Page 31 of Worse Than Murder (DCI Matilda Darke Thriller #13)

I head back up the hill and push open the door to High Chapel Tearooms. Shops in the village may lack imagination when it comes to their names, but there’s no mistaking what each of them offers.

The shop immediately makes me smile. It’s warm and cosy.

The scents of freshly baked cakes and brewing coffee fill the air and entice the taste buds.

It’s decorated in muted colours; chairs are comfortable and neatly laid out.

The place is busy but there are a few seats still available.

I go to the counter and survey the snacks.

I order a large black Americano with an extra shot and opt for the Kenyan blend which, I’m told, is slightly stronger than the usual they sell.

I take my time over choosing a pastry and eventually settle on a strawberry tart, though I may pop back for the carrot cake.

I chose a table in the corner of the room, sit down, and take a sheet of paper from my bag. It has been unfolded and refolded so many times it’s almost coming apart. I don’t need to read it. I can recite it almost word for word, but it’s the reason I’m here.

While investigating the serial killings in Sheffield, the killer had taunted me by sending me emails.

He was bragging about what he’d done, how he’d managed to evade capture, and how there was nothing I could do about it.

There was no stopping him. Even after he’d killed my family, the taunts still came.

When I returned home from my mother’s funeral, an email had pinged on my phone.

I read it and collapsed into tears. I printed everything off while I showered and changed before leaving the house, locking it up behind me, and running away.

I wipe my eyes with a napkin. This is the real reason I can’t return to Sheffield and my former life.

There is no doubt in my mind that the man who has given himself such a pathetic nickname would remain true to his word and more lives would be lost. I can’t cope with more deaths on my conscience.

It would be the end of me. I’ve forwarded the email to the man who has taken over my role in the case, DCI John Campbell.

He can deal with it. The ball’s in his court. I’m having nothing to do with it.

I fold the email back up and place it in my bag.

I take a sip of the cooling coffee and nibble on the strawberry tart but don’t taste it.

I close my eyes and take myself back to the day of my mum’s funeral.

Who had I spoken to? Who was there? The church had been packed.

Mum knew a lot of people who wanted to say goodbye.

Then there were my colleagues. Christian came with his wife.

Scott and Donal. Sian and all four of her children.

Finn and his wife. Tom and Zofia. My boss, Benjamin.

I’m pretty sure his wife came with him but can’t remember.

Odell Zimmerman, Claire Alexander, Felix Lerego, all had come to pay their respects too; to show they were with me.

I had huge support from so many people. But who was there under false pretences?

Who had come up to me, laid a comforting hand on me, told me how sorry they were for my loss, while secretly revelling in the torment I was suffering?

I open my eyes. It’s a futile exercise. Everyone was so sincere.

On the other hand, I was so far removed from what was going on around me that I wouldn’t have spotted a killer if he’d been wearing a T-shirt saying ‘I murdered your mother’.

It’s torturous trying to remember the actions and words of everyone present.

The only person I can see clearly in my mind is my sister shooting me daggered looks.

I fucking hate you!

‘Are you all right?’

I look up and see an elderly man at the next table looking at me. He has a rugged, handsome face, and a warm smile. He reminds me of Sam Elliott, but without the moustache. My mum would have loved him.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Are you sure? You’re crying.’

I bring a hand up to my eye. I look at my fingers. They’re wet. I had no idea. ‘Just… thinking about something.’

‘Something sad?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s weighing you down.’

‘It is, yes.’ I don’t want to get into a conversation with a random stranger. I finish my coffee and leave what’s left of the strawberry tart. I’ve made a complete mess of it, anyway.

‘You’ve heard the saying, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger?’

‘Yes.’

‘Make that your life’s motto. I can see something bad has happened to you. It’s etched on your face. But you’ve survived it. Let it make you stronger.’

That kind of makes sense and I offer him a placatory smile. ‘I’m not sure I have survived this time, but thank you.’ I stand up. It’s time for me to leave before the tears come.

‘You’re the detective staying at Nature’s Diner, aren’t you?’ he asks.

‘Does everyone know everyone in High Chapel?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ he says with a smile which lights up his face. ‘Matilda Darke, isn’t it?’

‘It is.’

‘I read about you in the news. I’m sorry for your loss.’

‘Thank you.’ I put my bag on my shoulder and edge further away from the table.

‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,’ he calls out to me.

I look back but I don’t say anything.

* * *

On returning to the restaurant, I find Philip outside with his back pressed against the wall, looking out over the lake. He’s taking a photo of the view on his phone.

‘What are you doing?’

He shows me the picture on his phone. ‘Look at that.’

‘What am I seeing?’

‘The view.’

‘Why do you need a photo of it when it’s right there?’

‘This is what the diners would see from the basement if we put a window in here,’ he says, turning to the wall and showing me the square outline he’s drawn onto the bricks.

‘Are you trying to convince yourself?’

‘I am, actually. I’ve had the estimate through for such a simple yet elaborate window. Who’d have thought a piece of plain glass would cost so much?’

‘How much are we talking?’

‘Five figures.’

‘Wow.’

‘Not low five figures, either.’

‘Can you afford it?’

‘I can, but would it add value to the business?’ From his back pocket, Philip brings out a printed plan Carl has drawn up on his tablet. He unfolds it and hands it to me.

I take the sheet and I’m impressed by Carl’s detailed design.

‘It does look good. He’s even put a terrace in front of the window so people could sit outside.’

‘I know. Even I didn’t think of that.’

‘He’s got a real eye.’

‘An expensive eye.’

I look at Philip and see the hint of happiness on his face. ‘What’s your heart saying?’

‘It’s telling me to do it. I mean, imagine standing in the basement with a glass of Chateau Haut-Brion in one hand, a snack of some kind in the other, and looking out as the sun sets over the calm lake. Doesn’t that sound like perfection to you?’ He looks at me, his eyes wide with excitement.

‘What’s the snack?’

‘Whatever you want.’

‘A packet of pickled onion Monster Munch.’

‘Now you’re talking,’ he laughs.

‘Do you know something, Philip, fuck the cost, do it. I’ll give you half. We’ll do this together.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Absolutely. I’ve got money in the bank I’m not doing anything with. I’ve nobody to leave it to, so why not invest it in something I know will be a huge success. Put the window in. Build the terrace.’

He steps forward, gives me a hug and kisses me on the cheek. It doesn’t feel weird, either. ‘You know something, you should seriously consider moving out here.’

‘You just want someone to peel the carrots you don’t have to pay, don’t you?’

‘It would certainly increase the profit margin.’

I slap him playfully on the arm. We head to the main entrance of the restaurant.

‘So, what’s the next step?’ I ask.

‘Well, I’ve already been on to a builder in the village when I was thinking of simply converting the basement into a cellar. I called him again earlier. He’s really busy at the moment, for obvious reasons, but he’s going to pop round later in the week.’

‘You’ll miss the summer season.’

‘True, but I can have a few run-throughs over the winter with the locals, test things out. I mean, even in the depths of winter that view is stunning.’

We reach the steps to the restaurant and see Sally struggling to open the door with a tray of takeaway hot drinks. Philip rushes up and holds the door open for her.

‘Where are you going with those?’

‘The search team have arrived to pull the car up from the bottom of the lake. I said I’d take them down some drinks.’

‘Need a hand?’ I ask.

‘Yes please. This tray is overloaded.’

We head back into the restaurant, divide the drinks between two trays and set off together through the trees and to the lake.

‘You were up and out early this morning,’ Sally says as we walk extremely carefully so as not to drop any of the drinks.

‘I thought I’d pop into the village, see if there was much damage from the storm.’

‘Is there?’

‘Yes. A lot of shops have been flooded out.’

‘I might pop down later and see if I can help out. It’s always good to get in with the locals.’

We turn a corner and see a row of navy-blue vans with bright yellow writing all over them: Specialised Rescue UK. The SRUK logo is everywhere. Next to the vehicles, members of the team are getting geared up to enter the water.

‘Oh my God!’ I say, stopping dead in my tracks.

‘What is it?’ Sally asks.

‘The tall guy on the end.’

Sally strains to see. ‘Well, he’s got a nice bum, but I wouldn’t say he was an oh-my-God type.’

‘Don’t you recognise him?’

‘Should I?’

‘Yes. That’s Aaron Connolly. He was a DS on my team back in Sheffield.’