‘I will.’
Ellen kissed Kesinka on the cheek and left the house quickly. She was worried more tears would fall.
She zipped her coat up and looked up at the sky. It was grey and the clouds looked heavy. It wouldn’t be long before they opened and a huge downpour fell. She checked in her handbag that she had her umbrella with her, just in case; luckily she did. If it did rain, she’d be able to cry and the tears would mix with the rain drops.
Ellen walked down Well Road, under Ponsford’s Jubilee Bridge and turned right onto Chesterfield Road South.
Saturday evening traffic was a nightmare. Fortunately, Sheffield United were playing away or it would have been at a standstill. The road was busy with people heading home after a day at work or shopping in town. Ellen walked quickly, head down, under the railway bridge that was splattered with bird shit and dodged the traffic to cross the road. In the distance, she could see the towers of the Islamic Centre on Wolseley Road. She needed to head up there, turn left, and she’d be home. It sounded like a short journey, but Wolseley Road was misleading when you were in a car.
She hurried past the garage that always looked closed and was about to go over Heeley Bridge when she heard her name called out. She turned around.
‘Hello. What are you doing here?’
It all happened so fast. She was hit over the head with something heavy. As she staggered backwards, she felt someone grab hold of her. The background of heavy traffic and horns beeping mingled together. Suddenly, she was no longer standing on the pavement, she was airborne and then she landed with a splash in the swollen River Sheaf below.
Her vision blurred. She could taste blood. She reached out aimlessly for something to hold on to, to give her balance, but there was nothing but water crashing around her, over her, in her mouth, nose and ears. Then everything went dark and she succumbed to the flow of the river as it carried her out to God only knows where.
Chapter 47
Matilda Darke ran to her car as the heavens opened and the rain began to fall. She hadn’t been able to go through with it. Try as she might, she just wasn’t the type of person to throw good, decent people to a parasite like Danny Hanson. He’d sent her a text telling her he was stuck in traffic, leaving her standing outside The Cavendish on West Street with her mind whirling. She felt sick and could feel her stomach somersaulting. In the end, she decided to leave and let Danny print what he liked. She felt sorry for Aaron and hoped he’d be able to repair the damage the story would cause, but it was of his own making, and she was going to have to break Sally and Philip’s heart without adding the pain of a scandalous and fictitious newspaper report.
As Matilda drove down the road, windscreen wipers working hard to clear the rain, she glanced at the pub and saw Danny standing in the doorway, sheltering from the downpour. She took some pleasure in seeing him soaked and shivering in just a thin jacket, but not much.
‘I’m sorry, Aaron,’ she said. ‘You’re on your own.’
***
Sheila Croft lived on Keswick Close in Loxley, not a million miles away from Mary Croft Primary School and had to pass close to the Armitage house on her way to and from work every morning.
Once Christian and Scott had established who she was in relation to Sebastian Page, they obtained her address, and despite the lateness of the evening, they decided to pay her a visit.
From the front passenger seat, Christian tried to call Matilda, but his call went unanswered as the voicemail kicked in straight away.
‘It seems like she’s turned her phone off,’ he said as they pulled up outside the semi-detached house.
‘That’s not like her,’ Scott said. The rain was coming down hard and he kept the windscreen wipers on full so he could see out into the quiet cul-de-sac.
They stepped out of the car and ran quickly down Sheila’s drive. Thankfully, she had a small awning over the front door so they sheltered under that, though they were still getting wet by the stiff breeze blowing the rain at them.
‘I’ve not seen rain like this for a while,’ Scott said.
‘Remember that case at Starling House? It was like this then,’ Christian recalled.
‘You don’t have to remind me. I ruined a good suit in that bloody storm.’
The front door opened, bathing both detectives in a warm glow from the hallway.
‘Sheila Croft?’ Christian asked. She nodded. ‘I’m DI Brady from South Yorkshire Police, this is DC Andrews. Any chance we can come in for a quick word?’ he asked, holding out his ID with a shaking cold, wet hand.
‘Of course, come on in,’ she stepped to one side and ushered both detectives in.
They vigorously wiped their feet on the mat before moving on to the laminate flooring.
‘Stay there, I’ll get you a couple of towels.’ She went into the kitchen and returned quickly, handing them both a white towel each. ‘Shocking weather, isn’t it?’ She tried to smile, to be polite, but there was a heavy sadness in her eyes.
‘Tell me about it. I always seem to get called out when the weather turns,’ Christian smiled.
‘So, what can I do for you? More questions about Keeley Armitage?’
Christian dried his hair then glanced in the mirror as he fingered it into place, taking care to hide his rapidly increasing bald spot.
‘No. I’m afraid something else has come up. Is there any chance we can sit down?’
Sheila quickly glanced down at their feet.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll take our shoes off,’ Christian said, kicking off his scuffed black shoes.
‘Thanks. I’m not usually so fussy, but it’s a new carpet in the living room. It was only laid on Wednesday.’
The living room was neat and tidy, bright and warm, but it wasn’t homely. The smell of the new carpet mixed with artificial air freshener and furniture polish gave a sense that everything had a place. Ornaments on the wall unit were perfectly aligned. Magazines were neatly stacked on the coffee table. Intricate antimacassars adorned every arm and head rest of the sofa and armchairs. This was a house so anally clean the slightest imperfection would be spotted immediately, which was why Christian tucked his feet beneath him as much as he could so his odd socks (one black, one navy) wouldn’t be noticed.
‘Do you live here alone, Mrs Croft?’ Christian asked.
‘Yes. I’m widowed.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’
She waved his apology away. ‘There’s no need. It happened a long time ago.’
Christian looked over to the marble mantelpiece at the framed wedding photo of a much thinner Sheila in a beautiful white gown standing beside a tall, solid man in an army dress uniform. Sheila followed his gaze.
‘He went through the Gulf War, saw things in Kosovo nobody should witness, and got killed by a drunk driver on Bocham Parkway.’
‘Oh,’ Christian said. ‘That must have been devastating, I’m sorry.’
‘It was. I spent years worrying every night while he was away,’ she said wistfully, not taking her eyes from the wedding picture. ‘Every time the phone rang, or a knock came on the door I expected someone telling me he’d been blown up or shot down. And he ends up getting killed on his own doorstep.’
‘Was the drunk driver caught?’ Scott asked.