with her gnarled knuckles. The window lowered.

  ‘You’re detectives, aren’t you?’ she asked the young man behind the wheel.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Come on, love, I live in Pitsmoor. I can spot a copper a mile off and you two stand out like a sore thumb around here.’

  The detectives glanced at each other.

  ‘If you wanted to blend in you should have worn one of those burka things. Listen, I need you to have a look at the flat next door to mine,’ she said in her deep Yorkshire accent.

  ‘We’re actually on duty at the moment, madam. If you have a complaint, I suggest you dial 101.’

  ‘And I suggest you listen to what I’ve got to say before you interrupt.’

  The other detective sniggered.

  ‘Sorry. Go on.’

  ‘The flat next door to mine. I’ve seen you looking up a few times, and there’s been uniformed coppers knocking on the door day and night lately. I might be old, but I’m not daft. There’s something wrong.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s what I want you to find out. There’s a hell of a stink coming from it and flies buzzing around the windows. I’ll bet you a pound to a penny there’s a dead body in there.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ the detective in the front passenger seat asked.

  ‘Come and see for yourself if you don’t believe me, but if I end up with rats because you’ve not done your job properly, it’ll be South Yorkshire Police who pays for the exterminators.’

  Dolly walked away.

  ‘Should we call it in?’ PC Walker, who was behind the wheel, asked his colleague.

  ‘Better take a look first,’ PC Kendal said. ‘For all we know there could just be a rotting chicken in there or something. We don’t want to be a laughingstock.’

  ‘Says the man who tried to arrest a priest for being drunk and disorderly,’ Walker smirked.

  ‘You’ll never let that drop, will you?’ Kendal said as he climbed out of the car. ‘How was I supposed to know he was having a fit?’

  By the time they went around to the back of the shops, they’d caught up with Dolly. She’d reached the bottom of the iron staircase.

  ‘You live here?’ Kendal asked, shocked by the conditions she was living in. A burnt-out car was inches away from her flat, the brickwork blackened by the fire, litter from the shops, fly-tipping from passing motorists who used the abandoned back yards of the flats as places to throw broken toilets, bedsteads, and busted mattresses.

  ‘It’s a shit-hole, isn’t it? Never used to be. At one time there was a waiting list for people to move to Pitsmoor.’

  ‘Why don’t you move?’ Walker asked with sympathy in his voice.

  ‘At my age? My next move is to the cemetery, love.’

  ‘Are you ok living here on your own?’ Kendal asked with concern.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she smiled a toothy smile. ‘I keep myself to myself, don’t go out after dark and don’t open my door unless I know who’s calling. You want the next lot of stairs. You’ll not get to his flat from mine.’

  Walker and Kendal walked carefully over uneven ground, striding over bags of rotting rubbish, old engine parts, and half a bath.

  They gingerly walked up the stairs which creaked loudly with every step. They made it to the landing and approached the flat. Walker knocked on the door and stood back while Kendal went over to the window, cupped his hands around his eyes and looked inside.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ he said, stepping back.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You’d better call it in.’

  ‘Why? What have you seen?’

  ‘What is it, love?’ Dolly asked from the opposite landing where she stood outside her front door. ‘You’ve gone as white as a sheet. I’ve got some whiskey if you want something to line your stomach.’

  Before he could say anything, Kendal turned away and vomited.

  ‘They don’t make coppers like they did in my day,’ Dolly said, folding her arms across her ample chest. ‘Are you going to have a look or are you a vomiter as well?’

  ***

  The call came through to DI Christian Brady. For some reason, Matilda wasn’t answering her phone. He left his wife and daughters in Endcliffe Park and phoned Scott Andrews on the way to Pitsmoor.

  ‘Sorry for calling you out, Scott. I didn’t fancy going in that flat with Jasper Carrott and Robert Powell as back-up,’ Christian said as Scott climbed into the car and put his seat belt on.

  ‘Who?’

  Christian looked at the face of innocence. ‘Oh for God’s sake,’ he said, suddenly realising he was getting old.

  Walker and Kendal were waiting at the bottom of the iron staircase when Christian pulled up. They both had a mug of tea in their hands. An elderly woman stood next to them, walking stick in hand, hunched over.

  ‘Ingratiating yourself with the locals, I see,’ Christian said.

  ‘Dolly, here, alerted us to Sebastian’s flat,’ Walker said.

  ‘Dolly, is it? You really are getting to know the neighbours. Lead the way.’

  Walker handed his empty mug to Kendal and set off with Christian in tow. Scott followed behind.

  ‘Bloody hell, they’re getting younger,’ Dolly said as she saw Scott. ‘What is this, bring-your-child-to-work day?’

  Christian took more offense at that remark than Scott did.

  When they reached the flat, they all looked at the window next to the front door and saw the number of flies buzzing around on the inside. Christian took out a pair of gloves from his back pocket and began to put them on. Scott did the same.

  ‘I think we can safely say that there could possibly be a life in danger in that flat, so I’m legally allowed to break down this door to investigate,’ Christian said. He took a step back, lifted his right leg up and slammed it hard into the door. It buckled but didn’t open.

  The door was a cheap, dirty white uPVC one with a small round double-glazed frosted window near the top. It took two more kicks before the door flew open and slammed against the wall behind. All three were hit by the smell of decomposition. Walker quickly turned away while Christian searched in his pocket for something to cover his mouth with. He found a creased handkerchief he kept on him for such an eventuality. Scott wasn’t quite as prepared and pulled down the sleeve on his sweater to cover his hand and use as a mask.

  Walker stayed outside while the DI and DC entered the dark property. The first door on the left, next to the front door, was closed. Looking down, Christian could see flies buzzing in and out of the gap where the threadbare carpet was. He looked at Scott whose face was screwed up against the smell.

  He placed a hand on the handle and braced himself. Slowly, he pushed it down and opened the door.

  It was dark in the bathroom, but there was no mistaking that a naked man in the tub full of bloody water was dead and had been for some time.

  ***

  Less than an hour later, Adele Kean and Lucy Dauman were carefully lifting Sebastian Page out of the bloody bath and onto the opened up body bag on the floor. He was a tall man, and despite being slim, he was heavy – a dead weight – and the small room left very little space for manoeuvre.

  Christian watched from the doorway. He looked around to make sure nobody was in earshot.

  ‘Adele, have you heard from Matilda lately?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘I’ve called her a couple of times and her phone is going straight to voicemail.’

  ‘Maybe she’s out with her new man,’ Lucy said with a grin.

  ‘Hmm,’ Christian said, not convinced.

  ‘Christian, come and have a look at this,’ Scott called from the somewhere else in the flat.

  The living room was dark and cluttered. The three-piece suite was old, the furniture second-hand and dated.
A large mass-produced bookcase at the back of the room was bursting with DVDs and Blu-rays. The only new thing in the whole room was the widescreen television which was too big for the room.

  ‘Any chance of opening the curtains or putting a light on?’ Christian asked.

  Scott flicked a switch on the wall. An energy saving light bulb slowly came to life. It was of such low wattage that it didn’t make much difference.

  Christian rolled his eyes. ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘I’ve found this. It’s not sealed down.’ Scott handed him an envelope with the word ‘Mum’ handwritten on the front.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On top of the fireplace.’

  Both detectives were wearing gloves, so the risk of disturbing evidence was at a minimum. Christian turned over the cheap envelope and removed a single sheet of A5 paper folded in half. He opened it, skimmed it, and sighed.

  ‘A suicide note,’ he said.

  Mum,

  I’m sorry. I’m not as strong as you think I am. I know you’ve taken a huge risk in helping me cover everything up and I thank you and love you for it but, at the end of the day, I’ve killed someone, and that fact won’t ever go away.

  Some people will say I’m taking the coward’s way out. Maybe I am, but I don’t care anymore.

  Tell the police it was all me. Don’t let them drag you down with me. I’m dead now. They can’t do anything to me.

  I’m sorry for what you’ll have to go through and if you’re the one who finds my body, I’m so sorry and I hope you’ll forgive me.

  Thank you for everything you did and for trusting me by giving me the job at Mary Croft. You are a wonderful mum and I love you.

  Seb.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Scott said, reading it after Christian. ‘The poor bloke.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It doesn’t say if Calvin killed Keeley Armitage or not.’

  ‘No,’ Christian mused. He went over to the window and pulled open the curtains. He looked out over the depressing view of a forgotten Sheffield: abandoned buildings, closed-down factories left to be targeted by vandals and graffiti artists. ‘Read that last bit again for me, Scott.’

  ‘Thank you for everything you did and for trusting me by giving me the job at Mary Croft. You are a wonderful mum and I love you.’ Scott read.