by Michael Wood
‘Ma’am?’ DC Rory Fleming interrupted her.
‘Good evening Rory, what … bloody hell, are you sponsored by Calvin Klein or something?’ she asked, wafting away the strong smell of fragrance coming from him.
‘Sorry?’
‘You don’t need to drown yourself in the stuff.’
‘It’s Paco Rabanne, actually.’
‘Is that Spanish for sewer water?’
He pulled out his collar and sniffed himself. ‘I think it smells nice; very sexy.’
‘Since when was attending a crime scene sexy? Look, Rory, do me a favour, go to the Northern General and find out how Mrs Hardaker is.’
‘Will do. I thought you’d want to look at this.’ He handed her a wallet sealed in a forensic bag. It was open and the driving licence was showing.
Matilda studied the photograph. He didn’t look familiar. ‘A good-looking guy.’ There was a trace of sadness in her voice.
‘He used to be.’
‘Where’s Scott disappeared to?’
‘He’s over with forensics.’
‘OK. Tell him to get a car and an FLO. I want to go to the Hardaker home. If they do have kids they’ll be worried out of their minds.’
They were both interrupted by a bright white flash coming from further up the road. They looked up to see a man with a camera pointing at them, obviously a journalist.
‘Shit,’ Matilda said under her voice and turning her back on him. ‘How do they find out so quickly?’
‘I saw the story about you in The Star tonight,’ Rory said.
‘You and everyone else judging by the stares I’ve been getting.’
‘I shouldn’t worry about it. Nobody believes the crap they write anyway. Do you know what my mum always says?’
‘That today’s newspaper is tomorrow’s chip paper?’
‘How did you know that? Do you know my mum?’ Rory asked, a shocked look on his face.
‘No. I just knew one of you was going to say it at some point. I’d have put money on it being you, too.’ She smiled. ‘Now bugger off to the hospital.’
Matilda took out her phone and looked for a number in her contacts list. She had one eye on the journalist, wanting to make sure he wasn’t trying to get closer to the crime scene.
‘Ma’am, I’m sorry to call so late,’ Matilda said when the call was eventually answered.
‘Who is this?’ The sleepy, gravelly voice of Assistant Chief Constable Valerie Masterson. Obviously she had answered the call as a matter of urgency, not looking at the display to see who was interrupting her much valued sleep.
‘It’s DCI Darke, ma’am. There’s been a shooting.’
That statement was better than a bucket of cold water thrown in the face. She suddenly sounded wide awake.
‘Shooting? Where? Who?’
‘I’m on Clough Lane – it’s Ringinglow.’
‘I know where Clough Lane is,’ she snapped.
‘As you know I’m a few detectives down and I’m going to need all hands on deck. I was wondering—’
‘Let me stop you right there Matilda. I was going to talk to you first thing in the morning. I’m afraid the Murder Investigation Team no longer exists.’
FOUR
The scream woke Martin Craven with a start. His eyes wide and his heart thumping in his chest, he wondered where he was.
A second scream and he jumped up. He must have fallen asleep on the sofa. The cry was coming from upstairs. He left the living room and ran upstairs, taking them two at a time. He knew where the offending noise was coming from.
He burst into the small box room and turned on the light. Sitting up in the single bed was his youngest son, Thomas, aged eight.
Thomas was glistening with sweat, his face red, and tears streaming down his face. ‘I had a bad dream,’ he said loudly, too frightened to sign.
Martin ran towards him, sat on the edge of the bed and put his arms around him. He pulled him close and tight and tried to hush him from waking everyone else in the house.
He released him so Thomas could read his father’s lips. ‘It’s all right, Thomas, calm down. It was just a dream. There’s nothing to worry about,’ he enunciated.
‘Someone was chasing me …’
‘Now, come on Thomas. We’ve talked about this before. They’re just dreams. They’re not real. You’re perfectly safe.’
Thomas sniffed and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his Batman pyjamas. ‘I’ve had an accident,’ he said, almost under his breath.
Martin carefully pushed back the Avengers duvet and saw the wet patches on his pyjama trousers and the fitted sheet. ‘Don’t worry about it. Come on, hop out and we’ll clean it up.’ He signed and spoke at the same time.
‘Are you mad at me?’
‘Of course I’m not mad.’ He gave him a kiss on the top of his head. ‘You go and have a wash and put on a new pair of pyjamas. I’ll change your bedding and we’ll meet in the kitchen and have a glass of milk and a few Oreos.’
Thomas’s eyes lit up. ‘Just us two?’
‘Just us two.’
Thomas jumped out of bed. The prospect of milk and cookies brightened him up. He picked up the two hearing aids from his bedside table and placed them in as he trotted to the bathroom.
Martin took off the duvet cover and carefully lifted off the fitted sheet. Before he took them downstairs to the utility room he looked into his own room expecting to see his wife fast asleep in bed. She wasn’t. The bed hadn’t been slept in. He looked at his watch. It was almost midnight.
His wife should have been home more than four hours ago.
It took less than five minutes for Matilda, DC Scott Andrews, and DC Joseph Glass to get to Broad Elms Lane from the crime scene.
Matilda had been hoping for a female Family Liaison Officer, especially if the Hardakers had young children; a six-foot tall, stick thin, geeky looking bloke with stubble and thick-rimmed glasses may not have the natural ability to offer succour to petrified kids wanting their parents. It didn’t help that the quickly drafted-in DC Glass reeked of the local pub.
‘When did you complete the FLO course, Glass?’
‘A couple of weeks ago ma’am.’
‘Is this your first assignment?’
‘It certainly is,’ he replied with a smile. ‘You don’t need to worry though. I’ve done plenty of courses since joining the police. I’m on the fast-track scheme too. I know what I’m doing.’
‘Do you have any kids of your own, Glass?’
‘No. It’s just me and a tortoise.’
DC Andrews sniggered from the driver’s seat while Matilda could feel the oncoming tension of a stress headache creeping up the back of her neck.
Since hearing of the fate of the Murder Room, Matilda had been a mass of seething rage. She had helped to set up the Murder Investigation Team (South Yorkshire), to give it its formal title, five years ago, and now it was being axed, closed, deleted.
It was no secret that the future of the department was in doubt, but Matilda had been silently confident that ACC Masterson could save it, if she worked hard on the decision makers.
The national press had not been good to South Yorkshire Police; their part in the Hillsborough disaster and the unprecedented levels of sexual abuse in Rotherham had placed the force under intense scrutiny. Budgets had been slashed and non-essential projects and departments shelved or dropped. Even police dogs weren’t immune; several were facing early retirement. It would appear that the Murder Room was also one such department. What did that mean for Matilda’s future?
She thought of her team: Aaron and Sian were two very dedicated sergeants. They had been with the MIT from day one. It would be a waste of their talents to go back to investigating burglaries and druggies with egos from the sink estates. Matilda decided not to say anything to anyone yet. She would have a more detailed word with the ACC in the morning and go from there.
Broad Elms Lane was picturesque. Residents seemed to take care of thei
r properties; neatly trimmed lawns and hedges, well-kept driveways, swept pavements, gleaming windows and doors, and not a single item of litter in sight. It was like they were anticipating a royal visit.
Matilda stepped out of the car and looked around her. Most of the houses were in darkness. It was rapidly approaching midnight, after all. The breeze had picked up and she felt a chill run through her; it may have been the task ahead, the breach into the unknown of what lay behind the front door of the Hardaker house; young children, teenagers, a baby? This was not going to be easy.
Everything about the front door was symmetrical: a small potted fern tree either side of the door, the pattern in the stained glass, even the door number, 101, was symmetrical. The gravel driveway was neatly swept too, not a stone out of place. A perfectly designed entrance to what appeared to be, from the outside, an orderly family home.
The property was in darkness save for the faint glow from the edge of the closed curtains in a downstairs front room. The sound of the doorbell echoed through the house and down most of the street. Matilda wondered how many curtains on the opposite side of the road were twitching right now. A caller in the middle of the night was rare; three people, smartly dressed with grim faces, screamed plain-clothes police delivering bad news.
The door opened and Matilda was surprised to see a tall woman around her own age, early forties. For a second she was sidetracked, and temporarily blinded by the hallway light. A thought suddenly struck Matilda. Was this Kevin Hardaker’s wife? Of course she could be a neighbour or a relative, but something told Matilda this wasn’t the case. Which begged the question: who the hell was the woman he was parked with on a quiet country lane?
She broached the question cautiously. ‘Mrs Hardaker?’
‘Yes.’
Behind Matilda, Scott and Joseph exchanged nervous glances.
She held up her warrant card. ‘I’m DCI Matilda Darke from South Yorkshire Police …’ Was there a flash of recognition on the woman’s face at the mention of her name? Had she read tonight’s copy of The Star? ‘This is DC Andrews and DC Glass. May we have a word?’
‘Oh God,’ the greeting smile fell from the woman’s face. ‘Has something happened?’
‘Perhaps we could come inside.’
Alice Hardaker stepped to one side and allowed the three detectives to enter. She closed the door firmly, even putting the security chain on, and led them into a very large living room. The decoration was minimalistic; two large sofas, a large-screen TV with various consoles attached, and a solitary bookcase housing DVDs, games, the odd ornament, but strangely, no books.
‘Mrs Hardaker, your husband …?’
‘Kevin.’
Again Scott and Joseph Glass exchanged nervous glances. They could have conducted this entire interview with their facial expressions alone.
‘Does he drive a silver Citroen Xsara with the registration number …?’ She looked at Scott who rapidly flicked through his notebook.
‘YP52 XPD.’
‘Yes that’s right,’ Alice said. A heavy frown appeared on her forehead and she started to play with the loose collar on her shirt to give her hands something to do. ‘Has there been an accident?’ Her hands were shaking, fearing the worst.
‘Mrs Hardaker, a short time ago this car was found on Clough Lane, just off Quiet Lane …’
‘Oh. He’s had an accident hasn’t he? I hate that road. Is he OK?’
‘Mrs Hardaker—’
‘Alice, please.’
‘Alice, I’m afraid an incident has taken place involving your husband. As a result, he received a number of gunshot wounds.’
Alice stumbled and held out an arm to grab on to something. She found the flowery sofa and gently eased herself into it. Upon hearing the words gunshot wounds, Alice’s face lost all colour. ‘What? He’s been shot?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘But he’s going to be all right isn’t he?’
‘Alice, he didn’t make it. He was dead when we got to the scene.’
Alice thought for a while. It was as if she hadn’t heard what Matilda had said. She swallowed hard. Her bottom lip quivered and tears formed in the corners of her eyes. ‘No. That’s not possible. He wouldn’t need to go on Quiet Lane this evening.’ She fought hard to keep control of her emotions but she was fighting a losing battle. ‘He was going to play tennis straight from work. He wouldn’t come home that way. Maybe … maybe he’s had his keys stolen from the locker room or something. Kevin mentioned about some things being stolen from lockers a few months ago. That’s what’s happened hasn’t it? Someone’s stolen his car and they’ve been killed. Oh my God, I should call him.’
With shaking fingers, she picked up her mobile and frantically looked for her husband’s number. She held the phone tight, her knuckles turning white. She waited for her call to be answered.
‘I can see why you think it’s Kevin. It’s definitely his car, but it won’t be him.’ Her nervous laugh was loud and forced. ‘You had me worried for a while there thinking he was dead, blimey. He’s not picking up. Strange.’ She looked at the phone and disconnected the call. ‘They sometimes go for a drink afterwards. I’ll give Jeremy a call; his phone is practically glued to his hand.’ While waiting for the call to be connected she ran her free hand frantically through her thick, dark red mane of hair.
Alice’s denial made the atmosphere uncomfortable. Matilda stood back and watched until realization dawned. There was very little else she could do. Scott was interested in the framed photographs on the mantelpiece and Joseph Glass looked almost as upset as Alice; as if it were him receiving the bad news.
It had been a while since Matilda had had to deliver the death message. The last time she’d heard it she’d been on the receiving end; a shattered-looking nurse stated the obvious ‘he’s gone, Mrs Darke,’ as she held the cold hand of her husband.
‘Jeremy, it’s Alice. Is Kevin with you?… No? OK. What time did he leave you?… Oh … Don’t you?… No, nothing’s wrong. I’ll talk to you later, Jeremy.’ She hung up and slumped further into the sofa. She held the phone to her chest. ‘Jeremy hasn’t seen Kevin for weeks. They stopped playing tennis together ages ago. What’s going on?’ She looked up at Matilda. A single tear fell from her right eye.
Joseph stepped forward and sat down on the sofa next to Alice.
‘Is there anybody you’d like me to call?’
‘Erm, no I don’t think so. There’s my sister but she’s away. I could call her, I suppose.’
‘I see you have children, Mrs Hardaker,’ he said, nodding to the school photographs on the wall. ‘Are they in the house?’
She nodded a reply. ‘Oh my God, the kids. What am I going to say to them? They love their dad. Warren dotes on him. They’re supposed to be going to the Wednesday match this weekend.’
‘Alice, I’m going to leave DC Glass with you,’ Matilda interrupted, wanting to get out of the house. The dark atmosphere was unbearable. She could feel the walls closing in. ‘I’m going to find out what’s happening. I will definitely keep you informed. If there’s anything you need, let Joseph know and he’ll get on to me.’ She looked down at the weeping Alice who hadn’t taken in a single word of what she’d said. ‘I’ll see myself out.’
Matilda nodded to Scott to follow her. She mouthed ‘call me’ to Joseph. He replied with a small sympathetic smile.
Matilda couldn’t get out of the house fast enough. The blast of cold air was like a slap. She took a deep breath to regain her composure. She could tell Scott was going to ask her how she was feeling so she dug her phone out of her pocket and quickly made a call.
‘Aaron it’s me. Are you still at the crime scene?’
‘Yes. Why? What’s wrong?’
‘I’m at Kevin Hardaker’s home and just broke the news of his death to his wife. The woman he was with is not his wife.’
‘Bloody hell. Who is she then?’
‘I’ve no idea. That’s what I want you to find out.’
‘Rory’s at the hospital.’
‘Right I’ll give him a ring. Is Dr Kean still there?’
‘No. She got a call. There’s been a suicide on London Road; she’s gone to attend.’
Bloody hell, it’s all go tonight. ‘Is there anything there at all that can identify who the woman is?’
‘Nothing at all. There are no mobiles, no purse, no bag. It’s like she’s never been in the car before.’
‘Oh God.’
‘What?’
‘They were parked in a quiet lay-by. Why would a married man have a woman who isn’t his wife with him while they’re parked in a tree-lined lay-by?’
‘You think she’s a prostitute?’ Aaron asked his voice louder with surprise.
‘It’s a possibility.’
At the Northern General Hospital DC Rory Fleming wasn’t having any luck trying to find out who the mystery woman was. She was in theatre with a team of surgeons battling to save her life. With massive internal bleeding, a punctured lung, swelling on her brain, and two gunshot wounds, it was a miracle she had survived so far. It wasn’t just the next few hours that were critical – the following minutes were touch and go.
Rory paced up and down the corridor waiting for somebody, anybody, to remember he was still there and bring him some kind of information as to the condition of the woman. He looked at his watch. It was rapidly approaching one o’clock in the morning but the hospital was still a hive of activity or maybe it was just the heaviness of the footfalls against a backdrop of silence that echoed louder in the small hours. Surely Sheffield’s emergency surgery wasn’t in such high demand all the time?
After twenty minutes of pacing and two chocolate bars from a vending machine he left the hospital and called his boss.
‘Any news?’ Matilda didn’t bother with a greeting.
‘Nothing so far, ma’am. She’s in theatre.’ He relayed the information he had been given by a duty nurse. ‘To be honest, I doubt she’ll survive the night.’
‘Bloody hell. Look, go back in and try and get her clothes from the nurses before they’re destroyed. Then get them straight to forensics. After that go home. Back at the station first thing for a briefing.’