Page 100 of Worse Than Murder
‘That depends on how you feel about exposing a paedophile.’
‘Funny you should say that, because that’s number three on my bucket list.’
* * *
I feel different as I drive from the restaurant to the stables at the other end of High Chapel. I have a purpose. I have something to occupy my mind other than my own grief. Since 2010, I’ve been striving harder and harder with every case to make sure it’s solved. Eleven years. Non-stop. It’s taken its toll on my mental and physical health, and the murder of my family is the catalyst that’s brought the walls tumbling down. I will recover, I know it, I just wonder what kind of Matilda Darke I’ll be upon my return to Sheffield.
I drive along the winding, narrow roads of High Chapel in Adele’s Porsche until I come to the stable car park. I slow down and find a space. I climb out of the car and am hit with the aroma of horse shit. I pull a face. It makes a change from smelling a decomposing body or the internal organs at a postmortem, but only just. It’s another warm day. The sun is high in the sky, not a single cloud among the blue, and not a hint of a breeze either. I’m wearing cotton trousers and a light shirt, and despite the air conditioning in the car, it’s still sticking to my back.
‘Hello!’ I call out as I enter the stable yard.
There’s no reply. I look into the office through the open window, but there’s nobody there. I walk along the stables and see a beautiful brown horse looking back at me.
‘Hello,’ I say in that playful, sickly voice people reserve for animals. The horse steps towards me, and I stroke him on the nose. ‘You’re a gorgeous fella, aren’t you?’ He nods his head as if in reply.
‘He’s called Odin.’
I quickly turn at the sound of the voice and see Iain Pemberton standing in front of me.
‘Sorry, I didn’t see you there. He’s a lovely horse.’
‘He’s a Hackney. Four years old.’
‘Is he yours?’
‘No. I don’t own any. I just look after them. Give them a home. Their owners come mostly at the weekends. I suppose I’m their foster carer,’ he says with a smile.
‘Iain, could I have a word with you?’
‘I’m guessing you don’t want to chat about horses?’
‘It’s not my specialist subject.’
‘But murder is.’
‘Unfortunately, yes.’
‘I suppose it has to be someone’s. We’ll go into the office.’
He leads the way, his head down and shoulders slumped. I look back at Odin and brush his nose. He’s a stunning-looking animal.
The office is small and cramped. The desk is hidden behind files and invoices. The shelves are packed with books and box files and in the corner is a small desk where a kettle and a couple of well-used cups stand, beneath which is a mini fridge containing milk and several bars of chocolate.
‘All I seem to have done so far this morning is make tea,’ Iain says as he flicks on the kettle. ‘We had Inspector Forsyth round. She asked Lynne to identify a few more items found on the lakebed.’
‘That can’t have been easy. Was she able to identify them?’
‘The majority, yes. I suppose that means the bones in the car belong to Celia and Jennifer.’
‘It’s more than likely, yes.’
‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Just milk, thanks.’
Iain hands me a Queen Elizabeth II Golden Jubilee mug while he takes an England football mug.
‘What do you want to ask me?’ He sits down in his comfortable, old high-backed chair, but he looks decidedly uncomfortable. I guess he would rather be mucking out the horses with his bare hands than talking about the horrors his brother got up to.
