Page 5 of Worse Than Murder (DCI Matilda Darke Thriller #13)

A lison and Claire have been around the farms to check they are prepared and on standby should the forecast storm hit as hard as predicted.

On their way back to High Chapel, with Claire driving, Alison digs out her phone and opens Google.

The mention of DCI Matilda Darke by Philip Meagan has been niggling away at her mind for most of the day.

She’s heard of Matilda, obviously– she has made the news many times due to the high-profile investigations she’s successfully led over the years– but Alison wants to know what has brought Matilda all the way to the Lake District.

Has whatever was happening to her in Sheffield followed her to Cumbria?

‘I mean, I like some of the old-fashioned names,’ Claire says as she pulls up at a red light.

‘For a boy, I quite like Harold and, if it’s a girl, I’m torn between Maud and Ethel.

But Geraint wants to name her after his grandmother, if we have a girl.

She’s a lovely woman, don’t get me wrong, but I can’t call my daughter Clementine. Are you even listening?’

‘Sorry?’ Alison looks up.

‘Have you heard a word I’ve just said?’

‘Yes.’

‘Really? What was I talking about, then?’

‘Erm, something about satsumas?’

Claire puts the car into gear and sets off. ‘Oh God, I’m definitely vetoing Clementine. I don’t want no daughter of mine coming home from school in tears because some little bitch has called her an easy peeler.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘It doesn’t matter. What’s so important you’re engrossed in your phone? You’re glaring at it like naked pictures of Ryan Reynolds have just been leaked online.’

‘You wish.’

‘I do, actually,’ she says, wistfully. ‘I wish my Geraint looked like Ryan Reynolds.’

‘Geraint is a very good-looking guy,’ Alison says, without looking up from her phone.

‘He is. But he’s no Ryan Reynolds. When he grew that moustache during lockdown he looked more like Bert Reynolds.

I still can’t believe he left the house with it.

We wouldn’t be getting married if he’d kept it.

’ She turns to Alison to see her still scrutinising her phone.

‘Are you going to tell me what you’re looking at? ’

‘Philip Meagan said that DCI Matilda Darke from South Yorkshire Police was staying with them. She arrived just as the attempted break-ins began. I’m wondering if they’re connected.’

‘And how is Google going to help you with that?’

‘There’s an article here written last month for the Guardian by Danny Hanson.

Apparently, there’s a killer in South Yorkshire who’s been taunting Matilda, sending her emails, telling her who and where his victims are.

According to this, he did something to Matilda’s mother’s gas fire to make sure it leaked and killed her by carbon monoxide poisoning. ’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘At the time, Matilda’s two nephews were staying with her mother, and they died too.’

‘But how do they know the killer purposely tampered with the fire? Couldn’t it have been a genuine case of carbon monoxide poisoning?’

‘No. The killer told Matilda what he’d done in an email.’

Claire creases up her face. She looks sceptical. ‘But if Netflix has taught us anything, it’s that serial killers are, by design, liars. How can we take what he said to be true? Maybe he’s a fantasist. Maybe he found out they’d died in a genuine accident and wanted to claim it for himself.’

Alison looks up from her phone for the first time. ‘Huh. I suppose that could be true. Maybe. Bit of a coincidence, though.’

‘Either way, it’s sad about her family. No wonder she’s decided to have a break for a while. Now, do you want me to drop you off at home or are you coming back to the station?’

‘Actually, could you drop me off at the stables? I want to visit my mum.’

‘Sure.’

‘What are your plans for this evening?’

‘Quiz night at the Frog and Toad. It’s a rollover. First prize is ￡150.’

‘Wow. A life-changing amount.’

‘If I don’t come in tomorrow, you’ll know I’ve won and am currently in Tahiti,’ she smiles.

Claire turns a corner and pulls up outside the front gates to Alison’s mum’s home.

‘Send me a postcard,’ Alison says, climbing out of the car and closing the door behind her.

* * *

Alison lets herself into her mother’s cottage. She makes her way along the dark and narrow hallway into the brightly lit kitchen.

Lynne is at the sink, washing vegetables dug from the garden.

She’s wearing her usual beige gardening trousers, that are filthy and have seen better days, and a cotton long-sleeve T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

Her greying hair is tied back into a messy bun.

Alison goes to the radio and turns down Kate Bush.

Lynne spins round quickly. Her sad, lined face lights up into a smile upon seeing her daughter. ‘Oh, hello. I didn’t expect to see you this evening.’

Alison puts her arm around her and kisses her on the cheek. ‘I thought I’d pop in. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘Of course, I don’t. You’re always welcome here.’

‘Where’s Iain?’

‘He’s out checking the stables. Have you heard about the storm forecast?’

‘Yes. We’ve got the local farmers on standby. They’ll be doing the rounds with sandbags from Saturday afternoon. Any chance of a brew?’

She holds up her dirty hands. ‘Could you help yourself?’

‘Do you want one?’

‘Please. I don’t feel like I’ve stopped all day.’

‘Been busy?’

‘Hay delivery came. Two hours late. Wrong again, as usual. I spent over an hour on the phone only to be told their new computer system was having teething troubles. The vet came out to put poor Agides to sleep. Julie was inconsolable. Of course, she was left to me to comfort. By the time her Brian came to pick her up, it’s three o’clock and I’ve hardly done any of what I had planned for the day. ’

‘Poor Julie. She loved that horse.’

‘She did. But twenty-seven is a good age and he had a good life.’

‘Oh, how was the meal last night?’ Alison asks, suddenly remembering.

‘It was delicious,’ Lynne answers, her eyes almost rolling into the back of her head. ‘That has to be the best Chinese restaurant in the whole of the country.’

‘Fifteen years married,’ Alison says.

‘I know,’ Lynne replies, wistfully. ‘Who’d have thought…’ She stops herself and returns to scrubbing the vegetables.

Alison takes her mug to the small table, pulls out a chair and sits down.

She looks around the busy kitchen and takes in the ornaments on the walls and windowsills, postcards stuck to the fridge with magnets.

It’s such a homely, comfortable place, but appearances are deceiving and there is always an element of sadness in the air.

‘Are you all right, love?’ Lynne asks, glancing at her over her shoulder.

‘Yes. Fine.’

‘You look very pensive.’

‘I want to ask your advice on something.’

‘Oh. Okay,’ she says, rinsing her hands under the running tap and drying them on a tea towel. She comes over to the table and sits down. ‘I’m all ears.’

‘I’d like to ask you and Iain. It concerns you both.’

‘This sounds serious. Should I be worried?’ she asks, her face dropping.

‘No. Well, it is serious, but it’s nothing… I’m not ill or anything.’

‘Oh, good,’ Lynne reaches across and places a comforting hand on her daughter’s. She looks around. ‘Where did I put my mobile? I think I left it in the living room. I’ll give Iain a ring and tell him to pop back. He’ll be glad of a break in this heat.’

* * *

It’s another ten minutes before Iain comes into the cottage via the back door.

He spends a full minute wiping his wellington boots on the doormat.

He enters the living room wearing combat trousers and a navy polo shirt which is past throwing out.

There are so many holes in it, Alison wonders if he is ever confused which one to put his head through.

Iain has worked outdoors since the day he left school.

He joined his dad running the family farm.

Unfortunately, his father had hidden the truth about the costs of the farm and, when he died, Iain saw that he had spent his entire life in poverty.

The farm wasn’t working, and Iain had no intention of following in his father’s footsteps.

The animals were sold, and Iain turned the barns into stables and the land into a paddock.

He made more money in a month renting out to horse-owners than his father had earned in a year. The success was bittersweet.

Iain is tall, well over six feet. He towers over Lynne. Their wedding photographs are a lesson in comedy. His face is ruddy, his hair permanently windswept and his shovel-sized hands are covered in cuts and callouses.

‘Do you want a tea?’ Lynne asks.

‘No. I’ve just finished my flask.’

‘How are the stables?’

‘Fine. They should hold. I’m going over to Kendal tomorrow to get more groundsheets just in case we lose any tiles.’

Alison sits in the armchair and watches the play between her mother and stepfather.

She misses her dad every day, but is glad her mother has moved on.

What happened all those years ago was unbelievably sad and painful.

She was only a small child at the time so had no comprehension of what her mother was going through, but she’s pleased she has Iain for support.

Alison remembers, fondly, fifteen years ago, when her mum and Iain sat her down and told her, with earnest expressions, that they planned to marry.

They were worried how Alison would react to her mother marrying her uncle, her father’s brother.

They had been through such torment; she was over the moon that they had found happiness with each other.

‘You wanted to talk to us,’ Lynne says, turning to Alison.

She clears her throat. ‘I did. I was called out to Nature’s Diner this morning.’

‘Oh, yes?’ Lynne asks, sipping her tea.

‘Yes. They’ve had another attempted break-in. The thing is, the Meagans have got a friend staying with them at the moment, and she’s a police officer. A detective. She’s taking some time off.’

She pauses and Lynne and Iain look at her with blank faces, waiting for her to continue.

‘She’s a DCI.’

More blank faces.

‘I was thinking about maybe popping along to see her and having a chat.’

Iain frowns. ‘What for? If you want promotion, wouldn’t you be better off talking to Gill?’

‘No. I’m not looking for promotion. Well, I am, obviously, but not right now.

No, this detective, DCI Darke, she’s worked on some really big cases over the years.

I thought I might ask her about… Celia and Jennifer.

And Dad,’ she says, her voice quietening towards the end so as not to upset her mother and stepfather.

Silence fills the room. A clock on the mantelpiece chimes the top of the hour.

‘Why do you think she’ll be able to help? Why after all this time? Is there new evidence?’ Lynne asks, her questions tripping over each other.

Iain reaches forward and places a hand on her shoulder.

‘No. Not that I’m aware of. It’s just… she has this amazing track record. She’s a brilliant detective. She may be able to find something nobody else has.’

Lynne stands up and goes over to the armchair, perching herself on the arm. She takes her daughter’s hand in her own and squeezes it comfortingly.

‘Alison, sweetheart, do you really think it’s wise getting someone else involved? I don’t think your boss would be too pleased about it. She might think you’re… what’s the word?’ she asks, looking to Iain.

‘Usurping.’

‘That’s it. She might think you’re usurping her, that you don’t have any confidence in her as a detective.’

‘Inspector Forsyth is a brilliant police officer, but she’s never had a case like this before. Nobody has around here. This DCI Darke, she’s worked on some really tricky stuff. I’ve been reading up on her.’

‘Alison, why don’t you talk to your boss first?’ Iain suggests. ‘See what she thinks. You don’t want to step on her toes. You need to think of the future and promotion. It’s not going to look good if you’re seen as someone without respect for rank.’

‘Iain’s right.’ Lynne reaches up and strokes Alison’s hair behind her ear. ‘You were too young to know what was going on back then, sweetheart. It was a difficult time. For all of us. I wish there could be some resolution to it, but we have to face facts that they might never be found.’

Alison swallows her emotion. ‘And what about Dad? There have been sightings…’ Her voice quivers.

Lynne steals a glance at Iain, then quickly back to her daughter. ‘Alison, your dad was a very fragile man. He struggled with what happened to Celia and Jennifer. He couldn’t… he refused to come to terms with it. It was all he could do to end the suffering.’

‘I thought he loved me,’ Alison says through her tears.

Lynne grips her hand tight. ‘He did love you, Alison. He loved all of you. But when something tragic happens like that, when your whole life is turned upside down and you have no control over it, sometimes… sometimes you can’t see the good for the bad.’

‘I miss him,’ she says, quietly.

Lynne pulls Alison into a tight hug. ‘I know you do. I miss him, too.’

Lynne looks over to Iain. He nods at her and quietly leaves the room, giving mother and daughter some alone time.

* * *

It’s another half an hour before Iain hears the front door close. He has finished washing the vegetables and is busy putting them away when Lynne walks into the kitchen.

‘I wasn’t expecting that conversation today,’ Lynne says.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. Fine. I look at Alison and I see her father looking back at me. She’s got so many of his ways.

Normally, I don’t think anything of it, but there are times, like now, where it all comes flooding back.

’ She pulls out a chair at the table and sits down.

‘How the hell did I get through those days?’ she asks, putting her head in her hands.

Iain places a comforting arm around her shoulder. ‘What did you tell her?’

‘The same thing I’ve been telling her since she was old enough to understand.

Her father sank into a depression, and he walked out into the lake.

The thing is, she’s always thought that, if her father had drowned, he would have been found by now.

Because he hasn’t been, she’s got this niggling notion there is a remote possibility he could still be out there, living a new life somewhere.

Those sightings haven’t helped, either. People can be so cruel, can’t they? ’

‘Surely Alison is sensible enough to know that he won’t still be alive after all this time?’

‘She is, but, well, you know what grief’s like. It plays all kinds of tricks with your mind.’

‘Who’s this detective she said is staying at the restaurant?’

‘DCI Darke, did she call her?’

‘Do you think she’ll go and see her?’

Lynne thinks for a long moment. ‘I really don’t know. Iain, I know we’ve talked about this before, but do you think we should tell Alison the truth?’

‘We can’t do that, Lynne,’ Iain says. There is an edge to his voice. ‘It would literally kill her.’