Matilda had phoned Sian at home last night and brought her up to speed on what she and Christian had been talking about. Sian received the news in the same way Matilda had done – with shock and disbelief. An hour later, they were still talking, more rationally now, and Matilda had left her DS with the task of going through the entire team and asking herself if any of them had changed recently. Was their behaviour giving cause for concern; were there any secret phone calls or unexplained absences?
The next morning, as arranged, Matilda and Sian met up in her office at seven o’clock, before anyone else had arrived.
‘I’ve hardly slept a wink,’ Sian said, slumping down in the seat opposite Matilda.
‘I didn’t get much sleep either.’
‘Do you honestly think one of us is a killer?’ Sian said. They had discussed this question over the phone last night, but Sian preferred face to face so she could get a true reaction from the DCI.
‘No I don’t,’ Matilda replied honestly.
‘Neither do I. So then why are we doing this?’
‘To put our minds at rest.’ She shrugged.
‘My mind is at rest. Well, it was until you called last night.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No. Don’t apologize. We need to cover every angle.’ Sian dug in her oversized handbag for her notebook. ‘I wrote down everyone’s name last night and started to go through them. I immediately crossed off Rory, Scott and Aaron, as I’ve known them for years. But then I thought, should I really cross them off? What do you think?’
Matilda put her head in her hands and let out an audible sigh. ‘If one of those three ended up being a killer I’d … well … I couldn’t continue in this work anymore. It would just destroy everything.’
‘I know what you mean. Now, based on the assumption that the killer is the same person who broke into Elizabeth Ward’s car, we’re looking for someone white, tall, and slim. I know that’s not much to go on, but it’s a start. I’ve crossed off the majority of the women, especially the smaller ones. Also, based on general consensus, I’ve stuck to the men, as they are more likely to be serial killers.’
‘OK. And?’
‘I’ve come up with nothing.’
‘Sorry?’
‘We’re left with four DCs, three DSs and one DI, and that’s Christian. Out of those eight, I can’t see any of them being the killer.’
‘To be honest with you, Sian, I don’t think it’s one of the team either. However, when you look at the evidence: who would have known Brian Appleby was living in Sheffield? That Katie Reaney was really Naomi Parish? Only a police officer.’
‘I don’t like this,’ Sian said, on the verge of tears.
‘I shouldn’t have asked you, I’m sorry. Look, why don’t I go out and get us a couple of lattes before we start the day proper?’
‘I’d like that.’ She tried to smile.
As Matilda was leaving the office, she placed a reassuring arm on Sian’s shoulder, squeezing it tight. This really was a nightmare.
Walking towards the car park, she past uniformed officers and plain-clothed detectives, all of whom she had seen at crime scenes and in the canteen. They smiled at her, some said hello, a new recruit asked her where the toilets were. Before, she wouldn’t have given any of them a second thought. Now, she registered them all, cataloguing their height, build, skin colour.
Gordon Berry had spent the night shivering in a bus shelter. He hadn’t slept. He couldn’t call anyone because his mobile was at home. It was on the table in the hallway, along with his car keys and his wallet. The only change he had in his back pocket amounted to less than a pound. He had thought of going to a colleague’s house, but that would have led to questions. He didn’t want to have to start lying again. So, once he’d felt a safe distance away from the Hangman, he found a bus shelter off a main road, and curled up in a corner, out of sight.
Throughout the night, Gordon had gone over every little detail of the man who had broken into his home and tried to kill him. When he closed his eyes tight he pictured his hair, the colour and style, the paleness of his skin, his small ears (the left one had been pierced at some point). The small scar above his left eyebrow, his slightly crooked teeth, his smell (a designer fragrance he had smelled before but couldn’t remember where). He would be able to describe the Hangman perfectly to the police.
It seemed to take ages for darkness to fade into light. The low cloud didn’t help. Just after six o’clock, when the traffic began to build, people came out to walk their dogs, deliver newspapers and set off early to work, Gordon left the bus shelter. He wondered if people were staring at him. He must look a mess. He could feel two days’ worth of stubble, his mouth tasted foul and stale. He could smell himself too, and it wasn’t pleasant. Although, there was a hint of the fragrance his attacker had been wearing clinging to his shirt. Maybe somebody at the police station would be able to identify it.
Gordon was shattered. He tried to walk quickly into town, but his legs wouldn’t allow it. They felt heavy. He dragged his feet with as much energy as he could muster, all the while looking around, wondering if the killer was searching for him. He tried to remember the other victims from the newspaper. He’d killed them in their own homes, hanged them. Last night, he had failed for the first time. Would he give up on him and go for his next victim, or were his sights still firmly fixed on Gordon? After all, the killer hadn’t been wearing a mask. Surely he knew that. Surely he wouldn’t want Gordon going to the police. So, where was he?
Carrying a large latte in each hand, a flapjack in one pocket and a brownie in the other, Matilda made her way towards the police station. It was almost eight o’clock and traffic was building up on the roads. Matilda had been up for hours. It seemed like the working day should already be underway.
Matilda climbed the few steps and was about to pull open the door to the main entrance, when it was flung open from the other side with force. It hit her in the face and she fell backwards, down the steps and on to the cold concrete, landing with a thud. The cardboard Costa cups splattered beside her, spilling their contents.
The man coming out of the station ignored Matilda. He jumped down the steps, over Matilda and ran at speed across the forecourt.
‘Ma’am, are you all right?’
Matilda looked up to see a blurred uniformed officer standing over her.
‘What the hell?’
‘I’ve no idea, ma’am. He just shot out of the station, before I had time to say anything to him.’
The PC slowly helped Matilda up. They both turned in the direction of the fleeing man, who, in his haste, didn’t check for any traffic and ran straight into the path of a red Fiat Punto. Fortunately, the car wasn’t speeding. He was hit a glancing blow and thrown onto the pavement.
‘Get after him,’ Matilda instructed the PC.
‘What’s going on?’ DC Rory Fleming asked, coming out of the main entrance. ‘Ma’am, are you all right? Have you fallen?’
‘No I haven’t bloody fallen, Rory. Get me up, will you?’ She held out her hand.
‘Are you injured?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so,’ she said. She was dazed from the fall and hitting her head. Her hands were grazed and her pride dented.
‘Who was that?’ Rory asked PC Harrison.
‘I’ve no idea. He just got up and ran, well, limped, off.’
Rory and Steve made their way back into the station. Matilda heard Rory mention something about a first aid kit and an accident book. She remained in the doorway looking out over the traffic.
In the distance, the man stopped and turned back to the station. He and Matilda made eye contact over the sea of passing cars. She tried to read something from his facial expression, but he just appeared to be exhausted and confused.
Gordon Berry turned away first and hobbled off.
Matilda put her hand to the back of her head. It came away covered in blood.