The Fallen: A DCI Matilda Darke short story

‘Thanks Christian.’

Matilda turned and looked at the stricken man on the living room floor. Iain Kilbride was overweight and balding with thin, brittle brown-grey hair, three days’ worth of stubble and stained clothing. His fingers were yellowed with nicotine; his brown cardigan was covered in cigarette burns as were the arms of the battered looking armchair in the centre of the room.

‘Iain Kilbride. Why is that name familiar?’ Matilda asked.

‘Doesn’t ring any bells with me,’ Adele said. ‘Anyway, if you take a closer look,’ she continued, leaning over the body and turning the head slightly to one side. ‘You will see a very deep and very nasty head wound.’

‘Is that what killed him?’

‘At a guess I’d say he suffered massive internal bleeding from the blow to the head. But look around you at the empty vodka bottles – he could have been blind drunk and just fallen over.’

‘So it might not be murder at all?’

‘No.’

‘Then what the hell are we doing here?’

‘There’s a broken window.’

‘Scuffle with a burglar maybe?’

‘You’re the detective. I’ll try and fit Mr Kilbride in for a post mortem today. I’ll let you know.’

‘Thank you. I know it’s not an exact science, but any clue on time of death?’

Adele gave Matilda a knowing smile. ‘You’re stealing my lines. No more than a couple of hours at the most. I’m sure you’ll let me know if I can improve on that time frame after the PM.’

‘You’ve missed your calling, Adele. You should be a stand up.’

Matilda turned away from the body. Iain Kilbride looked in his late fifties and obviously lived a solitary life. One armchair, one chair at the small dining table in the corner of the room. There were no expensive items, no ornaments, paintings or framed photographs. This was a sad man living out his sad life in a very sad-looking flat. An unhappy end too.

‘Well I think we can safely say it is definitely Iain Kilbride,’ Sian said, looking through the passport she had found in a 1970s sideboard.

‘Let’s have a look,’ Matilda took it from her. ‘It’s expired. Bloody hell, he’s only forty-four. I’d have added fifteen years at least,’ she said, turning back to the body. ‘Have you found anything else?’

‘No. It’s mostly bills, a few receipts, and a copy of the Radio Times from 1983.’

Matilda looked at the front cover of the slightly dog-eared magazine. It was dated 5-11 March 1983 and showed actors Geraldine Chaplin and Christopher Guard in character for an adaptation of the Daphne du Maurier novel My Cousin Rachel.

‘I wonder why he kept this,’ she said, flicking through it.

‘I don’t know,’ Sian replied. ‘It was lying at the bottom of the drawer under bank statements and gas bills.’

‘I doubt he’s been living here since 1983. He would only have been what? 17? Maybe the magazine came with the sideboard.’ Matilda was about the throw the magazine down when she stopped. ‘Oh my God. It’s him.’

Matilda showed the article to Sian. There was a half-page photograph to accompany it which showed a teenage Iain Kilbride in a leather jacket and tight dirty jeans sitting on a bale of hay in a barn. His hair was dark, thick and wavy. He skin was healthy and tanned and he stared directly at the camera with a smouldering look. It was a world away from the bloated corpse of a forty-four-year-old man on yellow-brown carpet in a depressing flat in Sheffield.

‘That’s where I recognize the name from,’ Matilda said, as she read through the article. ‘He was in Emmerdale. Well, it was called Emmerdale Farm then.’

‘Oh. I’m more of a Coronation Street fan myself. Did you see the big tram crash last night? The effects were poor but it was a good stunt. I can’t wait to see who they’ll kill off.’

Matilda had stopped listening. She was reading the article about a new heartthrob joining the soap. The story described Billy Hodges as a bad lad from Manchester who would arrive in Beckindale and cause trouble with the men and a flutter among the women. Played by new up-and-coming actor, Iain Kilbride. Matilda frowned as she vaguely remembered him.

She turned to look down at the body on the floor. It couldn’t be the same man, surely. The glossy photograph showed a handsome, tall, muscular young man with a thick head of hair and full red lips. The corpse on the ground didn’t seem tall; he was overweight, his skin was grey and wrinkled, his lips were chapped, his fingers were fat and yellow. This was not a former soap star. It couldn’t be.

‘Somebody might want to come and look at this.’ A voice called out from one of the rooms in the hallway.

Matilda put the magazine down and, with Sian following, made her way to the master bedroom.

Inside was a double bed and wall of fitted wardrobes. The veneer doors were tar stained. This room was just as dated as everywhere else in the flat.

The wall of scene of crime officers moved aside when Matilda entered the room to show her what was lying on the bed.

Matilda looked down at the three laptops. ‘So?’

‘Three laptops,’ one of the officers said. He pointed to the bedside table. ‘An expensive mobile phone and iPod. There’s also a wallet on the chest of drawers with over two hundred pounds in twenties and several credit cards inside.’

‘So he wasn’t robbed then,’ Matilda pointed out. ‘Which begs the question – why break in to kill a man and not take anything?’

Chapter Five

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