The Murder House. Michael Wood
No thank you.’
Scott and Chris ended their training session early. Neither were in the mood after that. Chris suggested going for a drink but was secretly pleased when Scott turned him down. He had a busy day tomorrow and a lot of marking to get done tonight. His job as an English teacher was originally temporary to cover someone on maternity leave. Fortunately for him, she decided not to return to work, so he was given the job full time. As they left Graves Park, Scott asked Chris not to tell his mother how he was dealing with this case. He didn’t want it getting back to Matilda. Chris promised.
Scott and Rory shared a two-bedroom apartment on the third floor of Riverside Exchange, on the outskirts of the centre of Sheffield. The view from the lounge overlooked the dirty water of the River Don and the sprawling city, which, at present, was a building site. Sheffield seemed to be going through a new burst of regeneration with ugly concrete eyesores being demolished and replaced with modern office blocks, cinemas and coffee outlets. Soon, the extension on Meadowhall that nobody wanted would begin. More roads would be built, more traffic would come into the city, more noise. It wasn’t shops and hotels Sheffield needed it was affordable housing. Scott and Rory were in their mid-twenties and the only way they could afford to leave their parents’ homes was to share. How long would they be doing that for? It didn’t look like either of them would be settling down soon. Another few years and they would have to decide who was going to be Jack Lemmon and who was going to be Walter Matthau.
Still wearing his Lycra running gear, Scott dragged his heavy feet along the corridor to his apartment. The bag with his work suit screwed up inside was dragging along the floor behind him. He’d pushed himself too hard tonight in Graves Park, but he needed to do something to forget what he had seen that morning in Fulwood. Not that it would make much difference: he would be seeing it again tomorrow.
He opened the front door, slammed it closed behind him and stopped still in the hallway. He could hear the sound of sex coming from Rory’s bedroom. Scott rolled his eyes. Since breaking up with his long-term girlfriend and having the freedom of his own place, Rory had been living life to the full. There was a new woman every weekend, it seemed. Although, this latest one seemed to be sticking around longer than the others.
Scott walked past Rory’s bedroom and the sound of grunting and the headboard hitting the wall grew louder, as did the woman’s groans. Scott couldn’t remember her name. He gave up learning names around the fourth one. He knew them as the blonde one, the dark one, the thin one, the one with glasses, the American one …
As Scott stripped off in the kitchen and put his running gear into the washing machine, the sounds became louder, the banging on the wall harder.
‘Jesus, Rory, for fuck’s sake, stop, you’re hurting me.’
By the time Rory came out of the bedroom, Scott was in the living room in his dressing gown, eating a bowl of cereal.
‘What’s wrong?’ Scott asked.
‘Nothing. Why?’
‘Didn’t sound like it.’
‘I think I got a bit carried away,’ he said, sheepishly.
‘Everything all right?’
The Scottish one came into the lounge, putting her earrings in. ‘I’m going now. Do me a favour, Rory, lose my number. Nice to see you again, Scott.’
Scott smiled. They both remained silent until the door slammed closed.
‘Don’t judge me,’ Rory said, taking in Scott’s hard stare.
‘I’m not judging.’
‘I was feeling a bit … I don’t know … I just wanted to let off some steam, that’s all.’
‘You should have come for a run with me and Chris.’
‘I hate running.’
‘You’re going to need to apologize to her.’
‘You heard her. She just told me to lose her number.’
‘She didn’t mean it. Apologize. Tell her you had a rough day.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s not like it was going anywhere. We were just having fun.’
‘You said the other night you really liked this one.’
Rory stood up and went to get a bottle of lager from the fridge. ‘Did it work for you?’ he asked, ignoring Scott’s comment.
‘What?’
‘Going for a run. Did it help you to get the crime scene out of your mind?’
‘Yes, it did.’
‘You’re a bad liar, Scott.’
‘I’m going to bed,’ he said, placing his half-eaten bowl of cereal on the coffee table.
‘It’s not even ten o’clock yet.’
‘I’m tired.’
Scott had a quick shower then went into his room, locking the bedroom door behind him. He picked up his phone from the bedside table and began scrolling through the photos. He smiled. There was one of Matilda and Adele crossing the finishing line of the Sheffield Half Marathon last year. They both looked like they were ready to drop dead. There was one of Chris crossing the line in the same race. Then Chris sat at the side of the road panting, sweat running down his face. Chris in the pub afterwards drinking a much-needed pint. Chris, once again in his running gear. Chris running. Chris running. Chris. Chris. Chris.
The man had been dropped off in Luton. He’d fallen asleep just after Nottingham and hadn’t woken up until Milton Keynes. Now, it was dark. He was still in Luton and he wasn’t tired. He needed to get to London. He knew that if he could get to the capital, it would be easier to get to Dover, and then through the Channel Tunnel and into France. Once he was on mainland Europe he could go anywhere. He thought briefly about his sister. Would she be sad if she never heard from him again? Probably not. He had caused her nothing but trouble their whole life. He remembered their last conversation, the argument they’d had. He called her a frigid, stuck-up bitch. She called him a loser and a waste of space. They were probably both right. Chalk and cheese, they’d never got on, even as children.
Well, he wouldn’t bother her anymore. She wouldn’t have to think about him again. Once he was in France, he knew he’d be safe. He could go anywhere from there.
He stole a biro from a petrol station, found a piece of cardboard in a bin and wrote LONDON in large capitals on it. He would have to wait until morning to be seen by drivers. He found shelter between two industrial bins and tried to get comfortable on the cold tarmac. At one o’clock he was still awake. The smell of rotting food didn’t help. He wasn’t tired. He was freezing cold and he was trying to work out where that rat had run off to as he quickly tucked his jeans into his socks.
Matilda Darke missed her silver Ford Focus. It was comfortable, familiar, and she felt safe in it. Unfortunately, it was no longer practical, and, as she turned from the smooth tarmac on Ringinglow Road down the bone-shaking track, she realized she had made the right decision in upgrading to a Range Rover. She could hardly feel the pot holes, the broken road, the jagged edges as she headed for her new home. A mile down the track, a narrow turn to the left and a sharp incline and there it was – the farmhouse she had bought because she felt sorry for it.
After former Detective Inspector Ben Hales had committed suicide in her house – the house her dead husband built – she no longer felt like it was home. That had been Ben’s plan; to ruin the last thing left in her life she truly loved. The bastard. It was in that house where she had felt a connection to her husband, as if he was still alive. He had designed the house, he had put his heart and soul into the place. Whatever room she went in she remembered James enthusing about it. Once it was built, once the decorators