Page 47 of Worse Than Murder (DCI Matilda Darke Thriller #13)

O nce Tania has gone, I return to the restaurant.

It feels strange being in there on my own.

The silence is palpable. I make myself a breakfast of two slices of toast and marmalade, then take a croissant and a strong coffee into the restaurant.

I sit in the window and look out at the view.

I try to enjoy it. I try to see the expanse of space as liberating and mind-opening.

But even with a horizon stretching out far into the distance, I feel oppressed, hemmed in.

As soon as I see Sally’s car turn into the car park, I jump up and run out to get news of Philip.

‘He’s fine,’ she says.

The relief I feel is instant. ‘Oh, thank goodness.’

Carl slowly climbs out of the front passenger seat. He looks drained. He comes over to me and hugs me. I hug him back. I know he’s thirteen, a teenager, but there are times when I look at him and still see a lost little boy. I want to hug him forever.

‘They’re keeping him in for observation because he lost consciousness,’ Sally continues. ‘But he’s had a scan and there’s no damage at all. I always said he had such a thick skull. Now I’ve had it confirmed. How are you?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You should have gone to the hospital too, you know.’

‘Honestly, I’m okay. I think I was more surprised than anything. He didn’t actually hit me.’

‘What have the police said?’

‘Very little. I couldn’t give them much of a description. It was dark and it was over within seconds.’

We make our way back into the restaurant. Carl runs on ahead to see the barking dogs who have seriously missed him this morning.

‘I think I’ll keep the restaurant closed tonight,’ Sally says. ‘I’ll ring round all the bookings later. I’m not in the mood right now.’ She pulls out a chair at the nearest table and slumps into it. She looks shattered.

‘That’s understandable. Listen, Sally, I need to go out, but can you let me see the CCTV footage from the cameras when I get back?’

‘Sure.’

‘I think Inspector Forsyth will want to look at them, too.’ I look over my shoulder to make sure Carl isn’t in earshot. ‘How’s Carl?’

‘We’ve had a few tears. I asked him if he wanted to go and see his therapist again, but he said he’d rather have a chat with you when you go on one of your walks.’

I smile. ‘I’d like that.’

‘What do you two talk about while you’re out there?’

‘Oh, you know, the usual. The state of the economy, who we think should win the Nobel Prize, whether Novak Djokovic really is the greatest tennis player of all time.’

‘A wide range of subjects, then?’

‘Oh, yes, we cover the lot.’ I put my arm around Sally. ‘And how are you?’

‘Hungry. Tired. And I’m gasping for a cuppa. Why can nobody in a hospital ever make a decent cup of tea?’

‘Come on, I’ll make you both breakfast, and then I need to get going.’

‘Anywhere nice?’

‘That depends on how you feel about exposing a paedophile.’

‘Funny you should say that, because that’s number three on my bucket list.’

* * *

I feel different as I drive from the restaurant to the stables at the other end of High Chapel.

I have a purpose. I have something to occupy my mind other than my own grief.

Since 2010, I’ve been striving harder and harder with every case to make sure it’s solved.

Eleven years. Non-stop. It’s taken its toll on my mental and physical health, and the murder of my family is the catalyst that’s brought the walls tumbling down.

I will recover, I know it, I just wonder what kind of Matilda Darke I’ll be upon my return to Sheffield.

I drive along the winding, narrow roads of High Chapel in Adele’s Porsche until I come to the stable car park.

I slow down and find a space. I climb out of the car and am hit with the aroma of horse shit.

I pull a face. It makes a change from smelling a decomposing body or the internal organs at a postmortem, but only just. It’s another warm day.

The sun is high in the sky, not a single cloud among the blue, and not a hint of a breeze either.

I’m wearing cotton trousers and a light shirt, and despite the air conditioning in the car, it’s still sticking to my back.

‘Hello!’ I call out as I enter the stable yard.

There’s no reply. I look into the office through the open window, but there’s nobody there. I walk along the stables and see a beautiful brown horse looking back at me.

‘Hello,’ I say in that playful, sickly voice people reserve for animals. The horse steps towards me, and I stroke him on the nose. ‘You’re a gorgeous fella, aren’t you?’ He nods his head as if in reply.

‘He’s called Odin.’

I quickly turn at the sound of the voice and see Iain Pemberton standing in front of me.

‘Sorry, I didn’t see you there. He’s a lovely horse.’

‘He’s a Hackney. Four years old.’

‘Is he yours?’

‘No. I don’t own any. I just look after them. Give them a home. Their owners come mostly at the weekends. I suppose I’m their foster carer,’ he says with a smile.

‘Iain, could I have a word with you?’

‘I’m guessing you don’t want to chat about horses?’

‘It’s not my specialist subject.’

‘But murder is.’

‘Unfortunately, yes.’

‘I suppose it has to be someone’s. We’ll go into the office.’

He leads the way, his head down and shoulders slumped. I look back at Odin and brush his nose. He’s a stunning-looking animal.

The office is small and cramped. The desk is hidden behind files and invoices. The shelves are packed with books and box files and in the corner is a small desk where a kettle and a couple of well-used cups stand, beneath which is a mini fridge containing milk and several bars of chocolate.

‘All I seem to have done so far this morning is make tea,’ Iain says as he flicks on the kettle. ‘We had Inspector Forsyth round. She asked Lynne to identify a few more items found on the lakebed.’

‘That can’t have been easy. Was she able to identify them?’

‘The majority, yes. I suppose that means the bones in the car belong to Celia and Jennifer.’

‘It’s more than likely, yes.’

‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Just milk, thanks.’

Iain hands me a Queen Elizabeth II Golden Jubilee mug while he takes an England football mug.

‘What do you want to ask me?’ He sits down in his comfortable, old high-backed chair, but he looks decidedly uncomfortable. I guess he would rather be mucking out the horses with his bare hands than talking about the horrors his brother got up to.

‘Lynne came to see me at the restaurant last week. She said, after the girls originally disappeared, you found something belonging to Jack. You didn’t tell her what it was, but it led you to believe Jack had harmed the twins in some way. Would you tell me what it was you found?’

It’s a while before Iain begins. He blows out a breath, fiddles with the press studs on his gilet and flicks a piece of lint from his lapel.

‘We’d not long finished converting the barns into stables.

Everything had been delayed with Celia and Jennifer going missing.

Jack seemed to have lost interest in the business, but I kept trying to get him to come up here.

Even if he just sat in the office, it would at least get him out of the house.

I came in here and he quickly hid something away.

I didn’t think anything of it at first. A couple of hours later, Jack was in the toilet, and…

I don’t know, something in my mind told me to look in his jacket.

It was a magazine. It was foreign. It might have been German or Dutch, I’ve no idea.

But the pictures…’ Iain’s bottom lip quivers, and he turns away.

‘Take your time.’

‘They were kids. Girls and boys. Some were naked, some were half-naked. Some were on their own. Others…’ He leans on the table and puts his hand in front of his mouth as if trying to stop a torrent of vomit.

‘Men were doing things to them. I felt sick to my stomach. I feel sick now just thinking about it. I can… I can still picture them. In my head. I can’t… I’m always seeing them.’

‘You confronted Jack?’

‘I heard the toilet flush. That must have brought me back from… I don’t know…

from wherever my mind had taken me. It was Jack’s magazine.

I’d seen him looking at it. But he was my brother.

He was my little brother. How could he be looking at it when he had three girls of his own?

It didn’t make sense. He came back into the office.

I turned to look at him and I just saw red.

I threw the magazine at him. I can’t remember what I said.

I was asking him all sorts. Where did he get it from? Why? What did it mean? Who was he?’

‘What did he say?’

‘He didn’t deny it.’

‘Did you ask where he’d got it from?’

He nods. He takes a breath. ‘He said it belonged to Travis and that he’d given it to him.’

‘Travis Montgomery?’

‘Yes. He said he found it…’ Iain lowers his head and places his hands over his face.

‘Iain.’

‘I can’t even bring myself to use the word he said,’ he cries.

‘What did he say, Iain?’

Iain reaches for a tissue and wipes his eyes. He blows his nose and tucks the tissue up the sleeve of his jumper.

‘He said he found it stimulating.’

‘Oh God.’

‘I looked at him, and I realised I was looking at a stranger. I had no idea who he was anymore. I asked him how long he’d been interested in young children.

He said for as long as he could remember.

I asked him if he’d ever done anything about it.

He said it wasn’t until Travis arrived and he saw him…

he…’ Iain is clearly struggling to reveal the horrors of thirty years ago. It’s completely understandable.

‘Take your time, Iain,’ I say, trying to offer him reassurance. He needs to get this out. He’s been bottling it up for three decades.