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‘Don’t call me that,’ she said. ‘I have no idea who you are.’
Ryan opened his eyes and stared out of the car window. A tear fell which he didn’t wipe away. He had never cried as much as he had in the past few months. At first, he was embarrassed by his tears. Now, he didn’t care who saw.
Why was he crying? For the pain and emotional distress that he had caused his family; for the life he had lost; for his victims? He no longer knew. All he did know was that he had ruined the lives of so many people, including his own, and, for that, he felt incredibly sad.
The car pulled into a service station. The fat one in the front passenger seat struggled to get out. Ryan watched as he waddled to the toilets then into the small kiosk shop.
‘Are we nearly there?’ Ryan asked, looking at the reflection of the driver in the rear-view mirror. He didn’t get a reply. Ryan was the enemy. He was not to be engaged with.
The fat one tested the suspension as he eased himself back into the car. ‘I needed that. Red Bull might give you wings but it goes straight through me. I bought you a Twix. They didn’t have any granola.’
‘Not much bloody difference, is there?’
‘If you don’t want it, I’ll have it.’
‘And listen to you moan about being borderline diabetic? No, thank you.’
Ryan wasn’t acknowledged. He wasn’t asked if he wanted anything from the shop, or if he needed the toilet. To them he was a tumour – difficult to ignore and impossible to forget.
Three hours and forty minutes after they left Norwich they arrived at their destination in Sheffield. Off a main road and down a long bone-shaking track, they came to a set of electronic gates with razor wire on the top.
The driver lowered his window and leaned out. He pressed the call button on the intercom, and the small screen above lit up. The face of a man loomed out at them in black and white.
‘Yes?’
‘We have Ryan Asher with us.’
‘Drive up to the second set of gates and turn off your engine.’
The screen went blank, and the gates slowly opened. They drove through and stopped when they reached a second set of gates. The first set closed behind them. They were trapped in a small rectangle with high fencing on all four sides and barbed wire tightly coiled along the top. Nothing happened.
‘What’s going on?’ the driver whispered to his colleague.
‘We’re being filmed and photographed from every conceivable angle.’
After a few long minutes of silence, the second set of gates opened. Norris turned on the engine and continued driving along the pothole-lined track until they reached the entrance to the imposing nineteenth-century building.
Ryan remained in the back of the car as it pulled up. The driver opened the door and looked at the frightened teenager.
‘Out you get.’
As Ryan was led out of the car he looked up at the terrifying building casting long shadows from the full moon directly above it. He was mesmerized by the imposing façade; the massive bay windows; the severe leaded panes of glasses. It was something out of a classic Hammer Horror film.
The front door opened and a large barrel of a man waddled down the steps. A yellow glow from the lighting behind enveloped him.
‘Ryan Asher?’
‘Yes.’
‘Welcome to Starling House.’
TWO (#u94ea2fb5-985b-5ed7-bb5f-40ba39d28bc5)
DCI Matilda Darke’s morning routine had changed beyond all recognition over the past month. The alarm clock was set for six o’clock, though she was usually awake and up before it sounded. She no longer dragged herself out of bed; she threw back the duvet and hopped out.
She headed for the conservatory where a newly acquired treadmill waited for her. She plugged her iPod into it – a little bit of David Bowie to start the day – and began a five kilometre jog. Matilda had only been doing this routine for a few weeks but she was sure her thighs and calves were getting tighter. Her bum certainly felt firmer and, maybe she was kidding herself, but her black jacket didn’t seem as figure-hugging. It would be a long time before she could wear the size ten Armani suit hiding away in her wardrobe but she was getting there – slowly.
It had been the idea of her friend, Adele Kean, to get in shape. Maybe it would make her feel better, not just physically, but mentally too – give her something else to focus on rather than grieving for her late husband, James. Adele was a member of Virgin Active and managed to drag Matilda along with her. However, fifteen minutes into her first session and Matilda knew a gym was most definitely not for her.
She looked at herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror and didn’t like the wreck staring back at her. The whole open-plan gym felt like a zoo; preening and presenting body-beautifuls – not so much working out as auditioning for God only knew what. The stains some people left on the equipment reminded Matilda of animals scent-marking their territory. The selfie-obsessives would never welcome Matilda into their den with her neurosis and baggy sweaters – not that she wanted them to.
So she treated herself to a treadmill and a couple of kettlebells and turned the conservatory into a make-shift gym. She wasn’t sure James would approve, the conservatory was his pride and joy, but as long as Matilda was well and functioning normally he would be looking down on her and smiling, especially that time when she caught her headphone wire on the treadmill handles and fell off.
The five kilometre jog took her thirty-two minutes. She was desperate to get it under thirty and promised herself she would jog at a faster pace tomorrow morning. She had a quick shower, breakfasted on a high-fibre cereal and black coffee and was ready to leave the house.
Today was a rare day off for DCI Matilda Darke. She could have spent it relaxing at home and flicking through the many channels of trash TV, but one look at her wedding photo would bring a flood of memories to the surface and, before she knew it, the whole day would be lost to her depressive state – why hadn’t she met James sooner? Why hadn’t they had children? Why had he been taken so early? Besides, she had promised her parents to call in for a long-overdue visit and she had errands to run.
Matilda opened the front door, took in a lungful of autumnal air and stopped dead in her tracks. On the doorstep at her feet lay a large padded envelope. She looked around but there was nobody about. She picked it up. On the front was her name in large capital letters. It had been hand delivered. She took it into the house and closed the door firmly behind her.
The package felt heavy. She sat on the sofa and slowly pulled open the tab.
‘Oh God, no.’
Matilda pulled out a thick hardback book. The picture on the front was of a smiling blond-haired, blue-eyed, seven-year-old boy. The title of the book, Carl, in big red letters at the top, and the author’s name, ‘Sally Meagan’, at the bottom. This was the official version of the disappearance of Carl Meagan, as seen through the eyes of his heartbroken mother. Carl would forever be on Matilda’s mind; the boy she failed to rescue from his kidnappers and return home to his doting parents. And now there was a book. The whole world would read about her failings.
Matilda opened the front cover and saw it had been personally signed:
‘Matilda, an advanced copy just for you. May it give you as many sleepless nights as it’s given me. Sally Meagan.’
Carl
by
Sally Meagan
Introduction
I had never had a night away from my only son before. Any holidays and business trips we had, Carl always came along too. However, on this particular occasion, the event in Leeds was at night and Carl had school the following morning. Now he was getting older it was harder to take him with us. I didn’t want him missing his education.
My mum, Annabel, had looked after Carl hundreds of times. He loved his ma-ma, as he called her, and she loved him. She lived close to us in Dore, Sheffield, and often called to take him to the park or shops. She had never looked after him alone overnight before. However, she was my mother. I had nothing to worry about.
The event in Leeds was for Yorkshire Businessman of the Year. It was Philip’s first time nominated for anything so we knew we had to attend. Mum came to our house for a light tea and brought plenty of provisions for her and Carl. They had planned a night in front of the TV watching DVDs and playing games. I think my mum was more excited than Carl.
At six o’clock, I kissed Carl goodbye. I gave him his instructions to be a good boy, not to answer back to ma-ma, and to go to bed when she told him to. He looked at me with those big blue eyes and smiled. I knew he would behave but I also knew he would cause great mischief for my mum. She would love it, though. I kissed my mum too. I thanked her once again and we left. They stood on the doorstep and waved us off. That was the last time I saw either of them …
Matilda couldn’t read on. She knew what was to follow. She had lived and breathed Carl’s disappearance for eighteen months. She knew the case inside out; evidently, though, not from the point of view of his distraught mother.
The Meagans blamed Matilda for not returning their son home to them, and the book was going to be a scathing attack on her, her abilities as a detective, and South Yorkshire Police as a whole.
The Meagans were a wealthy family who owned a chain of organic restaurants throughout the region. It wasn’t long after Carl’s disappearance that a ransom demand for a quarter of a million pounds was made. It wasn’t easy, but Philip Meagan managed to get the money together and a drop-off point was arranged. Matilda, leading the investigation, was designated the courier.
In a cruel twist of fate, Matilda’s husband, James, lost his battle with a brain tumour on the same day as the drop-off had been arranged. Neither wanting sympathy from her colleagues, nor the case to be taken from her at such a crucial stage, she told nobody of James’s death and continued with her duties.
Those around her noticed Matilda was quieter than usual but put it down to the mounting stress of the case. Everyone was working under exceptional circumstances.
By the time night fell Matilda headed for Graves Park alone. A bag containing two hundred and fifty thousand pounds in cash sat next to her on the front passenger seat. She waited. Ten o’clock came and went and there was no sign of the kidnappers. Eventually, her mobile burst into life.
‘Where the fuck are you?’ It was the angry, accent-less tone of the kidnappers.
‘Graves Park, where we agreed.’
‘What car are you in?’ The voice was muffled as if the kidnapper had something covering the mouthpiece of the phone.
‘Black Seat. I’m flashing my headlights.’
‘You lying bitch. There’s no other car in the car park.’
‘Car park?’
‘By the animal farm.’
‘We said by the tennis courts.’
‘Do you want us to kill this kid?’
‘No. Give me five minutes.’
Matilda grabbed the bag from the seat and jumped out of the car. She ran. She ran as fast as she could. A montage of faces went through her mind: the innocent face of a petrified seven-year-old, missing his parents; Sally and Philip Meagan, agonisingly waiting in their living room for a phone call from Matilda saying she had their child back safe and well; the painless image of her husband in his hospital bed, finally at peace, and the look of horror and disappointment on the faces of her colleagues when they found out how she had messed the whole thing up.
Matilda ran past the eerie concrete tennis courts and up the hill to the wooded area of Graves Park.
‘I’m coming,’ she said under her breath. ‘I’m coming, Carl.’
Her legs ached as she pounded the solid ground. She was in the wrong shoes for running. Her lungs struggled to cope with the heavy breathing, and the cramp in her side was forcing her to slow down. She couldn’t. She had to plough on through the pain.
She pulled a torch out of her pocket and flicked it on. A brilliant white beam lit the path ahead. She made it through the woods and out the other side, past the toilet block and the café and eventually reached the car park.
She stopped. She stood on the edge, torch held aloft, and throwing the beam all around her. The car park was empty. The kidnappers had left, taking Carl Meagan with them.
‘Carl?’ she called out, her shaking voice resounding around the open space. ‘CARL!’ she screamed, but her cries just echoed, answered by no one.
She could smell the cold night air tinged with burning car fumes. She had missed them by a matter of seconds.
THREE (#u94ea2fb5-985b-5ed7-bb5f-40ba39d28bc5)
Kate Moloney was a tall woman with long black straight hair which she wore in a severe-looking ponytail. Her skin was deathly pale and smooth. The red lipstick she always wore was striking and gave her a vampish air of power. She looked at least a decade younger than her forty-three years. She was curvaceous and wore long dresses or sensible trouser suits, yet made sure they were all figure-hugging to show off her natural assets. Her shoes were painful to wear but were part of her power outfit – impossibly high heels which echoed around the corridors as she walked with a straight back and her head held high. She was a woman on a mission.
Her office on the ground floor of Starling House was elaborate and necessary. The large mahogany desk with hand-carved detail dominated the room. The dark-red painted walls and cream-coloured carpet were expensive but a warranted luxury. The office made a statement to Kate’s position. She deserved everything in this room and had worked hard to get it.
Surveying her office, she stood with her back to the window, arms firmly crossed. A knock came on the door and brought her out of her reverie. Despite the fact she wasn’t doing anything, she waited a moment before telling her visitor to enter.
The door opened and Ryan Asher was led inside by an overweight man with greying hair, a pockmarked face, and grease stains on his shirt. He didn’t enter the room. He showed Ryan in and quickly closed the door without saying a word.
‘Ryan, nice to meet you. Please, sit down.’ Kate gestured to the uncomfortable-looking wooden chair in front of her desk. She waited for Ryan to sit before she sank into her high-backed leather seat.
Kate leaned forward on her desk and interlocked her fingers. Her nails were sharp and painted a vivid blood red. ‘Firstly, I’d like to welcome you to Starling House. I know it wasn’t ideal for you to arrive at the time you did last night, but we do that for security purposes. And for your own safety too. I hope you managed to get some sleep in the holding room. It’s draughty, I know, but I don’t like the accommodation block interrupted once everyone is asleep. Now, you’re going to be with us until you’re eighteen, at least; it could be longer. From here you will go to Wakefield Prison where you will serve out the remainder of your sentence. I’m sure you’ve already had all this explained to you.’
Ryan’s face looked blank. His brown eyes were wide and he wore a heavy frown, which suggested he was petrified of the nightmare he had found himself in. He nodded.
Kate dropped her voice for a softer tone. ‘Ryan, I know this is frightening. You’re away from home and your family. However, I know you’re fully aware of the circumstances that led you here. I will, of course, make your stay as comfortable as possible and, if you ever need to talk about anything, I am always available. OK?’ For the first time, she smiled. It wasn’t a reassuring smile, more of a threatening gesture – your time will be comfortable here, providing you don’t step out of line.
‘OK.’ His voice was high-pitched and it quivered.
‘Good. Now, I’m going to show you around – introduce you to some of the staff and the other boys. After lunch you will have a meeting with Dr Klein who will assess you for any specific needs you might have. Shall we?’
Starling House was a Victorian building on the outskirts of Sheffield. Formerly owned by boxing promoter, Boris Wheeler, it was bought by Sheffield City Council in the late 1980s, following Boris’s death. Unfortunately, maintenance and upkeep of the building ran into hundreds of thousands of pounds every year, and the Heritage Trust soon found themselves with a costly white elephant on their hands.
After years of wrangling, it was eventually sold cheap to a private organization who were able to adapt Starling House into what it is today – a secure home for some of the most violent boys in Britain.
Before it was due to open in 1996, almost every resident of Sheffield had signed a petition and staged protests outside the Town Hall demanding the council not allow it. The people of Sheffield boycotted Starling House. Nobody applied for a job there, so staff had to be drafted in from elsewhere and live on the premises.
During the summer months, when trees were in full bloom, Starling House was invisible from the main road running past it, and people could pretend it didn’t exist. When autumn came, and the leaves had died and fallen, Starling House could be seen through the barren branches for miles. It was difficult to avoid, and the imagination was left to fester and mutate and come up with all kinds of stories of what was going on behind those thick stone walls.
Kate Moloney had been at Starling House since it eventually opened in 1997; starting as a junior officer before working her way up the promotional ladder. She was the only original member of staff left. It wasn’t easy to keep people as many found it difficult to be surrounded by such evil on a daily basis. There was the odd security officer who had stayed longer than two years, but the majority moved on just as Kate was getting to know them.
Kate showed Ryan around Starling House personally. She wasn’t afraid to be left on her own with the teenage boys, despite the tabloid newspapers labelling them as the most disturbed children in the country. By the time Kate saw them they all had the same look – frightened, nervous, worried, petrified, and wishing they could travel back in time to undo their violent deeds.
She stole a glance at Ryan who, at first, dragged his feet with his head down, but eventually looked up and was either impressed or scared by the imposing building. High ceilings and ornate stonework adorned every corridor and room. Any removable original features had been taken out long before it became a home for teenage murderers – the sweeping oak staircase, the stained glass windows in the atrium were all gone. It was a bland, dull, lifeless building with very little character and charm. Depressing, cold, and stark, it was a building with no redeeming features.
The first stop on the tour was the gym. Kate didn’t linger too long in here. There was a damp problem which was getting worse; the smell was an assault on the nose. The library and computer room were adequately equipped but nothing was state of the art. Even the books looked like they belonged at a jumble sale. As they went from room to room Kate tried to engage Ryan in conversation: did he like computers? Did he read much? Was he a fan of the gym? Each question was answered with the same monotone grunt or shrug of the shoulders.
The recreation room was a large space with a pool table, table tennis and football tables, as well as worn sofas surrounding a widescreen TV with DVD player and games consoles attached. At the side of the room there was a bar (without alcohol). There were patio doors leading out into the grounds but these were securely locked and alarmed.
‘Most of the boys like to come in here when they’ve finished their lessons for the day,’ Kate said. They stood in the doorway.
At the top of the room four boys were standing around the pool table wearing the identical uniform of navy combat trousers and grey jumper. They weren’t close enough to engage in conversation. The four stopped their chatting and looked at the new inmate about to join them, then went back to what they were doing.
‘Craig,’ Kate called to one of the boys at the pool table and beckoned him over. ‘Craig, this is Ryan Asher. He arrived last night. Could you introduce him to the other boys – show him around the rec. room?’
‘Sure,’ Craig shrugged.
‘Excellent. Thank you. Ryan, it’s almost time for lunch. Afterwards, I’ll talk you through the timetable we have for your lessons then I’ll introduce you to the staff.’
‘OK.’
Kate smiled and left the room, closing the door behind her.
She made her way back to her office. It was difficult to take an impression of Ryan Asher. He had barely said a dozen words to her. She thought of herself as a good judge of character and hoped Ryan wouldn’t cause too much trouble.
