The Murder House. Michael Wood

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       Chapter Ten

      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 had left, the furniture had been moved in and it was just the two of them, alone, James had grabbed Matilda, lifted her up onto the granite worktops in the kitchen and made love to her right there. It was the best sex they had ever had. It wasn’t long before they had christened every room, including the double garage which wasn’t the most romantic place to make love in, and the toilet under the stairs was just silly and resulted in James pulling a muscle in his back. However, in the long lonely nights since James’s death, she remembered these moments of happier times and she smiled. She’d go into the downstairs toilet and she’d laugh as she remembered how James had struggled to get up off the floor and hit his head on the sink. She went out into the hallway, looked at the chair in the corner and … no, all she saw in the hallway now was Ben’s lifeless body hanging from the bannister above. The house had been ruined for her. She’d had to move.

      While driving out of Sheffield she’d found a dirt track she had never seen before. Being Sheffield born and bred, Matilda thought she knew the city like the back of her hand, obviously not. Curious to where it might lead, she felt every bump in the road, and hit her head on the roof of her car twice as she plunged into cavernous pot holes. This was a bad idea. Her car wasn’t used to such roads, but something told her to continue. She almost became stuck at the sharp turn and the wheels spun on the incline, but she made it to the top eventually. She was glad she did.

      A dilapidated farmhouse with four unstable chimneys, tiles missing from the roof, uncared for brick work, tired window frames with dirty panes, an overgrown garden, untended driveway and a front door that probably only required a swift kick to open. Matilda was in love. She got out of the car and walked up the driveway, her eyes fixed on the unloved house. There was a ‘for sale’ sign that had fallen down at some point, lying in the tall grass. Surely this was fate giving her a sign.

      The house needed work doing to it before Matilda could even think about moving in. As her home sold quickly, she moved in with Adele while her new home, the aptly named Hope Farm, was made habitable. Fortunately, James had known many people in the building industry, and she contacted one of his trusted friends, Daniel Harbison. He’d been more than happy to help out, and when he had seen the enormity of the project, he rubbed his hands with glee. The windows were replaced, as was the roof. The chimneys were made safe, the whole house was rewired, the kitchen and bathrooms were ripped out and new, modern ones installed. Matilda and Adele spent many evenings going over colour charts and carpet samples and soon the house was ready for her to move in. There was just one room that needed finishing. On the ground floor, behind the living room, tucked away in a corner was a split-level room that led to the conservatory. This would make a perfect library, and as this was the room she would spend most of her time in, she wanted to make all the decisions herself.

      Now, she stood in the doorway to the library and looked around at the floor-to-ceiling shelves which Daniel had designed and installed. The wood had been treated and needed a few days to settle before Matilda could unpack the many boxes of books she had piled up in one of the spare bedrooms. This was to be her sanctuary. When work got on top of her, when life became too difficult, she would come in here, close the door behind her, relax in the Eames chair and lose herself in a novel.

      Matilda went into the living room and curled up on the large Chesterfield sofa. The walls were painted a deep red, the log fire was burning, and the entire house was warm, homely and welcoming.

      On the reclaimed railway sleeper above the wood burner, was a framed photograph of her and James on their wedding day. The marriage only lasted five years before James was cruelly taken from her, another cancer statistic. She used to spend hours with the photo in her hands, crying hysterically, screaming for him to be returned to her. Now, she looked into his ice-blue eyes and smiled.

      ‘You’d СКАЧАТЬ