A Room Full of Killers Page 11

  ‘Suit yourself. It’s a frightening thought though, isn’t it? Say one of the guards is the killer, well, they’ve got keys to every room in this place. They could creep up in the middle of the night, unlock the door to one of our rooms and strike while we’re asleep.’ He leaned over the edge of the sofa and lowered his voice. ‘We’d all better start sleeping with one eye open. Who knows which one of us could be next.’

  ‘Oh piss off, Callum.’ Jacob jumped up.

  ‘Have I scared you?’ He smiled.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I bet I’ve scared Lee though, haven’t I? You’re frightened of your own shadow.’ He went over to the skinny blond boy sitting at one of the tables. He looked as if he was concentrating on his magazine but he hadn’t turned the page once. He had been listening the whole time. ‘How you managed to set fire to your parents’ caravan is beyond me. Are you sure you’re guilty? Would you like me to keep you company tonight?’ Callum said, whispering in Lee’s ear, trying to sound threatening and seductive at the same time. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Fucking gay boy.’ He pushed him in the head, almost knocking him off his chair. The rest turned away. They would only intervene if it turned violent.

  ‘My money’s on Grover,’ Jacob said, trying to move the subject away from Lee. He felt sorry for him – always the butt of Callum’s cruel jibes. ‘It’s always the quiet ones.’

  ‘That puts Hartley to the top of the suspect list then,’ Craig grinned. ‘He’s very quiet. I bet he’s not reading at all. He just sits there, listening, plotting, choosing his next victim.’

  Thomas looked up and saw Craig leering at him. He decided not to answer back and returned to his book.

  ‘Of course.’ Callum smiled. ‘Thomas Hartley, the machete man of Manchester. You’re very handy with a blade, aren’t you? According to Grover, Ryan Asher was stabbed twelve times. How many whacks did you give your family?’

  Thomas remained silent.

  ‘He’s not biting, Callum. You may as well leave him alone,’ Jacob said.

  ‘Fair dos. So who else is handy with a knife? Apart from my good self, obviously.’ He bowed to the room. ‘Lewis Chapman.’ His eyes fell on the dark-haired teenager in the corner of the room. ‘What was it you did again: dressed up as Ghostface and stabbed your little brother? Ryan Asher’s killing is like something out of a horror film. Come on then, Lewis, how did you get out of your cell?’

  ‘Fuck off, Callum.’

  ‘Jacob, I’ve got one who’s bitten.’ He smiled. ‘I bet you think you’re a killer in a horror film, don’t you? What’s the guy in the white mask? He kept coming back from the dead, didn’t he? Do you want a high body count? Is that why you killed Ryan Asher? Do you plan on killing others?’

  ‘Leave me alone, Callum,’ Lewis said, barging past him and moving out of the corner of the room where he was feeling trapped.

  ‘You’ve hit a nerve there, Callum,’ Jacob said, egging him on.

  ‘It would seem so. Are you writing Scream 5? I suppose this is the quiet bit after the first killing as the investigation begins. It won’t be long before the next victim turns up. So who will it be? Lee’s expendable. He can be the next victim nobody remembers. Then Hartley. Save me and Jacob for the final showdown.’

  ‘I don’t want to be killed in the final act,’ Jacob chided.

  ‘No, we’ll survive. We’re the tough guys. We’re like that Neve Campbell chick. We’ll be in the sequel.’

  With the main focus in the room on Callum and Jacob discussing how the other inmates would die, Craig was still occupied with Thomas. His stare was burning through the book he was holding. Thomas could feel the glare. Eventually, slowly, Craig stood up and slunk over to where Thomas was sitting. He crouched down next to him and whispered in his ear.

  ‘I saw how your expression changed when Callum said you were the killer. He hit a nerve, didn’t he? It always is the quiet ones. I tell you something, you even try anything with me and I’ll cut your fucking heart out, understand?’

  He didn’t wait for a reply. He stood up and returned to his seat, completely unnoticed by the other inmates.

  Thomas tried not to react but it wasn’t easy. His bottom lip began to quiver. He couldn’t allow himself to cry, not in front of the others. He needed to save it up until he was locked in his room tonight and soak his pillow with tears like he had done every night since he arrived.

  The door to the library opened and in walked one of the guards, Rebecca Childs. ‘Sorry to have left you alone for so long, call of nature. Now, what’s everyone talking about?’

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘Any news from Aaron?’ Matilda whispered to Sian on her way to the front of the room to begin the final briefing of the day.

  ‘Not yet. I’ve sent him a couple of texts but he hasn’t replied. By the way,’ Sian grabbed Matilda’s sleeve as she moved away. Sian indicated she wanted to whisper so Matilda lowered her head. ‘You might want to have a word with Rory.’

  ‘Why? What’s he done?’

  ‘He hasn’t done anything. He’s taking this case rather personally. He wants to look into the psychology of why these boys have killed. I think he’s using it as some kind of a distraction: he and Amelia have split up.’

  ‘Really? When?’

  ‘He said he moved out last week.’

  ‘Poor bugger. I’ll have a word. Thanks Sian.’

  Matilda looked out on the sea of detectives. They were smaller in number than this morning; many had been sent back to HQ as they had other duties to attend to. It felt strange to be standing in front of a room full of detectives after five years of addressing the elite few of the Murder Room. She still directed most of her comments and remarks to her own small team – something which she knew rankled the other officers. It was a bad habit she would have to kick into touch.

  ‘Have all the inmates been interviewed?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sian began, ‘all of their stories seem to be the same. The ones that did talk to Ryan Asher said he seemed like a nice lad: quiet and a bit nervous. They all said they went into the recreation room at around six o’clock before being locked in their rooms at nine, and not hearing or seeing anything until they were woken at seven the next morning.’

  ‘What about staff?’

  ‘We haven’t interviewed any of them yet,’ Christian Brady said. ‘They’ve been helping us out with the inmates – either accompanying them to and from their rooms or acting as appropriate adult.’

  ‘Has anyone left or entered Starling House?’

  ‘The shifts work four days on and three days off. The current staff are on day two. They’ve had no reason to leave yet.’

  ‘Christian, do me a favour: tomorrow, I want you to tear this place apart. The head of security is coming back from his holiday in Norfolk. When he gets here I want him shadowed. Also, I’ve asked for all CCTV footage to be made available to us. I want to know their entire security procedure.’

  ‘Not a problem. I’ll handle it.’

  ‘Now, are we all up to speed on who Ryan Asher is?’ There were nods around the room. ‘Who would want to kill him? Rory?’

  ‘Well, I’m guessing Jane Asher’s cookbook sales will have dropped – she could be a suspect.’

  A ripple of laughter echoed off the walls. If Matilda hadn’t been told about Rory’s current personal status she wouldn’t have known anything was amiss. He was his usual jokey self. Normally she discouraged it, but on a case as difficult as this the odd joke was good for morale – even a bad joke.

  ‘Have we located his parents yet?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Scott said. ‘I’ve been looking through the file, and during Ryan’s trial his parents attended the court every day and so did his auntie, his mother’s sister. She has stayed in Norwich and, get this, moved into Ryan’s old house when his parents left.’

  ‘Really? That’s a bit bizarre, isn’t it?’ Sian asked.

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘OK, Scott. First thing tom
orrow, I want you and Faith to go to Norwich and interview the aunt. Find out if she knows where her sister is, how she feels about Ryan, and why she’s decided to move into his home.’

  ‘Do I tell her about Ryan being killed?’

  ‘No. Tell her he’s been attacked and we need to get in touch with his parents. However, if it’s leaked out by the time you get there then you may as well tell her.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ Scott turned and made eye contact with Faith Easter, who smiled at him.

  ‘Faith, you were looking into web forums. Have you discovered anything?’

  ‘I have, actually. There’s a woman in Bristol who was arrested for issuing death threats to the judge. She was given a caution. I’ve called Bristol police and they’re going to send someone out to have a discreet word with her – make sure she was actually in Bristol last night. I think the rest are all talk but I’ll keep at it.’

  ‘Thanks, Faith.’

  ‘However,’ she continued, ‘there was a man who attended the trial every day and sat in the public gallery next to Ryan’s parents. At one point he was removed by court staff for turning on the parents and blaming them for bringing a monster into the world.’

  ‘Do we know who he is?’

  ‘No. I suppose we could ask the court staff if they remember him, or if he’s been hanging around before or since.’

  ‘Good thinking. Scott, while you’re in Norwich tomorrow, pop along to the courts and have a word.’

  ‘Will do,’ he said, making a note.

  ‘What about Ryan’s Facebook page? I’m assuming he had one.’

  Faith quickly flicked through her notebook. ‘He did. It doesn’t exist anymore. However, I’ve been trawling the internet and found a news story from around the time his trial started. His Facebook page was bombarded with death threats from all over the world: not just to him but to his family too. In the end Facebook closed the page at the request of the police.’

  ‘Great work, Faith, thank you. Rory, you seem to have had your nose stuck in Ryan’s file for most of the day. Is there anything else Scott and Faith can look into while they’re in Norwich tomorrow?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Rory replied, looking up from the file. ‘There are statements from a few of the neighbours saying he was a quiet lad, but that’s about it. I’ve found a newspaper cutting about him being involved in an attack on a teenager called Malcolm Preston, but I was thinking … ’ he sat back and folded his arms. He had a worried look on his face. ‘Ryan was an only child. His parents worked hard, and he was quiet. Maybe he was acting out of neglect, trying to seek some form of attention. He may not be the monster he’s being painted by the media. Couldn’t we run all this by a psychologist?’

  ‘Rory, whether he was trying to get his parents’ attention or not, he killed his grandparents. He’s still a murderer,’ Sian said. ‘When my kids want mine or Stuart’s attention they stop tidying their room or turn their music up loud. They don’t go around killing people.’

  ‘Sian’s right,’ Matilda said. ‘Don’t read too much into these inmates, Rory. The killer is in this building and we need to find him. That’s all you need to know. Now, Christian, how did the search of the grounds go? Any sign of the murder weapon?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. As you know the grounds are surrounded by high fencing, topped with razor wire. Nothing has been cut, and there is no evidence of footprints around the fence. We’ve found no weapon or anything.’

  ‘So the weapon is still in Starling House then?’

  ‘The kitchen isn’t missing any knives, and they’ve all been taken away for analysis.’

  ‘Thanks, Christian. Any suspects so far?’ There was no reply. ‘OK, tomorrow we move on to the staff. You may as well go home and get an early night. Don’t talk about this to anyone. We can’t afford to have this leaking out. The people of Sheffield already have a bee in their bonnet about Starling House, we don’t want to have a mob descending.’

  As the room began to empty, Matilda called for Sian to stay behind.

  ‘Sian, do you know anyone in Manchester?’ she asked once the room was empty.

  ‘Yes, I know loads of people from Manchester. Stuart’s got family there.’

  ‘No, I mean in Manchester police.’

  ‘A few. Why?’

  ‘Anyone discreet?’ Matilda asked, ignoring Sian’s question.

  ‘That depends,’ she shrugged, looking perplexed. ‘Actually, remember DI Pat Campbell? I think her son is high up in Manchester police.’

  ‘Really? I didn’t know she had a son in the force.’

  ‘Yes. He moved away from Sheffield after university; trained in Manchester and decided to stay there. Any particular reason?’

  ‘No. Just being nosey. You have a good evening, Sian.’

  Still with a face of confusion, Sian turned and left the small office, closing the door slowly behind her.

  Matilda made a note on a Post-It pad to remind her to pay a visit to Pat Campbell tomorrow morning before work. She had been retired for more than ten years. Matilda hoped the passion for crime solving was still burning within. She needed the help of someone she could trust.

  EIGHTEEN

  Matilda arrived home to a cold and empty house. She threw her bag on the floor in the living room. It landed on the carpet with a heavy thud. The book about Carl Meagan was weighing it down. She had no idea why she’d felt the need to take it to work with her.

  Most evenings when Matilda arrived home she wasn’t in the mood to exercise. She often looked at the treadmill and wondered if she could manage another five kilometre run, or maybe even a brisk walk. Her heart wasn’t in it. The weight of the day felt heavy on her shoulders; the stress and tension made her sluggish and lethargic. A run would help. She knew that. She just couldn’t find the motivation.

  She had a quick meal of scrambled eggs on toast, which she didn’t enjoy, then went into the living room and lolloped onto the sofa with a heavy sigh. She looked across at the wedding photograph: James looking handsome and gorgeous with his beaming smile and his ice-blue eyes. Their arms were linked and they both looked happy. For the majority of the time Matilda was sad he had gone. There were times she was angry he had left her alone. She didn’t just want him here with her, she needed him. Right now she needed him to walk into the living room, put his arms around her and hold her tight. She needed to smell him, to feel him, to taste him.

  Her eyes fell on her bag on the floor. Sticking out of the top the smiling face of Carl Meagan was looking at her with his innocent eyes. He was a beautiful little boy. She picked up the book and held it firmly in her hands. She looked deep into the photograph and wondered what had happened to him. Where was he right now? Was he still alive and living a good life with a couple who couldn’t have kids of their own? Had he been sold to paedophiles and was currently being handed around for sordid pleasure? Or had he been sold so his organs could be used on the black market for transplants?

  A tear fell from Matilda’s eye and dropped onto Carl’s.

  ‘I’m so sorry I failed you,’ she said.

  While the kettle boiled in the kitchen Matilda looked in the cupboard for a snack. Like Sian at work, Matilda had created a snack drawer at home for when she felt the need to comfort eat, which was most evenings. It was full of multipack bars of chocolate, packets of biscuits, and bags of crisps. She chose the largest bar of Cadbury Whole Nut she could find, made her tea and headed upstairs.

  She stood in the doorway of her library and surveyed what was laid out before her. She really did love this room. She inhaled the smell of new carpet and old books and it brought a smile to her lips. She could understand why Jonathan Harkness had lost himself in the world of fiction. It was an aid to forget life and the horrors of reality for a few hours, to sit back and escape what happened in the real world. Within the pages of these books she could ignore whatever was going on in Starling House and the politics of South Yorkshire Police.

  Matilda made herself comfortable in
her Eames chair and picked up the Val McDermid hardback. She was over halfway through and loving the highly disturbed Tony Hill and his complex relationship with Carol Jordan. The story was dark and intriguing. She put her feet up, snapped off a few squares of Whole Nut and settled in for a few chapters.

  Stuart Mills was a burly man of six foot one. Built like a rugby player he gave the impression of a man to be feared, a man not to be messed with. Beneath the façade he was a gentle giant who would lay down his life for his wife and four kids.

  He was sitting on the sofa in the living room of their four-bedroom house in Shiregreen, watching the local news with his youngest son, Gregory, aged eleven. The presenters were talking about the threat of a storm forecast for later in the week.

  ‘Apparently, they’ve had a month’s worth of rain in twelve hours in Bristol,’ Stuart called out to Sian who was making a cup of tea in the kitchen.

  ‘Are we going to get a lot of rain, Dad?’ Gregory asked.

  ‘It looks like it,’

  Sian walked into the living room. She cast a glance at Danny studying at the dining table. She had a mug of tea in each had and handed one over to Stuart.

  ‘Is it going to be as bad as 2007?’ Sian asked remembering the night in June nine years before when she was stranded at work because she couldn’t get home. Meadowhall had been flooded and closed for days. Sian’s sister, Ruth, who lived in Brightside at the time, had to be airlifted from her home. Looking back, it was the best night of Ruth’s life, she’d told Sian. At the time she was petrified.

  ‘They don’t know yet,’ he replied. ‘Do you think I should get some sandbags for those patio doors? That garden’s on a slant as it is. If it is going to be bad we don’t want water coming in. The carpet’s only been down a few months.’

  ‘You don’t need sandbags. It’s a storm door.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I knew you weren’t listening to the bloke. Why do you think it cost so much?’

  ‘There you go, Gregory, it can rain all it wants, we’re going to be safe in here. We might even get airlifted out.’