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 on The Star. Is it true you were on a date with a known paedophile the night before he was found murdered?’
Adele was struck dumb. She could hear her heart beating loudly in her chest. She gripped the phone tight and pressed it hard against her ear.
‘Dr Kean? I’ve heard you’re good friends with DCI Matilda Darke. How do you feel knowing that South Yorkshire Police were not aware there was a paedophile living on their patch? Surely if your best friend had known, she could have saved you all this heartache.’
Adele ended the call. ‘Bastard,’ she said, throwing her phone onto the seat beside her. She picked up a sofa cushion and hugged it tight to her chest. She wondered how he had managed to find out all that information about her.
‘Is your house back to normal then, Sian?’ Scott asked from the driver’s seat of the pool car.
‘Yes, thank goodness, but at the expense of these,’ she said, showing off her dry, calloused hands. ‘I used to have lovely nails.’
‘They’ll soon grow back.’
‘Yes, I’ll just get them nice for the summer and they’ll be ruined again. Stuart wants to irrigate the garden, so the house doesn’t flood if we get more heavy rain.’
Scott tried to hide his smile.
They parked in the last available space in the small car park near the main entrance to Sheffield Hallam University. Sian stepped out and took her long black coat from the back seat. The stiff breeze whipped her shoulder-length red hair. She shivered and trotted to keep up with Scott who was a good eight inches taller than her.
They were in luck; George Appleby was on campus and currently in a lecture. A heavily pregnant administrator led the way. While Sian was asking questions about the impending birth, Scott was taking in his surroundings. University seemed so long ago to the twenty-six-year-old DC. He enjoyed his time at Nottingham University. It had been liberating. Although, looking at the students now, he was probably better off where he was. He didn’t remember being so bloody miserable. Yes, they would be leaving university with three times the debt he left with, but while he was studying he didn’t care about that. He had a ball.
Sian and Scott waited in the corridor while the administrator went to collect George from a lecture hall.
‘It won’t be long until your kids are coming to uni, will it?’
‘How old do you think I am?’ Sian asked. ‘My eldest is studying for his GCSEs. There’s plenty of time before he comes here.’
‘What does he want to do?’
‘I’ve no idea. I don’t think he knows either,’ she replied, looking into the distance.
‘From an early age I knew I wanted to be a detective. I think it was Sherlock Holmes that got me interested.’
Sian smiled. ‘Real-life police work is a bit of an eye-opener, isn’t it?’
‘Just a tad.’ He smiled back. ‘Also, I don’t play the violin or smoke opium.’
The door opened, and the administrator stepped out followed by a tall skinny George Appleby. His pale pallor, his mound of unruly dull-red hair, his oversized clothes, made him appear in urgent need of a hot meal.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ the administrator said before she waddled off down the corridor.
‘George Appleby?’ Sian asked.
‘That’s right.’ He looked nervously at the two detectives.
‘I’m DS Sian Mills from South Yorkshire Police. This is DC Andrews. We’d like to ask you a few questions about your father, if that’s OK?’
‘My father?’ he asked in wide-eyed surprise. His eyes darted nervously from side to side to make sure they weren’t overheard.
‘Yes. When was the last time you saw him?’
The nervous look was replaced with one of disgust. ‘I’ve no idea. It was years ago. Why?’
‘Do you know where he lives?’
‘Yes. He’s in Ashfield Prison,’ he said, lowering his voice.
Sian and Scott exchanged glances.
‘What’s going on?’
‘I think it would be better if we continued this conversation back at the station. This isn’t really the place.’
George Appleby sat in the interview room, guarded by PC Steve Harrison, looking up at the crime prevention posters. In the observation bay, Sian and Matilda were studying the skinny young man.
‘So,
