скачать книгу бесплатно
‘So why would you pull up on Clough Lane late at night?’
‘For a shag,’ Rory said unwrapping a KitKat he’d taken out of Sian’s snack drawer.
‘Precisely. Help yourself to a KitKat, Rory,’ the rest of the officers sniggered. ‘So, Kevin Hardaker, cheating on his wife, is with his girlfriend, or whoever she is, and they park up on a quiet lane, for what Rory so romantically calls a shag. What happens next?’
‘A bloke comes along and kills them?’ Aaron said.
‘No. That’s not what happens. If this was a random killing, a drive-by shooting, then that would have happened, but this is more personal. Our killer comes along, drags Kevin Hardaker out of the car, beats him senseless then shoots him. Then he drags our mystery woman out from the front passenger seat and does the same to her. Thinking she’s dead, he leaves. What does this tell us?’
Matilda looked out at the sea of blank faces staring back at her. To be more accurate, with a reduced team, it was more like a river of blank faces.
‘It wasn’t a random killing,’ said Rory, licking melted chocolate from his fingers.
‘Go on,’ prompted Matilda.
‘Like you said, if this was a drive-by shooting they would have been shot dead where they sat. They weren’t. They were pulled from the car and subjected to a right beating. This was personal. Someone knew they were going to be there, or maybe followed them there, then attacked.’
‘Exactly my thinking, Rory.’
Rory was still only young and had the fresh-face of a skin-cream commercial actor. He also had a vacant expression that wasn’t always comforting while trying to have an in-depth conversation. However, he was an intelligent young man and would make an excellent detective. He just needed to do a bit of growing up.
‘So, in a personal attack such as this,’ Matilda continued, ‘who are our most likely suspects?’
‘The man’s wife or the woman’s husband,’ Scott spoke up.
‘Thank you, Scott. We need to talk to Kevin Hardaker’s wife and the second we find out who our mystery woman is we need to talk to her husband – if she has one.’
‘That reminds me,’ Aaron spoke up. ‘I had a call from forensics first thing. They’ve found a mobile phone at the crime scene. It could belong to the woman.’
A phone rang. Rory answered it, talking quietly.
‘Excellent. Give forensics a call and have them do their usual routine on it. I want a copy of all the contacts and text messages, photos, emails, apps used, and whatever else is on there. Now, Scott, what was the name of the FLO last night?’
‘Joseph Glass.’
‘Right. Give him a call. Ask him to bring Alice in. She needs to make a statement and I want to know everything about their marriage, any money problems, Kevin’s work – the usual. Also, talk to the neighbours, Kevin’s work colleagues, friends. Aaron, can you sort that out?’
‘Sure.’
‘Sian, what’s happening with Mr Rainsford?’
Sian looked up from her notebook where she had been making extensive notes. ‘PC Grabowski stayed with them overnight. I called her first thing and he’s actually feeling a lot better after a good night’s sleep. She’s bringing him in after he’s showered.’
‘OK. Sian will you interview him and keep me informed?’
‘No problem.’
‘Thanks. Right, I’m going to have a word with the ACC about getting more people in this room to make it look less like a gathering of the Nick Clegg fan club.’
‘Boss,’ Rory called out, putting the phone down, ‘that was a nurse from the hospital I got chatting to last night. The woman is stable, but still critical. There’s evidence she was raped.’
ACC Valerie Masterson was enjoying breakfast at her desk. Like Matilda, she also had trouble sleeping. Once the phone call had come through about the double shooting the logistics of the case weighed heavily on her mind; this could possibly be the Murder Room’s final investigation.
Much to the annoyance of her retired husband, Valerie decided to come to work early. She wanted to prepare for the battle with Matilda. Valerie believed her still to be a fragile individual; she had only been back at work four months and in that time she had faced a fight for leadership of the Murder Room, and internal scrutiny of her ability to carry out her duties. There could have been better resumptions to her career.
The loud knock on the door did not surprise Valerie – she had actually expected it sooner than this. She was tempted to say ‘Come in Matilda,’ but decided against flippancy.
Matilda burst into the room with all the grace and determination of a charging bull.
‘Good morning, Matilda. Coffee?’
‘Please.’
‘I know why you’re here,’ Valerie began, her back to Matilda as she prepared the coffees, ‘I need you to listen to what I have to say first before you erupt.’
‘I have no intention of erupting.’ Matilda’s tense white lips told a different story.
Valerie handed over the cup and saucer remembering that Matilda took her coffee black with no sugar. It was very hot and very strong. Matilda took a sip; it was good coffee. She placed it carefully on the desk.
The silence in the room was crippling; it was like a Mexican stand-off – who would blink first. Valerie sat behind her large desk, which looked bigger than it was due to her small stature.
‘I want you to know that I fought long and hard for the Murder Room to be kept open. You’ve done a brilliant job in building up an impressive reputation, and figures have proven its success.’
‘So why is it closing?’ Despite wanting to remain calm, the firmly folded arms across Matilda’s chest suggested otherwise.
‘It’s mostly budgetary reasons. South Yorkshire Police is under intense scrutiny, as you’re aware; we’re still under the microscope with the Hillsborough inquiry and the level of sexual abuse that has emerged in Rotherham has taken its toll. We’ve got representatives from the National Crime Agency looking into this sex abuse scandal. They’ve uncovered more than three hundred potential abusers. I’m lucky to still be sitting here. As we’ve been underperforming, so they say, we’re having our budget cut. Another reason is that the levels of murder within South Yorkshire have dropped. The Chief Constable believes that a dedicated murder unit is no longer necessary.’
‘I’m guessing he hasn’t heard about the double shooting last night,’ Matilda said with a hint of sarcasm.
Valerie gave a half-smile. ‘That has come with unfortunate timing. However, the Murder Room still exists at present and you have the full backing of the force.’
‘Just not the resources.’
‘Whatever you need to help you solve this case you will have.’
‘I want more detectives.’
Valerie sighed. ‘I will do the best I can for you; however, with these aggravated burglaries occurring left, right, and centre, CID are stretched as it is. Besides, you have Mills and Connolly, Fleming and … what’s his name, blond hair?’
‘Scott Andrews. I need a replacement DI.’
‘And you’re getting one. I have several candidates to interview in the coming days.’ That was a lie. Valerie had one person left to interview. It appeared that South Yorkshire Police’s reputation was not favourable with people seeking to improve their position. It would appear nobody wanted to be associated with the force.
‘Can’t I have one from CID? What about Brady?
‘DI Brady is working round the clock on these burglaries.’
‘Brady has been in this job longer than I have and you’ve got him working on burglaries. It’s not using him to his full potential.’ Matilda’s frustration was mounting. ‘With the Murder Room closing you’re sending dedicated detectives back to menial tasks. They won’t stand for it and they’ll leave. You’ll end up with a force like a ghost town and below-par coppers out of their depth when a serious crime occurs.’
Matilda paused for breath. ‘If the Murder Room closes the inevitable is bound to happen – the more experienced detectives will apply for a transfer to a force with dedicated units and South Yorkshire will be left with the dregs, and before the Chief Constable can polish his buttons crime will rise and the region will be crying out for a dedicated Murder Investigation Team, but there’ll be nobody skilled enough to run it.’
Valerie didn’t seem to be listening as she looked for a folder on her desk. ‘A warehouse in Snig Hill was broken into; £15,000 of computer equipment stolen, the whole place trashed and a security guard with a fractured skull. A house on Dore Road was broken into; elderly man and woman tied up while their house was ransacked. The woman was threatened with rape if she didn’t take off her wedding ring. A man was severely beaten in Heeley and had expensive watches and computer equipment taken. He was tied up with duct tape and doused in petrol. Need I go on? These are not just teenagers pissing about, Matilda.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly, her head bowed. ‘I had no idea of the level of violence involved. Christian Brady is a fine detective. He’ll do well on the burglaries. I just feel like I’m fighting a war single-handed. There’s no way I can win so why bother with the battle?’
‘Matilda, I understand your frustration, and your anger. I will do everything in my power to help you but I’m limited in what I can do. What you did with the Harkness case before Christmas was beyond excellent. I’m not going to placate you but I do believe you can work this case with the minimum of officers and still get a result.’
‘Why should I, though? Why should I work my arse off and get a result when it’s not appreciated? The Chief Constable is closing us down; I’m guessing there will be redundancies and I’m guessing I’ll be one of them. Why should I sweat blood just to be given my cards in a few weeks’ time?’
‘I’ve been assured there will not be any redundancies. It’s about having a CID and an MIT running side by side when it isn’t necessary. Combined you can have pockets of teams working individual cases with one or two senior officers overlooking the whole department.’
Those words may have been spoken by ACC Masterson but they were written by the Chief Constable, and, judging by the look on Matilda’s face, she knew that too. Matilda stood up to leave.
‘Before you go, did you see The Star last night?’
‘I’m afraid I did, yes.’
Valerie pulled out her dog-eared copy and laid it flat on her desk. It was open at page seven: ‘CARL MEAGAN: ONE YEAR ON’. Her stomach began performing somersaults.
Robert Walpole, Spencer Compton, Henry Pelham, Thomas Pelham-Holles, William Cavendish.
It had been a long time since Matilda had recited the names of the British Prime Ministers as an aid to relaxing. She hadn’t needed them since she’d given up drinking and learned to channel her grief. It seemed it only took the mere mention of Carl Meagan’s name and she was plunged back into her paranoiac nightmare.
‘We don’t come out very well I’m afraid. Were you contacted yesterday to contribute to this travesty?’
‘No.’
‘I thought not. It says you were unavailable for comment.’
‘I know,’ Matilda said, looking away from the paper. She didn’t need to see it; it was imprinted on her memory. ‘Why do they have to keep raking it up?’
‘It’s been a year. The parents want to keep the story alive. It’s understandable. He’s their son.’
‘I know,’ she said, bowing her head. ‘But I can’t keep doing this if I’m smacked in the face with Carl Meagan every time I’m working on a case.’
‘Matilda, leave the press to me. Do your job, a job you do incredibly well, and defy them all. I know you don’t believe this Matilda, but I’m with you 100 per cent,’ Valerie said when the expression on her DCI’s face remained hollow and drawn.
‘You’re right, I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it at all.’ She turned and left the room, not caring if there was more to the meeting.
Matilda didn’t have the energy to storm out and make a scene. What was the point in shouting and screaming from the rooftops if nothing was going to change? As Matilda walked away from the door and headed to the nearest toilets she was reminded of the saying ‘no man is an island’. Maybe not, but a high-ranking woman in the police force certainly was.
SEVEN (#ulink_7d890193-d931-5135-8ea7-316e0f664811)
Matilda entered the pathology suite and was met immediately by a team of police officers milling around. It was imperative the body of Kevin Hardaker was not left alone at any time for fear of evidence tampering.
‘Morning Adele,’ Matilda said. ‘I see you’ve got a full house.’
‘We certainly have. The coroner has given the go-ahead for the Digital Autopsy.’
‘I’ve never seen one before. What are they like?’
‘It’s just looking at scans on a computer screen,’ she said, folding her arms.
‘You don’t seem impressed. Worried it might make you redundant?’
Three years before, Sheffield had become the first city in the country to open a state-of-the-art, non-invasive Digital Autopsy Facility. Its aim was to establish the cause of an unnatural death using sophisticated visualization software and a scanner rather than a scalpel. With the results available almost immediately, it was a huge step forward for the Sheffield police force, but Matilda could see why Adele might be concerned.
‘No, of course not. It actually makes my job a whole lot easier. You can rotate a body 360º without getting your hands dirty. I’m all for that.’
The doors opened and the radiologist, Claire Alexander, stepped out. She was a small woman in her mid-thirties, with long brown hair, tied back in a severe ponytail. She was wearing hospital scrubs that were a size too big for her.
‘Morning Claire, happy birthday,’ Adele said.
‘Thank you. I see you’ve got me a present.’ She nodded towards the black body bag containing Kevin Hardaker.
‘I certainly have. No peeking.’
‘We’re all set next door if you are.’
Victoria Pinder, Adele’s Assistant Technical Officer, led the way with the trolley. It was a short narrow corridor leading into the Digital Autopsy suite and the trolley banged loudly against the walls and door.
‘Mind my paintwork. It’s just been redone,’ Claire said.
The mood as everyone entered the suite quickly changed from one of levity to sombre professionalism. They were all here because of a dead man: a person whose life had been brutally cut short. He deserved respect and dignity.
The machine was simple in design. It reminded Matilda of the many times she accompanied her husband to the hospital in the early days of his diagnosis and the many scans he had to endure. This scanner didn’t seem as bulky as the one at the Northern General; it was obviously a newer model. It looked less daunting and not as claustrophobic.
Victoria and Claire lifted Kevin, still in the bag, onto the scanner and secured him in place using Velcro straps. Everyone then made their way into the control room.
The small room, with a bank of five large computer screens, was packed with police officers and technical staff. Claire squeezed her way through and seated herself behind a computer in front of the window looking out into the main room. She clicked a few buttons and the scan began.
‘What’s happening now?’ Matilda whispered to Adele.
‘You know those annoying Slinky things that go down stairs on their own?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, imagine you’re standing in the middle of a large Slinky. The scan circles around the body from top to toe. Claire can adjust the thickness of the spirals to get a more detailed view of the body. The smaller the gap, the more detail we can pick up.’
‘So why is Claire doing this and not you, if you’re a pathologist?’
‘The scan works like an X-ray and you have radiographers for that. That’s what Claire is. All I do is interpret the results.’
‘It’s not noisy is it?’ Matilda whispered. ‘I remember going to an MRI with James and I could have done with earplugs.’
‘Everything is less noisy these days; with the exception of a Dyson vacuum cleaner.’
A ghost image of Kevin’s body appeared on the screen and looked like an X-ray. Leaning forward, Matilda frowned at the bright white objects on the body, but didn’t ask any questions. She’d save that for later.
