The Murder House. Michael Wood

Scott. He was subdued, and he had a permanent worry frown on his forehead, giving him the impression he was about to burst into tears at any moment. Maybe he was.

      ‘Sure,’ she replied. ‘So, is everything all right?’ she asked as they carefully made their way down the stairs.

      ‘Yes. Fine.’

      ‘Are you sure?’

      ‘Yes. Fine,’ he repeated, more firmly.

      He stormed into the boxroom at the end of the corridor and opened the top drawer of a filing cabinet.

      Matilda immediately went to the bookshelves. Since she had acquired the book collection from Jonathan Harkness, a killer she hadn’t wanted to be guilty, she had been addicted to reading, and collecting books in general. Whenever she went into someone’s house, she headed straight for the bookcase to see what they had in their collection. The Mercers had no crime fiction. They were mostly biographies of historical figures and international monarchs. Although some of the covers were striking, the content held very little interest to Matilda, so she joined Scott at the filing cabinet.

      ‘They were very meticulous people,’ Scott said. ‘A file for everything. Gas, electricity, phone, water, council tax, pension plans.’

      ‘Anything juicy in the bank statements?’

      Scott handed his boss a box file from the top of the cabinet. ‘All in monthly order.’

      Matilda placed the box on the desk, now free of the desktop computer, and opened it. ‘Bloody hell look how much they made every month. I’m in the wrong job. What did they do, again?’

      ‘She was a neurosurgeon and he was an anaesthetist. Or it could have been the other way round.’

      ‘There doesn’t seem to be much of interest here,’ Matilda said, scanning the statements. ‘They have quite a few direct debit payments to charity. They really are the perfect family.’

      ‘Were,’ Scott corrected.

      ‘Take them back to the station and see if you can find anything. Don’t spend too long on it, though.’

      ‘Will do.’ He took the file from her and headed for the door.

      ‘Why would someone want to kill an entire family, and in such a horrific way?’ Matilda mused.

      Scott stopped in the doorway. He turned back to his boss but gave her a shrug for a reply.

      ‘I mean, all killers believe they’re killing for a reason. So, if you have a gripe with someone, fair enough, you come in and you kill them, but this? This is overkill. And if someone has that level of anger towards them, then surely their friends or neighbours would know about it. Yet, according to everyone around here they’re Mr and Mrs Perfect. What aren’t we seeing?’ she asked, folding her arms.

      ‘A secret life. Maybe they’re in the witness protection programme and they’ve been found out.’

      It sounded far-fetched but, in this instance, it had a sense of realism about it.

      ‘I get the feeling this is going to be a very complex investigation.’

      Scott didn’t say anything. He stayed where he was and looked at Matilda, as if waiting for her to continue. When she didn’t, he turned and left the room. Matilda followed.

      ‘Scott, come into the living room for a moment,’ Matilda said once they were at the bottom of the stairs. She took off her overshoes and went in.

      ‘What is it?’ he asked, standing in the doorway, still holding the file.

      ‘Put the file down and take a seat.’ She patted the seat next to her on the large sofa, but he went over to the armchair. ‘Scott, what’s wrong?’

      ‘Nothing. I’m fine.’

      ‘You’re not. You’ve been quiet for weeks. Are you having personal problems?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Everything all right at home? Rory isn’t pissing you off or anything?’

      ‘No. We get on well.’

      ‘How’s the training for the marathon?’

      ‘Fine.’

      ‘You can talk to me, you know, Scott.’

      ‘I know I can, but I’ve nothing to say,’ he said. Not once had he made eye contact with Matilda.

      ‘OK,’ she gave in. ‘I don’t believe you, but OK. Look, if you want to talk to me, about anything, please, come and see me.’

      ‘I will.’

      ‘Either in the office or you can come to my house. You know where I live. I may give you a paintbrush, but you’re welcome.’

      ‘Thanks,’ he said with a fake smile. He stood up and left the room, taking the file of bank statements with him.

      Matilda’s phone rang. It was Sian. ‘I’ve heard back from the FCO,’ she immediately said. ‘Leah and Oliver are going to get the next available plane back to England. They should be in Sheffield by this evening. They’ve been told to come straight to the station.’

      ‘How did they take it?’

      ‘Well, language barrier aside, Leah didn’t seem to believe what she was being told.’

      ‘I can understand that. We’ll meet her at the station and take her to the hospital when we’ve had a word with her. She’ll want to be with her niece.’

      ‘Adele called as well; she wants you to pop in and see her at the mortuary.’

      ‘Will do.’

      ‘Oh, and one more thing,’

      ‘Go on,’

      ‘Rory’s handed in his resignation.’

       Chapter Fourteen

      Matilda sat behind the wheel of her car. She had a perplexed look on her face. She didn’t have a clue where this case was heading. The neighbours painted Mr and Mrs Mercer as Mr and Mrs Perfect. Nobody saw anything suspicious as they were all suffering the effects of the wedding reception. Now, her team was falling apart. She couldn’t have that. She needed them.

      She lowered the window and allowed the sub-zero degree air to roll in. It instantly helped her relax as she took in a deep breath. She would need a clear mind to think straight if she was going to keep a strong hold of the case and her team. No distractions were allowed. She looked at her mobile and saw three more missed calls from Sally Meagan. This was one distraction she didn’t need.

      Matilda called Sally. It was ten minutes before she was able to get a word in. It was obvious she’d been drinking, despite it not being lunchtime yet. She tried to tell Matilda about the phone call from Carl, but her words came out of her mouth so quickly they were falling over themselves into one long garbled mess. In the end, Matilda interrupted. She apologized for not contacting her, told her, briefly, about her current workload and talked-up the excellent skills of retired Detective Inspector Pat Campbell who was coming out of retirement to help her. Once placated, Matilda ended the call. She felt exhausted.

      She started the engine and drove away looking in the rear-view mirror as she went. The house belonging to the Mercers was a beautiful stone-built building, tastefully decorated, in manicured grounds. She wondered if it would have to be knocked down. The house would now be synonymous with a multiple murder. It was such a waste of a stunning building.

      Matilda’s to-do list was growing all the time. On her way to the mortuary on Watery Street on the outskirts of Sheffield city centre, she planned in her head everything she needed to do. There were the post mortems to attend, Rory to talk to, forensics to liaise with, Valerie to brief,