A Room Full of Killers Page 6

  ‘Who do they think’s done it?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. It’s got to be one of the other inmates though, hasn’t it? They’ve all got form,’ Rebecca added.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t that lad with the Liverpool accent,’ Roberta said.

  ‘What makes you think it’s him?’

  ‘Well, you’ve only got to look at him. He’s a cocky little shit in my book.’

  ‘To be honest,’ Doris began, ‘I blame the parents, these days. They don’t correct their kids. If they gave them a slap from time to time instead of pandering to them the country wouldn’t be in the state it’s in. My dad hit me when I was a lass. I knew never to step out of line. It didn’t do me any harm.’

  ‘Parents don’t hit their children anymore,’ Rebecca said, looking shocked. She was a generation younger than the cook and the cleaner and, with a new-born, the thought of raising a hand to her child sent a shiver down her spine.

  ‘And that’s why some of them grow up to be killers, like that Callum Nixon,’ Roberta said. ‘I’ve seen those profiling programmes on Sky.’

  ‘So, tell me about that new baby of yours, Rebecca,’ Doris said. She saw how Rebecca was getting uncomfortable about the topic of children becoming killers and decided to give the new mum a break. ‘Keeping you awake at night?’

  Kate Moloney was stood at the window in her office looking out at the lawn. Her face was its usual stony expression, giving nothing away. She knew the people of Sheffield didn’t want a youth prison in their city.

  Over the years there had been a number of campaigns to have Starling House closed down. When a high-profile murder case hit the headlines, and the perpetrator was under the age of eighteen, it was obvious he would end up here. Ryan Asher was such a child. He had been snuck in under cover of night like a secret SAS mission, and, up to now, his presence had gone undetected. Now he was dead, the entire country would know where he had been sent following his very public trial.

  The firm knock on the door brought Kate out of her thoughts. She sat down behind her desk and tried to look busy. She had a difficult job and could never allow her emotions to show through – something she perceived as a weakness. She presented herself to the world as cold and hard-hearted. It wasn’t easy to keep up but it worked.

  ‘Come in.’

  The door opened and Oliver Byron poked his head through the small gap. ‘Have you got a minute?’

  ‘Yes. Come on in. How are you feeling now?’

  Oliver was a tall and wiry man in his late-forties. He was dedicated and efficient. As head of officers, it was his duty to sort out any disputes before Kate became involved. Oliver was the man for the job. He didn’t stand for any nonsense and soon ironed out any issues the officers had. It wasn’t easy to pacify the staff as well as keep the inmates in line but Oliver was more than capable.

  ‘I’m OK,’ he said, though his colour hadn’t come back. He sat down with a heavy sigh and took a deep breath. ‘I think the main detective in charge has arrived.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘They’ve sent DCI Matilda Darke. You’ve heard of her, I’m guessing.’

  ‘Isn’t she the one who couldn’t find Carl Meagan?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Oh, bloody hell.’ Kate rolled her eyes.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure she knows what she’s doing.’

  ‘It’s not that. I think the press like to follow DCI Darke around just to see if she’ll slip-up again. I don’t want them sniffing around here,’ she said, lowering her voice.

  ‘I think it’s safe to say the press are going to be crawling over each other to get here. What are we going to do, Kate?’

  ‘About what?’

  Oliver looked at her with a furrowed brow. Was she in denial about what had happened in the past few hours? ‘Ryan Asher has been murdered. We’ve got seven obvious suspects. Police and press are going to be swarming for days, weeks, months even. We’re going to be under some intense scrutiny.’

  Kate took a deep breath while she took his words on board. ‘Starling House has been open for almost twenty years. In that time, we have not had a single issue to bring this place into disrepute. Yes, we have a high turnover of staff, and, yes, there have been some problems, but we have always managed to sort them out internally and with the highest professional standards.’

  Kate’s voice crackled with tension and nerves. She may have said the words but did she believe them herself?

  ‘Kate, I don’t want to speak out of line here, but you’re going to need to practise that speech a few more times before the detectives turn up.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You sound like you’re giving a statement you don’t believe. You sound like you’re hiding something.’

  Kate’s eyes widened. ‘I have nothing to hide,’ she said with severe conviction.

  ‘What about Elly Caine?’

  ‘Elly Caine has no bearing on what has happened.’

  ‘If the police don’t dig her up then the press will. You know they’ll go over everything with a fine-tooth comb. They’ll want to tear this place apart.’

  ‘Oliver—’

  A knock on the door silenced Kate. The manager and head of officers looked at each other. They both recognized the heavy knock of an official. There was a detective behind the door. The nightmare was about to begin.

  ‘Come in,’ Kate managed to force out despite her rapidly drying throat.

  The door opened and a dishevelled-looking woman entered followed by what seemed to be a male model.

  ‘I’m DCI Darke and this is DC Fleming from South Yorkshire Police. Kate Moloney?’

  ‘That’s right. Please, come on in. Can I get you a drink of tea or something?’

  ‘Tea would be nice, thank you.’

  While Matilda and Rory took their seats, Kate got on the phone and ordered drinks from her secretary.

  ‘I’d just like to say,’ Kate began, fiddling with the items of stationery on her desk. ‘What happened here is completely out of the blue. We operate a zero tolerance policy, and my staff and myself will offer you our total cooperation.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s good to know,’ Matilda responded, slightly perplexed by Kate’s nervous demeanour. ‘I’m going to need to see the files on all the inmates.’

  ‘They are confidential.’

  So much for total cooperation.

  ‘Ms Moloney—’

  ‘Kate, please.’

  ‘Kate. This is a murder investigation and you have seven convicted murderers living on-site. I need to know who I’m dealing with before I interview them. Obviously, we will have our own files on the boys, but they’ll be coming from different police forces around the country and could take some time. Besides, we know all about confidentiality. My team is hand-picked and know how to deal with sensitive information.’

  ‘I understand all that … ’

  ‘I could obtain a warrant from the magistrate’s court, but I really don’t want to go down that route.’ Matilda added, her voice growing louder and sterner with every sentence.

  ‘Of course. I’ll get whatever you need,’ Kate relented with a painful smile.

  ‘I’ll need the files on your staff too.’

  ‘Now steady on—’ Oliver Byron chimed in.

  ‘And you are?’ Matilda asked, looking across at the grey-haired man with the shocked expression on his face.

  ‘Oliver Byron. I’m head of officers here. Why do you want to see the staff files?’

  ‘Mr Byron, my job is to interview everyone involved, and eliminate where possible. My team will be interviewing everybody on-site. That includes all staff, all officers, yourself, and even Ms Moloney.’

  Kate stood up. ‘Oliver, it’s fine. DCI Darke, I’m sorry. As I’m sure you can guess, emotions are running high at present. Don’t worry, we will all cooperate with your investigations.’

  ‘I appreciate that. I’ll need our forensics team to go through the CCT
V footage from all the cameras throughout the building.’

  Matilda noticed Kate and Oliver exchange glances briefly. For a single moment, they looked worried.

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘No.’ Kate smiled nervously. ‘Not a problem at all.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll need a room for my officers to work in while we’re here. Would that be possible?’

  ‘That’s not a problem. We have a boardroom we use for staff meetings. Oliver, can you make sure it’s suitable for DCI Darke and her team?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said reluctantly.

  ‘Thank you. Now, what can you tell me about Ryan Asher?’ Matilda leaned back in her seat and crossed her legs. She was going to be here for a while so she may as well make herself comfortable.

  ‘There’s not much I can tell you. He only arrived on Sunday night. I met with him on Monday morning. Told him about the place, what would be expected of him; showed him around and that was it.’

  ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘Like all the other boys who arrive here, he was nervous. He didn’t speak much, but he looked like he was paying attention.’

  ‘You know of his crime?’

  ‘Of course. I was sent his file before he arrived.’

  ‘What did you think of him?’

  ‘From my point of view he was another inmate. His crime has nothing to do with me. Like all the boys.’

  ‘You could get past what he had been convicted of?’

  ‘Yes. I look at it this way: without these boys being here I would be out of a job. They’re here, so am I. It’s that simple.’

  A tiny knock and the door opened to reveal an elderly woman struggling under the weight of a tea tray. Rory jumped up to take it from her. She thanked him and left, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Shall I be mother?’ Rory asked.

  Matilda tried to hide her smile. Kate’s face remained solid stone.

  ‘Did he speak to any of the other boys while he was here?’

  ‘Yes. I believe he spoke to all of them at some point.’

  ‘Any in particular?’

  ‘I saw him deep in conversation with Lee Marriott in the dining room last night.’

  ‘Lee?’

  ‘Yes. He was—’

  ‘I know of Lee Marriott, thank you.’ Matilda said, making a note of his name.

  ‘DCI Darke, the boys are currently all locked in the dining room. How long will it be before they’re allowed out?’

  ‘Until we’ve interviewed and been able to eliminate them from our enquiries. Of course the recreation room is going to be out of bounds for the foreseeable future.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Is there anything you think we should know about any of the boys or the staff before we get started?’

  Silence. There was a look on Kate’s face that Matilda couldn’t quite make out. An expression flitted across it and disappeared just as quickly. Her stoical persona, for a split second, had dropped. Why? Had Matilda’s question conjured up something she wanted to keep private? Matilda decided not to push it – not yet. Whatever secrets were buried within these thick stone walls, Matilda would uncover.

  MARK PARKER

  Worthing. October 2014

  There was a story in the newspaper the other day about a woman in Leeds who had stabbed her husband 119 times. That was in the headline. I wouldn’t normally have read a story like that but it caught my attention. How could you stab someone that many times? It turns out she was being mentally and physically abused by her husband for the whole of their married life, and they’d been married for over thirty years. I kept thinking: why didn’t she just leave him? It’s not as simple as that, though, is it? I can’t just leave my dad.

  Mum was lucky, she got out before she snapped and stabbed dad over a hundred times. She’s now living in a woman’s refuge on the other side of town. I go to see her sometimes. I want to ask her why she didn’t take me with her but it never comes up. I could bring it up, I suppose, but I think I’m scared of the answer. Did Mum honestly think Dad wouldn’t start hitting me once she had left?

  I first noticed Dad hitting Mum when I was five years old. I was in the living room playing and went into the kitchen for a drink. Dad was sitting at the table and he had a face like thunder. Mum was at the sink; her face was red and she’d been crying. She looked in pain too. I remember asking her why she was crying, and she said it was because she was peeling onions. I don’t know why but that scene always stuck in my mind, and I kept looking back on it. It was a few years before I realized there were no onions. Dad’s face was like thunder because he was angry, and Mum looked like she was in pain because he’d hit her. I never found out why though.

  I often saw my mum crying. I thought she was an emotional person. I mean, she used to cry at soap operas all the time, but it wasn’t that – she cried for a reason.

  I don’t blame Mum for leaving. I don’t blame her for not taking me with her. I blame her for leaving me behind to take her place. I blame her for me being covered with burn marks and bruises. I blame her for me snapping and killing dad.

  I remembered the story of the woman in Leeds, and when I first started stabbing Dad I began to count the stab wounds. I lost count after thirty. I don’t think I made it to 119. It’s tiring stabbing someone over and over again.

  I left Dad in his bedroom. Someone will find him. I needed to see my mum, tell her what I’d done. She needed to know it was OK to come back home now.

  I got off the bus and she was waiting for me at the bus stop. I wanted her to hug me but she didn’t. She didn’t like any physical contact anymore; she told me that on my last birthday. She didn’t even kiss me hello or goodbye anymore. She was empty of all emotion. That’s what dad had done to her.

  We went for a walk in the park. It was quiet. In the middle of a weekday there were very few people around. We walked past the playground area, by the abandoned tennis courts to the woodland area. Mum always enjoyed walking among the trees; she found it relaxing. There was an awkward silence between us as if we were two strangers. We were mother and son for Christ’s sake. Eventually, I started the conversation. One of us had to.

  ‘Mum, would you ever come back home?’

  ‘No. I couldn’t,’ she said quickly, shaking her head.

  ‘What if Dad wasn’t there?’

  ‘He’ll always be there.’

  ‘What if we moved somewhere, just you and me?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It wouldn’t work.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It just wouldn’t.’

  ‘But you’re my mum. We should be living together.’

  ‘Don’t start this again, Mark. Just leave it for now.’

  I took my coat off and started taking off my jumper and T-shirt too. Mum asked me what I was doing. It was October, and I’d catch a chill.

  I showed her the cigarette burns; the scald marks; the bruises from his shoes with the steel toecaps that wouldn’t fade; the bite marks on my arms. I turned around to look back at Mum; her face was blank. Didn’t she care? Wasn’t she interested in what was happening to her only son?

  ‘Did you honestly think he wouldn’t start on me if you left me alone with him?’

  A tear fell down her face but I think it was a habit; there was no emotion on her face at all.

  I told Mum everything. It wasn’t just the beatings; Dad used to swear at me and call me names. I’d be sat eating my tea and he’d walk past and spit in it and still make me eat it. There are refuges for Mum to go to, but where do I go? I get put into care. I get sent God knows where to another family and live with complete strangers. I should be living with my mum.

  ‘Mark, I’m sorry, I can’t deal with any of this right now. I’m not strong enough.’

  She wouldn’t even look at me.

  ‘So what am I supposed to do?’

  She didn’t answer. She shrugged. Thirteen years old and my mum was leaving me to suffer at the hands of an evil bastard.
Mum started to walk away. I asked her where she was going and she said back to the refuge. I told her we’d only just met up; she’d promised me a panini in Costa. She said she couldn’t handle it and she wanted to go back.

  For the second time that day I saw red. I snapped. I had an evil father and a pathetic mother. I know it wasn’t Mum’s fault she was pathetic; Dad had turned her that way, but I was her son. She should have helped me. She should have saved me, and she was turning her back on me. I called her a selfish bitch.

  That stopped her. She turned back to look at me. She was about to say something when I grabbed her by the throat and started squeezing.

  ‘I’ve killed Dad, you know,’ I told her as the life drained from her. ‘About an hour ago I went into his bedroom with the carving knife and I stabbed him repeatedly, over and over and over again. It felt good. You should have done that years ago. You should have stopped him instead of leaving him to turn on me. I hate you. I’ll never forgive you for what you’ve done, what you’ve forced me to do.’

  I removed my hands and she dropped to the cold, wet ground.

  I looked at my watch. The bus to take me back home wasn’t due for another thirty-five minutes. I took the change out of my pocket and counted it – there wasn’t enough for a panini.

  EIGHT

  The boardroom on the top floor of Starling House was large and dark. It was rarely used, and there was an underlying smell of dust and damp. The decoration was simple and neutral: light cream walls, dark cream carpet, pastel-coloured Roman blinds, and reproduction prints on the walls. In the corner was a fake potted palm with a thick layer of dust on each leaf.

  Richard Grover, a heavyset guard with a dour expression and sad eyes led the way into the room and turned on the lights. His breathing was laboured after walking up four flights of stairs without stopping. He went to the back of the long room to pull up the blinds and open a few of the windows.

  ‘As you can tell, we don’t use this room too often. Only for the larger, more formal staff meetings, and we don’t have many of them.’ His voice was monotone and lacked an accent.

  ‘This will be perfect. Thank you,’ DS Sian Mills said.