back of the drawer she used for items that didn’t have a place to live, she found an emergency supply of the Venlafaxine tablets she used to take. It had been her decision to stop taking them, but she still collected the prescriptions from her GP. With shaking fingers, she took three tablets, two more than prescribed.
Her head pounded and weighed heavy on her shoulders. As she went into the living room, she picked the post up from the front door and threw it onto the coffee table.
James was looking down on her from the mantelpiece. His gorgeous smile, his bright blue eyes, his broad shoulders; he wasn’t judging, he had love in his eyes. He cared for Matilda and he wanted her to be happy. The only way she would be happy again would be for James to enter the living room and wrap his strong arms around her.
Through teary eyes she looked at the post on the coffee table. One envelope stood out among the bills and offers of credit cards; it was a brilliant white and didn’t have a stamp on it. A hand-delivered letter. Matilda ripped open the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper and a cutting from a newspaper. She didn’t notice the tears fall down her face as she saw the scathing article written by Alex Winstanley in today’s edition of The Star. She threw it down and looked at the letter:
You’re a murdering bitch! There’s blood on your hands Detective Chief Inspector Matilda Darke.
Dr Adele Kean pulled open the glass doors to the Murder Room and stepped inside. She immediately noticed the lack of activity and the lack of officers. ‘It’s like a closing-down sale in here,’ she remarked without thinking. Matilda had told her she wasn’t telling the rest of the team the Murder Room was closing.
‘Morning Sian, where is everyone?’
Sian looked up from her computer, probably for the first time that morning. She breathed out and answered Adele, glad at the chance of a break. She leaned back as far as she could in her chair, stretched her aching muscles and enjoyed a very wide yawn.
‘Well, Rory’s with forensics, Scott’s … I’ve no idea where he is actually. I think Aaron’s in … Do you know what, I don’t know where anyone is. I didn’t realize I was on my own in here.’
‘You’re busy then I take it?’
‘You could say that. I’ve been here since six and I haven’t shifted from this desk yet. Anyway, what can I do for you?’
‘Well, I came to see Matilda.’ Adele noticed a tray of muffins next to the kettle. ‘Ooh, are they to share?’
‘They were. Nobody’s had time for a break yet. Help yourself.’
‘Thanks. What’s the occasion?’
‘It’s my wedding anniversary today.’
‘Oh congratulations. How many years?’
‘Thirteen. We’ve been together about twenty years though. It took him six years to propose, bless him.’
‘A bit slow on the uptake?’ Adele asked, still trying to choose a muffin.
‘You could say that. I gave up hinting in the end and just came out with it. I said, “Stuart Mills, are you ever going to propose or should I start making eyes at your brother?”’
Adele laughed. ‘What did he say to that?’
‘After he finished choking on his beer he asked me to marry him. I told him I’d have to think about it.’
‘These are gorgeous, Sian,’ Adele said, her mouth full of chocolate sponge. ‘Did you make these?’
‘Yes. They’re Mary Berry’s.’
‘Well next time you speak to Mary tell her thank you. Are you doing anything special tonight?’
‘You’re joking! By the time Stuart remembers it’s our anniversary it’ll be time for the next one. Do you think you’ll get married one day?’
Adele almost choked on her muffin. ‘God no. Men are only useful for one thing and half the time they’re no use at that. Anyway, I won’t keep you. I’m actually looking for Matilda. Is she in yet?’
‘I haven’t seen her. Mind you, a marching brass band could have walked through and I wouldn’t have noticed.’
‘Well, I’ve got some information about your double shooting. You couldn’t tell her for me could you?’
‘Sure.’
‘Now, let me show you something.’ In the folder she had been cradling in her arms she produced some close-up photographs taken by the scene of crime officers. ‘This is a photo of fibres taken from under Lois Craven’s right hand. They’re black and man-made.’ She took another photograph out of the file. ‘Now, on the night of the shooting I was called out to a suicide on London Road. This is a photograph of the jumper’s right hand. Under the forefinger and middle fingernails there are identical fibres.’
‘So, what are you saying? The bloke committed a double shooting then went to London Road to kill himself? Why not just shoot himself in the head?’
‘No. I’m not saying that. Look at these,’ Adele took out the remaining photographs from the suicide. ‘These are photos of Gerald Arthur Beecham aged 80. Apparently he jumped off the roof of a high-rise block of flats and landed face down on the paving slabs below.’
‘Why apparently?’
‘Look at this one; there’s blood on the back of his jacket.’
‘So?’
‘If he jumped, why would he have blood on the back of his jacket?’
‘Good question. Is it definitely his blood?’
‘Another good question. I’ll answer that in a bit. When we got him back to the mortuary and removed his clothes we found him covered in very fresh bruises. He didn’t jump. He was either pushed or thrown.’
There was silence while Adele allowed Sian to take in what she had just said.
‘Why would anyone want to throw an 80-year-old man from the roof of a block of flats?’
‘I’ve no idea. Fortunately, I don’t have to find the answer to that question, that’s your job.’
‘So, tell me whose blood it is then.’
‘Are you ready for this?’
‘If you decide to cut to a commercial break I’ll slap the make-up off your face.’
‘The blood belongs to Lois Craven.’
‘What? How?’
‘My best guess is that whoever committed the shooting in Ringinglow went to London Road, for whatever reason, got into a bit of a tussle with poor old Mr Beecham, and pushed him over the
