By the time Matilda saw natural daylight she had been in the Medico-Legal Centre for over six hours. Faith had returned to the station, probably telling everyone how Matilda had fainted during a post-mortem. A DCI collapsing at the sight of blood would be comedy gold among the uniformed officers. They were just getting over the video Rory filmed on his mobile phone last year of Matilda being lifted over floodwater by a hunky fireman.
The post-autopsy briefing was conducted in the windowless family room. The heady smell of different fragrances of air freshener, coupled with Dr Simon Browes delighting in giving Matilda all the details in glorious technicolour, made her want to vomit all over his designer shirt and tight trousers.
In the end, he summed up what Matilda had already surmised: Brian Appleby died by strangulation. The blood and skin samples under his fingernails were evidence he struggled. Unfortunately, the samples belonged to him. He had pulled at the rope as it tightened around his neck and squeezed the life out of him.
As Matilda made her way, delicately, to the car park, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for Brian. Then she remembered who he was, how he had fooled Adele, and his victims. She felt sick. She needed something to eat.
A tentative knock on the glass door caused Matilda to look up from her cluttered desk.
‘Ma’am, can I have a word?’
‘Of course, Ranjeet, come on in.’
DC Ranjeet Deshwal had recently transferred from West Yorkshire Police. He was in his mid-twenties, slim with the shiniest black hair Matilda had ever seen. He wore rimless glasses and a stud in each ear. She wanted to ask him how he managed to get the knot in his tie so big but, when she looked at his neck, all she could picture was the lifeless body of Brian Appleby hanging from his ceiling.
‘DI Christian Brady is observing an interview,’ he began in a thick West Yorkshire accent. ‘He wanted me to tell you that three lads have been arrested in Gleadless for the assault on Alec Routledge. One of them has admitted it and landed his two mates in it too. They don’t know anything about Brian Appleby, though.’
‘I never thought they were linked. Thanks for telling me, Ranjeet.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘How are you settling into South Yorkshire Police?’ she asked as he was heading for the door.
He stopped in the doorway and turned around. Matilda was pretty sure his smile was fake. ‘I’m enjoying it. Great bunch of people.’ He nodded several times before leaving the office.
Matilda tried hard not to smile. A great bunch of people? Was that true? She looked through the window at the officers going about their duties. There was only Scott and Faith she knew by first name. The room was packed yet she didn’t know a single one of them. You’re to blame for that. Invite them out for a drink.
‘I’ll think about it,’ she said quietly to herself, before rolling her eyes.
Sitting in Matilda’s office, Aaron Connolly and Scott Andrews were squeezed into the small space. All three had a cup of coffee balanced somewhere on Matilda’s untidy desk and they’d raided Sian’s snack drawer. She was due back tomorrow, so someone was going to have to run to the supermarket to replenish the stolen items.
‘It turns out Brian Appleby did have kids,’ Scott said, opening a Boost. ‘Alicia is twenty-one. She’s currently on a gap year in France. George is nineteen, and, get this, he’s studying at Sheffield Hallam University.’
‘Why am I only learning this now?’ Matilda asked.
‘I only found out myself this lunchtime. Brian had an address book, but all the names were initials. I’ve been looking them up, and George Appleby lives in a shared student property on Penrhyn Road.’
‘Maybe that’s why Brian moved to Sheffield then. To be closer to his son. I think we’re going to need a word with this George. Scott, go along with Faith and bring him in.’
‘Tonight?’
Matilda looked out of the window and noticed it was dark. A glance at her phone told her it was just past eight o’clock. ‘First thing in the morning then. You can go with Sian, Scott.’
‘Will do.’
‘Who spoke to the wife?’
‘Unfortunately, I did,’ Aaron said. ‘She was very short with me and blamed me for bringing him back into her life. She practically slammed the phone down when I asked where she was on Thursday night.’
‘Did you get an answer?’
‘Sort of. I’ve been on to the local police in Southend. They’re going to send someone round to have a more in-depth chat with her. I don’t think she’s a suspect.’
‘Did Essex Police go to speak to Brian Appleby’s old neighbours?’
‘They did. None of the neighbours have been in contact with Brian since he left for Sheffield. They were glad to see him go. I think they were worried house prices would drop.’
‘OK. What about his neighbours on Linden Avenue?’
‘Faith and Ranjeet are back there with a team of uniforms. They’re trying to catch anyone who was out during the day,’ Aaron said. ‘So far, none of them are aware of Brian’s past. They thought he was the ideal neighbour.’
‘Jesus, it just shows you we have no idea who lives next door, do we?’
‘So where do we go from here?’ Aaron asked.
Matilda leaned back in her chair and blew out her cheeks. She had no idea. ‘Well let’s see if anything comes up once the son and all the neighbours have been questioned. If not, we’ll have to rely on Forensics to pull something out of the hat.’
‘I thought you might like to know,’ Aaron said, ‘the phone lines have been ringing off the hook.’
‘Oh! Witnesses?’
‘No. Since The Star printed that story about paedophiles in Sheffield, we’ve had people calling in and reporting anyone they suspect to be child molesters.’
‘Bloody hell. Aren’t people lovely?’
‘I know. The calls are going to have to be followed up though.’
‘Right,’ Matilda said. ‘I’ll have a word with Christian. We’ll put a team together. This is all we need.’
Adele Kean was doing something she hadn’t done since Chris was a baby – she was watching a soap opera. She recognized the character of Eric Pollard (just), but everyone else was a mystery to her. Wearing tracksuit bottoms and an oversized sweater, her hair uncombed and her face without make-up, she sat on the sofa staring into the distance. How could she have been so naive as to trust a stranger, especially one she had met on the Internet. Never again.
She had spent the afternoon deleting her profile on the three websites she had registered with and the apps from her mobile phone. From now on, her mobile would be just for making calls, sending texts, and playing solitaire between post-mortems. The game for the lonely. How apt.
The landline started to ring. She decided to ignore it. It would only be a company trying to get her to claim for PPI. It stopped ringing and started again almost immediately. She looked at the display – unknown number. If the caller couldn’t identify themselves, then she didn’t see why she should answer. It stopped then started again.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Adele exclaimed. She picked up the handset and pressed the green button. ‘Hello?’ she asked, an annoyance in her voice.
‘Dr Adele Kean?’
‘Yes.’
‘My name is Danny Hanson, I’m a reporter