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  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It was at times like these when she wished she had alcohol in the house. However, after a year of heavy drinking, passing out in drunken stupors, only functioning with the aid of a bottle of vodka in her hand, she had made a promise not to touch a single drop again.

  Realistically, that was never going to happen. Of course Matilda would have another drink at some point, but if she could learn to live without having to depend on alcohol then it would be an achievement.

  Matilda had been saved by her close friend, Adele Kean. Adele had seen the slippery slope Matilda had been on and managed to drag her back before she descended into alcoholism. The disappearance of Carl Meagan was just the starting point in a year-long nightmare that snowballed into a cataclysm of self-destruction.

  She opened her eyes, which immediately fell onto the silver framed wedding photograph on the mantelpiece. Five years ago, the happiest day of her life, she and James Darke had married. Three years later he was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumour and within twelve months he was gone. His death coincided with the ransom drop for the Meagan kidnappers but Matilda’s mind was on other things. She should have handed the case over to a more competent detective, taken some time off to grieve, but she couldn’t. The devastation she left in her wake would stay with her for the rest of her life. She had to live with the consequences of her actions.

  When it came to Carl Meagan, there would never be any redemption.

  The picture frame was smeared with dried tears where Matilda had spent many a night curled up in bed, clutching her smiling husband and crying. Saying she loved him sounded hollow. She didn’t just love him, she ached for him, and sometimes stopped breathing when she thought of him. Her body, mind, and soul wanted to be with James more than it wanted life itself.

  There was a knock on the door. She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece: 22.50. A solid knock at this time of night could only mean one thing.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, ma’am, there’s been a shooting.’

  DC Scott Andrews stood on the doorstep in a crumpled suit. His blond hair was windswept and it was evident from his red cheeks that he had been standing out in the cold for a while. There was no greeting. Sometimes, there wasn’t time for one.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Clough Lane. Ringinglow.’

  ‘I’ll get my things. Come in.’

  Scott stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him. He looked down at the three bulging black bags in the corner.

  ‘Having a clear out? I keep meaning to do that. I buy new shirts for work and never think about getting rid of the old ones. I can hardly close my wardrobe door.’

  ‘Those are my dead husband’s clothes. I’m giving them to charity.’

  ‘Oh,’ he almost choked, his face reddening. ‘Sorry. I didn’t … well … I mean …’

  Matilda smiled. ‘I love how you blush at the slightest thing, Scott. Come on, let’s go before you start trying to dig yourself out and make things worse.’

  There was a strong breeze as Matilda stepped out of the house. She set the alarm and locked the door behind her. She looked up. The sky was cloudless and there was a large full moon beaming down on the steel city. It made the night brighter, bathing everything in an ethereal glow. They walked up the drive to where Scott had parked the pool car.

  ‘So how serious is this shooting?’

  ‘One dead and one critical.’

  ‘Jesus! I hate guns.’

  ‘Good evening.’

  Matilda almost jumped out of her skin and quickly turned to see where the greeting was coming from.

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.’ Jill Carmichael, Matilda’s next-door neighbour, was unloading her car. She was struggling under the weight of a newborn baby in one arm and trying to safely put several bags on her opposite shoulder.

  ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘How are things?’

  Matilda frowned. Jill never asked that. Why, all of a sudden, was she showing an interest in … the newspaper article. She’d seen the story about Carl Meagan, read about how much of a failure Matilda was, and wanted the inside scoop. ‘Things are fine,’ she lied unconvincingly. ‘Bloody hell, what’s happened to you?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The black eye.’ It was the first time Matilda had looked up at her neighbour. Usually she wasn’t one for chatting with a neighbour but while this awkward exchange was going on she’d rather the attention be on Jill than herself.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ she giggled. ‘I’m having a few problems shaking off these last few pregnancy pounds so I’ve started kick-boxing again. I think I’m a bit rusty to tell the truth.’

  ‘I think I’d stick with the extra few pounds.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘Jill!’ An angry shout called out to her from inside the house.

  ‘That’ll be Sebastian wondering where his takeaway is. I’ll chat to you some other time.’ With that, Jill kicked the car door closed and hurried into the house, struggling under the weight of the shopping, baby, and takeaway.

  ‘That your neighbour?’ Scott asked as they climbed into the car.

  ‘Spot on as ever, Scott. Yes, that’s my neighbour. Look, she’s going into the house next door to mine,’ she smiled.

  ‘I never got a black eye when I tried kick-boxing.’

  ‘I’m sure it wasn’t for lack of trying on your opponent’s part.’ Scott’s frown told Matilda he didn’t understand her little dig. Her smile widened.

  Matilda wished all she had to contend with was a few extra pounds. She looked down at the ripples in her shirt caused by the rolls of fat underneath. Adele had tried to coax her into joining a spinning class. Matilda went along once. She sweated to the point of serious dehydration and felt the effects on her bum for more than a week afterwards every time she tried to sit down. Never again. In the end she just went out and bought bigger clothes. She was content with being a size twelve on a good day (fourteen on a bad one), but still yearned for the gorgeous size ten Armani suit in her wardrobe. Maybe one day.

  As Scott pulled away Matilda looked back at her house, which was now in complete darkness. Next door Jill Carmichael and her husband would be sitting down to a nice takeaway, a newborn baby fast asleep: a happy couple curled up together on the sofa watching television. She envied them so much. She hoped they appreciated the happiness they had.

  THREE

  To get to Clough Lane, Scott had to traverse Quiet Lane – a long, meandering road that belonged in the middle of the countryside. With tall trees on both sides and inadequate lighting you took the perilous corners and bends with caution. Scott slowed down to thirty miles per hour, and even then he felt like he was speeding.

  The scene laid out before them was like a location set for a sci-fi film. Looking down Matilda could see the intense brilliance of white spotlights and a cast of white-suited police and forensic officers going about their work.

  Scott pulled up at the roadblock, a sensible distance away from the crime scene.

  Matilda hated this part: entering a crime scene for the first time. Scott had filled her in on the basics during the journey but it was nothing compared to experiencing it for herself. She was stepping into the unknown and had no idea how it would make her feel.

  She opened the door and stepped out. The stiff breeze in the built-up area of Sheffield had been upgraded to a strong wind on the border of the Peak District National Park.

  From the outset, the scene didn’t give anything away. The white tent was covering the main stage. Inside, a brilliant light was glowing, casting shadows of forensic officers going about their grisly business.

  ‘Ma’am.’

  She jumped and turned to see DS Aaron Connolly standing beside her. He proffered a white forensic suit for her to try and squeeze into. She looked for Scott but he had disappeared. How long had she zoned out for?

  Aaron was a tall, well-built man in his mid-thi
rties. Unfortunately for him, forensic suits weren’t designed as a fashion item, nor did they come in an array of sizes. It was first come, first served, and judging by the difficulty Aaron was having breathing in his, he was obviously late to the scene.

  ‘Sorry we had to call you out, ma’am. Any news on a new DI yet?’

  ‘Not yet. The one who was joining us from Middlesbrough changed his mind.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘No idea. He probably saw the Park Hill flats from the train station and decided to head back north. What’s happening here then?’ she asked, quickly wanting to get off the subject of a new DI. Her involvement with the last one was still a very sore subject.

  Aaron dug around in his pocket for a notebook. ‘George Rainsford, an old bloke who lives in one of the cottages, hears a car beeping just after going to bed. It carries on and he realizes there’s a pattern to the beeping. He listens and he says it’s rhythmic; the beeps are SOS in Morse code. He decides to investigate and discovers a woman, barely conscious, sounding the horn, and a dead man at the side of the road. They’ve both been badly beaten and shot several times. The woman’s gone to the Northern General Hospital and the man was already dead when we arrived.’

  Matilda was sure that was the most she had ever heard Aaron say in one go. ‘I’d better take a look then. Who’s here?’

  ‘We’ve got a full forensic team. They’ve not been here long and it looks like they’ll be here all night. Dr Kean and her assistant have arrived and the Crime Scene Manager is knocking around somewhere.’

  Matilda stopped. She had a heavy frown on her face, thinking about what steps to take next. ‘I want a full statement from the man who found her. What did you say he was called again?’

  ‘George Rainsford,’ he replied, checking his notebook. ‘Sian’s taken him back to the station. He was in a right state. I doubt she’ll get anything out of him tonight.’

  ‘OK. Give Sian a ring, ask how he’s doing. If he’s not capable of giving a statement tonight get her to send him home with a uniformed officer to stay with him and we’ll interview tomorrow morning. Any other witnesses?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I see I’m here before the gawkers; didn’t anyone hear the gunshots, screams?’

  ‘It doesn’t look like it. It’s pretty isolated around here.’

  ‘Door-to-door?’

  ‘There aren’t many houses around here as you can see but I’ve got a small team together and they’re going to knock on a couple of doors.’

  Matilda was beginning to feel surplus to requirements. ‘Do we know who our victims are?’

  Aaron checked his notebook again. ‘I’ve run the car through the ANPR. I’m still waiting to get information on where it’s been in the run-up to it arriving here. However, the PNC says it’s registered to Kevin Hardaker at Broad Elms Lane in Bents Green.’

  ‘Not far away.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And the woman?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. There’s nothing in the car to identify her; no bag, purse, nothing. I’m guessing she’s his wife.’

  ‘Are you thinking robbery then?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Mr Hardaker is wearing a very expensive-looking watch, his wallet is in the glove compartment with cash and cards, and Mrs Hardaker still has a ring on her wedding finger.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘She was unconscious by the time we arrived. According to Mr Rainsford she was using all her energy to signal for help. The second he arrived she just collapsed. PC … blonde woman, Polish, can’t pronounce her surname … she went with her in the ambulance; she called me a few minutes before you arrived. She has a collapsed lung, internal bleeding, and several broken ribs, and that’s just what the paramedics mentioned. God knows what they’ll discover when they fully examine her. It’s not looking good.’

  ‘Bloody hell. OK. Good work Aaron.’ She reached up and patted him on the shoulder and headed towards the white tent protecting the area.

  As Matilda entered she was presented with a scene of utter destruction. The body of Kevin Hardaker was lying in a painful-looking position. He no longer resembled a person. He was badly beaten and heavily bloodied; his limbs at unnatural angles. Not even his own mother would be able to identify him. His face had no recognizable features.

  Photographs had already been taken of the body in situ, and bags had been placed over each hand and his head to collect any evidence that may have fallen off when transporting him from the crime scene to the mortuary.

  Matilda was surprised to see pathologist Adele Kean bent over the body. Usually it was left to forensics to gather everything and Adele would wait in the relative warmth of the mortuary. During the more disturbing crime scenes Matilda would request that Adele attend.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Sian called and told me how bad it was. I thought I’d put in an appearance.’

  Matilda looked at the broken body of Kevin Hardaker. ‘What can you tell me about this poor chap?’

  Adele shook her head in disbelief. ‘Where do I begin? Until I get him back to the mortuary I’m not going to make any snap judgements. Firstly, I can only describe the beating as savage. The majority of the blows are to the trunk of the body and head. If you look around, you’ll see sprays of blood; this was a prolonged attack which covered a great deal of ground. It looks like he was kicked around like a football.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Matilda muttered.

  ‘He was shot twice. One shot to the chest, the second to the head, which practically blew it open at the back.’ She spoke with such nonchalance she could have been reading a children’s story book.

  ‘Was it the gunshots that killed him?’

  ‘At this stage I’ll say yes. Although judging by the blows to the face and head I’m guessing he was unconscious before the first shot.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ Matilda was rooted rigid to the spot. She was surrounded by death on a daily basis but the level of violence people seemed able to inflict on others never failed to shock her. Adele’s cool, calm presence was astonishing.

  ‘His left eye is swollen shut. There’s nothing left of his right. My guess is he didn’t even see the gun being pointed at him. I’ll try and get the PM done first thing and you’ll know more then.’

  ‘Thanks Adele.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she said, placing a friendly, comforting arm on her best friend’s shoulder. ‘What’s all this about an SOS call?’

  ‘The woman was beeping SOS in Morse code; that’s how the man who found her came to discover her.’

  ‘Blimey, I didn’t think people used Morse anymore. The last time I saw it was on Titanic.’

  ‘Ah, Adele, you’re not that old, surely,’ Matilda said with a hint of a smile.

  ‘The film, you cheeky cow. Come over to the car; I want to show you something.’

  Both front doors of the silver Citroen Xsara were wide open. As Matilda approached she took a long look at it. There were specks of blood on both sides of the bodywork. On the back, full sprays of blood adorned the boot.

  Matilda stopped in her tracks. On what was left of the window in the back of the car was a sticker that read ‘cheeky monkey on board’. Kevin Hardaker obviously had a young child, maybe more than one. She closed her eyes tight to banish the image of a small boy in torment over the loss of his father at a young age: a father who called him his cheeky monkey.

  ‘Right then, Kevin Hardaker was driving—’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Well, for a start I have a wonderful Assistant Technical Officer who spotted what I’m about to show you. He was forcibly pulled out of the car and was still wearing his seat belt at the time. If you look at the body, you can see where the belt cut into his neck and there’s blood on the driver’s side.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Judging by the spatter patterns of blood on the car he’s punched, kicked, whatever, towards the back of the car; the attack getting more frenzied as
he gets to the back, as you can see. If I were you I’d get forensics to get good detailed photos and film of these patterns—’

  ‘We already have.’ The interrupting call came from one of the forensic officers currently with their head in the back of the car.

  Adele shrugged her shoulders and continued. ‘Once he’s behind the car the beating becomes more intense. I mean, look at the state of the car; the bodywork is knackered. When the attacker has finished he throws him to the ground – where he is now – and finishes him off with two bullets at point-blank range.’

  ‘What about the blood on the other side of the car?’

  ‘I’m guessing they belong to the wife. Forensics have taken samples.’

  ‘Do you know what type of gun was used?’

  ‘No. We’ve found some shells and I can’t see any exit wounds so I think the bullets are still in him. I’m not too hot on guns so I’ll need to do some research.’

  ‘How long do you reckon the attack on Kevin Hardaker lasted?’

  She blew out her cheeks. ‘I’ve no idea. Anything from a few minutes to ten minutes to much longer. If there was a conversation between the attacker and victim it could have gone on for a very long time.’

  ‘So while he was being beaten, what was Mrs Hardaker doing at the time? Even if the attacker took the key and locked it she could have still got out. A second attacker maybe?’ Matilda was thinking aloud.

  ‘So far we’ve found no foreign prints or anything on Mr Hardaker, but I may do once I get him back to base. There’s a partial footprint on his chest though. I may be able to work out a shoe size from that, but I’m not hopeful.’

  ‘So there was either a second attacker keeping her hostage while Mr Hardaker was beaten or she just sat there awaiting her fate.’

  ‘That’s your department DCI Darke, not mine, thank goodness.’ Adele turned on her heels and headed back to the dead body of Kevin Hardaker leaving Matilda in deep thought.