to get out. Ryan watched as he waddled to the toilets then into the small kiosk shop.
‘Are we nearly there?’ Ryan asked, looking at the reflection of the driver in the rear-view mirror. He didn’t get a reply. Ryan was the enemy. He was not to be engaged with.
The fat one tested the suspension as he eased himself back into the car. ‘I needed that. Red Bull might give you wings but it goes straight through me. I bought you a Twix. They didn’t have any granola.’
‘Not much bloody difference, is there?’
‘If you don’t want it, I’ll have it.’
‘And listen to you moan about being borderline diabetic? No, thank you.’
Ryan wasn’t acknowledged. He wasn’t asked if he wanted anything from the shop, or if he needed the toilet. To them he was a tumour – difficult to ignore and impossible to forget.
Three hours and forty minutes after they left Norwich they arrived at their destination in Sheffield. Off a main road and down a long bone-shaking track, they came to a set of electronic gates with razor wire on the top.
The driver lowered his window and leaned out. He pressed the call button on the intercom, and the small screen above lit up. The face of a man loomed out at them in black and white.
‘Yes?’
‘We have Ryan Asher with us.’
‘Drive up to the second set of gates and turn off your engine.’
The screen went blank, and the gates slowly opened. They drove through and stopped when they reached a second set of gates. The first set closed behind them. They were trapped in a small rectangle with high fencing on all four sides and barbed wire tightly coiled along the top. Nothing happened.
‘What’s going on?’ the driver whispered to his colleague.
‘We’re being filmed and photographed from every conceivable angle.’
After a few long minutes of silence, the second set of gates opened. Norris turned on the engine and continued driving along the pothole-lined track until they reached the entrance to the imposing nineteenth-century building.
Ryan remained in the back of the car as it pulled up. The driver opened the door and looked at the frightened teenager.
‘Out you get.’
As Ryan was led out of the car he looked up at the terrifying building casting long shadows from the full moon directly above it. He was mesmerized by the imposing façade; the massive bay windows; the severe leaded panes of glasses. It was something out of a classic Hammer Horror film.
The front door opened and a large barrel of a man waddled down the steps. A yellow glow from the lighting behind enveloped him.
‘Ryan Asher?’
‘Yes.’
‘Welcome to Starling House.’
DCI Matilda Darke’s morning routine had changed beyond all recognition over the past month. The alarm clock was set for six o’clock, though she was usually awake and up before it sounded. She no longer dragged herself out of bed; she threw back the duvet and hopped out.
She headed for the conservatory where a newly acquired treadmill waited for her. She plugged her iPod into it – a little bit of David Bowie to start the day – and began a five kilometre jog. Matilda had only been doing this routine for a few weeks but she was sure her thighs and calves were getting tighter. Her bum certainly felt firmer and, maybe she was kidding herself, but her black jacket didn’t seem as figure-hugging. It would be a long time before she could wear the size ten Armani suit hiding away in her wardrobe but she was getting there – slowly.
It had been the idea of her friend, Adele Kean, to get in shape. Maybe it would make her feel better, not just physically, but mentally too – give her something else to focus on rather than grieving for her late husband, James. Adele was a member of Virgin Active and managed to drag Matilda along with her. However, fifteen minutes into her first session and Matilda knew a gym was most definitely not for her.
She looked at herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror and didn’t like the wreck staring back at her. The whole open-plan gym felt like a zoo; preening and presenting body-beautifuls – not so much working out as auditioning for God only knew what. The stains some people left on the equipment reminded Matilda of animals scent-marking their territory. The selfie-obsessives would never welcome Matilda into their den with her neurosis and baggy sweaters – not that she wanted them to.
So she treated herself to a treadmill and a couple of kettlebells and turned the conservatory into a make-shift gym. She wasn’t sure James would approve, the conservatory was his pride and joy, but as long as Matilda was well and functioning normally he would be looking down on her and smiling, especially that time when she caught her headphone wire on the treadmill handles and fell off.
The five kilometre jog took her thirty-two minutes. She was desperate to get it under thirty and promised herself she would jog at a faster pace tomorrow morning. She had a quick shower, breakfasted on a high-fibre cereal and black coffee and was ready to leave the house.
Today was a rare day off for DCI Matilda Darke. She could have spent it relaxing at home and flicking through the many channels of trash TV, but one look at her wedding photo would bring a flood of memories to the surface and, before she knew it, the whole day would be lost to her depressive state – why hadn’t she met James sooner? Why hadn’t they had children? Why had he been taken so early? Besides, she had promised her parents to call in for a long-overdue visit and she had errands to run.
Matilda opened the front door, took in a lungful of autumnal air and stopped dead in her tracks. On the doorstep at her feet lay a large padded envelope. She looked around but there was nobody about. She picked it up. On the front was her name in large capital letters. It had been hand delivered. She took it into the house and closed the door firmly behind her.
The package felt heavy. She sat on the sofa and slowly pulled open the tab.
‘Oh God, no.’
Matilda pulled out a thick hardback book. The picture on the front was of a smiling blond-haired, blue-eyed, seven-year-old boy. The title of the book, Carl, in big red letters at the top, and the author’s name, ‘Sally Meagan’, at the bottom. This was the official version of the disappearance of Carl Meagan, as seen through the eyes of his heartbroken mother. Carl would forever be on Matilda’s mind; the boy she failed to rescue from his kidnappers and return home to his doting parents. And now there was a book. The whole world would read about her failings.
Matilda opened the front cover and saw it had been personally signed:
‘Matilda, an advanced copy just for you. May it give you as many sleepless nights as it’s given me. Sally Meagan.’
Carl
by
Sally Meagan
Introduction
