Page 64 of Worse Than Murder
‘Right.’
‘Thank you, Matilda,’ Gill says, holding her hand out for me to shake.
I have to focus on her hand, but I manage to find it at the first attempt.
‘You’re welcome,’ I say. Even though I’m half cut, I can recognise the look of a woman who has a bitter taste in her mouth. Thanking me was not something she was relishing.
* * *
Gill Forsyth makes her way down the steps of the restaurant, shivering in the coolness of the night. The sounds and sights of merriment fade into the background as she walks among the police vehicles and heads for her car. It has been a long day. She’s tired, hungry, and needs a bath. At her car, she hears a noise and stops dead in her tracks. Turning around, she sees someone move quickly around the back of the restaurant. She opens the front passenger door, leans in, and takes out a torch. Flicking it on, she points the beam to the side of the building.
‘Hello?’ she calls out. ‘Is there anyone there?’
There’s no reply. A loud burst of laughter comes from the restaurant. She looks up and sees a scene of happiness as a young couple sitting at a table by the window both throw their heads back with huge smiles on their faces.
Gill steps closer to the building. She walks around the corner and points her torch into the woods beyond. There’s nobody there. There had been. She would stake her pension on it. Someone had been watching her.
Iwalk downhill into the main village of High Chapel. There are many independent shops, which cater to the needs and wants of the tourists, and a few knick-knack and antique shops that I enjoy looking around. Unfortunately, the majority are closed following the effects of the storm. Heavy-laden sandbags litter the pavements and one particular shop, the unimaginatively titled High Chapel Antiques, has its door wide open and its owner, decked out in wellington boots but with full trademark 1960s makeup and hair whipped up into a beehive, is sweeping out dirty water with a rubber brush. She appears despondent. Wherever I look, the clean-up operation is in full force.
It’s 21 June. Today is the first day of summer. Shopkeepers will be looking forward to a busy season as tourists flock to the area. After the disaster that was the summer season last year for trade, retailers are looking forward to a bumper summer this year. The last thing they need is to be flooded out.
I head back up the hill and push open the door to High Chapel Tearooms. Shops in the village may lack imagination when it comes to their names, but there’s no mistaking what each of them offers.
The shop immediately makes me smile. It’s warm and cosy. The scents of freshly baked cakes and brewing coffee fill the air and entice the taste buds. It’s decorated in muted colours; chairs are comfortable and neatly laid out. The place is busy but there are a few seats still available. I go to the counter and survey the snacks. I order a large black Americano with an extra shot and opt for the Kenyan blend which, I’m told, is slightly stronger than the usual they sell. I take my time over choosing a pastry and eventually settle on a strawberry tart, though I may pop back for the carrot cake.
I chose a table in the corner of the room, sit down, and take a sheet of paper from my bag. It has been unfolded and refolded so many times it’s almost coming apart. I don’t need to read it. I can recite it almost word for word, but it’s the reason I’m here.
While investigating the serial killings in Sheffield, the killer had taunted me by sending me emails. He was bragging about what he’d done, how he’d managed to evade capture, and how there was nothing I could do about it. There was no stopping him. Even after he’d killed my family, the taunts still came. When I returned home from my mother’s funeral, an email had pinged on my phone. I read it and collapsed into tears. I printed everything off while I showered and changed before leaving the house, locking it up behind me, and running away.
I wipe my eyes with a napkin. This is the real reason I can’t return to Sheffield and my former life. There is no doubt in my mind that the man who has given himself such a pathetic nickname would remain true to his word and more lives would be lost. I can’t cope with more deaths on my conscience. It would be the end of me. I’ve forwarded the email to the man who has taken over my role in the case, DCI John Campbell. He can deal with it. The ball’s in his court. I’m having nothing to do with it.
I fold the email back up and place it in my bag. I take a sip of the cooling coffee and nibble on the strawberry tart but don’t taste it. I close my eyes and take myself back to the day of my mum’s funeral. Who had I spoken to? Who was there? The church had been packed. Mum knew a lot of people who wanted to say goodbye. Then there were my colleagues. Christian came with his wife. Scott and Donal. Sian and all four of her children. Finn and his wife. Tom and Zofia. My boss, Benjamin. I’m pretty sure his wife came with him but can’t remember. Odell Zimmerman, Claire Alexander, Felix Lerego, all had come to pay their respects too; to show they were with me. I had huge support from so many people. But who was there under false pretences? Who had come up to me, laid a comforting hand on me, told me how sorry they were for my loss, while secretly revelling in the torment I was suffering?
I open my eyes. It’s a futile exercise. Everyone was so sincere. On the other hand, I was so far removed from what was going on around me that I wouldn’t have spotted a killer if he’d been wearing a T-shirt saying ‘I murdered your mother’. It’s torturous trying to remember the actions and words of everyone present. The only person I can see clearly in my mind is my sister shooting me daggered looks.
Ifuckinghate you!
‘Are you all right?’
I look up and see an elderly man at the next table looking at me. He has a rugged, handsome face, and a warm smile. He reminds me of Sam Elliott, but without the moustache. My mum would have loved him.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Are you sure? You’re crying.’
I bring a hand up to my eye. I look at my fingers. They’re wet. I had no idea. ‘Just… thinking about something.’
‘Something sad?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s weighing you down.’
‘It is, yes.’ I don’t want to get into a conversation with a random stranger. I finish my coffee and leave what’s left of the strawberry tart. I’ve made a complete mess of it, anyway.
‘You’ve heard the saying, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger?’
‘Yes.’
