A Room Full of Killers. Michael WoodЧитать онлайн книгу.
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
I had never had a night away from my only son before. Any holidays and business trips we had, Carl always came along too. However, on this particular occasion, the event in Leeds was at night and Carl had school the following morning. Now he was getting older it was harder to take him with us. I didn’t want him missing his education.
My mum, Annabel, had looked after Carl hundreds of times. He loved his ma-ma, as he called her, and she loved him. She lived close to us in Dore, Sheffield, and often called to take him to the park or shops. She had never looked after him alone overnight before. However, she was my mother. I had nothing to worry about.
The event in Leeds was for Yorkshire Businessman of the Year. It was Philip’s first time nominated for anything so we knew we had to attend. Mum came to our house for a light tea and brought plenty of provisions for her and Carl. They had planned a night in front of the TV watching DVDs and playing games. I think my mum was more excited than Carl.
At six o’clock, I kissed Carl goodbye. I gave him his instructions to be a good boy, not to answer back to ma-ma, and to go to bed when she told him to. He looked at me with those big blue eyes and smiled. I knew he would behave but I also knew he would cause great mischief for my mum. She would love it, though. I kissed my mum too. I thanked her once again and we left. They stood on the doorstep and waved us off. That was the last time I saw either of them …
Matilda couldn’t read on. She knew what was to follow. She had lived and breathed Carl’s disappearance for eighteen months. She knew the case inside out; evidently, though, not from the point of view of his distraught mother.
The Meagans blamed Matilda for not returning their son home to them, and the book was going to be a scathing attack on her, her abilities as a detective, and South Yorkshire Police as a whole.
The Meagans were a wealthy family who owned a chain of organic restaurants throughout the region. It wasn’t long after Carl’s disappearance that a ransom demand for a quarter of a million pounds was made. It wasn’t easy, but Philip Meagan managed to get the money together and a drop-off point was arranged. Matilda, leading the investigation, was designated the courier.
In a cruel twist of fate, Matilda’s husband, James, lost his battle with a brain tumour on the same day as the drop-off had been arranged. Neither wanting sympathy from her colleagues, nor the case to be taken from her at such a crucial stage, she told nobody of James’s death and continued with her duties.
Those around her noticed Matilda was quieter than usual but put it down to the mounting stress of the case. Everyone was working under exceptional circumstances.
By the time night fell Matilda headed for Graves Park alone. A bag containing two hundred and fifty thousand pounds in cash sat next to her on the front passenger seat. She waited. Ten o’clock came and went and there was no sign of the kidnappers. Eventually, her mobile burst into life.
‘Where the fuck are you?’ It was the angry, accent-less tone of the kidnappers.
‘Graves Park, where we agreed.’
‘What car are you in?’ The voice was muffled as if the kidnapper had something covering the mouthpiece of the phone.
‘Black Seat. I’m flashing my headlights.’
‘You lying bitch. There’s no other car in the car park.’
‘Car park?’
‘By the animal farm.’
‘We said by the tennis courts.’
‘Do you want us to kill this kid?’
‘No. Give me five minutes.’
Matilda grabbed the bag from the seat and jumped out of the car. She ran. She ran as fast as she could. A montage of faces went through her mind: the innocent face of a petrified seven-year-old, missing his parents; Sally and Philip Meagan, agonisingly waiting in their living room for a phone call from Matilda saying she had their child back safe and well; the painless image of her husband in his hospital bed, finally at peace, and the look of horror and disappointment on the faces of her colleagues when they found out how she had messed the whole thing up.
Matilda ran past the eerie concrete tennis courts and up the hill to the wooded area of Graves Park.
‘I’m coming,’ she said under her breath. ‘I’m coming, Carl.’
Her legs ached as she pounded the solid ground. She was in the wrong shoes for running. Her lungs struggled to cope with the heavy breathing, and the cramp in her side was forcing her to slow down. She couldn’t. She had to plough on through the pain.
She pulled a torch out of her pocket and flicked it on. A brilliant white beam lit the path ahead. She made it through the woods and out the other side, past the toilet block and the café and eventually reached the car park.
She stopped. She stood on the edge, torch held aloft, and throwing the beam all around her. The car park was empty. The kidnappers had left, taking Carl Meagan with them.
‘Carl?’ she called out, her shaking voice resounding around the open space. ‘CARL!’ she screamed, but her cries just echoed, answered by no one.
She could smell the cold night air tinged with burning car fumes. She had missed them by a matter of seconds.
Kate Moloney was a tall woman with long black straight hair which she wore in a severe-looking ponytail. Her skin was deathly pale and smooth. The red lipstick she always wore was striking and gave her a vampish air of power. She looked at least a decade younger than her forty-three years. She was curvaceous and wore long dresses or sensible trouser suits, yet made sure they were all figure-hugging to show off her natural assets. Her shoes were painful to wear but were part of her power outfit – impossibly high heels which echoed around the corridors as she walked with a straight back and her head held high. She was a woman on a mission.
Her office on the ground floor of Starling