Page 32 of Worse Than Murder (DCI Matilda Darke Thriller #13)

‘H igh Chapel Police Station. PC Pemberton speaking. How may I help you?’

Alison sounds bored as she gives the greeting upon answering the phone.

Until the car at the bottom of the lake has been retrieved and whatever is lurking inside has been identified, Alison has been confined to the station and manning the phones.

She has a personal interest if her sisters are in that car.

While everyone else is out at the lake helping with the search and retrieval, Alison is fielding calls from people mostly concerned about the aftermath of the storm.

However, none of the calls are particularly taxing and she doesn’t mind admitting that she is bored out of her skull.

‘The power company are working hard to restore electricity supplies to all homes by the end of today, madam,’ she says, not for the first time.

‘If you are in need of anything, power has been restored to the primary school and they’ve opened the hall up to anyone wishing to have a hot meal or a tea or coffee. ’

‘I didn’t know that. Thank you so much. I hope you didn’t mind me calling the police for something that wasn’t a criminal matter.’

‘That’s quite all right, madam. It’s what we’re here for. Take care.’

She ends the call and lets out a heavy sigh. In order to try and sound interested and patient, she’s needed to wear a faux smile all morning. It’s beginning to hurt.

‘You look fed up,’ Claire Daniels says as she comes into the main room.

‘I am. I thought you were out at the lake.’

‘I was, but I’ve got a sodding hole in my walking boots. Can I borrow yours?’

‘Why not? It’s not like I’ve got any use for them, is it?’

‘Ooh, that sounded very bitchy.’

‘It was meant to. Do you have any idea of the idiotic and mind-numbing conversations I’ve had this morning?’

‘Looking at your face, I can hazard a guess. Bloody hell, what size are these? I can hardly get my feet in.’

‘They’re a four. Please don’t stretch them with your big old clown feet.’

Claire jokingly gives her the finger. ‘I saw that Matilda Darke woman out running yesterday. She’s got a good figure on her for her age. Me and Geraint were reading about her online last night. She’s got some balls, that woman.’

‘I know,’ Alison says, more to herself. She’s hoping she has the balls to find out what happened to her sisters.

‘She’s rapidly becoming my hero. I may have to see if I can get a selfie with her,’ Claire smiles.

‘Slightly inappropriate.’

‘I’m the queen of inappropriate.’

‘So your Geraint tells me.’

‘He better not have told you about Whitley Bay.’

The phone begins to ring before Alison can respond.

‘High Chapel Police Station. PC Pemberton speaking. How can I help you?’

‘I’ll see you later,’ Claire mouths as she dashes out of the station.

Alison listens and fakes interest for the caller asking why the tree lying across her front garden has yet to be removed.

* * *

High Chapel Police Station has never been a hustle-and-bustle station.

There were never harassed-looking detectives with their sleeves rolled up bounding up and down corridors with a sense of urgency, screaming for an arrest warrant or an ETA on an armed response unit, but it has never been as quiet as it is right now with Alison Pemberton sitting on her own, feeling lost and useless. Even the phone has stopped ringing.

She stands up, goes over to one of the large windows, and looks out at the village through the slats of the Venetian blinds.

Life is continuing as normal. The clean-up operation is well underway, and police officers are surplus to requirements at the moment.

Returning to her desk, she takes a detour and passes that of Inspector Gillian Forsyth.

She pauses and looks down at the neatly laid out paperwork.

She reads the brief report of the operation yesterday detailing the location of a car at the bottom of the lake, the registration plate and the last known address of the owner, Travis Montgomery.

She looks around her, makes sure she’s still alone, pulls out Gill’s chair and sits down.

She opens the folder and begins reading the contents.

Travis’s last known address was her grandfather’s farm, now lived in by her mother and stepfather.

There’s no forwarding address for him. Where has he been living since 1992?

Where has his post been going? Alison frowns as she flicks through yellowing paper from thirty years ago, statements given by Travis, her father, her mother, and Uncle Iain, giving details of where they were around the time the twins disappeared.

At the back of the file, she finds another statement given by her mother.

Why had she given two? She goes back to the first.

Then she goes back to the second.

Both were signed by her mother. Alison recognises the signature.

She sits back, stunned by what she’s read.

Her mother lied in her original statement, given on August 11, 1992, the day her sisters went missing.

Five days later, she amended her statement, admitting she was having an affair, cheating on her husband, on Alison’s father, therefore giving Travis an alibi.

Alison feels sick. She knew her parents had problems. Her dad was depressed.

He struggled to cope with day-to-day life.

Sometimes it was an effort for him to get out of bed in the morning.

She always imagined her mother as being strong and there for him whenever he needed her, but it turns out she had turned her back on him and was sleeping with a man ten years younger than her.

How could she? How could she do that to her husband, to the family as a whole? She wonders if Iain knows.

Alison looks out into the reception area.

The door’s closed and there’s nobody waiting to report anything.

She acts quickly, just in case someone comes back unexpectedly, like Claire did to change her shoes.

She runs to the photocopier to make copies and places the originals back in the file, hoping she’s put them back in the same place, then returns to her desk.

She sits in silence, her mind going over the past thirty years, trying to understand her own mother.

Why had she had an affair? She knew the relationship between her parents would have been strained because of her dad’s mental illness, but imagine if he’d found out. Imagine how he would have reacted…

‘Oh my God!’ Alison says to herself. ‘He did. He found out. That’s why… Oh no, Dad, no, please don’t say… you didn’t kill them for revenge? No!’

She slumps onto her desk and cries.