Майкл Вуд – The Fallen: A DCI Matilda Darke short story (страница 3)
Matilda smiled. It was difficult to be angry with James Darke for too long. All he had to do was smile that perfect smile, twinkle those ice-blue eyes and she’d agree to anything.
‘Will you buy me diamonds next Christmas?’
‘I’ll buy you diamonds every Christmas.’ He placed the tray on the only available floor space and crawled into bed with his wife. He leaned in and kissed her passionately on the lips.
‘Morning breath,’ she said, turning away.
‘I don’t mind.’
‘I do. Besides, I’ve got to get to work.’
‘Call in sick. Let’s pretend we’re children of the earth and we’re travelling the country in a horse-drawn caravan, making love at every stop.’
‘Nice idea stud,’ she smiled. ‘First of all, I can’t call in sick as I’ve only had the job a week. Secondly, nice to see you finally admit this is a caravan. What happened to the Winnebago I was promised?’
‘I’ve had to order one from Norway. It should be here next week.’
‘We do have motorhomes in this country you know.’
‘Have you tried to find a company that will lift one over our house into the back garden without charging an arm and a leg for insurance?’
‘They’re going to drop it on the house, aren’t they?’
‘The British probably would. The Norwegians wouldn’t.’
‘Please tell me you know what you’re doing.’
‘I know what I’m doing.’
‘Now say it like you mean it.’
Matilda struggled to wash herself in a shower the size of an airing cupboard. As she towelled herself dry she knocked over her coffee cup and banged her head three times on the ceiling. This was definitely not going to work.
‘James, where’s the red suitcase?’ She called out to him in the next room.
‘What red suitcase?’
‘The red suitcase on our bed that I asked you to bring down because it was too heavy.’
There was no reply, though she might have heard a mumbled ‘shit.’
‘Late for work. Got to go. Love you, bye,’ James called, slamming the door behind him.
‘James Darke, get back here right now!’ Matilda called out after him. ‘That had all my work clothes in it.’
The new Murder Investigation Team (MIT) at South Yorkshire Police had a brand new open plan office with ergonomic desks, state of the art computers, soothing decoration and potted plants to increase productivity and maintain a calm and healthy atmosphere. The one failing was the heating system which looked and sounded like it had been salvaged from the wreck of the
Detective Chief Inspector Matilda Darke was in charge of the MIT and all the officers working there. It took six months of interviews, shadowing, presentations and training courses before the job was finally offered to her. When ACC Masterson gave her the news she tried to remain professional. The plan had been to nod, give a brief smile and thank the ACC for having faith in her. Unfortunately, she briefly lost control, punched the air and almost grabbed her boss in a bear hug, until she remembered where she was. She tried to cover up her emotional outburst but it was too late. Never mind.
She pulled open the glass door to the MIT suite and was hit in the face by the smell of new carpet.
‘Bloody hell, Sian, open a window will you? It took me all night to get rid of the headache from the smell of this carpet.’
‘Open a window? It’s freezing,’ DS Sian Mills said. ‘Besides, it’s not that bad over here. Aaron dropped his Bolognese yesterday which has taken the newness off it.’
‘Oh. Well when he gets in ask him to drop his breakfast in my office, will you?’
Sian smiled. ‘Coffee?’
‘I’d love one. What are you doing with that lot?’ Matilda asked, pointing at a plastic bag full of chocolate bars.
‘It was an idea of Stuart’s last night. A woman in his office has a snack drawer. You help yourself to whatever you fancy but you have to replace it with something similar.’
‘I like that idea. I often need a chocolate rush in the afternoons.’
‘Well as you’re the boss you can have a Twirl on the house,’ she said, tossing one to her.
‘Thanks. So, have we settled in now?’ Matilda asked, looking at the white boards which held details of the cases they were currently working on.
‘I think so. I know the desks were strategically placed for karma or whatever it’s called but I prefer the straight lines, don’t you?’
‘Definitely. What’s the matter?’ Matilda noticed Sian was looking down at her feet.
‘Nothing. I just wondered if you knew you were wearing odd shoes.’
‘What?’ She looked down. They were both black, they were both plain, only one was matt while the other was shiny. ‘Shit!’
‘Get dressed in the dark this morning?’
‘No. I got home yesterday to find James had started knocking the house to pieces a month early. I had less than half an hour to pack everything I wanted into a small caravan at the bottom of the back garden. I could have killed him.’
Sian stifled a laugh. ‘Oh. That would account for the toothpaste stain on your shirt then.’
‘What?’ She looked down. ‘Oh bloody hell. I’m not putting up with this for the next eight months. I was perfectly happy with our house. Yes, it was a tad dated but it just needed decorating. You should see the plans he’s drawn up.’
‘He is an architect.’
‘I know but can’t he demolish someone else’s home and not mine?’
The MIT had been in operation for less than a week yet they already had three murders to deal with. One was a domestic: Jennifer Skinner, thirty-three, had hit her lover with a frying pan in the kitchen following an argument. The victim fell, hit her head on the marble worktop and was dead before she hit the floor. Jennifer had appeared at Sheffield Magistrate’s Court where she pleaded guilty to manslaughter. She was on bail pending sentencing at Crown Court.
Alec Thwaites, forty, stabbed his ex-wife to death on the eve of her wedding to his former best friend. He admitted murder and was currently on remand in HMP Doncaster.
There was an arrest warrant out for Craig Matthewman who was on the run in connection with the death of a Sheffield Wednesday fan last weekend. Craig, a lifelong Sheffield United fan, was caught on CCTV fleeing an alleyway where Shaun McMurray was found with three stab wounds in his stomach. Despite several reports of Craig Matthewman hiding at various friends’ houses throughout the steel city, he still eluded Matilda and her team.
Matilda was going through her emails when DC Aaron Connolly entered the MIT suite. He had only been back at work two weeks following his honeymoon in Barcelona with Katrina and already the defeated look of a man under the thumb was showing on his face. Matilda and James had been married for less than a year, did they look like that too? She didn’t think so. James definitely wasn’t under the thumb. However, if he continued to knock their home to pieces, he’d be buried under the extended kitchen.
‘Aaron, any joy with Craig Matthewman?’ Matilda called through her open door.
‘That’s where I’ve just been. Uniform had a sighting of him near Asda in Gleadless Valley. His step-father lives just around the corner but he’s not there.’
‘His step-father isn’t hiding him, is he?’
‘No. Actually he’s the ex-step-father and, by all accounts, if Craig did turn up on his doorstep he’d drag him down here by his hair. And he’s in a wheelchair.’
‘Ma’am,’ Sian said coming into Matilda’s small office, smiling at Aaron on his way out. Matilda didn’t look up at first. It was strange hearing someone call her ma’am, especially Sian, a woman she had known for over a decade. Sian didn’t seem to mind. ‘I’ve had a call from DS Brady. There’s a suspicious death at Hallam Grange.’
‘Really? Excellent.’
‘What?’ Sian asked, a surprised look on her face.
‘We have to pass my house to get there. I can stop off and change these shoes.’
‘DI Darke, DS Mills,’ Matilda said to the uniformed officer at the entrance to the block of flats on Hallam Grange Close. They both briefly flashed their ID.
‘DCI,’ Sian reminded her boss.
‘Sorry, yes, DCI Darke. I can’t get used to that at all.’
Matilda and Sian were handed forensic suits which they struggled into in the cold foyer before heading for the scene of the crime.
The flat had a small dark hallway which was decorated in dull, lifeless colours. The light brown carpet and grimy cream walls, with old reproduction art work that no serious artist would have painted, were a taster of the rest of the flat. It was depressing, drab, and energy-sapping.
The living room had been brightened up by the floodlights brought in by the scene of crime officers. Forensics were dusting for finger prints around a broken window. Three people wearing identical paper suits were crouched over the body.