The Land Rover pulled up. The front passenger door was opened before it came to a complete stop. Valerie Masterson jumped down and slammed it closed behind her. She had been in bed when the call came through and dressed quickly in the dark. It was unlike her to leave the house looking dishevelled in skinny jeans, a baggy sweater and wellington boots. Her overcoat was full of muddy splashes from long walks with her dogs near her home in the Derbyshire countryside.
She walked down the driveway and looked at the uniformed officer standing on the doorstep. He didn’t need to ask to see her ID. He knew who she was. He nodded and said good evening. She smiled and walked past him into the warm house. Without taking off her boots, she turned into the living room where Matilda was sitting on one of the sofas with DS Sian Mills next to her, both were holding mugs of strong tea.
‘Matilda, how are you?’ Valerie asked.
‘I’m fine, ma’am. Thank you.’
‘You’re not hurt?’
‘No. Just shaken up a bit.’
‘Is it still there in your garden?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Right.’
Valerie made her way through the living room and kitchen and out into the back garden. Floodlights had been erected and a team of scene of crime officers were scouring the area, looking in bushes and hedges for traces of the intruder. In the middle of the garden, swinging from a barren oak tree, was a mannequin, hanging by the neck as if it had been executed. The wig was identical to Matilda’s hairstyle and the clothes were similar to an outfit she had worn recently.
‘Same rope as the others,’ a forensic officer on a stepladder next to the mannequin shouted. ‘Hangman’s noose again, too.’
‘Get it cut down as soon as you can,’ Valerie said. She turned and went back into the house, shaking her head. The killer was playing games, using her officers for their own sick pleasure.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Valerie asked for the third time.
‘I’m fine. Just shocked that’s all.’
‘That’s understandable. I don’t want you staying here tonight. Do you have somewhere to go?’
‘I’ve phoned Adele,’ Sian said. ‘She’s on her way over.’
‘Good. Tell me about the text messages.’
Matilda picked up her iPhone from the coffee table and selected the messages. While she had been in the kitchen and making her gruesome discovery, she had received twelve texts, all from the same sender – the killer. She handed the phone to the ACC who scanned the screen. He was taunting her about the serial killer news story. He seemed to be relishing the attention. He alerted her to a third victim in her garden.
‘I’m guessing you disturbed him. You were probably meant to get the messages and look out of your window and see the mannequin hanging. It makes me wonder what else he had planned,’ Valerie said, not taking her eyes from the phone.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘He was texting you while he was setting up his display. He wanted you outside. Why?’
‘To see my expression, I’m guessing. If he wanted to attack me he could have done.’
‘When you went around to the back of the house, did you leave the door open?’
Matilda thought. ‘I’m not sure. I … probably.’
‘Has anything been taken?’ Valerie asked, looking around.
‘No. Nobody came into my house. I wasn’t out for more than a couple of minutes. I saw the thing hanging from the tree, screamed, then ran in.’
‘Matilda?’ Adele’s worried voice was heard from the entrance of the house.
‘In the living room,’ Matilda said.
‘Oh my God,’ she said, charging into the lounge and pulling her best friend into a bear hug. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Just a bit shaken.’
‘Go and pack a bag. You’re coming home with me.’
‘Matilda,’ Valerie stopped the DCI. ‘Tomorrow morning, I want you in my office first thing. This has gone too far. You can’t solve this on your own.’
‘I’m—’
‘This is not open for debate, Matilda.’
‘Ma’am.’
Matilda had stayed over at Adele’s on many occasions in the past and had enjoyed a comfortable sleep in the spare room. Last night, however, she couldn’t sleep at all. The thought of someone watching her, being so close to her and not knowing who it was, frightened her. She eventually fell asleep just after three o’clock and was woken at six by Adele.
Matilda knocked on Valerie’s door and was asked to enter straight away. Wearing yesterday’s clothes, Matilda saw the ACC and James Dalziel waiting for her. The strong smell of coffee, mixed with whatever fragrance James had liberally sprayed, filled the room. Valerie was back in her regular uniform. It had been strange seeing her in casual clothing last night, she’d almost looked taller.
‘Matilda, how are you? Did you sleep well?’ James said, just as Valerie opened her mouth to ask the same questions.
‘Yes. Fine thanks,’ she lied.
‘Take a seat,’ Valerie said as she went to pour a coffee for Matilda.
James offered a sympathetic smile to Matilda. She smiled back but looked away quickly. Every night she wished her husband was back with her. Now it was like her wish had come true, but in a twisted David Lynch kind of way.
‘I don’t think we need to worry about a member of your team leaking information to the press,’ James said. ‘It’s more likely to be the killer. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.’
‘That is a relief,’ Matilda said. ‘I didn’t think any of my officers would have spoken to the press, but I was certainly looking at one or two of them differently, and I didn’t like that.’
‘I can understand. Now, about last night …’ James said, leaving the rest of his comment unsaid.
‘I appreciate you’re both concerned, I am, too. However, I’m not going to fall apart. I’m stronger than you realize,’ she said, directing the final comment to the ACC.
‘James was questioning his original profile before you arrived, Matilda.’
‘I didn’t actually create a profile,’ James corrected her. ‘I’m in two minds as to whether the killer is being a vigilante and targeting the law, or if he’s targeting you directly, Matilda.’
‘W-why would he do that?’ she stuttered, taking a long sip of coffee. She had refused breakfast at Adele’s. Sitting in the office, strong caffeine on an empty stomach, she was starting to get the shakes.
‘You’ve arrested a large number of people in your career, some of them you’re going to piss off. Who has a grudge against you?’
‘I’ve put away many murderers in my time, most are still behind bars – I hope so anyway. I don’t think anyone hates me enough to kill two people.’
‘Matilda.’ Valerie leaned forward on her desk and glanced at James. They had obviously been talking at length about her. ‘The killer is communicating with you. He’s taunting you. From his point of view, he has a very good reason for doing this. I need you to think about who that might be.’
Matilda thought. She didn’t like where this was going – back to the sad detached house in Worrall. Then she wondered if this had something to do with Carl Meagan, then dismissed it. Not everything was about Carl Meagan, no matter what her disturbed mind assumed.
‘What are we doing about finding this killer?’ Matilda asked, louder than she had expected. She could feel a rage beginning to boil inside her.
‘Like I said, I’m wondering if the killer is targeting you for a specific reason. What I cannot put together is the victims and you. Why these victims? Do you know any of them?’
‘No.’
‘Did you work on any of their cases?’
‘No.’
‘So, what could the killer be trying to say to you by these particular victims?’
‘Isn’t that a question we should be asking you?’ Matilda asked James. She looked to Valerie and raised her eyebrows. I said we didn’t need a bloody profiler.
‘I’m going to need more time,’ he replied.
‘Of course you do. More time and maybe another victim or two. Meanwhile the press is out there saying there’s a serial killer on the loose and you’ve got more than half a million people living in Sheffield scared. Not to mention me being spied on in my own home. No rush, you take your time.’
Matilda slammed her coffee cup down on Valerie’s desk and stormed out of the room, leaving the door open.
‘Walpole, Compton, Pelham, Pelham-Holles, Cavendish, Pelham-Holles, Stuart, Grenville, Wentworth …’
Matilda uttered the names of the British prime ministers under her breath then stopped herself.
‘Shit!’ she called out, kicking a vending machine. She had been told to recite the names of prime ministers by her former therapist, Sheila Warminster, whenever she was having an anxiety attack in order to regain control of her breathing. She thought she was better. She thought she was past this. Now her anxiety had reared its ugly head once again and she was back to a time when her husband had recently died and the whole country was blaming her for Carl Meagan going missing. So much for fucking therapy.