Page 9 of Worse Than Murder (DCI Matilda Darke Thriller #13)

W hen Carl’s at school, the two dogs usually have to wait impatiently for his return.

Sally takes them out for an occasional run around the garden, but for a really long walk, they need to wait for their master to arrive home.

Since I arrived, that’s no longer a problem.

Straight after breakfast and a shower, I clip on their leads, slip on my walking shoes and trek into the nearby woods with the Labradors trotting excitedly beside me.

I’ve no idea where I’m going. I’m glad to be out in the fresh air and wide-open space where I’m not surrounded by people and there is nobody to ask me if I’m feeling all right.

Once we enter the darkness and coolness of the woods, I unclip their leads and let them run free.

They never go far, and they keep stopping, turning back, making sure I’m still there behind them.

I can certainly understand how some people prefer the company of dogs over humans.

They don’t judge. They live in the moment.

One of the dogs brings a stick back and drops it at my feet.

I pick it up and lob it as far as I can. Both charge off with excitement.

I should be more dog.

Here, in the Lake District, I’m away from the horrors of what Sheffield now means to me.

Here, I’m not a DCI with South Yorkshire Police, I’m simply a woman walking two dogs.

I don’t have a team of detectives looking to me for solutions to a demanding investigation.

I’m not surrounded by murder and hatred, corruption and red tape.

I’m free. For the first time in my working life, I’m finally free.

I miss my friends, of course. Scott and Donal are preparing for their wedding in August. I agreed to be Scott’s best woman.

I’ve no idea if I’ll be back for it. I’m sure he’ll find a replacement.

I miss Sian and her family, and I feel bad about leaving her without a word.

I miss Adele, too, but she’s currently in Sierra Leone having already escaped the nightmare Sheffield represents to us both.

Maybe I should have gone with her. Mum, Nathan and Joseph would still be alive if I had, and I’d still have a relationship with my sister.

Then there’s Odell. He’s the new pathologist who replaced Adele.

We’ve been seeing each other over the past couple of months.

I’ve no idea if we will last, if we will move in together or even get married, but for the time being, it’s fun having a man in my life again.

He ticks all the right boxes, apart from driving a Tesla with a personalised registration plate.

Surely, it’s cheaper to scratch ‘wanker’ on the bonnet.

I didn’t tell Odell I was leaving, either. I didn’t tell anyone. As I was packing, I turned off my mobile and left it on the coffee table in the living room. I locked the front door behind me and walked away. Well, I drove away. I took Adele’s Porsche from the garage. It’s not like she’s using it.

I’ve cut myself off completely from my life in South Yorkshire, and, right now, I have no intention whatsoever of returning.

One of the dogs barks. I look down and there he is by my feet, looking at the stick he’s waiting for me to throw. I pick it up. It’s wet with dog slobber. I hurl it across the woods, and they charge after it. They’re happy simply to be with me, amused by a simple stick.

I definitely need to be more dog.

I don’t feel guilty about leaving without informing anyone of where I was going (maybe Sian, and Scott, and I could have sent a quick email to Adele).

But I hope they understand that, after everything I’ve endured recently, not just mum and my nephews being killed, but all the dark murder investigations I’ve had weighing me down, that I need time away to process everything and work out where I go from here and what the future holds for me.

I follow the dogs through the woods and out into the open air of the countryside.

It’s another scorching day and I’m looking forward to going for a swim later to help me cool down and put my body through more punishment until my organs scream at me to stop.

I do need that pain, though. I need to feel something other than grief. Grief is a massive energy sapper.

As much as I love torturing myself in the heatwave, I’m aware that dogs are not designed to withstand such temperatures for so long and, despite them loving charging after a stick for hours on end, it’s in their best interests to return to the shade of the restaurant, a bowl of fresh water, and a well-earned Bonio.

‘Come on then, you two, let’s get you back.’ I clip on their leads. They don’t even try to stop me, and we walk slowly back through the woods for home.

* * *

There’s a black Fiat Punto outside the front of Nature’s Diner when I get back.

The restaurant isn’t open yet and Philip and Sally have gone out for the morning, after dropping Carl off at school, to pick up the supplies.

Whoever the visitor is, it’s nothing to do with me.

I take the dogs round the back and enter the restaurant through the utility.

I take off their leads and freshen up their water bowls.

They’re more than ready for a good, long drink. So am I.

There’s a knock on the back door.

Through the glass, I can see a young woman with hair so blond it’s almost white. She’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt with police epaulettes. There’s a forced smile on her face.

I open the door.

‘Hello,’ she begins after clearing her throat. ‘I’m PC Pemberton. Alison. I was here yesterday talking to Philip about the attempted break-in.’

‘Oh. Right. Well, Philip and Sally are both out at the moment. I can give them a message if?—’

‘No,’ she interrupts. ‘Sorry… You’re… It’s Matilda, isn’t it?’

She’s nervous. I’m sceptical.

‘That’s right.’

‘Matilda Darke. As in DCI Matilda Darke.’

‘Yes.’ Now I’m suspicious.

‘It’s you I actually came to see. Would it be possible for me to have a chat with you? It’s nothing to do with an investigation or anything. This is entirely personal.’

I take a deep breath. How do I say this without being insulting? ‘No offence, but I don’t know you. I’ve no interest in talking about anything personal to?—’

‘No,’ she interrupts again. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not coming across well, am I? It’s not you I want to talk about. It’s me. I need… I want… sorry. I…’

‘Look, I’ve just been for a long walk with the dogs. It’s baking and I’m sweating. I need a drink. Why don’t you come in and let me freshen up while you find the words you want to use?’

I stand back and allow this nervous woman to enter. As she passes me, I get a whiff of deodorant and desperation.

I go over to the fridge and take out a bottle of water. I untwist the cap and drink half of it in a single gulp. I don’t think I’ve drunk so much water as I have since I’ve been here. I’ve needed it to keep hydrated with all the exercise. My skin is certainly benefitting.

‘Can I get you anything?’

‘No. I’m fine, thank you.’

‘Well, give me a few minutes and I’ll be right with you. Don’t mind the dogs, they’re very friendly.’

I leave the room but steal a glance at this PC Pemberton over my shoulder as I do so. She has a worried expression firmly etched on her face. One that seems to have been there for a very long time.

* * *

I stand under the piercing hot needles of the shower when my sister’s voice comes back to haunt me. Or to hurt me. I can’t work out which.

‘I fucking hate you!’

I agree with her. I fucking hate me, too. I close my eyes tight and try to silence my torment, the pain, the torture, the darkness. It’s no good. I banish my sister’s violent words and then I see my mum, lying in her hospital bed, the doctors turning off the machines, removing the tubes one by one.

‘She’s gone,’ Dr Wilde says, sympathetically.

My mum is dead.

My legs won’t hold me up any longer. I sink to my knees and press my hands against the shower tray.

I open my mouth, and I let out a sound from the depths of my soul, a sound filled with agony.

I’m crying. Water is mixed with tears, and they disappear down the plughole.

I can’t stop. It doesn’t matter what I try to think about– Carl’s kind words, the smiling faces of two happy Labradors, the warmth offered by Sally and Philip, that amazing almond and raspberry frangipane tart– I cannot stop the tears.

* * *

I don’t remember how long I’m in the shower for.

By the time I get downstairs, Alison has moved into the main part of the restaurant.

She’s sitting at one of the tables, gazing out at the view.

The dogs are sprawled out, knackered, beside her.

I’d hoped she’d have grown bored of waiting for me and gone home. No such luck.

I clear my throat to signify my presence.

‘I never tire of this view,’ Alison says. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ Her voice is heavy, almost as heavy as mine. Another woman with a massive weight on her shoulders. I wonder what baggage she’s carrying, and is it going to end up involving me? I bloody hope not.

‘It is,’ I say.

‘You see everything that’s going on in the world– wars, conflict, climate change, pandemics– you think of the horrors people do to each other, and it’s difficult to believe that such natural beauty exists.’

I pull out a seat at the table and sit opposite this worried-looking PC. I guess her to be in her mid-thirties, but there’s a sadness surrounding her that’s aged her. She has dark circles beneath her eyes. I have a suspicious feeling this conversation is not going to be an easy one.

She looks at me and proffers a faint smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

‘I… erm… I notice the dogs have the same names on their nametags,’ she says, clearly stalling.

‘Yes. The older Woody was bought for Carl before he went missing. While he was in Sweden, the couple gave him a dog for company. He decided to name him Woody, too. When he came home, he brought his new dog with him.’