.

the Chief Constable can polish his buttons crime will rise and the region will be crying out for a dedicated Murder Investigation Team, but there’ll be nobody skilled enough to run it.’

      Valerie didn’t seem to be listening as she looked for a folder on her desk. ‘A warehouse in Snig Hill was broken into; £15,000 of computer equipment stolen, the whole place trashed and a security guard with a fractured skull. A house on Dore Road was broken into; elderly man and woman tied up while their house was ransacked. The woman was threatened with rape if she didn’t take off her wedding ring. A man was severely beaten in Heeley and had expensive watches and computer equipment taken. He was tied up with duct tape and doused in petrol. Need I go on? These are not just teenagers pissing about, Matilda.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly, her head bowed. ‘I had no idea of the level of violence involved. Christian Brady is a fine detective. He’ll do well on the burglaries. I just feel like I’m fighting a war single-handed. There’s no way I can win so why bother with the battle?’

      ‘Matilda, I understand your frustration, and your anger. I will do everything in my power to help you but I’m limited in what I can do. What you did with the Harkness case before Christmas was beyond excellent. I’m not going to placate you but I do believe you can work this case with the minimum of officers and still get a result.’

      ‘Why should I, though? Why should I work my arse off and get a result when it’s not appreciated? The Chief Constable is closing us down; I’m guessing there will be redundancies and I’m guessing I’ll be one of them. Why should I sweat blood just to be given my cards in a few weeks’ time?’

      ‘I’ve been assured there will not be any redundancies. It’s about having a CID and an MIT running side by side when it isn’t necessary. Combined you can have pockets of teams working individual cases with one or two senior officers overlooking the whole department.’

      Those words may have been spoken by ACC Masterson but they were written by the Chief Constable, and, judging by the look on Matilda’s face, she knew that too. Matilda stood up to leave.

      ‘Before you go, did you see The Star last night?’

      ‘I’m afraid I did, yes.’

      Valerie pulled out her dog-eared copy and laid it flat on her desk. It was open at page seven: ‘CARL MEAGAN: ONE YEAR ON’. Her stomach began performing somersaults.

       Robert Walpole, Spencer Compton, Henry Pelham, Thomas Pelham-Holles, William Cavendish.

      It had been a long time since Matilda had recited the names of the British Prime Ministers as an aid to relaxing. She hadn’t needed them since she’d given up drinking and learned to channel her grief. It seemed it only took the mere mention of Carl Meagan’s name and she was plunged back into her paranoiac nightmare.

      ‘We don’t come out very well I’m afraid. Were you contacted yesterday to contribute to this travesty?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘I thought not. It says you were unavailable for comment.’

      ‘I know,’ Matilda said, looking away from the paper. She didn’t need to see it; it was imprinted on her memory. ‘Why do they have to keep raking it up?’

      ‘It’s been a year. The parents want to keep the story alive. It’s understandable. He’s their son.’

      ‘I know,’ she said, bowing her head. ‘But I can’t keep doing this if I’m smacked in the face with Carl Meagan every time I’m working on a case.’

      ‘Matilda, leave the press to me. Do your job, a job you do incredibly well, and defy them all. I know you don’t believe this Matilda, but I’m with you 100 per cent,’ Valerie said when the expression on her DCI’s face remained hollow and drawn.

      ‘You’re right, I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it at all.’ She turned and left the room, not caring if there was more to the meeting.

      Matilda didn’t have the energy to storm out and make a scene. What was the point in shouting and screaming from the rooftops if nothing was going to change? As Matilda walked away from the door and headed to the nearest toilets she was reminded of the saying ‘no man is an island’. Maybe not, but a high-ranking woman in the police force certainly was.

       SEVEN

      Matilda entered the pathology suite and was met immediately by a team of police officers milling around. It was imperative the body of Kevin Hardaker was not left alone at any time for fear of evidence tampering.

      ‘Morning Adele,’ Matilda said. ‘I see you’ve got a full house.’

      ‘We certainly have. The coroner has given the go-ahead for the Digital Autopsy.’

      ‘I’ve never seen one before. What are they like?’

      ‘It’s just looking at scans on a computer screen,’ she said, folding her arms.

      ‘You don’t seem impressed. Worried it might make you redundant?’

      Three years before, Sheffield had become the first city in the country to open a state-of-the-art, non-invasive Digital Autopsy Facility. Its aim was to establish the cause of an unnatural death using sophisticated visualization software and a scanner rather than a scalpel. With the results available almost immediately, it was a huge step forward for the Sheffield police force, but Matilda could see why Adele might be concerned.

      ‘No, of course not. It actually makes my job a whole lot easier. You can rotate a body 360º without getting your hands dirty. I’m all for that.’

      The doors opened and the radiologist, Claire Alexander, stepped out. She was a small woman in her mid-thirties, with long brown hair, tied back in a severe ponytail. She was wearing hospital scrubs that were a size too big for her.

      ‘Morning Claire, happy birthday,’ Adele said.

      ‘Thank you. I see you’ve got me a present.’ She nodded towards the black body bag containing Kevin Hardaker.

      ‘I certainly have. No peeking.’

      ‘We’re all set next door if you are.’

      Victoria Pinder, Adele’s Assistant Technical Officer, led the way with the trolley. It was a short narrow corridor leading into the Digital Autopsy suite and the trolley banged loudly against the walls and door.

      ‘Mind my paintwork. It’s just been redone,’ Claire said.

      The mood as everyone entered the suite quickly changed from one of levity to sombre professionalism. They were all here because of a dead man: a person whose life had been brutally cut short. He deserved respect and dignity.

      The machine was simple in design. It reminded Matilda of the many times she accompanied her husband to the hospital in the early days of his diagnosis and the many scans he had to endure. This scanner didn’t seem as bulky as the one at the Northern General; it was obviously a newer model. It looked less daunting and not as claustrophobic.

      Victoria and Claire lifted Kevin, still in the bag, onto the scanner and secured him in place using Velcro straps. Everyone then made their way into the control room.

      The small room, with a bank of five large computer screens, was packed with police officers and technical staff. Claire squeezed her way through and seated herself behind a computer in front of the window looking out into the main room. She clicked a few buttons and the scan began.

      ‘What’s happening now?’ Matilda whispered to Adele.

      ‘You know those annoying Slinky things that go down stairs on their own?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Well, imagine you’re standing in the middle of a large Slinky. The scan circles around