Page 44 of Worse Than Murder (DCI Matilda Darke Thriller #13)

Sheffield, South Yorkshire

D r Adele Kean had been staying in an outpost close to Kangari Hills Forest Reserve.

The plane that landed with fresh supplies had been unable to take her to Freetown International Airport, so she had paid for a local to drive her there in a Jeep with no suspension and no air conditioning.

It took a little over five hours before she arrived, hot, sweating, shattered and aching.

However, she had made a new friend in her driver, David Bangura, who had given her his life story and told her all about his wife, Aminata, who he clearly loved.

She was pregnant with their first child and the smile he couldn’t remove from his face showed how much he was looking forward to being a father.

As Adele waved him goodbye, she hoped she would see David again at some point. He was a good man.

Adele had a five-hour wait at the airport before boarding a plane to take her to London Heathrow.

She slept for the majority of the fourteen-hour flight, waking only to have something to eat, then again an hour before landing when she went into the bathroom to freshen up and change into clean clothing.

She felt refreshed as she stepped onto British soil for what seemed like the first time in years, but was, in fact, only five months.

She had seen a great deal during her time in Sierra Leone.

She’d seen people living a life with the very basics of provisions, sometimes even less than that.

The country had intermittent electricity supply, limited resources when it came to health care and education, but what she had seen among the people she came into contact with on a daily basis was gratitude and humility.

She rarely saw anyone without a smile on their face (unless they were in great pain), and they made Adele feel very welcome when she went into their homes.

They had little in the way of luxuries. They were living the simplest of lives, but together, in their family units, they were happy.

Landing back in England during a time of massive consumerism, Adele almost felt sickened, as she witnessed the comparisons of poverty and riches.

Sierra Leone was a fourteen-hour flight away.

Compared to London, it may as well have been another planet.

From Heathrow, Adele made her way to St Pancras where she boarded a train to Sheffield.

In less than two and a half hours, she would be back in the city she’d hoped never to return to.

It had been her home for the last two decades, but it had also robbed her of her son, a close colleague and friend, and seen her come face to face with the evils people inflicted upon each other.

The train took Adele up the spine of the country.

She sat back and stretched her legs. She looked out at the countryside and watched it blur past her.

As she passed through towns and cities, she saw what was classed as depravation in England.

In Sierra Leone, it would have been called luxury.

She tried not to compare the two. She knew people in England were struggling with the cost-of-living crisis, but when she had seen people with literally nothing but the clothes they were wearing, it was hard not to want to tell people who at least had a roof over their heads, electricity, running water, smooth roads, a public transport service and free education and health care, to count themselves lucky.

She closed her eyes and tried to block out the sights of England.

She thought of David Bangura and his wife Aminata and what their experience of bringing a child into the world would be like compared to an English couple with access to the NHS.

She hoped Aminata would go full-term without any issues.

She prayed the labour would go as smoothly as possible with no complications.

Adele steps off the train, dragging her wheeled suitcase behind her, and stands in the familiar surroundings of the train station.

It’s the early hours of Wednesday morning.

She’s knackered and is in desperate need of a shower, a cup of tea, and something covered in chocolate to eat.

With heavy legs, she goes to the taxi rank and asks the driver to take her to Ringinglow.

He tries to make small talk, asking Adele if she’s been on holiday and is happy to be home.

She gives him monosyllabic answers and soon the conversation runs dry.

She’s not being intentionally rude. She simply has no answers to give him.

Her home isn’t easy to find, and Adele has to give him directions once they hit Ringinglow Road.

They pull up outside the former farmhouse, and she can’t take her eyes off it.

Despite the darkness of the morning, she can see the house is unlived in and neglected.

Weeds are growing through the broken tarmac and the windows are in urgent need of a good wash.

She pays the driver, gives him a good tip, and drags her suitcase up to the front door.

She hadn’t taken her keys with her, but had sent a text to Scott who had put a spare set in a key safe attached to the side of the house.

She taps in the four-digit code and retrieves the keys. They feel heavy in her hand.

Adele unlocks the front door and turns off the alarm with the fob on the keyring. She closes the door behind her and walks into the living room, flicking on the lights, wincing at the brightness.

‘Welcome home,’ she says to herself.

The room is cold. The fire hasn’t been lit for some time and the air is stale.

She slumps onto the chesterfield sofa. On the coffee table is Matilda’s iPhone.

She picks it up and tries to turn it on, but the battery is flat.

Matilda must have been seriously in a state to leave her mobile behind.

She thinks about Penny, Matilda’s mother.

She was a good woman, slightly nosy and a tad neurotic when it came to Matilda’s job, but she was always up for a laugh and a long conversation, especially if alcohol was involved.

Then there were her nephews, Nathan and Joseph, two teenagers making their way in the world.

It was cruel the way some people felt they could kill simply for their own sick pleasures.

How would they feel if someone wiped out their family?

Adele searches her pockets for her own mobile and scrolls through the contacts.

She lands on Harriet’s number. Should she call or send a text?

What would she say? She decides against doing anything and continues scrolling until she lands on Sally Meagan’s number.

She’s about to call, then thinks better of it.

Sally might tell Matilda that Adele has phoned and is on her way.

Matilda has left her mobile behind. She obviously doesn’t want to be contacted. Would she run again?

Adele looks around her at the expansive space of the living room.

She and Matilda have had many a fun night in here, drinking until the small hours, watching Marvel films and debating whether Thor was hotter with short hair or long hair.

Would those times ever return? She thinks about that question for a moment, and seriously doubts they ever will.

She pulls herself up from the sofa and staggers to the stairs. A long, hot shower, a change of clothes, a cup of tea and something to eat, then she’ll book a hire car and plot a course for the Lake District.