‘Not at university today?’
Sian and Scott were standing in the communal living room in the terraced house George Appleby shared with four other students. There was an underlying smell of burnt food and body odour, mixed with cheap perfume. The laminate flooring was dirty and sticky, and the furniture mass-produced.
‘No. I don’t feel well.’ George was wearing boxer shorts, a tight white T-shirt and a dressing gown over the top. He didn’t look well, but he was pale and skinny – not the picture of health at the best of times.
‘Hangover?’ Scott asked with a smile.
‘No,’ he replied, falling into the uncomfortable sofa. ‘Do you want a cup of tea or something?’
Sian leaned back and peered into the adjoining kitchen. The sink was filthy and piled high with dishes. The kettle was grimy and covered with fingerprints.
‘I’ve not long since had one, thanks,’ she lied.
‘Is this about, you know, my dad? Have you found anything out?’
‘Not as such, no. George, can you tell us where you were on Saturday from midday onwards?’
‘Why?’
‘Humour me.’
He looked away. If it was possible, his face appeared even paler. ‘I was here,’ he eventually replied.
‘All day?’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t go out?’
‘No.’
‘Not at all? Not to the shops or anything?’ Scott asked.
He looked Scott in the eye but turned away before answering. ‘No.’
‘Can anyone verify that?’
‘Well, not until late on when Cassie came home around seven. Why?’
‘Do you know a man called Joe Lacey?’ Sian asked.
He shook his head. ‘Who’s he?’ George asked quickly.
‘Or Rebecca Branson?’
‘Oh my God, please don’t tell me more victims have come forward saying my dad … you know.’
‘No. Nothing like that.’
‘Then why are you asking?’
‘Just curious. You’ve never heard of these people?’
‘No.’
‘Right, well, we’ll leave you to it then. I hope you feel better soon. Come along, Scott.’
Sian and Scott headed for the front door.
‘Hang on a minute,’ George called out. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me what all this is about?’
Sian slammed the door behind them. ‘Thank God for that,’ she exhaled. ‘Jesus it was rank in there.’
‘It took me back to my student days,’ Scott said with a smile.
‘Please don’t tell me you were as untidy as that.’
‘Well, first time away from home, you let yourself go a bit, don’t you?’
‘No, you bloody do not. It’s called having some self-respect. And did you see his boxer shorts? They didn’t leave much to the imagination, did they?’ She turned on her heel and headed down the gennel to the car. Scott followed, smiling to himself.
George Appleby sat with a heavy frown on his pale face. He was going over the questions the sergeant had asked him. Why was she asking them? It made no sense. He swiped a pile of newspapers and magazines off the coffee table and found his iMac underneath. Balancing it on his lap, he turned it on. He tried to remember one of the names the female detective said, Rebecca something. He’d heard it before but couldn’t think where. Rebecca. Rebecca. He smiled to himself. Branston pickles. Rebecca Branston. Google asked him if he was looking for Rebecca Branson, he clicked on the correct spelling and up came her life story, her cut-short life story.
He clicked on a link for the site of the local newspaper and read a story by Danny Hanson all about Joe Lacey’s death on Saturday. Towards the bottom of the page was a list of other stories the reader may be interested in. George’s father’s name was mentioned. He clicked on the first story and his father’s face popped up on the screen. It was an old picture taken before he was sent to prison. All the raw emotions came flooding back. His father was a paedo, how was that possible?
George logged on to Facebook and typed in Danny Hanson’s name. He planned on messaging him, asking him how he slept at night when he was putting people through hell with his sensationalism, when a message popped up. He didn’t recognize the sender:
George, I hear your dad was a nonce. Is that why no one’s ever seen you with a girlfriend? Like kids yourself, do you?
George recoiled. So the vitriol had started. He had expected it to be sooner than this. He deleted the message. Internet trolls were cowards anyway; too scared to say what they thought in real life, so they hid behind their computers.
He noticed he had several notifications, more than usual. He clicked on the icon.
You have been tagged in a post.
You have been tagged in a photograph.
Martin Baker and eight others have mentioned you in a post.
Sally Klein and twenty others have tagged you in a post.
‘Jesus,’ he said to himself, once again running his bony fingers through his hair. Should he read what everybody seemed to be saying about him, or should he ignore them, hoping they’ll stop eventually when something better comes along? ‘Fuck it,’ he said, looking at some of the comments.
Becky Wainwright: I went out with George Appleby a few times. I wondered why he kept wanting to go to parks and push me on the swings. His idea of a romantic date was a kid’s happy meal at Maccy D’s. Like father like son. LOL.
George shook his head. He’d never even heard of a Becky Wainwright before. Looking at her photograph, he’d never seen her either. Just that one comment was enough for him to slam his laptop closed. He heard the sound of a key in the lock: one of his housemates coming home. He didn’t want them to see him crying so ran upstairs, laptop under his arm, cursing Danny fucking Hanson for starting all this in the first place.
‘The Bransons are hiding something. They both gave different alibis for where they were on Saturday,’ Aaron Connolly said.
‘Let them stew for the rest of the day then bring them both in tomorrow morning.’
Normally, Matilda would take the softly-softly approach, maybe send Sian around to have a friendly chat, but with the press seemingly leading this investigation, she wanted to get the upper hand.
The evening briefing had failed to reveal any new leads. Kesinka and Ranjeet had been back to Meersbrook to interview the remaining neighbours. Typically, nobody had seen anything suspicious at all on Saturday. Just when you want the neighbours to be nosey they turn a blind eye.
Forensics hadn’t found anything of interest at the Lacey house. Once again, the killer had managed to gain access and not leave a single trace of himself behind. The similarities between the Joe Lacey and Brian Appleby murders were startling, but there was nothing to link the two victims. Brian had only been in Sheffield a matter of months, before that he lived in Essex and never visited Yorkshire. Joe was Sheffield born and bred and had only left the county to go on holiday, and that was always abroad. The furthest south he’d ever travelled in England was Nottingham. They had nothing in common; they didn’t belong to the same bank or gym; they didn’t shop in the same supermarket. The only thing they shared was the fact they had criminal records.
Matilda left the station early. It was only six o’clock, but it was pitch-black. The heavy clouds over Sheffield were releasing a fine drizzle turning the steel city grey and dank.
While sitting in traffic, Matilda looked out into the dark Sheffield night. She saw people heading home after a hard day’s work. They were wrapped up against the elements and held themselves stiff as the wind cut through them. Their faces all had the same expression – harsh, defeated, tired, sad.
This winter had been a long one. It seemed never-ending. November and December were fine because there was Christmas to look forward to – the parties, the presents, the get-togethers. Once New Year was out of the way, all you had left were three months of dark nights, freezing temperatures and bad weather. Add to that the fact you were fatter from the excesses of Christmas, the dreaded credit-card bill arriving through the post, and a sense of emptiness, you could understand why people walked around looking like members of a funeral procession.
Matilda opened the garage door with the remote she kept in the glove compartment. It closed behind her and plunged her into a cavernous black. She gingerly made her way into the main part of the house. It was cold. The heating hadn’t come on. The doorbell rang and she went to answer it.
‘Hello, I saw you come home. A parcel arrived for you this morning,’ Mrs Wilson from two doors down said, handing over a heavy Amazon box.
‘Oh, thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. Any time.’
Mrs Wilson stood on the doorstep longer than was necessary, looking over Matilda’s shoulder into the house.
Matilda closed the door and carried the box into the kitchen. She couldn’t remember ordering anything from Amazon. Using a knife from the block, she cut into the cardboard and recognized the smell of new books before she even pulled back the flaps. The latest hardbacks by some of her favourite authors, plus a few paperbacks she’d seen on sale were carefully packed.
A smile spread on her lips. Since she had inherited a huge collection of crime fiction novels from Jonathan Harkness, a killer with emotional problems Matilda had been unable to save, she had become hooked. Adele thought she was hiding her feelings and emotions behind reading and building the collection. She’d promised her friend she wouldn’t allow it to take over her life. However, there wasn’t a week that didn’t go by without at least two deliveries from Amazon or the Book Depository.
Matilda took the box upstairs to her library. She always smiled when she walked into the room and saw the books waiting for her like faithful old friends. She understood why Jonathan Harkness had immersed himself in fiction. The world was a dark and dangerous place, especially the one Matilda inhabited. Why not close the door and hide behind books? Yes, they were all crime fiction, but by the end of the novel, the balance of power had been restored.
Matilda unpacked the box and added them to her to-be-read pile in the corner. It was threatening to take over the whole room. She looked at the shelves surrounding her. All of them were full to capacity. She placed her hand on the spines of the hardbacks and stroked them. She felt safe in this room. She felt happy.
‘A few more to add to the collection, Jonathan.’
***
Sitting in the living room with a plate of an oven-ready lasagne on her lap, she called Adele.
‘How are you doing?’ Matilda asked.
‘I’m fine,’ she lied.
‘It’s OK not to be fine.’
‘It’s also OK to be just fine.’
‘That’s fine then,’ Matilda smiled. ‘Are you still sworn off men?’
‘Absolutely. They can all take a running jump as far as I’m concerned.’
Matilda glared at the mantelpiece and the framed photograph of her and James on her wedding day. She had now reached the stage where looking at him no longer opened the floodgates, but she still felt sad.
‘Chris and I are going out for a run in a bit if you fancy it?’ Adele asked, quickly changing the subject.
‘No thanks. I did ten kilometres on the treadmill this morning. Oh, did I tell you, Scott has asked to join us for the half-marathon. He was doing it anyway but said he’d help us raise more money.’
‘That’s kind of him. Can he run?’
‘Yes. He spent half an hour at lunchtime showing me photos of all his races. I had no idea he had such muscular legs under those suits.’
‘Ooh,’ Adele said, a hint of flirtation in her voice.
‘I thought you said all men can piss off?’
‘It depends on how hunky their thighs are.’
Matilda could be clinging on the railings of the Titanic as it plunged into the cold Atlantic Ocean and Adele would still be able to make her smile. Following the Brian Appleby incident, Matilda had thought Adele would withdraw. In a way, she had. However, her sense of humour was too strong to stay hidden and there were warming glimpses of it trying to reappear. It made Matilda smile.
Good for her. Now why can’t I move on?
She looked back at the wedding photo. She knew why she couldn’t move on – because she didn’t want to.
***
The disappointing lasagne had given Matilda indigestion. She took a swig of Gaviscon from the bottle and headed upstairs to her library. She made herself comfortable in the Eames chair, put her feet up on the matching footstool and wrapped a knitted blanket around her. She picked up the hardback by Peter James. She was over halfway through. After an hour of reading, her eyes were becoming heavy. Her mobile, sitting on the coffee table next to her, beeped and vibrated, making her jump. She placed the bookmark neatly among the pages and put the book carefully on the table. The message wasn’t from a number she had stored in her phone. She opened the text message: