Michael Wood - The Fallen - A DCI Matilda Darke short story

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This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

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First published by HarperCollins Publishers 2016

Copyright © Michael Wood 2016

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Ebook Edition © DECEMBER 2016 ISBN: 9780008222383

Version 2016-10-24

To my bloggers.

For loving Matilda as much as I do.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page The Fallen A DCI Matilda Darke short story MICHAEL WOOD A division of HarperCollins Publishers www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Michael Wood

About the Publisher

Tuesday 7th December 2010

Andrea Barnes should have been winding down her work duties, handing everything over to her second in command and making sure they knew what to do in her absence, not hurtling through the streets of Sheffield on a mercy dash for a man she didn’t even like.

She should have known this would happen. Every time she had some time off or was preparing to go on holiday something always spoiled it. She was beginning to think all those months at spinning class firming up her bum to fit into a £125 bikini had been a waste of time. Would she ever feel golden sand between her toes? This time, Iain Kilbride had failed to show for work (again), so a replacement driver had to be found at short notice, which would cost the company extra money. This also meant that a coach load of pensioners would be late setting off for a tinsel and turkey Christmas lunch in Leeds.

Under normal circumstances, Andrea would have left a note with her assistant to fire Iain if he dared to show his face while she was soaking up some winter sun but, despite Clare Wilkins being a wizard at admin, she was lousy at discipline. Iain would have to be fired face-to-face, and that required a manager.

Without slowing down, without indicating, Andrea turned left into Stayleigh Lane. She returned the two-fingered salute she received from the prick in the Audi behind and turned left again into the private car park of Hallam Grange Close.

The concrete block of flats was nothing special – soulless boxes for the divorced and the widowed. Pathetic window boxes and limp hanging baskets tried to add a dash of colour to the grey but it was a feeble effort. At this time of year, and in these temperatures, everything was dead.

Andrea parked her Vauxhall next to Iain’s Skoda and climbed out. There was a bitter chill in the air and a stiff breeze cut through her polyester uniform. She couldn’t wait for her holiday to begin. Goodbye freezing Sheffield and hello sunny California. She had checked the weather over breakfast and it was currently in the mid-20s in Pasadena. Sheffield wasn’t even close to double figures.

She marched to the main entrance and pressed the buzzer for the ground-floor flat. She waited. Andrea was well known for her impatience and was seething well before the echo of the buzzer had carried away on the breeze. She buzzed again leaving her finger pressing hard on the button, her fingertip turning white.

An elderly man in a dressing gown and walking with a frame slowly came into view through the toughened glass of the front door.

‘Do you have to do that? I can hear it right through my flat. He’s obviously not in.’

‘He obviously is,’ Andrea shouted back. ‘Because his car is still here.’

‘I can’t let you in.’

‘Why not?’

‘You could be anyone.’

‘I’m his boss. I want to see if he is all right.’ It wasn’t technically true but the old man didn’t need to know that.

‘Have you got any ID?’

‘Bloody hell! Who do you think I am, a suicide bomber?’

‘You can’t be too careful.’

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ she muttered under her breath.

Andrea rifled around in her handbag for her purse. Opening it she found as many forms of ID as she could.

‘Take your pick: driver’s licence, work pass, credit card, gym membership, another credit card, Boots Advantage card, library card, Waterstones club card, credit card, Nectar card, donor card. Will any of those do?’

The old man opened the door. ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic.’

‘You know what your trouble is? You’ve got too much time on your hands.’ Andrea said, barging past the elderly man.

As she passed the open door to his flat she felt a blast of nuclear heat coming from within. She headed straight for Iain’s flat. Andrea knocked on the door hard with her leather-gloved fist. She didn’t wait for a reply but knocked again, harder.

‘You’ll have the door off,’ the old man said, moving slowly towards her with his walking frame.

From the floor above a tall young man with a shaved head was coming down the stairs putting a knitted hat on. ‘What’s all the banging about?’

‘Have you seen Iain lately?’ Andrea asked.

‘Not since last night.’

‘Did he say anything?’

‘No. I don’t really know him. We say hello, that’s about it.’

She knocked again, louder this time. ‘Iain, it’s Andrea. Can you open up please?’ She shouted, her voice resounding off the walls in the foyer. Andrea crouched down and looked through the letterbox. She immediately screamed and fell backwards onto the cold-tiled floor.

‘What’s the matter?’ The young man asked.

‘It’s Iain. He’s on the floor.’