‘Not my little girl,’ a woman’s faint voice carried in the mildewed air. I had heard it before. I’d heard lots of things in this godforsaken place.
I gripped the door-knob and was met with resistance. Grunting, I forced it to turn. There was a sense of surrender as the rusted mechanism came free. Had Middleton gone straight to the wardrobe, or searched the room for his daughter? Had he looked behind the door? Pushed aside the long limp velvet drapes that touched the floor? The wardrobe did not survive the shot. The room was deathly quiet, an echo chamber for my pulsing heart. Dropping to my knees, I traced the stain of blood ingrained on the wooden floor. It had to be hers. The key to the wardrobe door was found by police in Middleton’s wife’s pocket. A last, desperate act to save her child. Then the last shot of gunfire, ripping through the silence as Middleton turned the gun on himself. I lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, in the same position he had been found. It was a pleasure to resurrect the Midnight Man.
5
‘It’ll be OK. Relax. You’ll get through this.’ The voice was that of Sarah’s husband. She didn’t want to hear it. Not today. ‘Did you hear me? I said you’ll get through …’
‘Leave me alone!’ She raised her hands to her head, as if swatting away an errant fly. She would be fine. She had to be. Besides, it was just one day. One day to get her bearings, then the weekend off and she’d begin properly on Monday. She had her DI to thank for that. A bloom of guilt rose. She shouldn’t have allowed him to mollycoddle her but today, she was grateful for it. ‘Sherlock. Here, puss, where are you? Mummy’s off now.’ Her marmalade moggy was stretched out on the sofa, regarding her with disdain. ‘Be a good boy, I’ll be back before you know it.’ She reached out to pet him, withdrawing her hand sharply as he hissed. He had always been David’s cat. But apart from her DI, he was the only friend she had. ‘Right,’ she said, checking the mirror in the hall. She tugged at the waistband of her trousers before smoothing back her hair. Was that a pimple breaking out on her chin? ‘Oh, God,’ she groaned. ‘I’m a mess.’
‘You look fine.’
Sarah rolled her eyes. ‘Not one bloody word from you, you hear me? Not one fucking word!’ Grabbing her keys from the hall table, she traipsed out the front door. She had so many things to remember. Rule one: Don’t talk to yourself. Rule two: Don’t talk to him. Rule three: Don’t take any crap. Rule four: Don’t talk about what happened. Rule five: Act normal. Rule six … She sighed. She couldn’t remember rule six.
Sarah inhaled. After gearing up to this day for months, she was already falling apart at the seams.
She rammed her Mini Cooper into gear as she reversed off her front drive. ‘Sorry,’ she said, as the gears ground. She swore beneath her breath. She had broken rule oneandfive and she wasn’t even out of her drive.
It felt good to be out and about, and Sarah was looking forward to reacquainting herself with the town she had spent the last twelve months hiding from. The roads seemed busier these days as people were drawn to Slayton, despite the chilly November weather.
As they drove the incline towards town, visitors were treated to a breathtaking view of the lake. Further up was Blackhall Manor, perched high on its hilltop with the woodlands as its backdrop. It overlooked the residents of Upper Slayton and the crop of newbuilds and gated communities that were popping up. Town was centred around one long, tree-lined street with a mixture of chain and independent stores, set back on broad pavements. The train tracks running through the centre acted as a divide between the classes, and every hour, the electric gates rose and fell. Properties on the upper side could fetch tens of thousands of pounds more than their counterparts on the other side of the gates. So while Upper Slayton residents frequented the bistros with their striped awnings and artisan coffee shops, people from Lower Slayton preferred the cheap and cheerful cafés, and livelier music bars.
But one building was the great leveller. Sarah stared up at the police station, a newly refurbished concrete monstrosity which loomed over Slayton High Street, not far from the train tracks. The station flag billowed at the front of the building, above the steps. Sarah drove around to the back and parked in the rear car park, her rusted Mini painfully out of place. The bumped and battered little red car didn’t help her image, but each dent held a memory and she couldn’t bear to part with it. David had always hated it, but to Sarah it was a familiar friend in a chaotic world.
Head up, chest out,she thought, as she slammed the car door. This could either be the best or worst morning she’d have this year.You’ll win them round.She breathed in a lungful of air so crisp it could have been a spring day.
As she gazed up at the four floors of windows, her mouth was bone dry. The last time she was in this building she was escorted out through the back entrance. She gathered up all her reserves before passing through reception. Her arms felt empty, but everything she needed was inside. Everything except for her self-confidence, that was. She needed to bring that herself.
Her first stop was with her old DI, Bernard Lee. She had considered going straight to her office, to rip the plaster off, but Bernard had helped her so much in her career and was the tonic she needed right now. Saint Bernard, they called him. Sarah liked to believe the nickname was down to his good nature, rather than his jowls. It was hard to believe he came from running his family’s slaughterhouse to joining the police. He had a penchant for hopeless cases, which is perhaps where she came in.
Bernard was sitting behind his desk, a broad-shouldered man no stranger to physical work. His office was situated just across the hall from CID. His workspace was littered with files and folders, and photographs of children and grandchildren took pride of place on a back wall shelf.
‘Take the weight off,’ he said as she entered, gesturing for her to sit down. ‘How are you doing? Chomping at the bit?’ Bernard’s use of idioms was known by all.
‘It’s good to be back,’ she said, wondering if she should tell him she was quaking in her boots instead.
‘Coffee?’
‘No thanks.’ Her stomach was in knots as it was. The pot behind Bernard’s desk was always brewing, despite being against health and safety regulations. It seemed that police could be trusted with everything except a coffee pot.
‘I’ve spoken to the team.’ He glanced over the rim of his coffee cup. ‘I know you won’t want any fuss, so I’ve told them to carry on as normal. They’re looking forward to working with you again.’
Sarah gave him a look to say that she knew better. ‘Are you sure? Because the last time I saw them, things didn’t go well.’ That was the understatement of the year. It made her cringe to think about it.
Bernard rested his cup on his desk. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. I’m as much to blame as anyone, I should have noticed something was wrong.’ He gave her a knowing look. Bernard was one of the only people in the station who knew everything about her.
‘If anyone is to blame it’s …’ But the words died on her tongue. She could not bear to say his name aloud. It had taken a year of therapy to stem the anger she felt inside.
‘I know.’ Bernard delivered a reassuring smile. ‘Old news now.’
But it wasn’t old news. As long as she was around, it never would be. ‘Thank you. For everything. I know you were instrumental in having me back.’
‘You’re a good egg, why wouldn’t I?’ Bernard’s voice took on a serious tone. ‘Are you …’ He tapped his forehead. ‘All ship-shape?’ He was asking about her mental health in his own unique way. Occupational health had given her the all clear, but she knew he had to ask.
‘All ship-shape,’ she agreed, pressing her knees tightly together as she forced a cheery smile.
‘Champion,’ he said. ‘We’ll ease you in gently, just statement taking for now. No pressure.’
Sarah nodded gratefully. Work had been sympathetic but they were desperate to fill her post. She was lucky to have her job. But was it a job she was strong enough to return to?
