Page 20 of Worse Than Murder (DCI Matilda Darke Thriller #13)

‘Matilda?’

I hear my name being called and turn to see PC Alison Pemberton heading towards me. She’s dressed in full uniform, which is smart and neat, but her hair is all over the place. She looks shattered.

‘Hello,’ I say and attempt a smile. Judging by the strange look on her face, my attempt has failed.

‘What are you doing here? Are you looking for me?’

‘I found something. I’m not sure if it’s relevant to anything, but I thought I’d drop it in.’ I hand her the registration plate.

Alison studies it. ‘Wow. That’s old. Come with me. I’ll take you through.’ She leads the way, pushing open the front door. ‘I’m guessing your station is a tad more modern than our former post office.’

‘Just a bit,’ I say, taking in the high ceilings and ornate cornicing. This has character. South Yorkshire Police HQ has cork-tiled ceilings and damp patches.

Alison leads me through a warren of narrow corridors. She opens a door to an interview room and shows me in. I feel like I’m a witness to a crime.

‘Can I get you a tea or anything?’

‘I’m fine. Thanks.’

I’ve made a mistake coming here. I want to leave.

‘Okay. I’ll go and get some forms and I’ll be right back.’

‘Erm…’ I begin. My throat is tight, my mouth dry.

‘Yes?’

I clear my throat and swallow hard. ‘I was speaking to Tania Pritchard. She told me there have been more than fourteen sightings of your father.’

She nods and looks around to see if she’s being overheard. ‘Twenty-six, at the last count.’

‘Twenty-six?’

‘The last one was in October last year. Someone emailed me a photo of a man standing on a hill overlooking High Chapel. It’s blurred and you can’t make out his face but… the build, the height…’ She shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’

I think about this for a moment. Twenty-six sightings is a lot for a dead man.

‘Did you show your mum the photo?’

‘No. It upsets her.’

‘What are your mum and Iain like?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘As a couple: what are they like, are they happy?’

Alison’s face softens. ‘I think so. I mean, I hope they are. They work well together. They’ve made the stables a thriving business.

It’s given them both something to concentrate on.

’ She thinks. ‘They complement each other. They like the same films. Mum likes to sew and make her own clothes. Uncle Iain has his model aircraft he paints. They enjoy eating out. They’re a normal middle-aged couple. Why are you asking about them?’

‘Just interested,’ I say.

‘Does this mean you’re helping me?’ There’s a hopeful look in her eyes.

‘I… I don’t know what I’m doing at the moment, Alison. It’s certainly got me asking some questions.’

‘Any I can help you with? Do you want me to bring over my list of sightings? I tell you what, I’ll get the forms for this registration plate, and we can talk it over.’ She leaves the interview room before I have a chance to say anything.

The door closes and I’m left alone. I look around at the crime prevention posters and warnings to people to look out for the signs of child abuse, illegal migrant workers, and people involved in a coercive relationship.

I sigh. Twenty-first-century Britain is not a fun place to be, if any of these posters are a sign of the times.

I’ve been left alone in the small, stuffy room for almost fifteen minutes, and I haven’t yet sat down.

I pace around the table, looking out of the window through the dust-laden Venetian blinds at life in High Chapel trying to return to normal after the storm.

I go to the other side of the room and look through the scratched plexiglass at the activity in the police station.

Uniformed officers are milling around, chatting, laughing, getting on with their work.

I watch as two men, sitting next to each other, divvy up snacks bought from the local Co-op.

I almost smile. I could be watching my own team.

Sian and Scott having a playful row about who has taken all the Maltesers from Sian’s snack drawer (usually me) and who has put something healthy and full of vitamins and protein in there (usually Scott to wind Sian up).

I feel a tightness in my chest. I step back from the window.

The scene beyond becomes a blur. I’m in a police station, a place I have spent most of my life in, apart from home.

I should feel normal here, yet I feel sick.

The prickle of heat creeps up my back and it has nothing to do with the strengthening sun outside. I have to leave.

The registration plate is on the table. It has nothing to do with me. I’m simply a visitor to the area. Let them deal with it themselves. They don’t need me.

I pull the door open and leave the room, heading for the front door at speed.

‘Matilda.’

It sounds like Alison calling out to me, but I don’t stop and don’t look back. I have to get out of this building.

* * *

I sit behind the wheel of the Porsche and try to get my breath back, trying, but struggling, to remember the breathing exercises I was given by my therapist. Years ago, after James died, after Carl was taken, I struggled with panic attacks and often recited the names of British prime ministers to help calm me.

It worked, but I don’t want to go back to those dark days.

‘Fuck it,’ I say, starting the engine and reversing out of the small space. I’m heading for the restaurant when I catch sight of Tania Pritchard outside the office of Cumbria Today enjoying an illicit cigarette. I pull in.

When she sees me climb out of the Porsche, she drops it to the ground and stubs it out.

‘Wow. Nice car.’

‘If only it were mine.’

‘Does the owner know you have it?’

‘She doesn’t actually, no,’ I say.

Tania laughs then goes into the building. I follow.

‘You survived the storm?’ Tania asks.

‘Just about.’

‘My shed was catapulted into the neighbouring garden at three o’clock this morning. It scared the shit out of me. I didn’t get a wink of sleep after that. On the plus side, I seem to have inherited someone’s trampoline. I was going to call you later. I’ve found your alibis.’

‘That was quick.’

‘I’m not an award-losing journalist for nothing, you know.’

I pull out a chair and sit down.

‘Lynne was at home alone, looking after the girls. She told police she was baking at the time. She went out to fetch them in for their lunch and that’s when she noticed there was only Alison there.

Jack and Iain were renovating the farm and, while Iain was working full-time, it wasn’t bringing in enough money for Jack, so he was still working for Dudgeons.

They were a parts manufacturer. They’ve long since gone.

Iain was working alone on the stables. Now, this is where it gets interesting.

Travis also said he was working at the stables and, at first, Iain confirmed that, but Iain was spotted at the hardware shop in the village so had to amend his statement.

He’d left Travis at the stables on his own roughly around the time the children went missing. ’

‘So, Travis has no alibi?’

‘No.’

‘How have you remembered all this?’

‘I still have all my original notes. I throw nothing away. I’m a hoarder. Fuck knows what I’m saving it all for. While I was looking for this lot, I found a file with all the scores from the bingo finals in 1993.’

‘Riveting stuff.’

‘You have no idea what life is like around here, Matilda. Orgies one night, cocaine parties the next, and the knit-and-natter events can get very raunchy.’

I smile. ‘So, no alibi for Travis or Lynne.’

‘You don’t suspect the mother of kidnapping her own children, surely?’ Tania asks, aghast.

‘After twenty years in my job, you’re no longer surprised by who does what to whom.’

‘That’s very sad.’

‘Story of my life,’ I add. ‘Can you do some digging into Travis’s background?’

‘I can try, but the guy was a private man. He was so shy he hardly spoke.’

‘He couldn’t have been that shy if he was sleeping with Lynne.’

‘I suppose not. I know he helped in the search for the Pemberton twins. I remember asking him for an interview, trying to get the inside story on how Jack and Lynne were coping. He gave nothing away. I saw him in the pub a few days later and bought him a pint, thinking beer will loosen his tongue. Nothing. He clammed up.’

‘I read one of the articles online that mentioned Jack and Lynne being extensively questioned, along with Iain, Travis and a neighbour… can’t remember her name.’

‘Clara Fisher?’

‘That’s her.’

‘She moved away not long after it all died down. She couldn’t stand how everyone was turning against each other, suspecting everyone. She moved to somewhere in Portugal with her sister. She ended up marrying a man twenty years younger than her. Lucky cow.’

‘My point is, everyone mentioned in the article made a comment, but Travis didn’t. Despite his name being printed, he wasn’t quoted.’

‘Like I said, he gave nothing away. Every question put to him, about anything, was met with a monosyllabic answer.’

‘There’s a difference between being private and having something to hide.’

‘You think he had a past?’

‘We all have a past.’

‘True. But how dark do you think his went?’

‘That’s what I’m hoping you’re going to be able to tell me.’

‘Leave it with me. Travis Montgomery is hardly John Smith, is it? There can’t be many of them knocking about.

By the way, I’ve tracked down the Pemberton twins’ teacher, Damien Ashton.

He no longer teaches, hardly a surprise, and he’s back living in Cumbria at Seascale on the other side of Scafell Pike.

I have his email address and his mobile number, if you’re interested. ’

‘Wow. You’re really good.’ I’m impressed.

‘I could amaze you with my journalistic skills, but he’s put his entire life on social media. Between LinkedIn and Facebook, I’m pretty sure I could empty his bank account.’

‘Pillock. I think he might be worth chatting to. Even if he isn’t involved in their disappearance, he knew the girls so he might be able to give us some insight into how they were behaving at the time.’

Tania tears off a page of her notebook and hands it to me. She gives me a winning smile. ‘I’m so glad you came here. I shall give thanks to St Francis de Sales, the patron saint of journalists, for bringing you to me.’

‘Save your thanks for now. With my track record, I may end up destroying your village.’

‘Now that would definitely make for a fun front-page lead.’