Читать книгу The Fallen: A DCI Matilda Darke short story - Michael Wood - Страница 9

‘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.

‘I’m guessing the one in the middle with the big bum is Dr Adele Kean,’ Matilda said, folding her arms.

Adele almost jumped up. ‘Cheeky cow. I lost three pounds last week.’

‘Really? Hole in your purse?’

‘My bum doesn’t look big does it?’

‘Adele, in these suits we all look like fat Teletubbies.’

Adele looked around the room. ‘No wonder kids are weird these days if this is what they’re watching.’

‘DCI Darke?’ DS Christian Brady came into the living room. ‘DI Hales has had to go back to Central. He asked me to talk you through the scene.’

Matilda rolled her eyes. Her main competitor for the DCI job in MIT was DI Ben Hales. When a dedicated murder unit had first been mooted he had thrown himself at the mercy of the ACC and practically begged for the job. However, being married to a former Chief Superintendent’s daughter doesn’t necessarily open doors for you. In Ben’s case many doors were double locked and the key thrown away. Matilda often felt sorry Ben still hadn’t been promoted. He was a good detective and deserved recognition for his hard work. Unfortunately, those higher up felt nepotism might be suspected if Hales was given the head job.

To say Ben took losing out on the MIT role hard would be an understatement. He had barely said two words to Matilda since she started. Although he was solely in charge of CID, he was bound to resent handing over cases to her when he was qualified to see them through to the end.

His mood had dropped. He had never been one for socializing with officers at the end of the day and was an incredibly private man, but since the MIT came into force, he had retreated further into himself. It was like he was plotting something, like he was seething inside, and waiting until the time was right to stage a coup.

‘Is Ben still in a mood?’ Matilda asked Christian.

‘As usual. It doesn’t help that a drug dealer he’s been after for the past three months turned up dead yesterday.’

‘Murder?’

‘Overdose. It shuts down an angle he’s been working on into dealing on Burngreave. It’s back to square one. There’s no room on the MIT for a DS is there, ma’am?’ Christian asked, looking hopeful.

‘We’ve only been going a week! Tell me what’s going on here.’ She said, wanting to get off the subject of Ben Hales. He really did need to grow up.

‘Ok. Well, a woman called Andrea Barnes came calling for her colleague, Iain Kilbride, when he failed to show up for work. There was no answer so she looked through the letterbox. She thought she saw him dead. When a neighbour looked through, he didn’t see anyone. He went around the back, noticed the broken window and blood on the windowsill and gave us a ring.’

‘And who is Andrea Barnes?’

‘She is, or rather was, Iain Kilbride’s boss.’

‘Why did she come calling for him?’

‘Because he hadn’t turned up for work or called in?’

‘What did he do?’

‘Coach driver. Barnes Coaches. You must have seen them; bright green and yellow things.’

Matilda nodded. ‘Yes, I know them. Where is Andrea Barnes now?’

‘She and the neighbour have given brief statements. I’ve said we’ll need to talk to them in more detail. They’re in the flat next door with an old man and a PC.’

‘Thanks Christian.’

Matilda turned and looked at the stricken man on the living room floor. Iain Kilbride was overweight and balding with thin, brittle brown-grey hair, three days’ worth of stubble and stained clothing. His fingers were yellowed with nicotine; his brown cardigan was covered in cigarette burns as were the arms of the battered looking armchair in the centre of the room.

‘Iain Kilbride. Why is that name familiar?’ Matilda asked.

‘Doesn’t ring any bells with me,’ Adele said. ‘Anyway, if you take a closer look,’ she continued, leaning over the body and turning the head slightly to one side. ‘You will see a very deep and very nasty head wound.’

‘Is that what killed him?’

‘At a guess I’d say he suffered massive internal bleeding from the blow to the head. But look around you at the empty vodka bottles – he could have been blind drunk and just fallen over.’

‘So it might not be murder at all?’

‘No.’

‘Then what the hell are we doing here?’

‘There’s a broken window.’

‘Scuffle with a burglar maybe?’

‘You’re the detective. I’ll try and fit Mr Kilbride in for a post mortem today. I’ll let you know.’

‘Thank you. I know it’s not an exact science, but any clue on time of death?’

Adele gave Matilda a knowing smile. ‘You’re stealing my lines. No more than a couple of hours at the most. I’m sure you’ll let me know if I can improve on that time frame after the PM.’

‘You’ve missed your calling, Adele. You should be a stand up.’

Matilda turned away from the body. Iain Kilbride looked in his late fifties and obviously lived a solitary life. One armchair, one chair at the small dining table in the corner of the room. There were no expensive items, no ornaments, paintings or framed photographs. This was a sad man living out his sad life in a very sad-looking flat. An unhappy end too.

‘Well I think we can safely say it is definitely Iain Kilbride,’ Sian said, looking through the passport she had found in a 1970s sideboard.

‘Let’s have a look,’ Matilda took it from her. ‘It’s expired. Bloody hell, he’s only forty-four. I’d have added fifteen years at least,’ she said, turning back to the body. ‘Have you found anything else?’

‘No. It’s mostly bills, a few receipts, and a copy of the Radio Times from 1983.’

Matilda looked at the front cover of the slightly dog-eared magazine. It was dated 5-11 March 1983 and showed actors Geraldine Chaplin and Christopher Guard in character for an adaptation of the Daphne du Maurier novel My Cousin Rachel.

‘I wonder why he kept this,’ she said, flicking through it.

‘I don’t know,’ Sian replied. ‘It was lying at the bottom of the drawer under bank statements and gas bills.’

‘I doubt he’s been living here since 1983. He would only have been what? 17? Maybe the magazine came with the sideboard.’ Matilda was about the throw the magazine down when she stopped. ‘Oh my God. It’s him.’

Matilda showed the article to Sian. There was a half-page photograph to accompany it which showed a teenage Iain Kilbride in a leather jacket and tight dirty jeans sitting on a bale of hay in a barn. His hair was dark, thick and wavy. He skin was healthy and tanned and he stared directly at the camera with a smouldering look. It was a world away from the bloated corpse of a forty-four-year-old man on yellow-brown carpet in a depressing flat in Sheffield.

‘That’s where I recognize the name from,’ Matilda said, as she read through the article. ‘He was in Emmerdale. Well, it was called Emmerdale Farm then.’

‘Oh. I’m more of a Coronation Street fan myself. Did you see the big tram crash last night? The effects were poor but it was a good stunt. I can’t wait to see who they’ll kill off.’

Matilda had stopped listening. She was reading the article about a new heartthrob joining the soap. The story described Billy Hodges as a bad lad from Manchester who would arrive in Beckindale and cause trouble with the men and a flutter among the women. Played by new up-and-coming actor, Iain Kilbride. Matilda frowned as she vaguely remembered him.

She turned to look down at the body on the floor. It couldn’t be the same man, surely. The glossy photograph showed a handsome, tall, muscular young man with a thick head of hair and full red lips. The corpse on the ground didn’t seem tall; he was overweight, his skin was grey and wrinkled, his lips were chapped, his fingers were fat and yellow. This was not a former soap star. It couldn’t be.

‘Somebody might want to come and look at this.’ A voice called out from one of the rooms in the hallway.

Matilda put the magazine down and, with Sian following, made her way to the master bedroom.

Inside was a double bed and wall of fitted wardrobes. The veneer doors were tar stained. This room was just as dated as everywhere else in the flat.

The wall of scene of crime officers moved aside when Matilda entered the room to show her what was lying on the bed.

Matilda looked down at the three laptops. ‘So?’

‘Three laptops,’ one of the officers said. He pointed to the bedside table. ‘An expensive mobile phone and iPod. There’s also a wallet on the chest of drawers with over two hundred pounds in twenties and several credit cards inside.’

‘So he wasn’t robbed then,’ Matilda pointed out. ‘Which begs the question – why break in to kill a man and not take anything?’