A Room Full of Killers
MICHAEL WOOD

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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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First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Copyright © Michael Wood 2017

The ABC Murders Copyright © 1936 Agatha Christie Limited.

All rights reserved.

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

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Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

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

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Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2017 ISBN: 9780008222390

Version 2020-01-23

To Woody

26/05/04 – 09/06/16

The best writing companion I could ever ask for. A true friend, and now, a genuine Golden Star.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Callum Nixon

Chapter Four

Lee Marriott

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Mark Parker

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Craig Hodge

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Lewis Chapman

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Jacob Brown

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Ryan Asher

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading…

About the Author

Also by Michael Wood

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE
Manchester. Tuesday, 7 January 2014

I was in agony. The pain was immense. I couldn’t believe it. I looked across at the alarm clock and saw that it was just after 1:30 a.m., and I hadn’t been to sleep yet. How could I when all I wanted to do was vomit everything I’d ever eaten.

I managed to roll out of bed and practically crawled to the bathroom. I made it to the toilet just in time. The sick was never-ending. I honestly thought I was going to bring up an organ. There was so much of it. It was like that scene from The Exorcist.

I must have woken my sister, Ruby, because I looked up to wipe my mouth and she was standing in the doorway. She had her hands on her hips and a serious look on her face like she was going to tell me off. If I hadn’t felt like I was dying I would have laughed. How could she try and look mean and threatening when she was wearing Hello Kitty pyjamas?

‘Could you be any louder about it?’

‘Sorry, Ruby, did I wake you?’

‘No, I always go for a walk around this time.’ She looked at her wrist as if there was a watch there.

‘Sorry. I don’t think I should have reheated that curry I had for my tea.’

‘Have you made yourself sick so you don’t have to go to school in the morning?’

‘No. Why would I do that?’

‘Because I heard you telling Dad you hadn’t done your science homework.’

‘I’ve not made myself sick, Ruby. Go back to bed.’

I managed to pick myself up off the floor, although I felt dizzy and the sweat was pouring off me. I had to steady myself against the wall. I was shaking and hot but I felt cold at the same time. I had no idea a chicken korma could cause such agony.

‘Do you want me to wake up Mum and Dad?’

‘No. It’s OK. I think I’ll go downstairs and see if we’ve got anything to settle my stomach.’

‘OK.’

‘Are you going back to bed?’

‘Yes,’ she said, folding her arms.

‘Go on then.’

‘I’m waiting until you’ve gone downstairs. I don’t want you to fall.’

I went to go downstairs and kept looking back at Ruby, who wasn’t moving. I knew what she was going to do. I would have made some kind of sarcastic remark but I was frightened of opening my mouth and being sick again, because Dad had just polished the floorboards. He’d kill me if I splattered regurgitated korma all over them.

I was halfway down the stairs when I heard Ruby tap on Mum and Dad’s bedroom door. ‘Mum, I had that dream again. Can I come in with you and Dad?’

I smiled to myself. Ruby had promised that she’d sleep in her own bed all through the night. It was her New Year’s resolution yet she’d broken it within three days. She hated sleeping on her own, God knows why.

As soon as I opened the door to the kitchen, Max jumped out of his basket, tail wagging, and thought I wanted to play with him. He started jumping on his back legs. As much as I loved the little dude, playing with a Fox Terrier at two o’clock in the morning was not my idea of fun. He ran over to the back door so I let him out.

I left the door open while I looked for something to take. Dad suffered really badly with his stomach. He only had to look at a jar of beetroot and he got indigestion. He was bound to have something that could stop my stomach doing somersaults.

I found a small tub of Andrews Salts and made myself up a glass. I swigged it back in one gulp and shuddered at the taste. It was nasty.

Max came running back into the kitchen with a tennis ball in his mouth and dropped it at my feet. I wasn’t going outside to play fetch in the garden. It was bloody freezing out there. I made him go back to his bed, locked the back door and went into the living room. I didn’t have the strength to walk up the stairs.

I curled up on the sofa, pulled the blanket around me and tried to get comfortable. Whatever was in that medicine seemed to be working as there was no gurgling sound coming from my stomach. I wasn’t shaking as much either.

I was shattered. I looked at the clock – 02:15. I’d never been up this late before in my life. I was just nodding off when Max came in and licked my face. He lay down in front of me on the floor. He could tell I was ill and was looking after me, bless him. He was snoring in seconds. I wish I could fall asleep so quickly.

04:50

Max started licking my hand and barking. I briefly opened my eyes but, as it was still dark, I nudged Max away and pulled the blanket over my head. If he wanted to go out again he’d have to wait. I was finally warm and comfortable.

Another bark. This time he was nuzzling my hand and trying to pull the blanket off me with his teeth. He may be a cute dog and able to get away with a lot of things, but there was no way I was getting up for him now.

‘Max,’ I whispered loudly. ‘You’ll wake everyone up. Go to sleep. Now!’

I waited. I heard him groan, walk around in a circle a few times then drop to the floor. Thank God for that.

05:05

It seemed like only minutes later that he started fussing me again. He was yapping, barking, tugging at the blanket, and licking my face. I threw the blanket off me and stood up to turn on the living room light. I can’t remember what I was saying to Max but as soon as the room lit up I saw exactly why he’d been behaving so oddly.

There was a leak coming through the light fitting in the middle of the room. It didn’t make sense. The bathroom was above the kitchen, not the living room. My eyes adjusted. Shit! It wasn’t water pooling on the coffee table. It wasn’t water dripping and splashing all over the cream carpet. It was blood. I looked up at the light; the surrounding ceiling was a mass of blood. It was dripping down, splattering against the glass, bouncing off and soaking the carpet. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. I was having a nightmare caused by my fever, surely.

Max barked. I looked down at him and he was speckled with blood. His paws were covered in it. Oh my God. This wasn’t happening. Surely, I was running a fever from all the vomiting and having a nightmare.

I ran out of the living room and up the stairs, two at a time. ‘Mum, Dad, wake up,’ I called out. It was pitch-black and still early so my voice echoed around the house. I didn’t care if I woke up the whole street.

I knocked on their door but didn’t wait for a reply. I grabbed the handle and pushed. I flicked the light switch on.

‘Mum … ’

That was the moment everything stopped. My life ended right at that second as I looked into my parents’ bedroom and saw a scene of horror. All I could see was red. The walls, the ceiling, the floor, everything was covered in red. Huge sprays of blood covered every surface.

I could feel my heart pounding hard in my chest as if it was about to erupt. No. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be real.

I walked further into the room and looked at the bed, trying to make sense of what my eyes were seeing, but my brain hadn’t caught up yet. The bed was a tangled mess of limbs and everything was dripping. It was like a scene from a torture porn film. I didn’t know if anybody was on the bed or not. Then I saw it. Dad had given Mum a really expensive watch for Christmas, just a week or so earlier. She’d loved it and spent most of Christmas Day staring at her wrist. She was still wearing it but the face was smashed. Her arm was covered in blood, but it wasn’t attached to her body. I swallowed hard to keep the bile from rising in my throat. I saw Dad’s leg with the Manchester City football shield tattoo. Like Mum’s arm it was splattered with blood. And there, in the middle of the bed, I saw the worst horror of all: the blood-stained white face of Hello Kitty winking at me.

ONE
Norwich. Sunday, 2 October 2016

According to the satnav it would take three hours and nineteen minutes to drive from Norwich to Sheffield. Add on traffic jams, roadworks, and fuel stops, and they would easily make the Steel City in four hours.

The seven-seater people carrier was waiting outside the back entrance. It was parked as close as possible to the door. The windows in the Citroën were tinted; the locks from the back doors had been removed, and there was a security grill between the front and back seats.

In the front passenger seat was Craig Jefferson, his extra-large uniform straining at the seams. He checked the glove box for provisions: boiled sweets, three cans of Red Bull, and a Sudoku puzzle book. Behind the wheel sat Patrick Norris. This was Patrick’s first run. He knew the route; he had been studying the A-Z all afternoon, but the worried expression on his face was for his charge, not his driving ability.

Time ticked slowly by. They should have left by now.

‘What’s taking so long?’ Norris asked, fidgeting in his seat.

‘Red tape probably. Just when you think you’ve filled in all the forms you find another batch that needs signing.’

‘They do realize Norwich are playing at home today, and it’s a late kick-off. We’re going to get caught in the traffic.’

‘They don’t care about that. Once they close that door their job is done. It’s down to us then. They don’t care if it takes us three hours and nineteen minutes or nineteen hours and three minutes. Mint imperial?’ He held out the packet.

‘How many of these runs have you done?’

Jefferson sighed as he thought. ‘Too many to count. I don’t go to Sheffield very often though. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I went. You know it’s bad when you’re given a run to Sheffield.’

‘Do you think there’s some kind of hold up?’ Jefferson asked, craning his neck and looking out of the back window at the dormant building. ‘Maybe it’s been cancelled.’

‘Trust me, it won’t get cancelled. They’re as keen to get rid of him as we’ll be to drop him off. Are you any good at Sudoku? I’m not sure if that should be a three or a five.’

The steel door creaked open and two burly men in similar uniforms to Norris and Jefferson came out. They towered over the young man between them.

His face was gaunt and pale. His hair had been recently shaved which added to the emaciated refugee look. He was a slight build, short for his age, and had the appearance of an innocent man heading for the gallows.

While one of the men secured him to the back seat, the other tapped on the passenger window. Jefferson lowered it.

‘What took you so long? It’s freezing out here.’

‘If you must know, we had a hard time saying goodbye. He’s such wonderful company.’ His reply was laced with sarcasm.

‘Well you can join us if you like?’

‘Tempting offer but I’m clipping my toenails tonight. Here you go.’ He handed over a clipboard with the required paperwork to be signed once they reached Sheffield. It was like delivering a washing machine.

‘Off we go then, Patrick. Head for the A17 and no stopping under any circumstances except for fuel for me and the car.’

Shackled in the back of the car was fifteen-year-old Ryan Asher. Norwich born and bred he was about to leave the city for the first time, and he was never coming back.

His left leg jiggled with nerves. He had been told what was happening to him, where he was going, and what his final destination in approximately three years’ time would be, but it was the unknown he was scared of. A new city and new people, where the only things they knew about him was what the newspapers had reported. Nobody knew the real Ryan Asher anymore. Nobody wanted to know.

In the middle seat of the car, he sat back and looked out of the window at the darkening Norwich landscape. He was born here. He played with his friends here. He went to school here. He murdered here.

A three-hour journey with nobody to talk to, no radio, nothing to read, and a wall of darkness outside the window to torment his troubled mind. He couldn’t get comfortable and kept adjusting himself. He bit his bottom lip and could taste blood. He wondered how fast they were travelling? Was Sheffield far from Norwich? He hated not knowing. They could be taking him anywhere. Maybe he wouldn’t make it to Sheffield. The driver kept gazing at him through the rear-view mirror. His look was sharp and scared. What did he think Ryan was going to do? He was a fifteen-year-old boy who looked twelve, not Hannibal Lecter.

The driver and the front seat passenger didn’t speak much. The odd banal comment on the amount of traffic and how dark it had become, but that was it. They would probably save their conversation for the journey back when it would be just the two of them. Ryan could guess what the main topic of conversation would be – him.

Ryan let out a deep breath he didn’t know he had been holding and closed his eyes. The first image that came to mind was the look on his mother’s face the first time he saw her after their world had been torn apart. She didn’t look like his mum anymore. Gone were the bright blue eyes, the cheery smile, and the dimples – replaced with a look of horror, fear, and loathing. She had brought a monster into the world. She had given birth to evil and stood back while her son destroyed lives.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said when he looked up at her. ‘I’m really sorry.’ It was baseless but it was all he could think of.

Belinda Asher didn’t reply. She couldn’t reply. She was using every ounce of energy to keep herself standing. Her legs were shaking uncontrollably. She was freezing cold, yet sweat was pouring from every pore. Her mouth was dry as she looked at her only son’s face. Her eyes were full of tears that refused to fall.

‘Mum. I’m really sorry. Where’s Dad? Is he coming?’

‘I want to go.’ The words fell out of her mouth to the female detective who was holding her up. No words were exchanged. The detective slowly turned her around and led her across the room.

Ryan was crying. ‘Mum, don’t leave me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of it. Mum, please. I’m so sorry.’

At the door, Belinda Asher turned around and a heavy shroud of silence fell over them all. Somewhere, a clock was ticking, high-heeled shoes were clacking down a corridor, planets were formed, stars died and, all the while, mother and son were locked in a battle of immense will-power.

‘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

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

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.

‘Richard, you haven’t seen Oliver anywhere have you?’ she asked the fat guard who had shown Ryan into her office as she entered the main hallway.

‘He’s in the rec. room,’ he replied in his usual flat burr.

‘I’ve just come from there.’

‘No idea, then,’ he shrugged and went on his way.

‘Charm personified,’ she said to herself.

Craig walked slowly over to Ryan and eyed him up and down, taking in everything about him from his shaven head to his battered Converses. They were almost toe to toe, and Craig was still staring.

‘So … where you from?’ Craig asked. He had stale bad breath and his teeth were brown.

Ryan thought it best not to flinch from the smell. His fellow murderer may take offence.

‘Norwich,’ he replied with a catch in his voice.

‘Oh. I’ve never been there.’

‘It’s nice.’

‘Maybe I’ll go one day then. You could show me around.’

Ryan gave a nervous laugh, thinking Craig was joking. The look on Craig’s face told him he wasn’t. ‘Erm … OK.’

‘Well, let’s show you what’s what.’ He pointed to the various items. ‘Pool, football table, table tennis table. You know what they’re for. TV with PlayStation One and a Wii, for some reason. The DVDs are in the cupboard, but don’t expect any of the new releases. And, we’ve only got Freeview.’

‘OK,’ Ryan replied.

‘Let me introduce you to the other lads. You’re number eight, and they’re not all here at the moment as some are doing extra lessons. Anyway, playing pool is Lee and Jacob. Lee is the blond one. Thomas is sat reading as always—’

‘What’s going on?’

The door behind them opened and in walked Callum Nixon. Tall, well-built, heavy brow and swagger.

‘Just showing the newbie around.’

Callum circled Ryan, having a long, lingering look at the skinny young boy. He slammed his arms down, grabbed him around the shoulders and marched him off to the centre of the room.

‘Let me guess. Craig’s been pointing out all the features like he’s selling a house on one of those shit programmes on Channel 4. I’ll show you the real Starling House. This is the rec. room, which is our only private place. You’ll notice there’s no guards in here. That’s because this is our room. If you see a guard in here, you know there’s been some shit going off somewhere. I’m Callum. I’m from Liverpool, and I sit on the recliner next to the sofa. If I catch you sitting in it, I’ll gut you. Understand?’ Callum’s face remained stoic – he wasn’t joking.

With wide, frightened eyes, Ryan nodded.

‘Good lad. Now over there we’ve got Jacob. He raped and murdered his girlfriend. Next to him is Lee. He set fire to a caravan while his parents were sleeping in it. Killed them both. Craig killed his parents too, didn’t you, Craig?’

Craig gave Ryan a small smile which twitched at the corners.

‘Thomas, sitting down reading, as always, hacked his entire family to death with an axe, including his eight-year-old sister.’

‘Why don’t you tell him what you did?’ Jacob called out.

‘I don’t need to tell him what I did.’ He leaned in to Ryan and whispered in his ear, loud enough for the rest to hear though. ‘I’m Callum Nixon. That’s all you need to know.’

‘Leave him alone, Callum,’ Lee said, noticing the look of horror on Ryan’s face.

‘I’m just acclimatizing him to our little fun house. He needs to know who he’s going to be living with for the next few years.’

‘No, he doesn’t. None of us need to know.’

‘Look at him, Ryan, he hates horror films and practically shits himself whenever anyone talks about violence, yet he can happily kill his parents without giving it a second thought. Stick with me, Ryan. They’re a bunch of nutters in here.’

Ryan broke free of Callum’s hold and backed away. ‘I need the toilet,’ he said, barely above a whisper and ran out of the room.

‘You can’t leave it can you, Callum?’ Lee said.

‘What?’ he asked as if he’d done nothing wrong. He looked around at the accusing faces staring at him. ‘What?’

‘You’re a real dick, do you know that?’

Ryan entered the toilets. He didn’t need the toilet, he just wanted a few minutes to himself. He felt overwhelmed.

Ryan looked at himself in the mirror. He looked grey and drawn. How had he ended up here like this?

He turned on the cold tap and splashed his face a few times but it didn’t make him look any different. The main problem was how he felt on the inside. He felt sick, his stomach churning and performing somersaults. Ryan hadn’t been here a day yet and he was already panicking about the rest of the week, let alone the next three years. After that was Wakefield. He knew about Wakefield. It was category A – where all the serious criminals went.

‘I’m so sorry, Mum. Please come and visit me. I need you,’ he said to his reflection.

CALLUM NIXON
Liverpool. March 2015

It was my first day back at school. I’d been suspended for five days after having a fight with Harinder Goswami in the chemistry lab. He started it but, just because he got burnt with some kind of acid, I ended up getting suspended. He wasn’t even that badly burnt. Talk about an overreaction. All the teachers have it in for me, just because I won’t take any of their crap. Teachers think they own the pupils and we’ll do what they say. Well, they don’t own me. My dad taught me from an early age that you have to stand up for yourself in this world and not take any shit from anyone – and I’ve got the belt buckle marks to remind me.

I was told to use my suspension to think about what I’d done, to think about what I wanted out of life and where I wanted to go. Mr Stockwell said I was on the road to failure. Mr Chandani said I was on a slippery slope. Who do they think they’re talking to? Well, I knew where they were going to end up. In a shallow grave, that’s where.

I spent my week off playing on my Xbox and planning how to get back at that fucker Harinder Goswami. I’d been banned from Facebook for racist abuse, which was a load of bollocks, and Twitter had closed my account. I wasn’t bothered. Social media’s for wankers anyway.

First day back and it was the only time I’ve ever looked forward to school.

I stood at the gates and watched everyone arriving. They didn’t have a clue. I was going to own this school. I was going to be remembered. I walked up the drive and heads turned. Kevin Walsh looked shit scared; he’s always looked like that since I threw that lit firework at him. Fiona Bishop smiled. She wanted me, but she’s been with Harinder so I’m not going anywhere near her. Who knows what she’s got! Barry Richardson saw me but quickly turned away. I smiled at my handiwork. His hair still hasn’t grown back.

Mr Chandani said I had to go straight to his office before I started class. Fine by me. If he wanted to be my first victim, so be it. I went straight into his office. There he was, sitting behind his desk in his cheap suit. Fat bastard. God I hated him. Before he had the chance to look up I pulled the knife out from up my sleeve and slammed it into his neck. Piece of piss. I pulled it out and kept ramming it in and out until he fell off his chair. He was on the floor, his hands covered in blood as he tried to stop the bleeding. It didn’t take him long to die. The blood soon stopped pumping out between his fingers and he closed his eyes. Bastard. I hacked up some phlegm and hit him right in the face.

I was surprised he didn’t scream. I suppose it’s difficult to scream when you’ve got a knife in your throat. I was really disappointed. I wanted to hear him begging and pleading as I took his life. Never mind. There’s always next time. One down, one to go. Maybe two.

Mr Stockwell was in his chemistry lab getting ready for the class to begin. There were a couple of swots in there before the bell. I slashed at one girl, – never seen her before, and Kieran Ashley was there so I stabbed him in the shoulder. Prick. He sold me a dodgy iPhone last Christmas. Stockwell stood up. He looked like he was going to piss himself. He told me not to do anything stupid. I’m not stupid. He’s stupid – three years at university, ten grand in debt – and working in a shitty school teaching a bunch of scallies. I stabbed him in the stomach; he bent forward so I got him in the neck. He fell to the floor so I got him twice more in the back.

That pervert who teaches us rugby, Mr Rushworth, charged into the classroom with that Irish teacher no one can understand, Mr Allen. They tackled me to the floor. I looked up at the clock on the wall. It had only taken ten minutes to off two teachers. I’d like to have got Mrs Pritchard who takes me for maths, snotty cow, but, never mind, I got the main two.

I looked over to Stockwell and saw the life in his eyes fade. That was cool – actually seeing someone die.

I was pinned to the floor for ages until the police arrived. Mr Rushworth was calling me all kinds of names. I just looked up at him and smiled. I’d never felt so alive. Best. Monday. Ever!

FOUR

The first day at Starling House for Ryan Asher had been daunting and frightening. After a mediocre lunch he had been to see the therapist, a Doctor Henrik Klein. He was a tall man who looked long past retirement age. He was completely bald with a bushy moustache that covered the whole of his mouth, muffling his words as he spoke. Originally from the Ukraine, he had lived in Britain long enough for his accent to morph into a broken attempt at English. He spent the first few minutes of the session leaning back in his armchair, arms folded, looking at the frightened teenager sitting opposite.

‘So, how are you feeling?’ His moustache bobbed up and down as he spoke.

‘OK,’

‘OK? You’re only feeling OK? Anything else?’

‘No. I don’t think so.’

‘You don’t think so? How can you not think so? Surely you know how you feel.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘What are you fine about? You’ve been brought to Sheffield under the cover of darkness and find yourself living in a maximum security youth prison with seven other killers, and you’re fine? You’re not scared, frightened, petrified? Shouldn’t you be crying in agony? Or are you so hardened that nothing fazes you anymore? I need more from you than “fine”.’

The forty-five minute session continued like that with Dr Henrik Klein learning absolutely nothing about Ryan Asher other than the fact that he was scared and wanted to see his mum, even though he knew it was never going to happen.

After therapy, Ryan needed a few minutes alone. The session had been heavy and demanding with Dr Klein throwing question after question at him as he tried to get him to admit his real feelings. He had no idea what his feelings were. He felt numb and wanted to go home, yet there was no longer a home for him to go to. Unfortunately, there was to be no respite. He was sent straight into the office of Mr ‘Call Me Fred’ Percival, as the other boys referred to him, for a basic English and maths test. He was an imposing man with a high forehead and fat stomach. With a thick Brummie accent he told Ryan that he lived on the premises during the week so would be around if he had any questions about absolutely anything.

‘It’s a tad overwhelming, all this, isn’t it?’ Fred said, looking at the wide-eyed teenager. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about. It’ll take you a few days to settle in, get to know your way around, and the other boys, but you’ll soon find your feet.’ He smiled.

‘Thanks,’ Ryan said, and smiled for the first time in months.

Fred climbed down from the desk he was perched on and went to sit next to Ryan, placing a large hand on the back of his shoulders, similar to what Callum had done, but Fred wasn’t threatening at all, although he did seem to be standing a little too close.

He leaned in, merely inches from Ryan’s face. ‘If you ever want to talk about anything, not just maths and English, don’t hesitate to ask, OK?’

‘OK.’

‘Good lad,’ Fred said. ‘Right, shall we get started?’

The tests were relatively easy. He struggled on a few of the maths questions but managed to answer them all within the time limit. He breezed through the English test. He remembered one of his teachers, Mrs Moore, had told his mum one parents’ evenings that if he concentrated more in class instead of messing about he’d go far. She envisioned a bright future for him. Her powers of clairvoyance were obviously having a day off. He had no future of any colour.

With the tests finished, Ryan was shown into the recreation room where the other seven boys residing in Starling House were whiling away the dull afternoon.

He tried to sneak in undetected but the creaking hinges on the door betrayed him. The boys were scattered around the room – some were playing pool, others table football, and the rest were watching a DVD. He slinked over to the sofa and perched himself on the end. He looked uncomfortable as he leaned back and watched the TV. It was showing a Star Wars film but he had no idea which one.

He kept looking at the boys around him but didn’t see their faces or their awkward smiles, just their crimes. Lewis Chapman murdered his younger brother. Mark Parker beat his father to death and strangled his mother. Lee Marriott killed his parents by setting them on fire, and Craig Hodge killed his aunt and uncle. Then there was Callum Nixon. Ryan had taken an instant dislike to the cocky show-off. He seemed to delight in people knowing he had killed two teachers. What the hell was he doing here living with these evil monsters? Then he remembered. Ryan was an evil monster himself. He wondered if the other seven felt the same regret and remorse as he did.

‘You been to see Call Me Fred?’ Lee Marriott was a thin boy with brilliant blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and skin so pale he was almost translucent.

Ryan smiled. ‘Yeah. Just finished the tests.’

‘Here’s a tip: when he gets on a subject he really likes he spits when he talks; so always lean back when he comes near you.’

‘Cheers.’

‘You any good at pool?’

‘Not really.’

‘Table tennis?’

‘A bit.’

‘We’ll have a game after tea if you want.’

‘Yeah. Sure. Thanks.’

‘No problem.’ Lee moved up the sofa so he was next to Ryan. ‘Look, don’t worry about this place. It’s scary at first but you’ll soon settle in. Miss Moloney’s all right as long as you’re all right by her, and the other staff are pretty cool too. As for the rest of us lot, we all get along just fine – we have to really,’ he sniggered.

‘Thanks.’

‘Let’s have that game now. I fucking hate Star Wars.’

By the time the evening meal came around at 6 p.m, Ryan had spoken to all seven boys and was relatively relaxed in their company. There were a couple who seemed a bit distant but, when he factored in the reason why they were all here, he could perfectly understand that.

Ryan entered the dining room with Jacob, Mark, and Lewis. They were laughing and joking. To the outsider they looked like four school pals on their lunch break. Once they were seated the plastic cutlery gave away the seriousness of where they were.

Ryan had been too knotted up to eat at lunchtime. Now he had settled in and relaxed with his contemporaries for a few hours, he found he was hungry, and was the first to finish his bland chicken dinner. They all chatted between mouthfuls: safe subjects like football, TV, and the fact Mark Parker couldn’t do more than ten press-ups in the gym.

Following dessert (soggy treacle sponge and lumpy custard), it was back into the recreation room for a few hours before they went to bed at nine o’clock.

Ryan beat Lee easily at table tennis but there was no malice, no arguments, no threats of reprisals – it was all good-natured fun.

Nine o’clock came far too quickly for Ryan’s liking and he was soon locked up in his small room (not a cell). He was finally alone after a hectic first day at Starling House. He wasn’t tired. It had been years since he had a bedtime. As he lay wide awake on the single bed, looking up at the ceiling with its cracked paint and damp patches, his mind drifted. How did he end up here? Where were his mum and dad? What were they calling themselves now?

The room was sparse. A single pine bed with matching bedside cabinet. A cheap veneer wardrobe secured to the wall and a plastic chair. There was one shelf which had a few dusty paperbacks. The room lacked atmosphere and there was a cold draft coming from somewhere. There was nothing personal or comforting about it. He wondered what the other boys’ rooms were like. Had they brought items from home: posters, photographs, games? He wondered if he was allowed to visit the other boys in their rooms. Something else to ask Lee in the morning.

Ryan listened to the silence. He couldn’t hear anything from the outside, no traffic on the roads, no people walking by. He wondered how far he was from civilisation. He’d never been to Sheffield before so had no idea of the layout. It was in Yorkshire, which had two shit football teams, was about all he knew. He remembered his uncle coming up to Sheffield for the snooker once when Ryan was a little boy but that was the only time the city was mentioned in his house.

There were no sounds coming from anywhere else in the building. He strained to hear any of the other boys talking, either to themselves or each other through the walls, or any of them crying, but he guessed the walls were too thick.

He took a deep breath and sighed. His first full night in Starling House. His first of many. Lee and Jacob had made the first day manageable but he would give anything to be back home with his mum and dad, to be hugged by them one more time.

A tear fell from his eye, down his face and onto his pillow.

‘I’m so sorry, Mum. For everything I did. I’m really sorry,’ he said, quietly, under his breath. ‘Please find it in your heart to forgive me. I need to see you.’

Ryan turned over and hid his face into his pillow to muffle the sound of his sobbing. Just because he couldn’t hear anyone else, it didn’t mean they couldn’t hear him.

He cried uncontrollably; cried himself to sleep. He was just nodding off when his door was unlocked from the outside.

LEE MARRIOTT
Blackpool. August 2013

I was born by accident. It’s not that my parents didn’t want me, they did, well, Mum did. It’s just that I was a surprise for them both.

Mum and Dad had tried for years to have a baby. They married when Dad was twenty-five and Mum was twenty-one. They tried from the honeymoon onwards but nothing happened. Twenty years later, out I popped. I was their middle-age miracle.

I’ve heard that story so many times from Mum that I could give a lecture on it. I could go on that boring quiz show with the leather chair and have it as my specialist subject. At first it was a sweet story, as if I had waited more than twenty years for the right time to be born, or the angels were preparing my mum and dad to be the best parents ever (that’s a direct quote from Mum’s story, by the way – pathetic, isn’t it?). After hearing it more than ten million times it starts to get annoying; more than annoying, it’s irritating. It’s a fucking pointless story, and I hate it.

Mum took her role of mother far too seriously. She refused to let me out of her sight. I wasn’t allowed to play out, in case I fell and hurt myself. I wasn’t allowed to climb trees, in case I fell out and cracked my skull open. I wasn’t allowed to the shops on my own, in case I was knocked down by a car and killed. Dad wasn’t allowed to take me to a football match, in case I was kidnapped. I lived in a bubble.

Every summer we went on holiday for two weeks to the same place – Blackpool. Have you ever spent two full weeks in Blackpool? Fuck me, it’s boring! Have you ever spent two full weeks in Blackpool living in a tin-can caravan with your parents every single year since you were born? It’s torture! I’m fifteen – why do I want to go to Blackpool? Why do I want to go on holiday with my mum and dad? Why do I want to spend two weeks in a shitty caravan the size of a public toilet? I tell you, torture.

This year was different. Actually, no, it wasn’t. It was exactly the same, only this time I met someone, someone fun. Liam.

Mum and Dad allowed me some freedom for the first time. I was allowed in the arcade in the caravan park but I couldn’t go off-site without their permission. I looked up from the slots to see this guy looking at me. That was Liam, and he looked just as bored as I was. I smiled. He smiled. I went for a drink, so did he. We got chatting. He was on holiday too, with his nan and granddad, but they spent all day playing bingo so he was allowed to do whatever he wanted – lucky sod.

Liam asked if I wanted to go down to the beach. I didn’t even think of asking Mum and Dad. I just went. We had some chips and swapped stories. He was from Carlisle. His Mum and Dad were working all summer so his grandparents were looking after him. As a special treat, they’d brought him to Blackpool for the week – some treat!

We went to the top of the Tower and spent a good half hour looking at the view. Then Liam invited me back to his caravan and we drank a few cans of lager. Can you believe that was my first taste of alcohol? I tried vodka too but I didn’t like it, and I wouldn’t even try the whisky – the smell alone was too much. I decided to stick to lager and I had a few cans, followed by a few more. It wasn’t long until we were both seriously pissed. I’ll always remember that day as being one of the best ever. Liam was everything I wanted to be – fun, free, happy, good-looking.

It was after midnight when I got back to my caravan. It was a cool night and the breeze seemed to sober me up a little. Mum and Dad were still up, obviously, and they were both angry. At first Mum was thrilled I was safe, until she smelled the lager on my breath. They both kicked off, saying how I’d disappointed them and let them down. I heard the story of how I was a miracle birth again. I always had that thrown in my face. Dad sat calmly while Mum ranted. She said we were going back home first thing in the morning. I said no as I’d arranged to go out with Liam. I refused to leave. I was having fun for the first time in my life. Dad told me off for cheeking my mum, and he sent me to bed. Well, it was the table turned into a bed. Not the same thing.

I can’t actually remember what happened next. One minute I was lying in bed, the next I was turning on the gas canisters for the stove. I didn’t think of the consequences until afterwards but I’m not sorry. They were suffocating me. For how long did they think I was going to put up with being their prisoner?

I stood well back from the caravan as I struck the match. The wind blew out the first few; the fifth one went straight through the window. The curtains caught fire so I ran, knowing this would be it. I hid behind another caravan a few rows back and watched as the flames took hold. Suddenly, bang, the caravan was torn apart and a massive fire ball flew into the air. It was well impressive. The baked-bean-tin caravan just disintegrated.

Now I’m free of them. I can do whatever I want without having to answer to anyone. I’m so relieved, like a weight has been lifted from me. I’m free. I’m finally free.

FIVE

Prompt as always, Adele Kean knocked on Matilda’s door at seven o’clock sharp. She opened it to find her best friend standing on the doorstep with a bottle of wine in one hand and a takeaway curry in the other.

It was a special day for Adele. Nothing to celebrate, there would be no cards or presents, it was something to reflect upon. Twenty years ago today, Adele’s then boyfriend had gone off with another woman leaving her in a bedsit in Manchester to look after a two-year-old baby alone. It had been a nightmare time for Adele and thanks to the intervention of her parents, and meeting Matilda, she had been able to pull herself out of her quagmire, qualify as a pathologist and regain control of her life.

They sat at the kitchen table, curry laid out before them, wine poured, and raised their glasses to a toast.

‘To proving that fresh starts are achievable,’ Matilda said, surprisingly optimistic for her.

‘To hoping that bastard suffered a painful death from some flesh-eating virus,’ Adele offered.

‘I don’t think I want to eat this now,’ Matilda said, looking down at her curry.

‘OK, we’ll be sensible and toast achievements,’ she said, rolling her eyes. They clinked glasses and began to eat.

‘Do you ever hear from Robson?’

‘Any chance we can refer to him as The Bastard, please?’

Matilda sniggered. There was definitely no love lost between Adele and Robson. She had called him The Bastard for as long as Matilda had known her. It was a stark contrast to the relationship Matilda had enjoyed with her late husband. He had been dead almost two years, and she would give every single possession she owned to have him back.

‘Do you ever hear from him?’ Matilda asked, unable to refer to him as a bastard.

‘No, thank God.’

‘What about Chris?’

‘Not since he was ten. A couple of years ago, when I’d had a few to drink, I tried looking him up on Facebook.’

‘And?’

‘He wasn’t there. I thought he’d have gone in for the whole social media thing – an entire world of women at his fingertips. He’s either changed and is now a one-woman man, or he’s dead. I like to think it’s option two. More wine?’

‘Better not,’ Matilda said, placing her hand over the glass. When James died, Matilda had turned to drink to cope with the loss and it had got out of hand. Like she had saved Adele when she moved to Sheffield, Adele had returned the favour and helped her through the torture of losing the man she loved. Now, Matilda didn’t trust herself around alcohol. She never drunk when she was alone and only dared to have a glass or two with friends. Just to be on the safe side.

The conversation over dinner moved on to safer territory like Matilda’s visit to her parents earlier in the day and the prospect of Adele’s son, Chris, starting a new job, hopefully, as a teacher. However, during the quieter periods, Matilda could see the loneliness in Adele’s eyes. She always said she didn’t need, or want, a man in her life to be happy, but now that Chris was out of university and would be leaving home soon, the prospect of living alone and surrounded by silence was beginning to dawn. They would have to do more things together; Matilda would make sure of that.

Adele stuck to the wine while Matilda made herself a coffee, and they went into the living room.

‘Oh, I didn’t know this was out,’ Adele said, picking up the hardback copy of Carl from the side table.

‘It’s not. It comes out this Thursday. Sally Meagan left it on my doorstep this morning.’

Adele opened the cover and looked at the inscription. ‘Bloody hell, she’s not going to let you forget, is she?’

‘As if I could anyway. I think about him every day. I drove past Graves Park yesterday and I almost had to pull over I teared up so much.’

‘Is there no news?’

‘There’s no one looking for him. The case is shelved. There have been no sightings for months.’

‘It’ll get reviewed at some point though, won’t it?’

‘Oh yes, but not by me, and not for long either. I honestly don’t think we’ll know anything until a body turns up.’

‘You think he’s dead?’

‘As much as I hope he’s still alive, yes, I think he’s dead.’

‘Oh God, the poor mite,’ Adele said, looking at the front cover and the smiling little boy looking up at her. ‘God only knows what his mother’s going through. Are you going to read this?’

‘I read the introduction. I’ve looked in the index and I’m mentioned all the time, and it’s not going to be complimentary, is it? I don’t think I’m ready for that kind of character assassination just yet.’

‘Why don’t you put it away, then, instead of leaving it around tormenting yourself? You’ve got a library now, haven’t you? Oh, I thought you were going to show me around.’

Matilda had inherited thousands of books from a young man she befriended during a murder case she’d worked on the previous year. Jonathan Harkness had lived in self-induced isolation, surrounding himself with crime fiction novels to escape the reality of the outside world. When he died, he left his entire collection to Matilda. She wasn’t sure whether he was gifting them to her because she had shown an interest or it was his final act of sticking two fingers up to the police.

At first, Matilda had been so angry she had wanted to dump them all. On closer inspection she saw some were first editions and some were signed copies. They might even be worth quite a bit of money one day. She had read a few and become hooked and promised herself she would look after the collection and even add to it when new books were released.

Since James’s death, Matilda now lived alone in a four-bedroom house. She had ample space to turn one of the rooms into a library. She’d had floor to ceiling shelves fitted, a new carpet, and had replaced the glass in the window with an expensive tinted glass so the sunlight wouldn’t bleach the pages and spines of the books. Matilda had even treated herself to a comfortable Eames chair with matching footstool so she could sit in here of an evening and read whenever she wanted to escape from a difficult murder case for an hour or two. The irony of reading crime fiction while investigating real life crimes was not lost on her.

‘I’m impressed. It looks functional yet cosy,’ Adele said, standing in the doorway (shoes off, of course).

‘You don’t like it, do you?’

‘No. I do. I just think it’s a waste of a perfectly good bedroom.’

‘It was you who said I should keep them. What else was I supposed to do with them?’

‘No. You’ve done the right thing. I like it. I really do. Wow, this chair is very comfortable,’ Adele exclaimed, sitting back and putting her feet up.

‘It should be for the money it cost.’

‘I can imagine myself sitting here, glass of wine, maybe some sushi. I could actually fall asleep in this chair.’

Matilda smiled. ‘You could book a weekend break here if you like?’

Adele picked up the nearest novel. ‘So how is the humble pathologist represented in crime fiction then? Am I a maverick who works outside the rules to nail the killer at any cost?’

‘No. You’re either grumpy, moody or an alcoholic.’

‘Oh, not like me at all then,’ she smiled.

By the time the evening was at an end, Adele was in no fit state to drive so Matilda said she could stay over. Adele went up to one of the spare rooms while Matilda went around the ground floor to make sure all the windows and doors were locked. As she whispered goodnight to James in their wedding photograph on the mantelpiece, she shed a tear. Every night, she cried for the man she loved who had been taken from her far too soon.

The following morning, Matilda was woken to the unfamiliar sound of life going on in another part of the house. It had taken her a long time to adjust to living on her own after James’s death, especially as James had been a noisy bugger. She had discovered new sounds – the clocks ticking, the fridge humming, and the house settling. At first, they scared her: they were the sounds of loneliness. Now, she was used to them.

As Matilda descended the stairs she recognized the noise straight away – Adele was on her treadmill. She went into the conservatory to see Adele running at speed; yet she didn’t have a hair out of place and there was just a hint of sweat on her forehead.

‘This is actually quite a good treadmill. I might have to get one myself.’

‘I thought you enjoyed going to the gym?’

‘I do. Especially when that Scottish bloke is working there. I love a man with a Scottish accent.’

‘You’re a tart, Adele. Are you nearly finished? I’d like to get 5k in before work.’

‘Almost.’

Matilda stood back and watched while Adele slowed down to a trot. She turned the machine off.

‘I just did 5k,’ she said, barely out of breath.

‘How long did it take you?’

‘Twenty-two minutes,’ she said, reading the display. ‘What are you on?’

‘I can’t remember off the top of my head,’ Matilda replied, trying hard not to be jealous that Adele was ten minutes faster.

The phone started ringing just as Matilda stretched her limbs.

‘Would you like me to get it?’ Adele asked.

‘Please.’

By the time Adele returned, Matilda was trotting on the treadmill to give her legs the chance to wake up properly. Her left leg felt a bit stiff this morning.

‘Matilda, you’re not going to believe this …’ Adele began. The look on her face said it all.

Matilda turned off the treadmill. ‘What’s happened?’

‘There’s been a murder.’

‘Someone I know?’

‘What? No, nothing like that. An inmate at Starling House has been killed.’

There was nothing Matilda could say. Starling House was a bone of contention for Sheffield. Everyone would prefer that it was closed down. They hated the fact their city was synonymous with a home for evil young boys. This could be the answer to their prayers.

SIX

‘How long has Starling House been open, now?’ Adele asked from the front passenger seat of Matilda’s silver Ford Focus.

‘I’ve no idea. Mid ’90s wasn’t it?’

‘Something like that. Have you ever been inside?’

‘No. I know people aren’t too happy about it being used as a prison. However, there’s never been any trouble – no riots, no break-outs, no deliberate fires or anything.’

‘Until now.’

Matilda looked across at Adele. ‘The press are going to have a field day, aren’t they?’

‘They certainly are. If this isn’t a hot topic I don’t know what is.’

Matilda turned down Limb Lane. With drystone walls and tall trees on each side, they were plunged into darkness as the thick branches blocked out the autumn sun. On the right was farmland, on the left was an open playing field. Matilda indicated left and they turned onto a dirt track. The car struggled over the cavernous potholes and breaks in the single lane road. They pulled up at the security gates, and Matilda leaned out of the window to press the intercom.

‘Yes?’ asked a tired voice.

‘DCI Matilda Darke from South Yorkshire Police and Doctor Adele Kean.’

There was no reply, just a long wait while the gates slowly opened. The second set of gates were already wide open to avoid any delay to the emergency vehicles.

At the end of the long drive, a fleet of marked and unmarked police cars, along with a Crime Scene Investigation van were parked haphazardly. All vehicles were empty. As Matilda pulled up, DC Rory Fleming stepped out of the building as if he had been waiting just inside the door. Always the gentleman, Rory opened the door for her.

‘Good morning, Rory.’

‘Morning, boss. Nice day off yesterday?’

‘Fine, thanks.’

‘You know, I’ve never taken much notice of this building before. It’s gorgeous. Have you seen those gargoyles?’ He looked up at the imposing building and marvelled at the intricate architecture. ‘According to one of the staff, this place was built in—’

‘Perhaps we can save the history lesson for another time, Rory. I’ve been told there’s a little matter of a dead body?’

‘Yes, sorry. He’s through here. Follow me.’

Rory led the way with a scowling Matilda and a smiling Adele following.

This was the closest Matilda had ever been to Starling House. Up close it was an ugly, dark, crumbling building. The brickwork was gnarled from centuries of harsh Yorkshire weather battering it. The features on the gargoyles had almost been rubbed away; yet their unwelcoming stare and toothy grins were frighteningly detailed. Matilda turned to look at an upstairs room and saw a curtain twitch. Alfred Hitchcock would have loved this place.

‘Where are all the inmates?’ she asked as she looked around the large open foyer, finding nobody.

‘There are currently only eight boys staying here – well, seven now – and they’re all in the dining room.’

‘Staff?’

‘The manager is Kate Moloney. She was down at the recreation room when I left. She’s milling around trying to show her authority but she’s just getting in everyone’s way. A couple of the guards are in the dining room with the inmates along with a few PCs. I think the remainder of the staff are in the staffroom. Aaron’s told them all to stay there until you decided what you want to do.’

‘Good. So what—?’

‘Speaking of Aaron – Katrina’s pregnant. Can you believe that? I didn’t think he had it in him.’

‘That’s brilliant news,’ Adele chimed in. ‘I know they’ve been trying for ages. Aaron said Katrina’s had a few miscarriages in the past. How far gone is she?’

‘About three months I think he said.’

‘Oh I am pleased. Do they know what they’re having yet? I’ll have to—’

‘Any chance of getting back on topic here?’ Matilda interrupted. ‘Rory, what do we know so far?’

They turned down corridor after corridor. Rory stopped suddenly at one point to get his bearings.

‘Well, the young lad is Ryan Asher. He arrived on Sunday night under the cover of darkness by all accounts. Very military. He was locked in his room at nine o’clock last night, which is normal, and this morning he was found dead on the pool table in the rec. room.’

‘Who found him?’

Rory looked at his notebook. ‘One of the senior officers, an Oliver Byron. Apparently, when Ryan didn’t turn up to breakfast Mr Byron went looking for him and discovered him in the recreation room.’

They arrived at the room which had been sealed off by tape. Inside, a team of forensic officers was examining the scene. Floodlights had been erected and white suited CSIs were busy looking for evidence. Adele slipped into a blue forensic suit and went to join her assistant, Victoria Pinder, who had arrived shortly beforehand and was busy laying foot plates on the floor.

‘Rory,’ Matilda took the young DC to one side and lowered her voice. ‘The press is going to be all over this but I don’t want anything getting out until it’s absolutely necessary. Get uniform to give you a hand and move all the vehicles at the front to the back of the building. I don’t want photographers taking snapshots and making up their own stories.’

‘Will do. Oh, by the way, the ACC is on her way over.’

‘I thought she would be. Thanks for the heads-up.’

The Assistant Chief Constable rarely attended a crime scene. The fact she was on her way was testament to how serious this case was going to be. Obviously, every murder was serious, but this was Starling House. The place was already swarming with killers. This is the kind of case tabloids have wet dreams about.

DS Sian Mills handed Matilda a forensic suit and waited while the senior officer struggled to get into it. Once inside the recreation room, Matilda stood in silence and surveyed the scene. She wanted to take it all in: the dimensions, the furniture, the layout. This room was going to be vital in solving this case, she could feel it.

It was a large room at the back of Starling House and looked out onto a wide open space of well-kept garden. The room was decorated in magnolia and the carpet was hard-wearing, but looked tired. There were scuff marks on the walls, and the carpet was stained. In the corner of the high ceiling, a few dark cobwebs hung down, evidence of a lack of regular cleaning.

‘Right, Sian, talk me through it.’

‘Well, I’m sure you know who Ryan Asher is.’

‘Is there anyone in this country who doesn’t?’

‘Sadly, I did have to explain him to Rory. Anyway, Ryan Asher arrived on Sunday night. He spent the whole day yesterday being shown around, introduced to the various members of staff and the other boys. In the evening he and the others spent a few hours in here playing pool, watching TV or what have you, and then they were tucked up in bed by nine o’clock.’

‘Fast forward to this morning.’

‘The doors are unlocked and the boys make their way to the dining room for breakfast. However, one of them is missing. Off goes an officer to find him, and there he is.’ Sian pointed to the pool table.

Lying on his back in the centre of the pool table was the cold, lifeless body of fifteen-year-old Ryan Asher. He had been posed: legs straight and arms by his sides. His body was saturated in his blood, which had run into the pockets of the pool table and dripped onto the floor.

Matilda slowly approached the table. It was never easy attending a crime scene. It didn’t matter who the victim was: a person; a former human being with feelings and emotions who had been subjected to the most heinous crime imaginable. Their life had been tragically stolen from them and their body just dumped. The fact the body, in this instance, was that of a convicted killer made no difference. He was still someone’s son.

Matilda looked down at the pale face of Ryan Asher. He looked much younger than his fifteen years. His eyes were closed. He looked at peace, as if he were in a deep sleep. The splashes and flecks of blood on his face told her he would never be waking up.

‘I’ve counted twelve stab wounds,’ Adele said, breaking the silence.

‘Jesus.’

‘I know. A frenzied attack.’

‘Was he killed here?’

‘Yes. There’s far too much blood around to suggest otherwise. A lot has been soaked up in the – what is this, felt?’ she asked stroking the pool table.

‘Baize,’ Victoria Pinder replied.

‘What is baize?’

‘It’s a felt-like woollen material.’

‘What’s the difference between felt and baize?’

‘Can we do this another time?’ Matilda interrupted.

‘Sorry. Anyway, best guess is he was laid out on the pool table and stabbed to death.’

‘Surely he didn’t voluntarily lie down on the table while someone stabbed him.’

‘I don’t know about that. He may have been drugged. We’ll have to wait for toxicology before we find out.’

‘Any sign of a murder weapon?’

‘Not so far. The stabs are large and appear to be very deep. I’d say you’re looking for a seven-inch blade, smooth edges. A kitchen carving knife, perhaps.’

‘There are no splatter marks,’ Matilda said, looking down at the pool of blood on the floor. ‘It’s not been smudged in any way. It’s like he just bled out while lying on the table.’

‘It does look like it’s been staged, doesn’t it?’

‘I don’t like the feel of this at all.’ Matilda shuddered. ‘Sian, were those doors locked?’ she asked, moving away from the table and indicating the patio doors.

‘Yes. They’re double-bolted and there’s an alarm too. If they’re tampered with in any way, it’ll go off.’

‘And did it?’

‘No.’

‘Is it working?’

‘Apparently, yes.’

‘I want it tested.’

‘Will do.’

‘I see there are cameras in here too,’ Matilda said. She pointed to a couple of outdated CCTV cameras in the corners of the room. ‘I want the recordings. Not just from the ones in here but from everywhere else in the building.’

‘OK.’

‘Sian, I’m going to want to talk to the bloke who found him, and the woman in charge. Get a room set up for us to use too. All the staff and the inmates will need interviewing. I want you and Aaron to lead the interviews. Get all the files pulled on all the inmates. I want us to know everything about them, and their crimes, before we interview them. I don’t want anyone going in blind.’

‘No problem.’

‘DCI Darke?’ Matilda turned at the mention of her name to see ACC Valerie Masterson standing in the doorway of the recreation room.

‘Shit,’ Matilda said under her breath. ‘I’ll be back in a bit, Sian. Oh, find out if there are any knives missing from the kitchen.’

Matilda headed for the exit, ducked under the crime scene tape and followed the ACC down the corridor to a quiet corner.

‘It’s definitely Ryan Asher?’ Masterson asked.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Bloody hell. I always knew something like this would happen here. I’ve never liked this place. I want this solved quickly, Matilda. No pissing about.’

Matilda had to bite her tongue. A few months before she’d led a very prestigious Murder Investigation Team dedicated to hunting killers within South Yorkshire. Budget cuts, apparently, had called time on the MIT and Matilda, and her team, were transported back to CID. Suddenly, a major case occurs and she is expected to move heaven and earth without the necessary resources.

‘Ma’am, I never piss about on a murder case. This will get the full attention of my officers, and we will work to the best of our ability.’

‘You’re not giving a press statement, Matilda. Now, is there anything you need?’

‘I’m going to need the case files of all the inmates. These are dangerous boys here; I need to know who I’m dealing with.’

‘I’ll get them sent to you. Anything else?’

‘Just a full team at my disposal.’

‘You’re in charge of CID now, Matilda, use whoever you need on this. Just get it solved and get it solved quickly. Oh, and not one word to the media.’

With that, the five-foot-nothing ACC stormed past Matilda and disappeared around the corner.

It was no exaggeration to say that ACC Valerie Masterson had been under a cloud in the last year or so. She was criticized by the media for allowing Matilda to return to work following the collapse of the Carl Meagan case. Add to the mix the lengthy Hillsborough enquiry, the unprecedented levels of sexual abuse in Rotherham and the constant unrest at Page Hall, and the media was endlessly on Masterson’s case demanding answers. A murder in the most secure and controversial place in South Yorkshire could be the final nail in the coffin of her career if it wasn’t successfully solved. Matilda could understand her brusque behaviour.

Matilda walked back to look at the crime scene. With hushed tones everyone seemed to be engrossed in their task. Matilda went over to the pool table and looked down at the dead teenager. Ryan Asher, fifteen years old: face of an angel; soul of the devil, if the press were to be believed.

‘Why here?’ Matilda asked whoever was in earshot.

‘Sorry?’ Sian asked.

‘He was locked in his room at nine o’clock last night. If anyone was going to murder him surely the best time to do it would be while he was in bed. Why risk being seen bringing him down to the recreation room to kill him?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Look at him, he’s been posed. This is a stage. This is drawing attention to his killing.’

‘What does that tell us?’

‘It tells us that this is a killer with a message. And if we don’t understand the message straightaway, there’ll be another body.’

SEVEN

The staffroom was usually a quiet, lifeless room. As their breaks were staggered there were rarely more than two or three people there at any one time. It was a case of make a coffee, drink your coffee, rinse your cup, then leave. The room wasn’t enticing either. Painted in drab creams and browns almost a decade before, it was dirty and there was a smell of rubbish coming from an overflowing bin. The painted door was covered in handprints, the mis-matched chairs were rickety and the table wonky. Even the microwave was ancient and when in use loud enough to shake the foundations.

Now, it was a buzz of conversation and gossip as officers, cleaners, and cooks gathered to talk about what had occurred overnight.

‘You know what he did, that Ryan Asher, don’t you? He killed his grandparents. I remember reading about it in The Sun – he beat them to a pulp, the bastard.’

‘He got what he deserved then, didn’t he? Some of the lads in here – locking up’s too good for them. They ought to bring back hanging for some of these killers,’ one of the cleaners, Roberta Del Mar said. ‘I hate having to go in that recreation room, especially when they’re in there. I just give it a quick flick then come straight out.’ She shuddered at the memory.

The door opened and a slim, short officer in her mid-twenties entered the room, closing the door behind her.

‘Rebecca, I didn’t know you were back,’ Doris Walker said, cheering up at the sight of one of her favourite co-workers.

‘I came back yesterday.’ She smiled.

‘You picked a great time, didn’t you? What’s going on out there?’

‘The police have arrived and they’ve sealed off the room. The inmates are all in the dining room.’

‘I hope they’re not making a mess,’ Roberta said. ‘I only polished that floor last night.’

‘Is it true he was stabbed twenty times?’ Doris asked.

‘I’ve no idea. Nobody’s saying anything. The police are all talking in hushed tones.’

‘They would do,’ Roberta said, taking another biscuit from the tin and dipping it in her tea. ‘When we were burgled a few years ago and the coppers came out, I heard a few of them whispering. They were only criticizing my carpet, cheeky buggers.’

‘I hope you put a complaint in,’ Doris said.

‘I bloody did. I got a half-hearted apology from some short woman in a hat about three sizes too big.’

‘They’ll have a lot to criticize about this place. It’s a dump,’ Rebecca said.

‘Don’t go looking at me. I work my fingers to the bone here,’ Roberta defended herself. ‘I can only work with the equipment I’m given. I’ve been asking for a new mop for three months.’

‘Did you see the body?’ Doris asked Rebecca eagerly, wanting to get back onto the more exciting topic.

‘No. You should have seen Oliver’s face though; he was so white, bless him. He could have had a heart attack.’

‘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 CCTV 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.

‘The large table is detachable if you want to have smaller working areas. I can show you how if you like?’

‘Thanks,’ Sian placed her laptop and folders down on one of the hardback chairs. ‘So, what’s it like working here?’ she asked, helping Richard pull the table apart.

‘It’s interesting.’

‘Have you been here long?’

‘Three or four years, give or take.’

‘You must have met some dangerous boys over the years.’

‘They’re all dangerous. They wouldn’t be here otherwise.’

‘How do you feel when you see another fresh-faced inmate arrive?’

‘Trust me, they’re anything but fresh-faced. By the time they get here they’re hardened. They may have the face of an angel, but I can see right through them. There’s evil in their eyes.’

Sian stopped what she was doing and looked at Richard’s cruel expression. She felt a chill run through her. ‘How does that make you feel?’ she repeated, slower and quieter this time. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know the answer.

‘Part of me feels sad that they’ve ruined their lives. Part of me feels sick to my stomach. Part of me feels hatred.’

‘Hatred?’

‘Of course. These boys are killers. Why would I feel anything else?’

The boardroom door was kicked open by Aaron Connolly. Sian was relieved. For some reason, she didn’t like the thought of being alone with Richard Grover.

It didn’t take long for Sian, with the hindrance of Rory, to fill the boardroom full of detectives and computers from HQ. The usual suspects from the old Murder Investigation Team were there: Aaron Connolly, Scott Andrews, along with Sian and Rory. DI Christian Brady was also in attendance, and he had brought some of his more dedicated detectives with him, like DC Faith Easter.

Matilda Darke made her way up to the boardroom. She took long strides and her facial expression was tense with determination. She had received a warning from the ACC and already a wall of silence was in place among the staff of Starling House. On the one hand, this could be a difficult case to crack; on the other, this was the kind of case Matilda loved. It would be all-consuming and require a great deal of her time. This was going to be a distraction she needed right now as the book about Carl Meagan was hitting the shelves and once again her competence would be called into question.

At the top of the room, standing next to her was her second in command – DI Christian Brady. He was a natural-born copper who always stood tall and erect. With the firm jawline of an Action Man (and matching crew cut) he was an imposing figure. When riled, his deep, terrifying baritone could strike the fear of God into God himself.

Sian had made a good attempt at turning the boardroom into a makeshift briefing room. The wall behind Matilda had a police mugshot of Ryan Asher Blu-Tacked to it and his basic information underneath.

‘We all know why we’re here,’ Matilda began. She spoke louder than usual to reach the back of the room. ‘Fifteen-year-old Ryan Asher was found stabbed to death this morning in the recreation room on the ground floor,’ she paused while all this was taken in. She half-expected someone (possibly Rory) to have muttered ‘good riddance’ but nothing was said. ‘Sian, would you like to tell everyone what led Ryan to being at Starling House?’

Sian struggled with the files on her desk. She eventually found the one she wanted and joined Matilda at the top of the room. She cleared her throat several times before beginning.

‘Ryan Asher was born and raised in Norwich to Paul and Belinda Asher, who have since left the area and changed their names. At the age of fourteen, Ryan burgled his grandparents’ house while they were sleeping. During the event, his grandfather woke and decided to fight back. According to his statement, Ryan was masked but his grandfather pulled it off during the fight. His grandmother started to scream when she saw it was their only grandchild who was robbing them. Ryan said he panicked. He hit his grandfather, knocking him to the ground. This made his grandmother screamed louder so he hit her too.’

The silence around the room was heavy as shocked and appalled officers looked at the floor. They often questioned how anyone could attack a vulnerable and innocent elderly person, but when the attacker was a relation it made the crime more difficult to come to terms with.

‘Ryan was obviously aware the bedroom would be covered in his fingerprints and DNA so he set fire to the duvet. He waited until the room was ablaze before fleeing. The post-mortem examination on his grandmother showed smoke in her lungs. She was still alive when he started the fire.’

‘Bastard,’ someone muttered.

Sian closed the file but remained standing. It was difficult to listen to but it was just as difficult to describe.

‘Thank you, Sian,’ Matilda said after a short silence. ‘Now, I’m sure the majority of you are thinking Ryan Asher got what he deserved and that his killer deserves an OBE. However, we are police officers and our task is to find the perpetrator of this crime and prosecute him to the full extent of the law. We cannot allow our feelings to cloud our judgement on this. If you think you’re unable to detach yourself enough to find Ryan’s killer, you need to speak up now.’ She paused and looked around the room at a sea of blank, expressionless faces. She continued: ‘good. Now, any questions?’

‘Yes,’ DC Scott Andrews raised his hand. ‘Why was Ryan burgling his grandparents’ house?’

‘They were due to go on holiday the following morning,’ Sian said. ‘Ryan had overheard his parents talking about how his grandmother had drawn all their holiday money out of the bank in cash – five thousand pounds.’

‘Did he get the money?’ Rory asked.

‘No. It went up in smoke with everything else in the room.’

Silence gripped the room once again. Two elderly people were murdered in a senseless act by their grandchild. The fact his crime had failed too made their deaths even more pointless.

‘Moving on,’ Matilda said, bringing the room back to life. ‘What do we know so far? Who found Ryan Asher?’

‘Oliver Byron,’ Sian said. ‘He’s the head of the officers. When Ryan didn’t turn up for breakfast he went looking for him. His room was empty so he looked in the recreation room, where he found him on the pool table.’

‘Was the recreation room the first place he looked?’

‘I’ve no idea. I only had a brief chat with him. He hasn’t been formally interviewed yet.’

‘Right. Who knew Ryan was at Starling House?’

Aaron flicked through his notebook. ‘I was chatting to one of the security blokes and he said it wasn’t mentioned in any of the newspapers Ryan was being transferred up to Sheffield. The only people who should have known are Norwich police, the staff at Starling House and Ryan’s solicitor.’

‘To be honest though,’ Scott Andrews chimed up, ‘anybody who knows about Starling House will have realized Ryan would have ended up here.’

‘Is Starling House well known to people outside of the police force?’ Faith Easter asked.

‘Well, the entire population of Sheffield know about it. As do the press. As does anyone who reads the newspapers. As does anyone who can use the internet … ’

‘Thank you for that, Scott,’ Matilda said. ‘Sian, I know you said Ryan’s parents have moved away. Do we know where?’

‘I’ll look into it.’

‘Try and find out if he has any family still left in Norwich. They’ll need to be interviewed too.’

DC Faith Easter raised her hand. ‘Ma’am, I was looking online and there are plenty of websites and forums about Ryan Asher. People were calling for the death penalty to be brought back. There were campaigns at the time of his trial, and plenty of online posts where his parents were blamed.’

Matilda blew out her cheeks. She hated the internet for things like this: people used it as a mouthpiece for their most disturbing and violent thoughts and expected to get away with it. The majority of the time these people didn’t act on the threats. They just wanted to voice their opinion. However, every angle had to be covered.

‘Faith, have a good look on the Net, see if there have been any direct threats against Ryan or his parents. They’ll need contacting too and eliminating from our inquiries. Anything else we should know about before we begin?’

‘What about the other inmates?’ DI Brady asked. He’d perched himself on the edge of the desk and folded his arms.

‘Sian, do you have all their files yet?’

‘More or less. Rory’s been having a read.’ She looked across at Rory, who was engrossed in a file. He didn’t look up at the mention of his name.

‘Rory!’ Sian called.

He looked up. His usual cheerful face looked blank. ‘What?’

‘Who are we dealing with here?’

‘Well, I’ve … I … ’ he stumbled, obviously disturbed. ‘I’ve been reading up on Callum Nixon.’ He filled the group in on Nixon’s murder of two teachers in Liverpool. His voice was shaking as he ran his eyes over the file. He then went on to discuss Mark Parker, who had stabbed his violent father and strangled his mother. He was about to start on Lee Marriott when he looked up and made eye contact with Matilda. His look was almost pleading with her to intervene and tell him to stop.

‘OK, let’s leave it there for now. We’ll have another briefing towards the end of the day. Sian can fill us all in then on the rest of the inmates. In the meantime, let’s hope one of them confesses to it and we can wrap this up by tea time.’

Famous last words.

NINE

The remaining seven inmates of Starling House were becoming restless as their incarceration in the dining room entered its third hour. They were being watched by two of the guards, who, despite the inmates’ pleas for information, remained silent, leaving the boys to concoct their own theories.

‘Well, it’s obvious something’s happened to Ryan, otherwise he’d be here,’ Lewis said. ‘You think he’s dead?’

‘Of course he’s dead, you nob,’ Callum replied. ‘I saw the cop cars come down the drive. They wouldn’t send all them out if he’d fallen downstairs or something. I reckon he’s been murdered.’

‘What makes you say that?’ Thomas asked, looking up from the book he was reading. ‘He could have died in his sleep, had one of those underlying heart conditions.’

‘Yeah, and I’ve got Scarlett Johansson coming over tonight to tuck me in.’

‘Why would anyone want to kill Ryan?’ Lee asked. ‘He’s only been here a day.’

‘Because he’s murdering scum,’ Callum answered.

‘We’re all murdering scum if you read the papers.’

‘You know what I think?’ Lewis asked, leaning back in his seat with his arms folded. ‘I think there’s a serial killer on the loose and he’s stalking Starling House. One by one we’ll all get bumped off until only the killer is remaining.’

‘You’ve seen too many horror films,’ Mark said.

‘Of course he has. That’s why he killed his brother,’ Callum said. ‘You can’t believe anything he says. His mind’s fucked. He’d love it if there was a serial killer loose.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘He’s probably the one doing it.’

‘Fuck off, Callum. I slept right through last night.’

‘We’ve only your word for that.’

‘Why would someone want to kill us all anyway, Lewis?’ Mark asked.

‘Don’t encourage him.’

‘I’m just saying,’ he continued, ‘people don’t bother with us; we’re just left here. What would be the point?’

Lewis leaned forward. The twinkle in his eye was evidence he was enjoying this conversation. ‘It could be motiveless. That’s the scariest crime of all. When the murderer has no reason for killing and does it out of pleasure.’

‘There speaks a man of experience,’ Callum said. ‘Fuck off to another part of the room, Lewis, you creep me out.’

The key turned in the door to the dining room and all the inmates stopped in their tracks and wondered who was coming in. Kate Moloney entered, flanked by DCI Matilda Darke, DI Christian Brady, DS Sian Mills and several tall and well-built uniformed officers.

As they saw Kate enter, the inmates all talked over each other, demanding answers. Matilda hoped nobody saw her roll her eyes when she heard one of the inmates say they ‘had no right to be locked up in here like this’. Had they forgotten their reason for being here in the first place?

Kate, hands up to silence the boys, said: ‘Please, calm down and I shall inform you of what has occurred here this morning.’ It didn’t take long for the inmates to be quiet. Kate clearly commanded a great deal of respect among them. ‘You’ll obviously know that Ryan Asher is not among you. He was discovered in the recreation room this morning. He died during the night.’

Matilda looked quickly at each of the seven blank faces to see if she could recognize any hint of a guilty expression. There wasn’t any. She didn’t expect there to be. After all, these were convicted murderers. They knew all about hiding their emotions and the tell-tale signs of their guilt.

‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Matilda Darke from South Yorkshire Police,’ Kate said, stepping to one side to allow the spotlight to fall on Matilda. ‘She is leading the investigation into finding out what happened to Ryan, and all of us, not just you, but myself, and all the staff, will need to be interviewed and give a statement as to our whereabouts—’

‘So he was murdered then?’ One of the boys interrupted.

‘At the moment, Callum, we don’t know what happened to him.’

‘Of course he was. You wouldn’t have a DCI here if he’d hung himself or he’d choked on his Weetabix.’

‘What was he doing in the rec. room when we were all locked up by nine o’clock last night?’ another boy asked.

Matilda raised an eyebrow at a very good question. She wondered if any of the boys knew the answer.

Kate ignored the question. ‘It’s still early days in the investigation but I’ve no doubt in my mind that DCI Darke here, and her team, will soon get to the bottom of it. As I said, you’ll all need to be interviewed, and, unfortunately, you’ll need to remain here in the dining room until you’re called. Obviously, the recreation room is going to be out of bounds for the foreseeable future. We shall be adapting the library to accommodate you all.’

‘There are going to be three uniformed officers staying with you until you’ve been interviewed,’ Matilda began after clearing her throat. She spoke louder than she intended and her voice bounced off the walls. She suddenly felt very self-conscious about her appearance. Next to the neatly turned out Kate Moloney she looked like DCI Vera Stanhope from the Ann Cleeves novels. ‘If there is anything you need, or if you need to go to the toilet, let them know and someone will accompany you. We will be calling you in very soon.’

Matilda gave them a small smile before turning and leaving the room. She nodded at the three uniformed officers (she had purposely chosen the three tallest and fittest ones she could find) as she left the room.

Just before the door closed, the chattering among the inmates started up again. Maybe she was mistaken but she was sure she heard one of them mention Carl Meagan’s name.

TEN

Oliver Byron was sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair, gripping the arms firmly, his knuckles almost white. His unruly mound of salt-and-pepper hair seemed to have greyed more in the few hours Matilda and her team had been at Starling House.

‘Mr Byron, I know you’ve had a shock this morning, but I’d like you to talk me through everything that happened,’ Matilda began.

DC Scott Andrews was sitting next to her, pen poised and hovering over his notepad. Kate Moloney had asked if they wanted to be alone, but Oliver had requested she stay.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘it really has been a massive shock. I’ve never seen anything so … ’

‘It’s OK, Oliver. Do we have to do this now?’ Kate asked Matilda.

‘It would be best if it was sooner rather than later.’

‘It’s OK, Kate.’ Oliver took a deep breath. ‘Well, as usual the doors were unlocked at seven o’clock, and the boys were to get ready and come down for breakfast. Ryan Asher didn’t so I went to look for him.’

‘Why you?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Why did you go and look for him? You’re head of the other officers, aren’t you? Surely you’d have sent one of them.’

Oliver looked to Kate then back at Matilda. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t really think. I noticed Ryan wasn’t there so thought I’d go and find him.’

‘OK. So you went straight to his room?’

‘I did. It was unlocked and I went inside. His bed hadn’t been made but the room was empty.’

‘Who unlocked the room?’

‘The locks are on a timer. They’re automatically unlocked at seven o’clock.’

‘OK. What did you think when you saw his room empty?’

‘Nothing. I thought maybe he’d taken a wrong turn on his way to the dining room or decided to have a shower first.’

‘So where did you go first to look for him?’

‘The bathroom.’

‘Then?’

‘Then the recreation room.’

Matilda looked down at the plan of Starling House she had on her lap. The bedrooms of the inmates were on the first floor; the recreation room was on the ground floor. There were other places upstairs he could have looked before going down. So why didn’t he? ‘Why there?’

‘Sorry?’

‘After the bathroom, why did you go to the recreation room?’

‘I don’t know. I just did,’ he replied.

‘What did you find?’

‘Well, the door was locked so I unlocked it and went inside. Ryan was … ’ He choked on his words and had to swallow hard. ‘He was … ’

‘In your own time, Mr Byron.’

‘You know what I’m going to say. You saw it yourself. He was on the pool table. Dead,’ he snapped.

‘Did you know he was dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘He wasn’t breathing.’

‘How far into the room did you go?’

‘Not far. Just a few steps.’

‘The pool table is right at the other end of the room from the door. How could you tell he was dead from just inside the doorway?’

‘Judging by how much blood there was. It was obvious he was dead.’

‘So you didn’t interfere with the crime scene or try to administer first aid?’

‘No. I didn’t do anything like that. I know I probably should have. We’re taught first aid, but I panicked. I’ve never seen anything like it before. I didn’t know what to do. I closed the door behind me and went to fetch Kate.’

‘Who else has a key to that room?’

‘We all do,’ Kate said. ‘All the staff have keys to the communal rooms. There’s no reason for them not to.’

‘The only other way into the recreation room is from the patio doors. Is that correct?’

‘That’s right,’ Kate said. ‘They’re double-locked, and there is an alarm on the doors which will sound if they are interfered with in any way.’

‘Is the alarm working?’

‘It is tested every two days. Yes, it’s working.’

‘What about the windows?’

‘They are all locked and on separate alarms to the door. And before you ask, they are also tested every two days and are working perfectly.’

‘So we have a murdered young man in a sealed room and the only people who have a key are members of your staff, Ms Moloney.’

‘If you think one of my staff is capable of that then you’re very much mistaken. All the staff are vetted many times before being employed here. I know all of their employment and personal history. None of them have a history of violence and all are capable and credible,’ she said with strong determination.

‘It would appear, on the face of it, one of them has slipped through the cracks. The only person who could have committed the crime had to have a key to the recreation room. Have any been lost or stolen recently?’

‘Not that I have been made aware of,’ she looked over to Oliver who quickly shook his head.

‘Then it would appear you have a killer on the loose here, Mrs Moloney.’

‘The whole place is full of bloody killers. Take your pick, Inspector.’

ELEVEN

A couple of small offices had been taken over by South Yorkshire Police to use as makeshift interview rooms. Ideally, Matilda would have liked to take all the inmates to the station where their interviews could be recorded and videoed in specially equipped rooms. Matilda could monitor them from her office and potentially feed the detectives with questions through their ear pieces. However, logic, and ACC Masterson, dictated that the interviews take place on-site. It would cost money and resources to securely transfer each inmate individually to HQ and back. It was not feasible.

The rooms themselves did not have the grandeur of high ceilings and cornicing of the original building. It was obvious these had been adapted from a once larger room. The small, soulless boxes were all plasterboard, faux sash window frames and watered-down magnolia paint. The smell was of stale air. These rooms were rarely used. It wasn’t difficult to understand why.

Sian and Aaron were to each lead separate interview teams and report back to Matilda.

‘Are we all set up?’ Matilda asked.

‘Yes. Aaron and Scott are at one side of the room, myself and Rory at the other. Some of the officers are acting as appropriate adults as everyone here is under eighteen.’

‘Aaron, I hear congratulations are in order,’ Matilda said on seeing the sprightly detective bounce into the room.

‘Sorry? Oh, Katrina, yes. Thank you.’ Aaron’s face lit up. He was beaming and delighted at the thought of impending fatherhood. ‘It’s still early days but we’re both very happy.’

‘I’m pleased. Send my love to Katrina, won’t you?’

‘Of course. Thank you.’

Matilda and Aaron stood smiling at each other. Neither of them knew which way to progress this conversation. When it came to small talk, they weren’t in the same league as mothers at a school gate. The awkward silence grew. It was getting embarrassing.

‘Right, shall we get on then?’ Matilda asked.

Aaron and Scott sat close together at one side of a small table. Opposite was fifteen-year-old Callum Nixon. He was slouched in his seat. Sitting next to him, but at a safe distance, was one of the officers, bolt upright in clean, crisp uniform.

It was no exaggeration to say Aaron and Scott felt slightly uneasy in Starling House. They were away from their home ground so didn’t feel in complete control. Although they had quickly glanced at Callum’s file, they had no idea who the boy sitting across from them was and how he was going to react to their questions.

Aaron cleared his throat. ‘Callum Nixon, yes?’

‘That’s what it says on my birth certificate.’ His accent was thick Scouse.

‘How long have you been at Starling House?’

‘Since February.’

‘How are you finding it?’

‘It’s a palace. I’m loving every minute of it. Could do with having room service though.’ His reply dripped with sarcasm.

‘Do you get on with the other lads?’

He shrugged. ‘They’re all right.’

‘What do you talk about?’

‘The pros and cons of Brexit—’

‘That’ll do, Callum,’ the officer chimed up.

‘Did you meet Ryan Asher yesterday?’ Aaron asked.

‘Yes. He seemed like a sound lad. We played a bit of table tennis.’

‘What did you think of him?’

‘Like I said, he seemed sound.’

‘Do you know why he was here?’

‘On a £9.50 holiday from the Sun?’

‘I won’t tell you again, Callum,’ the officer scorned.

‘No. I don’t know why he was here. He didn’t say.’

‘And you didn’t ask?’

‘It’s nothing to do with me.’

‘Did you notice Ryan talking to anyone else yesterday?’

‘Just the other lads?’

‘Which ones?’

‘I don’t know. He spoke to Lee and Craig a bit, I suppose.’

‘Did any of the other lads say anything to you about Ryan?’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. That they didn’t like him, maybe?’

‘He was only here five minutes. We didn’t get chance to like him.’

‘What did you do last night?’

‘The usual: dinner, theatre, then off to the club for a nightcap.’

‘Final warning, Callum,’ the officer raised his voice this time.

‘We had tea. We went into the rec. room from six till nine then we were locked up in our cells until this morning.’

‘Did you hear anything during the night? Anything wake you up?’

‘Well, Scarlett Johan—’ he looked at the officer who raised an eyebrow. ‘No. Nothing. I sleep like the dead.’

‘What did you think when you found out Ryan had been killed?’

‘Nothing. Jammy bastard doesn’t have to serve his sentence though now, does he?’

Aaron and Scott exchanged glances.

‘Who do you think could have done it?’

‘No idea. Have you asked Officer Phipps here what he was doing last night?’ He leaned back in his seat and let out a loud throaty laugh.

On the other side of the thin partition wall, Sian and Rory made themselves as comfortable as they could on hard chairs. They waited patiently while an officer brought an inmate for them to interview.

‘Do you ever wonder why kids kill?’ Rory asked.

‘I try not to, seeing as I’ve got four of my own.’

‘That’s what I mean. You’ve got kids; all of them are decent, law-abiding and do well at school. What turns a child from that into a killer?’

‘I’ve no idea, Rory,’ she answered quickly, not wanting to dwell on the subject.

‘I mean, when I was fourteen I didn’t think about setting fire to my grandparents. I was always out on my mountain bike and trying to get Rosie McLean to go out with me.’

Sian looked over at Rory and noticed the intense look of sadness on his young face. ‘Background, upbringing, I honestly don’t know, Rory. You’d need to ask a psychologist that one.’

The door opened and a female officer brought in a fifteen-year-old taller than she was. Sian wondered whether she should really be left alone with someone who could so obviously overpower her.

‘Name?’ Sian asked.

‘Craig Hodge.’

‘Where are you from, Craig?’

‘Hull.’

‘And how long have you been in Starling House?’

‘About a year.’

‘What did you do?’ Rory asked.

‘That’s not important, Rory,’ Sian said as an aside. ‘Craig, did you speak much to Ryan Asher yesterday?’ she asked quickly. She knew of Craig’s crime and didn’t want to hear him describe his actions in glorious technicolour to a captive audience.

‘A bit. Me and Mark Parker were having a pool tournament so we kept to ourselves yesterday.’

‘But you did speak to him?’

‘Kate asked me to show him around but, as usual, Callum Nixon stepped in and took over.’

‘Why did he do that?’ Rory asked.

‘Because he’s a tosser,’ Craig said, spitting his words out with venom. He clearly didn’t like Callum.

‘Did you overhear anyone talking about Ryan?’ Sian wanted to keep the interview on topic.

‘Nope.’

‘Did anyone say if they liked him or not?’

‘Nope.’

‘Do you know why Ryan Asher had been sent here?’

‘Not a clue,’ he replied nonchalantly.

‘What did you do last night after your evening meal?’

‘Nothing.’

‘When did you find out about Ryan being killed?’

‘Just after breakfast when we all tried to leave the dining room.’

‘Were you surprised?’

He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Didn’t know the lad.’

Sian rolled her eyes. He may as well be answering ‘no comment’ to every question. Was he doing this on purpose, she wondered. ‘Do you have any idea who could have killed him?’

‘I’m not answering that. Why should I help out the pigs when you got me locked up in here?’

‘That Callum’s a right little bastard,’ Aaron said to Matilda.

‘They’re all right little bastards, Aaron, that’s why they’re here in the first place.’

There was an empty office Matilda had managed to secure for them all to use when they wanted to have a cup of coffee and a break from interviewing. It was cramped and cold, but it would do.

‘He’s a sarky shit as well.’

‘Did you get anywhere?’

‘No. He was locked in his room from nine o’clock until seven this morning. They all were.’

‘And even if one of them had got out of his room he’s hardly likely to admit it,’ Scott said. ‘We have to remember these boys are killers. Even if they made a full confession and begged for mercy, they’re killers and they’ve lied to and manipulated their victims.’

‘Scott’s right,’ Matilda said. ‘We can’t treat these boys in the same way as we do regular witnesses. They could be covering up for each other.’

‘This is going to be fun,’ Aaron began but stopped when his mobile phone started ringing. ‘It’s Katrina,’ he said, moving away from the group for a bit of privacy.

‘Are you all right, Scott?’ Matilda asked, offering him a biscuit from a battered tin.

‘Yes. I’m just a bit uncomfortable around all these killers. First time I went into a prison I didn’t sleep for a week afterwards. My mum always said I’m too sensitive to be a copper. I’m starting to think she might be right.’

‘You’re not thinking of leaving the force, are you?’

‘No. I’ve always wanted to be a detective, even when I was a child. I just need to toughen up a bit, I suppose, not be so—’

‘Sorry, boss, I’m going to have to go. Katrina’s bleeding.’ Aaron burst in on the conversation, grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and charged out of the room before Matilda could say anything.

CRAIG HODGE
Hull. February 2015

Two years ago I was in a car crash that killed my parents. I was in the back seat, safely strapped in. I was stuck in that car for nearly an hour before someone came along to help. I couldn’t move. I was trapped against a wall. Dad smashed his head on the steering wheel, and Mum had taken her seatbelt off, I’m not sure why, and went straight through the windscreen. They were both dead by the time help came. I knocked my head and had to have a few scans but I’m OK.

I went to live with my aunt and uncle. I don’t think they wanted me living there. They didn’t want kids, and, all of a sudden, they end up with me on the doorstep. But I’m family, so they had no option but to take me in. Aunt Susan always said that Mum was her sister and she was doing it for her.

I don’t know when they noticed a change in my behaviour. Uncle Pete said it was probably to do with the car crash and watching my parents die. Aunt Susan said I should have come out of it by now because kids are resilient. She wanted me to go to see someone. Uncle Pete was against it. So was I. I didn’t need to see anyone.

One night, Aunt Susan sat me down and asked if I was OK. She asked if I was being bullied at school, if I was taking drugs, if I was in trouble, if I was gay. I answered no to all her questions. There was nothing wrong with me.

The thing that changed it all was during the October half-term holiday. Uncle Pete was at work, and Aunt Susan was doing the washing. I was in the kitchen having breakfast. The washer finished and Aunt Susan was unloading my football shirt when it got caught on the catch on the door and it ripped. She held it up.

‘Oh Craig, I’m so sorry,’ she said. She didn’t sound sorry.

‘What have you done?’ I said, shocked.

‘It was an accident, Craig. I got it caught, I’m sorry.’

‘You’ve torn my shirt.’

‘I didn’t mean to.’

‘That’s my best shirt. That’s my football shirt and you’ve fucking torn it,’ I screamed at her.

‘Craig, watch your language. It was an accident. I’ll replace it.’

‘Damn right you’ll fucking replace it.’

‘Craig, I won’t tell you again. Don’t speak to me like that.’

‘You can’t do anything right, can you?’ I shouted at her. ‘All you do is cook, clean, and wash and you balls that up too.’ I snatched the torn shirt from her and looked at it.

‘Calm down, Craig, it’s only a football—’

She didn’t finish as I threw my arm out and slapped her hard across the face with the back of my hand. She fell against the fridge, held a hand to her face and ran out of the room crying.

She must have called Uncle Pete as he came straight home from work and had a go at me for hitting Aunt Susan. I just sat there and let him rant.

Aunt Susan didn’t speak to me much after that. It was like she was scared of me.

I lost it again with my aunt over Christmas. I can’t remember what happened. I’ve tried but I just remember shouting at her and her cowering when she thought I was going to hit her again. Uncle Pete said he wasn’t going to put up with my outbursts anymore. He didn’t care if I was grieving or suffering from a head injury, I couldn’t keep getting away with it. They were going to see someone about me.

At the end of January, Aunt Susan said they’d got an appointment with a specialist at the hospital. I was going to have a brain scan and see a therapist. It was a day off school so I wasn’t bothered.

I’ve no idea of the results of the scan, even to this day, and I don’t know what the therapist thought about our session as we didn’t have a second appointment.

Everything was quiet on the way home in the car. Uncle Pete was driving, and keeping an eye on the road; Aunt Susan was looking out of the window, chewing on her fingernail.

‘What did you talk about?’ Aunt Susan eventually asked me.

‘Not much,’ I replied.

‘What did she ask you?’

‘Just about school and stuff.’

‘Did you talk about us?’

‘A bit.’

I could see Uncle Pete shaking his head at my answers. He looked across at Aunt Susan and she nodded once. He nodded back. Something was going on. They’d planned something while I’d been having tests and talking to that therapist woman with one blue eye and one brown. I bet they were going to send me away, get me locked up or something. Talk about déjà vu. This is exactly what Mum and Dad had done, and here we were again on the same stretch of road. Talk about history repeating itself. I wondered if I could get away with it a second time. I took off my seatbelt and leaned forward. I grabbed the handbrake and pulled it up.

I leaned back in my seat, quickly put my seatbelt back on and bent forward into the crash position. I closed my eyes as the car swerved, hit an embankment and ploughed straight into a tree.

I opened my eyes and saw Uncle Pete with his head bloodied and slumped over the steering wheel. Aunt Susan was breathing heavily. Her head had smashed against the window. She turned around to look at me. Her face was covered in cuts where shards of glass had hit her. I looked at her and saw the large piece of glass sticking out of her throat, blood was pouring out and down the front of her white shirt. She tried to say something but she couldn’t speak. Eventually the blood stopped flowing and she died. I’d banged my head and was slightly dazed, but I’d be all right. I was trapped in the back of the car though. It took over half an hour for another car to come along and find us. Just like last time.

TWELVE

With DS Aaron Connolly out of action, Matilda sat in for him during the next interview alongside DC Scott Andrews. The door to the poky room opened and in walked Thomas Hartley. The timid sixteen-year-old had his head down and he took small steps to the table. He perched on the edge of the seat and nervously adjusted himself until he was comfortable. The female officer who accompanied him plonked her ample frame down on the seat next to him.

Matilda waited and studied the young man in front of her. He had shorn mousy hair, and his grey sweater was a size too big for him. He had a slight frame and the large wide eyes of a rabbit caught in the headlights.

‘Good morning,’ he said to them both. The first one of the inmates to make a polite gesture.

He made eye contact with Matilda, and the DCI stared back, mouth open. Matilda had sat opposite many killers during her time in the force. She had looked into their eyes and seen the violence and horror they inflicted on their victims and the lack of remorse. She knew evil and hatred when she saw it. When she looked across the Formica table at Thomas Hartley, she saw someone who did not belong in Starling House.

‘Ma’am,’ Scott urged when Matilda didn’t begin the proceedings. ‘Ma’am,’ he repeated.

‘Yes?’

‘Shall we start?’

‘Oh. Sorry. Right. You’re Thomas Hartley, yes?’

‘That’s right.’ Thomas was holding himself rigid: hands clasped between his legs, arms held taut. His shoulders were hunched.

‘Did you … did you speak to Ryan Asher yesterday?’ Matilda was distracted. Thomas’s name was familiar but she couldn’t quite remember the crime he was guilty of. She tried searching her memory but nothing came up. She really should have read Thomas’s file before the interview. She’d glanced at a couple but wanted to get them over with.

‘No. Well, only briefly in the dining room.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I asked him to pass the water jug.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you know Ryan Asher before you saw him yesterday?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know what crime he had committed?’

‘No.’

‘What did you do in the evening after your tea?’

Matilda, pen poised over an A4 writing pad, looked down. She wasn’t writing a single thing. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the biro firmly in her shaking fingers.

‘We all went to the rec. room.’

‘But what did you do?’

‘I usually just sit and watch television.’

‘Usually? Did you do that last night?’

‘Yes. We were watching all the Star Wars films on DVD.’

‘Are you a Star Wars fan?’

‘No.’ He gave a nervous smile, quickly looked up to Matilda then put his head down again.

‘Do you play pool or table tennis with the other boys?’

‘Not really. I’d rather just watch television. Or read.’

‘So at nine o’clock you all go to your rooms?’

‘Yes. We’re locked in from nine until seven the next morning.’

‘Do you sleep well?’

‘I do now.’

‘Have you had problems sleeping?’

‘I did when I first got here. I’m OK now.’

‘Did you wake up at all last night?’

‘No.’

‘Did you hear anything unusual?’

‘No.’

‘When did you first hear about Ryan being killed?’

‘Just as I was finishing breakfast. I overheard a couple of the officers talking. One of them mentioned something. I don’t know.’

Thomas’s replies were baseless. There was no emotion to his voice: he spoke in a flat drone. He looked downtrodden, as if every ounce of fight and drive had been drained out of him. This was not a sixteen-year-old boy who revelled in the glory of his crime, or a boy who felt remorse for his victims; this was an empty shell of a boy who had no idea what had happened to bring him to the dark world of Starling House.

‘Who do you think might have killed Ryan Asher?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘One of the other boys?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Thomas, is there anything you would like to tell me?’

Thomas made eye contact with Matilda again and neither of them wanted to be the first to look away. The silence was palpable.

‘Like what?’ Thomas eventually asked.

‘Anything at all.’

He looked over to the officer whose stare was like acid burning into him. He turned back to Matilda. ‘No. Nothing.’

‘What was that all about?’ Scott asked Matilda when the door closed and Thomas was being taken back to the dining room.

‘What?’

‘Asking him if he had anything to tell you. Do you think he knows something?’

‘No. I don’t think he does. I’m going to give DI Brady a call. He can conduct the rest of the interviews with you.’

Matilda stood up and left the room with a perplexed look on her face. She had just interviewed a young man who did not belong here. Which begged the question: what the hell was he doing in Starling House?

THIRTEEN

Matilda went back to HQ alone. It was a good twenty-minute drive from Starling House on the outskirts of Sheffield to the city centre; longer, if traffic was bad. Fortunately, luck was on Matilda’s side (for once) and she managed to sail through. Her mind was on Thomas Hartley. She knew the name, and vaguely remembered the case, but she would have to look him up.

Matilda’s office was smaller than the one she was used to in the Murder Investigation Team, and she had only one window. The view wasn’t inspiring as it overlooked the back of the station and the large car park. She kicked the door closed and sat behind her desk.

Thomas Hartley was the first inmate of Starling House she had spoken to on their own. She had no idea if all the other inmates gave off the air of nervousness and appeared terrified of their own shadow. From what Aaron had said about Callum Nixon she didn’t think so. She had, however, spoken to many criminals in prison and not one of them had an ounce of innocence about them. Many claimed to be innocent; for some, it was a coping mechanism. Most were lying.

Matilda booted up her computer and brought up Thomas’s file. She was taken back to Manchester in January 2014 in the grip of a bitter cold snap for the north of England.

WITNESS STATEMENT

Name: Thomas Hartley

Date: 7 January 2014

My name is Thomas Hartley. I am the son of Daniel and Laura Hartley. My sister is Ruby Hartley.

I wasn’t feeling well. I’d eaten some left-over curry for my tea and I don’t think I’d heated it up enough because it made me sick. I couldn’t sleep and it was gone one o’clock by the time I was actually sick. It woke my sister up. During the Christmas holidays she’d promised us that she would try and sleep in her room all night without going to mum and dad’s room. She used to have nightmares quite a lot. Anyway, whenever she woke up she’d just go along to our parents’ room and they’d let her in. That’s what she must have done when I woke her up. If I hadn’t been sick she would have probably slept through the night and wouldn’t have gone to their room. She would still be alive now.

I took something to settle my stomach and I let the dog out because he was fussing. Then I went into the living room to lay down on the sofa. Max, he’s our dog, he woke me up by barking and nudging me, and I heard dripping. I thought we had a leak or something. I turned on the light and there was blood all over the coffee table. It was dripping onto the carpet. It was coming through the light fitting. I had no idea what was happening. I ran upstairs to get mum and dad and when I opened their bedroom door I saw that … oh my God. All I saw was red. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, the bed, it was all just red. It took me a while to work out what I was seeing. I didn’t think my parents and sister were there at first. It didn’t seem possible but when I looked closer I could see them. I recognized the watch on my mum’s arm and Ruby’s pyjamas and then I saw my dad’s face.

I didn’t know what to do. Usually if anything happens my mum or dad take control but they couldn’t so I called my Auntie Debbie. She’s my dad’s sister. She doesn’t live far away. I can’t remember what I said but she said she would come straight round. I sat at the bottom of the stairs waiting for her and saw her coming up the road. I opened the door and she came straight in and went upstairs.

I don’t know how long she was up there for. She came down and went into the kitchen to phone for the police. Then she came and sat with me until they arrived. I don’t think we spoke to each other. I can’t remember. I can’t remember much of anything.

WITNESS STATEMENT

Name: Debbie Hartley

Date: 7 January 2014

My name is Debbie Hartley. I am the sister to Daniel Hartley, sister-in-law to Laura Hartley, and aunt to Thomas and Ruby Hartley.

I was asleep when the phone rang. It woke me up, and I didn’t answer it at first as it scared me but it kept on ringing so I answered. I remember looking at the clock on my bedside table. It was almost eight o’clock. It was Thomas. It didn’t sound like him because he was talking fast and loud, and I think he was crying. He said everyone was dead and there was blood everywhere and he didn’t know what to do. Then he hung up.

I got dressed, and I went straight round. There are three different buses to get to Daniel’s house so I didn’t have too long to wait. It’s only a ten-minute journey. Thomas opened the front door as soon as I got onto the street. I think he’d been waiting for me to arrive. He was literally covered in blood. I pushed past him and went straight upstairs to the bedroom.

It looked like a horror film: one of those slasher films that’s all blood and gore. It was horrible and smelled really bad as well. I saw Daniel straightaway on the bed. I saw his head. It didn’t look as if it was attached to his body. Then I saw Ruby. She’s only eight years old, bless her. My legs felt wobbly and I had to lean against the wall. I didn’t know it was covered in blood, and I got it all over me too. I felt sick. They’re my family. I don’t have anyone else.

I went downstairs, and Thomas was sitting at the bottom. I went into the kitchen and dialled 999. Then I went back to Thomas and put my arm around him. We waited until the police arrived.

The case appeared to be open and shut. There was no evidence of a break-in. None of the windows had been tampered with. Thomas’s fingerprints were all over his parents’ bedroom. There were no other foreign prints anywhere else in the house. However, there was one very important aspect missing from the case – a confession. Thomas vehemently denied killing his family. He stuck to his story, and it never varied no matter how many times he said it. Throughout the trial he maintained his innocence. There was absolutely no evidence to prove Thomas Hartley didn’t kill his family. A negative could not be proven.

What was Thomas’s motive for killing his family in such a disturbing and shocking way? Nobody knew. Almost three years later and still nobody knew.

Matilda turned away from the computer and looked out of the window. The clouds were gathering over the Steel City. She had heard on the radio that a storm was due later in the week. By the thickness and colour of the clouds it looked as if it had arrived. It was only early afternoon yet appeared to be late evening.

Matilda’s mind was full of questions. The case against Thomas Hartley was flimsy at best. There was no sign of a disturbance or break-in, but that didn’t mean Daniel Hartley hadn’t let his killer into the house; a killer who then let himself out afterwards. That was never followed up. And what about the sister? Debbie Hartley was home alone and didn’t have an alibi. Again, it seemed the police took her word for it. There was no mention of a murder weapon either. Had one been found? As far as Matilda was concerned the Senior Investigating Officer liked Thomas Hartley for the killings, and as there was no evidence to the contrary he didn’t bother looking too deeply.

Maybe that was true but all Matilda could think was that Thomas Hartley was innocent.

This had nothing to do with Matilda or South Yorkshire Police. The murders were committed in Manchester. She had no reason to investigate, no reason to stick her nose into a closed case apart from a gut feeling. She leaned back in her chair, a pensive look etched on her face. She picked up her phone and dialled.

‘Rory, have you been sent all the case files for the inmates?’

‘Yes. I’m going through them now.’

‘All of them?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Are you OK?’ she asked, noticing his less than cheerful voice.

‘Yes, fine. It’s just, well, it’s not exactly light reading, is it?’

‘No. I suppose not.’

‘Ma’am, about these boys, I was wondering … ’

‘I’ll talk to you about it later, Rory.’

She ended the call without saying goodbye. None of it was light reading. These boys were murderers; their crimes were shocking and deplorable. They were in Starling House until they were old enough to be moved to an adult prison. They had accepted their fate. Yet Thomas Hartley didn’t seem to be coping very well living among killers. Why was that?

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