The Fallen
A DCI Matilda Darke short story
MICHAEL WOOD

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

Killer Reads

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London SE1 9GF

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First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Copyright © Michael Wood 2016

Michael Wood asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

Ebook Edition © DECEMBER 2016 ISBN: 9780008222383

Version 2016-10-24

To my bloggers.

For loving Matilda as much as I do.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Michael Wood

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Tuesday 7th December 2010

Andrea Barnes should have been winding down her work duties, handing everything over to her second in command and making sure they knew what to do in her absence, not hurtling through the streets of Sheffield on a mercy dash for a man she didn’t even like.

She should have known this would happen. Every time she had some time off or was preparing to go on holiday something always spoiled it. She was beginning to think all those months at spinning class firming up her bum to fit into a £125 bikini had been a waste of time. Would she ever feel golden sand between her toes? This time, Iain Kilbride had failed to show for work (again), so a replacement driver had to be found at short notice, which would cost the company extra money. This also meant that a coach load of pensioners would be late setting off for a tinsel and turkey Christmas lunch in Leeds.

Under normal circumstances, Andrea would have left a note with her assistant to fire Iain if he dared to show his face while she was soaking up some winter sun but, despite Clare Wilkins being a wizard at admin, she was lousy at discipline. Iain would have to be fired face-to-face, and that required a manager.

Without slowing down, without indicating, Andrea turned left into Stayleigh Lane. She returned the two-fingered salute she received from the prick in the Audi behind and turned left again into the private car park of Hallam Grange Close.

The concrete block of flats was nothing special – soulless boxes for the divorced and the widowed. Pathetic window boxes and limp hanging baskets tried to add a dash of colour to the grey but it was a feeble effort. At this time of year, and in these temperatures, everything was dead.

Andrea parked her Vauxhall next to Iain’s Skoda and climbed out. There was a bitter chill in the air and a stiff breeze cut through her polyester uniform. She couldn’t wait for her holiday to begin. Goodbye freezing Sheffield and hello sunny California. She had checked the weather over breakfast and it was currently in the mid-20s in Pasadena. Sheffield wasn’t even close to double figures.

She marched to the main entrance and pressed the buzzer for the ground-floor flat. She waited. Andrea was well known for her impatience and was seething well before the echo of the buzzer had carried away on the breeze. She buzzed again leaving her finger pressing hard on the button, her fingertip turning white.

An elderly man in a dressing gown and walking with a frame slowly came into view through the toughened glass of the front door.

‘Do you have to do that? I can hear it right through my flat. He’s obviously not in.’

‘He obviously is,’ Andrea shouted back. ‘Because his car is still here.’

‘I can’t let you in.’

‘Why not?’

‘You could be anyone.’

‘I’m his boss. I want to see if he is all right.’ It wasn’t technically true but the old man didn’t need to know that.

‘Have you got any ID?’

‘Bloody hell! Who do you think I am, a suicide bomber?’

‘You can’t be too careful.’

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ she muttered under her breath.

Andrea rifled around in her handbag for her purse. Opening it she found as many forms of ID as she could.

‘Take your pick: driver’s licence, work pass, credit card, gym membership, another credit card, Boots Advantage card, library card, Waterstones club card, credit card, Nectar card, donor card. Will any of those do?’

The old man opened the door. ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic.’

‘You know what your trouble is? You’ve got too much time on your hands.’ Andrea said, barging past the elderly man.

As she passed the open door to his flat she felt a blast of nuclear heat coming from within. She headed straight for Iain’s flat. Andrea knocked on the door hard with her leather-gloved fist. She didn’t wait for a reply but knocked again, harder.

‘You’ll have the door off,’ the old man said, moving slowly towards her with his walking frame.

From the floor above a tall young man with a shaved head was coming down the stairs putting a knitted hat on. ‘What’s all the banging about?’

‘Have you seen Iain lately?’ Andrea asked.

‘Not since last night.’

‘Did he say anything?’

‘No. I don’t really know him. We say hello, that’s about it.’

She knocked again, louder this time. ‘Iain, it’s Andrea. Can you open up please?’ She shouted, her voice resounding off the walls in the foyer. Andrea crouched down and looked through the letterbox. She immediately screamed and fell backwards onto the cold-tiled floor.

‘What’s the matter?’ The young man asked.

‘It’s Iain. He’s on the floor.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes I’m sure. He’s just lying there.’

The man crouched and lifted the letterbox up. ‘There’s nobody there,’ he said, looking at Andrea with a confused frown.

‘Of course there’s somebody there. I know what I saw.’

‘What did you see?’

Andrea had a hand on her chest and was breathing deeply. Her face was white. ‘I saw Iain on the floor. His eyes were wide open.’

‘On the floor in the hallway?’

‘No. In the living room.’

‘The living room door is closed.’

‘No. It’s open. I saw through the door and Iain was on the floor. I could see the dining table behind him.’

‘The door is closed and there’s nobody in the hallway,’ the man said, looking through the letterbox once again.

‘I didn’t imagine it,’ she said, looking between the young man with the woollen hat and the old man with the walking frame. They seemed to be frowning, judging her. ‘I’m not lying.’

‘Have another look,’ the old man said.

‘I’m not looking through there. He’s dead. I’m telling you.’

The young man held up his hands to silence them before the exchange became too heated. ‘I’ll go around the back and have a look through the living room window. You stay here.’

Andrea watched wide-eyed as the young man left the building. She smiled at the older man, a sympathetic I’m-not-crazy kind of smile. He returned the awkward gesture but started to shuffle away. He couldn’t get back into his flat fast enough. The door slammed closed and Andrea heard the rattling of the security chain being fastened. She was alone in the hallway.

There was an underlying smell of cold and damp. The bile-green floor tiles were scuffed and in need of a good scrub, or replacing completely. The walls had once been cream but over time had turned to nicotine yellow. The lighting was poor and headache-inducing. Why did Iain live here? It was depressing.

The front door to Iain’s flat burst open making Andrea jump. She turned around, half expecting to see Iain in his dressing gown making an excuse for not turning up to work. She was shocked to see the young man in the woolly hat whose name she didn’t know.

‘I think you’d better call the police.’

Chapter Two

Matilda Darke opened her eyes and for a brief moment had no idea where she was. Then it dawned on her. She was no longer in her room in a king-size bed with fitted wardrobes and an en suite wet room. She was in a cramped caravan sleeping on a converted sofa where the only privacy was a beige curtain. Suddenly, this did not seem like such a good idea.

The curtain was pulled back and she sat up. The man at the foot of her ‘bed’ was holding two mugs of tea on a tin tray. There was a tiny vase with a single red rose in it.

‘Did you sleep well?’ He asked with a hopeful smile.

‘No. I had springs sticking in me where springs should not be sticking.’

‘Oh. It won’t be for long.’

‘Really? We’ll be back in our house before Christmas, will we?’

‘Hardly,’ he scoffed. ‘Christmas is only three weeks away.’

Matilda rolled her eyes.

‘Look on the bright side, we’ll have the house of our dreams when it’s finished. A gorgeous sunken bath tub, dressing room just for you. No more nasty wardrobes. A walk-in pantry in the kitchen. A real log burner in the sitting room. This time next Christmas will be bliss.’

Matilda smiled. It was difficult to be angry with James Darke for too long. All he had to do was smile that perfect smile, twinkle those ice-blue eyes and she’d agree to anything.

‘Will you buy me diamonds next Christmas?’

‘I’ll buy you diamonds every Christmas.’ He placed the tray on the only available floor space and crawled into bed with his wife. He leaned in and kissed her passionately on the lips.

‘Morning breath,’ she said, turning away.

‘I don’t mind.’

‘I do. Besides, I’ve got to get to work.’

‘Call in sick. Let’s pretend we’re children of the earth and we’re travelling the country in a horse-drawn caravan, making love at every stop.’

‘Nice idea stud,’ she smiled. ‘First of all, I can’t call in sick as I’ve only had the job a week. Secondly, nice to see you finally admit this is a caravan. What happened to the Winnebago I was promised?’

‘I’ve had to order one from Norway. It should be here next week.’

‘We do have motorhomes in this country you know.’

‘Have you tried to find a company that will lift one over our house into the back garden without charging an arm and a leg for insurance?’

‘They’re going to drop it on the house, aren’t they?’

‘The British probably would. The Norwegians wouldn’t.’

‘Please tell me you know what you’re doing.’

‘I know what I’m doing.’

‘Now say it like you mean it.’

Matilda struggled to wash herself in a shower the size of an airing cupboard. As she towelled herself dry she knocked over her coffee cup and banged her head three times on the ceiling. This was definitely not going to work.

‘James, where’s the red suitcase?’ She called out to him in the next room. Was it really a different room when the ‘wall’ was so thin you could put your fist through it?

‘What red suitcase?’

‘The red suitcase on our bed that I asked you to bring down because it was too heavy.’

There was no reply, though she might have heard a mumbled ‘shit.’

‘Late for work. Got to go. Love you, bye,’ James called, slamming the door behind him.

‘James Darke, get back here right now!’ Matilda called out after him. ‘That had all my work clothes in it.’

Chapter Three

The new Murder Investigation Team (MIT) at South Yorkshire Police had a brand new open plan office with ergonomic desks, state of the art computers, soothing decoration and potted plants to increase productivity and maintain a calm and healthy atmosphere. The one failing was the heating system which looked and sounded like it had been salvaged from the wreck of the Titanic.

Detective Chief Inspector Matilda Darke was in charge of the MIT and all the officers working there. It took six months of interviews, shadowing, presentations and training courses before the job was finally offered to her. When ACC Masterson gave her the news she tried to remain professional. The plan had been to nod, give a brief smile and thank the ACC for having faith in her. Unfortunately, she briefly lost control, punched the air and almost grabbed her boss in a bear hug, until she remembered where she was. She tried to cover up her emotional outburst but it was too late. Never mind.

She pulled open the glass door to the MIT suite and was hit in the face by the smell of new carpet.

‘Bloody hell, Sian, open a window will you? It took me all night to get rid of the headache from the smell of this carpet.’

‘Open a window? It’s freezing,’ DS Sian Mills said. ‘Besides, it’s not that bad over here. Aaron dropped his Bolognese yesterday which has taken the newness off it.’

‘Oh. Well when he gets in ask him to drop his breakfast in my office, will you?’

Sian smiled. ‘Coffee?’

‘I’d love one. What are you doing with that lot?’ Matilda asked, pointing at a plastic bag full of chocolate bars.

‘It was an idea of Stuart’s last night. A woman in his office has a snack drawer. You help yourself to whatever you fancy but you have to replace it with something similar.’

‘I like that idea. I often need a chocolate rush in the afternoons.’

‘Well as you’re the boss you can have a Twirl on the house,’ she said, tossing one to her.

‘Thanks. So, have we settled in now?’ Matilda asked, looking at the white boards which held details of the cases they were currently working on.

‘I think so. I know the desks were strategically placed for karma or whatever it’s called but I prefer the straight lines, don’t you?’

‘Definitely. What’s the matter?’ Matilda noticed Sian was looking down at her feet.

‘Nothing. I just wondered if you knew you were wearing odd shoes.’

‘What?’ She looked down. They were both black, they were both plain, only one was matt while the other was shiny. ‘Shit!’

‘Get dressed in the dark this morning?’

‘No. I got home yesterday to find James had started knocking the house to pieces a month early. I had less than half an hour to pack everything I wanted into a small caravan at the bottom of the back garden. I could have killed him.’

Sian stifled a laugh. ‘Oh. That would account for the toothpaste stain on your shirt then.’

‘What?’ She looked down. ‘Oh bloody hell. I’m not putting up with this for the next eight months. I was perfectly happy with our house. Yes, it was a tad dated but it just needed decorating. You should see the plans he’s drawn up.’

‘He is an architect.’

‘I know but can’t he demolish someone else’s home and not mine?’

The MIT had been in operation for less than a week yet they already had three murders to deal with. One was a domestic: Jennifer Skinner, thirty-three, had hit her lover with a frying pan in the kitchen following an argument. The victim fell, hit her head on the marble worktop and was dead before she hit the floor. Jennifer had appeared at Sheffield Magistrate’s Court where she pleaded guilty to manslaughter. She was on bail pending sentencing at Crown Court.

Alec Thwaites, forty, stabbed his ex-wife to death on the eve of her wedding to his former best friend. He admitted murder and was currently on remand in HMP Doncaster.

There was an arrest warrant out for Craig Matthewman who was on the run in connection with the death of a Sheffield Wednesday fan last weekend. Craig, a lifelong Sheffield United fan, was caught on CCTV fleeing an alleyway where Shaun McMurray was found with three stab wounds in his stomach. Despite several reports of Craig Matthewman hiding at various friends’ houses throughout the steel city, he still eluded Matilda and her team.

Matilda was going through her emails when DC Aaron Connolly entered the MIT suite. He had only been back at work two weeks following his honeymoon in Barcelona with Katrina and already the defeated look of a man under the thumb was showing on his face. Matilda and James had been married for less than a year, did they look like that too? She didn’t think so. James definitely wasn’t under the thumb. However, if he continued to knock their home to pieces, he’d be buried under the extended kitchen.

‘Aaron, any joy with Craig Matthewman?’ Matilda called through her open door.

‘That’s where I’ve just been. Uniform had a sighting of him near Asda in Gleadless Valley. His step-father lives just around the corner but he’s not there.’

‘His step-father isn’t hiding him, is he?’

‘No. Actually he’s the ex-step-father and, by all accounts, if Craig did turn up on his doorstep he’d drag him down here by his hair. And he’s in a wheelchair.’

‘Ma’am,’ Sian said coming into Matilda’s small office, smiling at Aaron on his way out. Matilda didn’t look up at first. It was strange hearing someone call her ma’am, especially Sian, a woman she had known for over a decade. Sian didn’t seem to mind. ‘I’ve had a call from DS Brady. There’s a suspicious death at Hallam Grange.’

‘Really? Excellent.’

‘What?’ Sian asked, a surprised look on her face.

‘We have to pass my house to get there. I can stop off and change these shoes.’

Chapter Four

‘DI Darke, DS Mills,’ Matilda said to the uniformed officer at the entrance to the block of flats on Hallam Grange Close. They both briefly flashed their ID.

‘DCI,’ Sian reminded her boss.

‘Sorry, yes, DCI Darke. I can’t get used to that at all.’

Matilda and Sian were handed forensic suits which they struggled into in the cold foyer before heading for the scene of the crime.

The flat had a small dark hallway which was decorated in dull, lifeless colours. The light brown carpet and grimy cream walls, with old reproduction art work that no serious artist would have painted, were a taster of the rest of the flat. It was depressing, drab, and energy-sapping.

The living room had been brightened up by the floodlights brought in by the scene of crime officers. Forensics were dusting for finger prints around a broken window. Three people wearing identical paper suits were crouched over the body.

‘I’m guessing the one in the middle with the big bum is Dr Adele Kean,’ Matilda said, folding her arms.

Adele almost jumped up. ‘Cheeky cow. I lost three pounds last week.’

‘Really? Hole in your purse?’

‘My bum doesn’t look big does it?’

‘Adele, in these suits we all look like fat Teletubbies.’

Adele looked around the room. ‘No wonder kids are weird these days if this is what they’re watching.’

‘DCI Darke?’ DS Christian Brady came into the living room. ‘DI Hales has had to go back to Central. He asked me to talk you through the scene.’

Matilda rolled her eyes. Her main competitor for the DCI job in MIT was DI Ben Hales. When a dedicated murder unit had first been mooted he had thrown himself at the mercy of the ACC and practically begged for the job. However, being married to a former Chief Superintendent’s daughter doesn’t necessarily open doors for you. In Ben’s case many doors were double locked and the key thrown away. Matilda often felt sorry Ben still hadn’t been promoted. He was a good detective and deserved recognition for his hard work. Unfortunately, those higher up felt nepotism might be suspected if Hales was given the head job.

To say Ben took losing out on the MIT role hard would be an understatement. He had barely said two words to Matilda since she started. Although he was solely in charge of CID, he was bound to resent handing over cases to her when he was qualified to see them through to the end.

His mood had dropped. He had never been one for socializing with officers at the end of the day and was an incredibly private man, but since the MIT came into force, he had retreated further into himself. It was like he was plotting something, like he was seething inside, and waiting until the time was right to stage a coup.

‘Is Ben still in a mood?’ Matilda asked Christian.

‘As usual. It doesn’t help that a drug dealer he’s been after for the past three months turned up dead yesterday.’

‘Murder?’

‘Overdose. It shuts down an angle he’s been working on into dealing on Burngreave. It’s back to square one. There’s no room on the MIT for a DS is there, ma’am?’ Christian asked, looking hopeful.

‘We’ve only been going a week! Tell me what’s going on here.’ She said, wanting to get off the subject of Ben Hales. He really did need to grow up.

‘Ok. Well, a woman called Andrea Barnes came calling for her colleague, Iain Kilbride, when he failed to show up for work. There was no answer so she looked through the letterbox. She thought she saw him dead. When a neighbour looked through, he didn’t see anyone. He went around the back, noticed the broken window and blood on the windowsill and gave us a ring.’

‘And who is Andrea Barnes?’

‘She is, or rather was, Iain Kilbride’s boss.’

‘Why did she come calling for him?’

‘Because he hadn’t turned up for work or called in?’

‘What did he do?’

‘Coach driver. Barnes Coaches. You must have seen them; bright green and yellow things.’

Matilda nodded. ‘Yes, I know them. Where is Andrea Barnes now?’

‘She and the neighbour have given brief statements. I’ve said we’ll need to talk to them in more detail. They’re in the flat next door with an old man and a PC.’

‘Thanks Christian.’

Matilda turned and looked at the stricken man on the living room floor. Iain Kilbride was overweight and balding with thin, brittle brown-grey hair, three days’ worth of stubble and stained clothing. His fingers were yellowed with nicotine; his brown cardigan was covered in cigarette burns as were the arms of the battered looking armchair in the centre of the room.

‘Iain Kilbride. Why is that name familiar?’ Matilda asked.

‘Doesn’t ring any bells with me,’ Adele said. ‘Anyway, if you take a closer look,’ she continued, leaning over the body and turning the head slightly to one side. ‘You will see a very deep and very nasty head wound.’

‘Is that what killed him?’

‘At a guess I’d say he suffered massive internal bleeding from the blow to the head. But look around you at the empty vodka bottles – he could have been blind drunk and just fallen over.’

‘So it might not be murder at all?’

‘No.’

‘Then what the hell are we doing here?’

‘There’s a broken window.’

‘Scuffle with a burglar maybe?’

‘You’re the detective. I’ll try and fit Mr Kilbride in for a post mortem today. I’ll let you know.’

‘Thank you. I know it’s not an exact science, but any clue on time of death?’

Adele gave Matilda a knowing smile. ‘You’re stealing my lines. No more than a couple of hours at the most. I’m sure you’ll let me know if I can improve on that time frame after the PM.’

‘You’ve missed your calling, Adele. You should be a stand up.’

Matilda turned away from the body. Iain Kilbride looked in his late fifties and obviously lived a solitary life. One armchair, one chair at the small dining table in the corner of the room. There were no expensive items, no ornaments, paintings or framed photographs. This was a sad man living out his sad life in a very sad-looking flat. An unhappy end too.

‘Well I think we can safely say it is definitely Iain Kilbride,’ Sian said, looking through the passport she had found in a 1970s sideboard.

‘Let’s have a look,’ Matilda took it from her. ‘It’s expired. Bloody hell, he’s only forty-four. I’d have added fifteen years at least,’ she said, turning back to the body. ‘Have you found anything else?’

‘No. It’s mostly bills, a few receipts, and a copy of the Radio Times from 1983.’

Matilda looked at the front cover of the slightly dog-eared magazine. It was dated 5-11 March 1983 and showed actors Geraldine Chaplin and Christopher Guard in character for an adaptation of the Daphne du Maurier novel My Cousin Rachel.

‘I wonder why he kept this,’ she said, flicking through it.

‘I don’t know,’ Sian replied. ‘It was lying at the bottom of the drawer under bank statements and gas bills.’

‘I doubt he’s been living here since 1983. He would only have been what? 17? Maybe the magazine came with the sideboard.’ Matilda was about the throw the magazine down when she stopped. ‘Oh my God. It’s him.’

Matilda showed the article to Sian. There was a half-page photograph to accompany it which showed a teenage Iain Kilbride in a leather jacket and tight dirty jeans sitting on a bale of hay in a barn. His hair was dark, thick and wavy. He skin was healthy and tanned and he stared directly at the camera with a smouldering look. It was a world away from the bloated corpse of a forty-four-year-old man on yellow-brown carpet in a depressing flat in Sheffield.

‘That’s where I recognize the name from,’ Matilda said, as she read through the article. ‘He was in Emmerdale. Well, it was called Emmerdale Farm then.’

‘Oh. I’m more of a Coronation Street fan myself. Did you see the big tram crash last night? The effects were poor but it was a good stunt. I can’t wait to see who they’ll kill off.’

Matilda had stopped listening. She was reading the article about a new heartthrob joining the soap. The story described Billy Hodges as a bad lad from Manchester who would arrive in Beckindale and cause trouble with the men and a flutter among the women. Played by new up-and-coming actor, Iain Kilbride. Matilda frowned as she vaguely remembered him.

She turned to look down at the body on the floor. It couldn’t be the same man, surely. The glossy photograph showed a handsome, tall, muscular young man with a thick head of hair and full red lips. The corpse on the ground didn’t seem tall; he was overweight, his skin was grey and wrinkled, his lips were chapped, his fingers were fat and yellow. This was not a former soap star. It couldn’t be.

‘Somebody might want to come and look at this.’ A voice called out from one of the rooms in the hallway.

Matilda put the magazine down and, with Sian following, made her way to the master bedroom.

Inside was a double bed and wall of fitted wardrobes. The veneer doors were tar stained. This room was just as dated as everywhere else in the flat.

The wall of scene of crime officers moved aside when Matilda entered the room to show her what was lying on the bed.

Matilda looked down at the three laptops. ‘So?’

‘Three laptops,’ one of the officers said. He pointed to the bedside table. ‘An expensive mobile phone and iPod. There’s also a wallet on the chest of drawers with over two hundred pounds in twenties and several credit cards inside.’

‘So he wasn’t robbed then,’ Matilda pointed out. ‘Which begs the question – why break in to kill a man and not take anything?’

Chapter Five

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