by Michael Wood
‘Ooh, gossip. Are you planning on sharing?’
‘I’d better not. Has Chris said anything?’
‘No.’
‘Is he in?’
‘No. He and Scott are out running again.’
‘They’re quite close, aren’t they?’
‘Chris and Scott? Well, they have a lot in common. I was doing a lasagne until I sniffed the beef, so we’re having a veggie one instead. You staying?’
‘If you don’t mind. It smells lovely. What do they have in common?’ Matilda asked.
‘Who?’ Adele was busying herself with dishing up the meal.
‘Chris and Scott.’
‘Oh. Well, there’s the running. They like the same music and films. They often go to the pictures together.’
‘What about Rory?’
‘What about him?’
‘Does he join them?’
‘I don’t know. Chris hasn’t mentioned him so I guess not. What’s wrong?’ Adele asked looked up at Matilda’s perplexed expression.
‘Nothing. Just thinking.’
‘You’ll give yourself a headache. Shall we eat?’
After the meal, which was exactly what Matilda needed, they went into the living room where they slumped on the sofa with their feet up. The real fire was blazing. Matilda could have fallen asleep, she felt so comfortable.
‘Have you heard any more from your hunky architect?’ Adele asked in a dopey voice as she relaxed into the sofa. She was a few glasses of wine ahead of Matilda, so she was feeling the effects of the alcohol.
Matilda rolled her eyes. ‘I have. He sent me a photo earlier.’
‘What of?’ Adele’s eyes lit up.
‘His wood.’
‘The dirty sod. Let’s have a look.’ She sat bolt upright.
‘Not that. Bloody hell, Adele, you’re disgusting. I was talking about the wood he’s going to be using for the beams in the garages.’
‘Oh,’ she deflated.
‘Do you honestly think he would have sent a picture of that?’
‘He might have.’
Matilda started laughing and nudged her friend. ‘You’re pure filth, do you know that?’
‘I’ve been single for a very long time. I have to get my kicks from somewhere.’
‘Are you thinking of going back onto the dating scene?’
‘You’re joking, surely. The last person I went out with turned out to be a paedophile. I’m probably better off on my own.’ She took a slug of wine. ‘I do miss sex, though,’ she said after a while.
‘Who doesn’t? James was the best lover I ever had.’
‘Robson was … well, he was adequate,’ she said, talking about her ex-husband and Chris’s father. ‘He knew where all the buttons were, he just didn’t bother to press them.’
‘Do you ever hear from Robson?’
‘No. Chris does from time to time. He’s too busy with his new family. Bastard.’
‘Not that you’re bitter, or anything.’
‘Of course not. I hope he’s blissfully happy with Caron. Stupid name. I need more wine,’ she said, easing herself up from the sofa and staggering out of the room.
‘Not for me. I’d better make a move while I can still drive. Thank you for a delicious meal. As soon as I’ve got past the stage where I don’t want to use anything because it’s too new I’ll return the favour.’
They hugged on the doorstep and Matilda headed for her car on the driveway. As she drove from Hillsborough to the outskirts of the city, she thought of how sad Adele had looked. Chris was settled into his career, he was socializing more, and it wouldn’t be long until he had saved up enough money to move out. Adele really would be on her own, then. Matilda wondered if she had been selfish in choosing a house in the middle of nowhere. She should have moved closer to Adele. They could have grown old and lonely together.
Closing the front door behind her, Matilda stood in the hallway. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the light from the full moon cast long, sinister shadows through the stained glass onto the tiled floor. Matilda made a mental note to go shopping for a curtain for the door this weekend. It looked creepy.
She went into the kitchen and flicked the kettle on, pulling down the blinds and making the house secure while it boiled. She made her tea in an oversized mug and took it into her library. It wasn’t quite eleven o’clock yet. She had time to sort out the books that were still in boxes, waiting to be shelved.
The collection of crime novels, which Matilda continued adding to, was inherited from Jonathan Harkness, a killer she had met upon returning to work after a period of mourning her husband. She had liked Jonathan. She felt great sympathy for him. Unfortunately, he turned out to be a multiple murderer. When he took his own life, he left instructions with his solicitor to have his vast collection of books given to Matilda. At first she hated the idea, but the more she read, the more she used reading fiction as a form of therapy to distract her brain from tormenting her about Carl Meagan and missing James, the more she understood why Jonathan had sought solace in fiction.
Matilda closed the door on the library, took her cup of cold tea into the kitchen and placed it in the sink to wash at some point and headed upstairs. As she made her way across the landing towards her bedroom she stopped and looked out of the window overlooking the back garden. It was almost as bright as day with the moon so big and full shining down. It lit up the grass, the naked trees, the view looking out into the countryside. It was serene, relaxing. She opened the window.
A blast of cold air hit her and she shivered. She leaned out and took a lungful of the winter cold. It smelled fresh. The sound of branches clacking against each other in the breeze echoed. There was no other sound to be heard; no traffic, no noise from neighbours, no drunks staggering home, nothing but blissful silence.
By the time Matilda had changed and climbed into bed she was freezing cold having stood at the open window for more than half an hour. As much as she wanted to read, she decided to have a night off and hunkered down under the duvet to warm up. She soon drifted off and fell into a deep sleep.
Matilda rarely remembered her dreams. When she woke the first thing she saw was the photograph of James on her bedside table. She smiled and hoped she had been dreaming of him, of them, in happier times. A dream was forming, a smile spread on her lips when her eyes shot open.
She knew exactly why Jeremy had died. She knew why Rachel had been left alive and tied up. The killer was a monster, of that she had no doubt, but this particular monster also had a conscience and, right now, he would be suffering for what he had done. Someone would notice a change in his personality. He would be withdrawn, on edge, terrified every time someone came to the door or the phone rang. He wouldn’t be sleeping or eating or going to work. He would be scared of his own shadow. This should make him easier to find. This, however, did not fit with their suspect. For some reason, Matilda knew Keith Lumb was not a triple killer. If she was correct, the entire crime scene and the forensics were a complete lie, which meant the killer was someone very savvy and very dangerous. The only people capable of this were those with knowledge of how a crime scene worked, what the police looked for at a murder scene, and how the case was going to progress.
Matilda’s blood ran cold. She knew who the killer was.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Breakfast was a chore for Matilda. She wasn’t a fan but knew she’d feel sick by the time she arrived at the station if she didn’t have something to eat. She sat at the table in the kitchen, sipping at the strong black coffee and looking at the bowl of cereal in front of her with contempt. She forced a spoonful of cornflakes into her mouth and began chewing.
Matilda had had a disturbed night’s sleep. Since the revelation that she possibly knew the killer, she’d been unable to rest. Now morning was here, all she wanted to do was go back to bed and hibernate under the duvet. The doorbell rang making her jump. She was almost nodding off into her cornflakes.
Matilda pulled open
the door to find Scott Andrews on her doorstep. He was dressed for work in a smart suit and coat. His shoes were polished. His hair was neatly styled. The look on his face was one of haunting, deep-set worry.
‘Scott. Is everything all right?’ she asked.
‘Not really. Is there any chance of a word?’
‘Of course. Come on in.’ She stepped back and he entered.
He looked around the hallway at the high ceiling, the Victorian tiled floor and the oak doors. ‘Wow. This is really nice,’ Scott said. He smiled at his boss, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. They were wide, staring. He looked lost.
‘Thanks. Come into the kitchen. I’ve got a pot of coffee on.’
‘I’ve had a couple already this morning,’ he said, following her.
He marvelled at the new kitchen. He ran his hand along the wooden worktops, popped his head around the corner into the utility room, which, he remarked, was larger than his bathroom, and sat at the breakfast table, smoothing down the tablecloth.
She put the bowl of soggy cornflakes in the sink. ‘So, what can I do for you?’ she asked.
‘I think you should take me off the case,’ he said, not looking at his boss, but somewhere in the distance.
‘I think we definitely need coffee for a conversation like this.’
She chose two mugs from the cupboard, picked up the cafetière and sat directly opposite him at the table so he would have to look up and make eye contact. She poured him a cup, added milk, and pushed it across to him.
‘So, why should I take you off the case?’
He picked up the mug and inhaled the caffeine before taking a sip. ‘This is good.’ He took another sip and gently put the mug down. ‘The thing is, I know something. About someone.’
‘OK. Someone to do with the case?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘Oliver,’ he replied, swallowing hard.
‘Oliver Ridgeway?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you related to him?’
‘No.’
‘Then how do you know him?’
His face reddened. He adjusted himself on his seat. He looked uncomfortable; not only with the conversation but with himself. He swallowed a few more times, which seemed to cause him some pain.
‘I’m gay,’ he said, looking deep into his coffee cup.
‘Right. And?’
He gave a nervous laugh and looked up. ‘Oh. You don’t seem … you know … upset or anything.’
‘Why should I be upset?’
‘Because … well, I don’t know.’
‘To be honest, Scott, I’ve suspected you were gay for some time. I could tell there was something eating away at you lately, but I’ve not wanted to push you to open up. Does anyone else know?’
‘No.’
‘Not even Rory?’
‘No.’
‘But you live together.’
‘I know. It’s never been an issue before. I’ve always wanted to just keep my head down and get on with my career. I’ve never been bothered about getting married, having children or anything, but …’
‘You’ve met someone?’
‘Sort of,’ he said, blushing.
‘You remind me so much of me. When I first started in this job, I wanted to be the best detective I could be. Getting married and having children was something that would get in the way of that, so I took it off the agenda. Then I met James and it was like being hit by the thunderbolt.’
‘I know what you mean,’ he smiled.
‘Look, Scott, your secret is safe with me. I won’t tell anyone. However, for your own sanity, your own happiness, it might be best if you tell others, especially Rory.’
‘I know. I want to, but, I don’t know how people will react,’ he said, staring down into his coffee cup.
‘To be honest it’s got nothing to do with anyone else. What people do in their private life is their own affair. As long as it doesn’t interfere with work, it doesn’t matter.’
‘I’ll think about it. I will.’
‘I’m always here for you, Scott,’ Matilda said, reaching across and placing her hand on top of his. ‘Do you know why I chose you for my team? It’s because I knew you were good at your job, you have the makings of an excellent detective, but you’re also a good man. You care. And I think of you as a friend.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I’m not just here to help you with all things work related. You can trust me, and you can rely on me not to say anything to anyone else.’ His features seemed to be softening. She knew it must be difficult for someone as sensitive as Scott to open up, but she was pleased he’d chosen her to confide in. ‘So, have you always known you were gay?’
‘Yes. Ever since I was a child.’
‘Your parents don’t know?’
‘No.’
Matilda gave the young DC a sympathetic smile. ‘I bet this house your mum already does.’
‘Probably,’ he smirked.
‘So, going back to the case, what do you know about Oliver Ridgeway?’
‘I’m on a dating app. You know, a gay one?’ he said, almost embarrassed. ‘I haven’t met anyone yet. Most of them just seem to want one thing. Anyway, a few weeks ago, I got chatting to a guy on there. It was Oliver Ridgeway.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Definitely.’ He took his phone out of his inside pocket. ‘We started chatting on this app and got on well, then we swapped numbers. He sent me a few photos. Look,’ he handed the phone to Matilda.
‘Oh,’ was all she said.
‘He said he was bisexual. He never mentioned he was getting married. He told me he was single.’
‘You didn’t meet him?’
‘No. He said he was going on holiday. We arranged to meet when he got back. I’m guessing he was talking about his honeymoon.’
‘And he didn’t recognize you when you interviewed him?’
‘No. I only ever sent him one face picture and I was wearing sunglasses. I don’t photograph very well so I don’t have many,’ he said, blushing again.
Matilda smiled. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, Scott. You’re a very handsome man. Did Oliver send you any other pictures?’
‘Yes. He sent several, including some rude ones, too, which I deleted. I just think maybe I shouldn’t be working on this case.’
‘On the contrary. Oliver has been hiding something from us. He’s leading a double life. We need to confront him about it.’
‘But that will mean people finding out about me.’
‘Not necessarily. You and I can go and see him and get an explanation from him. Maybe his sexuality doesn’t have anything to do with the Mercer family being killed. If so, then it doesn’t need to come out.’
‘I don’t know. I’m not one of those people who like to be defined by their sexuality.’
‘And you won’t be. Certainly not by me. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a detective. Who you sleep with is way down the list of attributes that define who you are. Now, let’s strike while the iron’s hot.’ She drained her coffee cup and stood up, heading out of the kitchen.
On the journey to see Oliver Ridgeway, Matilda had called Christian and told him to lead the morning briefing without her. They knocked on the door of Edward and Sophia Ridgeway and waited for it to be opened.
‘Don’t look so scared,’ Matilda said to Scott.
‘Sorry. I get the feeling this is going to be one of those life-changing days.’
‘If it is, it will be a change for the better. You’ll be able to be yourself.’
‘I don’t think I know who I am.’
‘That will come with time.’
The door opened and a woman in her fifties answered. She was wearing a pink dressing gown and had a white towel wrapped around her head. Judging by her half-made-up face, they had disturbed her getting ready for the day.
‘DCI Matilda Darke, South
Yorkshire Police. This is DC Andrews,’ Matilda said, showing her ID. ‘I’d like to speak to Oliver, please.’
‘He’s not in at the moment. He’s at work.’
‘Work?’ Matilda frowned. ‘But he would have been on his honeymoon.’
‘Yes, but as he’s back home and there’s nothing to do he said there was no reason why he shouldn’t go to work.’
‘But his in-laws have just been murdered,’ Scott said.
‘Yes. And like Oliver said, the world doesn’t stop turning. Bills still need to be paid.’
‘How did Leah react to Oliver going back to work?’
‘If she ever stops crying, I’ll ask her,’ Sophia said. Her voice was as harsh as her expression was stern. She looked as if she didn’t have a compassionate bone in her body.
‘Is Leah in?’
‘She’s in bed, and I’m going to be late,’ she said, making an exaggerated look at her watch. ‘If there’s nothing else, you’ll find Oliver at the Northern General.’
‘Have you and your husband given a statement yet?’
‘Yes. We were called yesterday. Apparently we need to give our fingerprints.’
‘For elimination purposes only. I’m sure you understand.’
‘It’s a bit out of my way, but I’ll pop along one evening after work. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ She closed the door before Matilda had chance to say anything else.
‘What a lovely woman,’ Matilda said to Scott as they headed back for the car.
‘Poor Leah. Her family have been murdered and look who she’s got for comfort. You can see why she’s so desperate to have Rachel with her,’ Scott said.
When they found a space in the car park at the Northern General Hospital, Scott took his phone out of his trouser pocket.
‘What are you doing?’
‘He’s online.’
‘Who is?’
‘Oliver. He’s on that dating app now.’
‘Show me.’ She looked at the phone. ‘How can you tell?’
‘The green dot on his profile picture means he’s online.’
‘Is that you?’ she asked, pointing at a thumbnail.
‘Yes,’ he said, taking the phone back.
‘It’s a good picture. Oh, Scott, I wish you’d get some self-confidence. You’re a very good-looking bloke. Let your guard down. Have some fun.’