of cold water thrown in the face. She suddenly sounded wide awake.
‘Shooting? Where? Who?’
‘I’m on Clough Lane – it’s Ringinglow.’
‘I know where Clough Lane is,’ she snapped.
‘As you know I’m a few detectives down and I’m going to need all hands on deck. I was wondering—’
‘Let me stop you right there Matilda. I was going to talk to you first thing in the morning. I’m afraid the Murder Investigation Team no longer exists.’
The scream woke Martin Craven with a start. His eyes wide and his heart thumping in his chest, he wondered where he was.
A second scream and he jumped up. He must have fallen asleep on the sofa. The cry was coming from upstairs. He left the living room and ran upstairs, taking them two at a time. He knew where the offending noise was coming from.
He burst into the small box room and turned on the light. Sitting up in the single bed was his youngest son, Thomas, aged eight.
Thomas was glistening with sweat, his face red, and tears streaming down his face. ‘I had a bad dream,’ he said loudly, too frightened to sign.
Martin ran towards him, sat on the edge of the bed and put his arms around him. He pulled him close and tight and tried to hush him from waking everyone else in the house.
He released him so Thomas could read his father’s lips. ‘It’s all right, Thomas, calm down. It was just a dream. There’s nothing to worry about,’ he enunciated.
‘Someone was chasing me …’
‘Now, come on Thomas. We’ve talked about this before. They’re just dreams. They’re not real. You’re perfectly safe.’
Thomas sniffed and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his Batman pyjamas. ‘I’ve had an accident,’ he said, almost under his breath.
Martin carefully pushed back the Avengers duvet and saw the wet patches on his pyjama trousers and the fitted sheet. ‘Don’t worry about it. Come on, hop out and we’ll clean it up.’ He signed and spoke at the same time.
‘Are you mad at me?’
‘Of course I’m not mad.’ He gave him a kiss on the top of his head. ‘You go and have a wash and put on a new pair of pyjamas. I’ll change your bedding and we’ll meet in the kitchen and have a glass of milk and a few Oreos.’
Thomas’s eyes lit up. ‘Just us two?’
‘Just us two.’
Thomas jumped out of bed. The prospect of milk and cookies brightened him up. He picked up the two hearing aids from his bedside table and placed them in as he trotted to the bathroom.
Martin took off the duvet cover and carefully lifted off the fitted sheet. Before he took them downstairs to the utility room he looked into his own room expecting to see his wife fast asleep in bed. She wasn’t. The bed hadn’t been slept in. He looked at his watch. It was almost midnight.
His wife should have been home more than four hours ago.
It took less than five minutes for Matilda, DC Scott Andrews, and DC Joseph Glass to get to Broad Elms Lane from the crime scene.
Matilda had been hoping for a female Family Liaison Officer, especially if the Hardakers had young children; a six-foot tall, stick thin, geeky looking bloke with stubble and thick-rimmed glasses may not have the natural ability to offer succour to petrified kids wanting their parents. It didn’t help that the quickly drafted-in DC Glass reeked of the local pub.
‘When did you complete the FLO course, Glass?’
‘A couple of weeks ago ma’am.’
‘Is this your first assignment?’
‘It certainly is,’ he replied with a smile. ‘You don’t need to worry though. I’ve done plenty of courses since joining the police. I’m on the fast-track scheme too. I know what I’m doing.’
‘Do you have any kids of your own, Glass?’
‘No. It’s just me and a tortoise.’
DC Andrews sniggered from the driver’s seat while Matilda could feel the oncoming tension of a stress headache creeping up the back of her neck.
Since hearing of the fate of the Murder Room, Matilda had been a mass of seething rage. She had helped to set up the Murder Investigation Team (South Yorkshire), to give it its formal title, five years ago, and now it was being axed, closed, deleted.
It was no secret that the future of the department was in doubt, but Matilda had been silently confident that ACC Masterson could save it, if she worked hard on the decision makers.
The national press had not been good to South Yorkshire Police; their part in the Hillsborough disaster and the unprecedented levels of sexual abuse in Rotherham had placed the force under intense scrutiny. Budgets had been slashed and non-essential projects and departments shelved or dropped. Even police dogs weren’t immune; several were facing early retirement. It would appear that the Murder Room was also one such department. What did that mean for Matilda’s future?
She thought of her team: Aaron and Sian were two very dedicated sergeants. They had been with the MIT from day one. It would be a waste of their talents to go back to investigating burglaries and druggies with egos from the sink estates. Matilda decided not to say anything to anyone yet. She would have a more detailed word with the ACC in the morning and go from there.
Broad Elms Lane was picturesque. Residents seemed to take care of their properties; neatly trimmed lawns and hedges, well-kept driveways, swept pavements, gleaming windows and doors, and not a single item of litter in sight. It was like they were anticipating a royal visit.
Matilda stepped out of the car and looked around her. Most of the houses were in darkness. It was rapidly approaching midnight, after all. The breeze had picked up and she felt a chill run through her; it may have been the task ahead, the breach into the unknown of what lay behind the front door of the Hardaker house; young children, teenagers, a baby? This was not going to be easy.
Everything about the front door was symmetrical: a small potted fern tree either side of the door, the pattern in the stained glass, even the door number, 101, was symmetrical. The gravel driveway was neatly swept too, not a stone out of place. A perfectly designed entrance to what appeared to be, from the outside, an orderly family home.
The property was in darkness save for the faint glow from the edge of the closed curtains in a downstairs front room. The sound of the doorbell echoed through the house and down most of the street. Matilda wondered how many curtains on the opposite side of the road were twitching right now. A caller in the middle of the night was rare; three people, smartly dressed with grim faces, screamed plain-clothes police delivering bad news.
The door opened and Matilda was surprised to see a tall woman around her own age, early forties. For a second she was
