Fatal Secrets: The first in a crime mystery series from Anita Waller, author of The Family at No 12

PROLOGUE

JANUARY 2013, A LAYBY ON THE A57

DI Dave Forrester’s radio crackled into life.

‘Mondeo pulled into layby just before M1 slip road. Shall we carry on?’ He knew the two occupants of the squad car had been the first to catch sight of the Mondeo, but he didn’t want inexperience causing problems. They were foot soldiers, not CID.

‘Thanks, lads,’ was his swift response. ‘Just drive past him and wait up near the roundabout; we’re one minute away. I’ll pull in behind him in the layby. Keep your eyes open and follow him if he drives off and passes you; we can’t lose this bastard.’

Dave increased his speed, and DS Johnny Keane grabbed onto the door handle. ‘We’ve got him.’ His words were full of the anger they both felt whenever Andy Beardow’s name cropped up – Andy Beardow who had been in hiding since he had killed one of their own by beating her to death. DC Cathy Adams would never be forgotten, any more than Andy Beardow would.

A tip-off that they only half-believed had led them to this stage in the hunt for the man who had killed just for the hell of it, who had never considered the woman he was hitting with a hammer would have a husband and a child at home; a three-year-old girl who cried every night for her mummy to read her a story.

Cathy had spotted him dealing one night while out on patrol and had pulled the car over to arrest him while she waited for back-up. The back-up arrived too late to save her and it had catapulted Andy Beardow to Sheffield’s most wanted in the blink of an eye.

The tip-off earlier that evening had come via an anonymous telephone call. The caller had given details of what car Beardow was driving and as a result of good police surveillance work combined with ANPR, the automatic number plate recognition system, the car had been in their sights as it headed out of Sheffield and either towards the Worksop area or the slip road at Aston for the M1.

Dave Forrester spotted the layby coming up on his left and slowed the car. He didn’t want the Mondeo associating a speeding car with plans to trap him; he needed for it to look normal. He pulled in three car lengths behind the silver car and spoke into his radio. ‘Confirmed sighting of Mondeo. I am behind it in the layby. Grant, how long before you get here?’

The voice of DC Grant Carney crackled into life. ‘Thirty seconds, boss.’

‘Okay.’ His back-up team all heard him say, ‘Let’s go get the bastard, Johnny,’ and an immediate increase in speed happened in the three cars still to arrive on scene.

‘Wait till we’re there, boss,’ was Carney’s taut response.

The two men got out of the car and began to walk towards the Mondeo, both holding Tasers. They had been responsible for the last ten-year incarceration of this man and this time, he was going down for life. Cathy Adams’s death would ensure that.

Johnny headed for the passenger side, Dave Forrester taking the driver’s side. He felt grateful for the lack of street lighting, hoping the darkness would hide their approach. He reached the driver’s door and swiftly tugged on it to open it, but nothing happened.

He peered into the car, shading his eyes to cut out any reflection, and looked across at Johnny.

‘It’s empty…’

The shot was loud and Dave Forrester slid down the door as he slowly collapsed onto the tarmac, the silver car turning red with his blood. Johnny, too, dropped and moved round to the back of the car, intent on reaching his mate. ‘Dave,’ he shouted, ‘you okay?’

There was no response, and he pulled out his phone.

They saved DI Forrester’s life, but at some cost. Andy Beardow disappeared once again, and only the spectacular skills of surgeons helped Dave Forrester through that first week.

When they said he would never walk again, Dave Forrester had felt overwhelming anger, but slowly he began to accept his life as a Detective Inspector was over; his son would now hopefully be the one to fulfil his hopes and dreams of promotion within South Yorkshire Police, and he had no choice but to retire.

1

NINE YEARS LATER

That Saturday in March 2022, the twelfth to be exact, was memorable for many reasons.

Cambridge United had travelled up the A1 for a League One match against Sheffield Wednesday, and DI Matt Forrester and his sister Hermia had both managed to make use of their season tickets without work interfering to stop them; their seats were adjoining on the Hillsborough Kop, and he hoped it would be an excellent game.

Hillsborough stadium looked magnificent as always, and Matt turned with a smile on his face as he sensed Hermia’s arrival.

‘Hey, sis, cut it a bit fine.’

She gave a slight nod and lowered her seat. ‘Dropped some flowers off at the memorial first.’

He should have known. She brought flowers to every home match she managed to attend. There hadn’t been so many games this year, he realised. More responsibility for both of them at work meant football had to take a back seat; not a good state of affairs, he sometimes thought.

He studied her face for a moment. At twenty-six, she was beautiful, her long blonde hair swept up into a ponytail, held in place by a Sheffield Wednesday scrunchie. The blue of the team colours in her shirt and scarf brought out the vivid blue of her eyes, and the hint of pink on her lips made any man catching sight of her do a double take.

‘Looking tired, sis.’

‘Not just looking it. I am tired. This lot had better play well today, or I might just nod off.’

‘You due a holiday?’

She laughed. ‘What’s a holiday? I don’t work for the police, you know. I don’t get four weeks’ annual paid leave, a pension, a uniform, have people touch their forelocks as I walk by…’

‘Yes, you do get several weeks’ leave. You just don’t take them.’ He grinned. ‘We could book a couple of weeks in Crete or one of the other islands. It’s only you saying you can’t go on holiday, not the university. And nobody touches their forelocks to me, not sure I’d know what to do if they did. Most I get is being called boss when they’re being polite. God knows what they call me when I balls things up.’

‘But I’ve got a team. I can’t just up and leave them to go on a drunken two-week break in the sun with my brother! Oh, look, they’re coming out…’

The entire Kop rose as one and the strains of ‘Hi Ho Sheffield Wednesday’ filled the air.

Smiles automatically appeared on the faces of Matt and Hermia, and after the initial start of game introductions, everyone sat back down, but not for long. An unfortunate own goal provided by the visitors gave Wednesday a one-nil lead, and it was during the uproar around this bonus goal that Matt felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ he growled, and Hermia glanced at him.

‘Problem?’

‘It means Russian oligarchs have taken over the Town Hall if this is the station ringing me. I told them where I was going and that would be the only thing that I would accept as a valid reason for a phone call.’

He looked at the screen before answering. ‘Shit… it’s Dad.’

‘But Dad knows…’

‘Exactly.’ He pressed the green button. ‘Dad?’

‘Need help.’ The voice was weak, nothing like the strident tones usually evident in the older man’s voice. ‘Need…’

And there was silence.

Matt put his phone away and stood, folding his six-foot frame over as he pushed his way past fellow supporters. Hermia followed, hoping he would explain when they were away from the crowds.

They left Hillsborough in Matt’s car, as it was the first one they reached, and they sped across the city heading for Gleadless, where their father lived and worked. An ex-policeman himself, Dave Forrester now owned the Forrester Investigation Agency, based in a shop he had converted to accommodate his wheelchair.

Hermia rang her father’s phone again, but there was no answer. ‘Had he got something special on? Some job he was worried about?’ she asked, glancing sideways at Matt.

‘Not that I know of. As you know, he’s kind of morphed into dealing with forensic accountancy, and Johnny, being the more mobile of them, deals with the odd case of adultery and missing persons. Dad did say he was extra busy, but he seemed happy enough. And where’s Johnny? He’s always in the office, even if he’s not got much on with his own cases.’

Johnny Keane was their dad’s oldest friend, going back to schooldays, and had hardly left Dave’s side since the accident. Once it became clear Dave would never work again, Johnny put in his papers and retired alongside his friend. He’d been there when Dave had taken the decision to buy the shop with the upstairs living accommodation, and he did any legwork required so that Dave didn’t have to do much other than the clever stuff. Making the final decision to move into Dave’s spare bedroom was a no-brainer, and the friends became inseparable. Again, the thought flashed across Matt’s mind. Where’s Johnny?

Matt manoeuvred smartly around two lorries, and put his foot down. He felt sick at the thought of what could possibly be wrong – his father was a strong man, both mentally and physically, but limited by his lack of mobility. He laughingly called himself ‘two steps Dave’, because he could manage to throw himself that distance to get from the chair to the bed at night, and Matt felt panicked at the thought that he might have attempted more than that and now couldn’t move at all.

He pulled up outside the double-fronted shop, and was a second behind Hermia as they dashed across the wide parking area to the shop door. The right-hand door was always locked, and he opened the left. The scene was chaotic.

Hermia spotted the wheelchair on its side, and the bottom half of her father lying on the floor.

‘Oh, Dad,’ she said and moved swiftly towards him. Then stopped. She dropped to her knees, and reached for his neck, checking for the pulse that she knew would be non-existent.

Matt pulled out his phone and put the call in for an ambulance and back-up, a forensic team, and bobbies to control any nosy parkers.

He went to join his sister, who had managed to roll her father onto his back, where she was attempting CPR. There was so much blood, splashed up his desk, puddled on the floor, his phone lying in the middle of it all from his attempt at getting help. He was only guessing, but he reckoned his dad didn’t last long enough to call 999 after ringing him.

And then he saw Johnny, mainly hidden by his desk, only his feet visible. ‘I’ll see to Johnny.’

Hermia nodded. ‘Dad’s gone, Matt. But I’m not giving up.’ Unchecked tears were rolling down her cheeks.

Johnny Keane was crumpled into a foetal position, bleeding heavily from a head wound. Matt checked his pulse; faint, thready. There was a lot of blood, and Matt took his scarf from around his neck and held it to the wound.

Both brother and sister were truly grateful to hear the siren sounds of approaching emergency services.

Matt pulled Hermia closer to him as they watched their father being zipped into a black bag, and Rosanna Masters, the pathologist, moved towards them. ‘I’ll take care of him, don’t worry. And, Matt, you’ll have my initial report by tomorrow. I’m going back with him now.’

Matt dropped his head in acknowledgement of her words. ‘Thanks, Rosie. I’m going to get Hermia back to her car, and leave forensics to do what they have to do here. I’ll ring the hospital later to see how Johnny is, see when I can talk to him. Hopefully by tomorrow I can get in here and start the investigation.’

‘You told Harry yet?’

Matt visibly flinched at the thought of telling his ten-year-old son that his grandfather, his idolised grandfather, had died. It would have to be a joint effort between him and Becky, giving out such immense news.

‘No, I haven’t told Becky either. I’ll go across to their home tonight, hope Dickhead isn’t in, and tell them both at the same time.’

‘Does Superintendent Davis know he’s referred to as Dickhead?’ Rosie risked a smile.

‘He’s probably guessed. Possibly around the time I caught him in bed with my wife, when Harry and I had to go home early from the match due to Harry throwing up everywhere.’

‘Water under the bridge,’ Hermia murmured, then stepped forward to touch the body bag as it was wheeled from the office, prior to being lifted into the coroner’s van.

The photographer then took extra pictures of the site where Dave Forrester had lain, and eventually packed up his camera equipment. ‘I’m off,’ he said. ‘Never in a million years would I have wanted this job, Matt. You need anything, just ask.’

Matt nodded his thanks, and walked him to the door.

The forensic team were busy with fingerprint powder, and Matt stood for a few minutes, watching everything they did. Hermia stood with him, until she eventually said, ‘We have to go.’

‘I know. I shouldn’t be here. I’ll take you to your car.’

‘Can I go with you? Stay at yours tonight?’

‘You don’t usually ask; you just crash whenever you feel like being in a different place to your flat.’ He smiled down into her tear-stained face.

‘I know. Maybe I need a garden to walk around.’

‘Then sell the flat, and buy a house.’

‘It’s up for sale. Got a few viewings over the next couple of weeks. I just don’t want to be on my own tonight…’

‘That’s fine. Let me just check they have some keys to lock up this place, although I know there’ll be a couple of bobbies outside all night.’

He was reassured they had keys, and he took Hermia’s hand to lead her around the room away from the bloodstains, stepping carefully on the blocks laid down by the people gathering information about the crime scene.

He stopped outside to speak to the two officers on crowd control and asked them to ring him if there was anything to report throughout the night, before opening his car passenger door for Hermia to climb in.

‘Boss,’ one of the PCs said, ‘you want the Wednesday score?’

‘Not if they lost.’

‘They didn’t. Finished two minutes ago, won six-nil.’

2

Matt’s house was within a five-minute drive of his father’s office, but first he had to head back to Hillsborough to get Hermia’s car.

Most of the traffic was heading towards them as football fans returned home, so fifteen minutes saw him pulling up behind Hermia’s Porsche Cayman.

‘See you back at mine,’ he said. ‘You got your key?’

She nodded. ‘Always on my keyring. First there puts the kettle on.’

He had to trust she was in safe mode, and would drive carefully. She needed to put the horrific scene at Gleadless to the back of her mind for the moment.

Hermia was pouring the boiling water into mugs when Matt arrived home.

‘Slowcoach,’ she said, turning her head away so he didn’t see the tears.

‘I rang Becky, arranged to go over tonight to see Harry. She said she’d make sure Dickhead wouldn’t be there.’

‘Using those words?’

‘No, she called him Brian. You know, Herms, in my job I’ve had to tell lots of people about the death of a relative, but this will be the hardest of them all. And I’ve to do it tonight before it’s made public knowledge. She was upset…’

‘Becky?’

He nodded. ‘She thought a lot of our dad. In fact, she got on a lot better with him than she did with me. We drifted apart a couple of years after Harry was born, and it was Dad she talked to. She helped him a lot when he came out of hospital, but I was too busy being a copper, building my career. We’re telling Harry together.’

‘So Dickhead didn’t tell her?’

‘He didn’t know. He’s been playing golf all afternoon.’

Hermia handed Matt a cup. ‘Get this down you. You want something to eat?’

He shook his head. ‘I’d be sick. After I’ve spoken to Harry, I’m heading round to the hospital, see how Johnny is doing. There’s more than half a chance we’ll lose both of them. He lost a lot of blood.’

‘Let’s hope he remembers something, if he comes through this. I’ve rung my boss, told him I won’t be in for two weeks. I think I need to be involved, somehow. Not sure how I can help, but I’m here if you need me for anything. I’ll head home tomorrow, try and spruce the flat up a bit, ready for the viewing next week.’

The front door banged open and Steve Rowlands, Matt’s closest friend, confidant and ex-landlord barged in, down the hall and into the kitchen. ‘Matt, what the fuck’s happened at your dad’s place?’ He stared in horror when he realised Hermia was there. ‘Sorry, Herms, wouldn’t have used language if I’d known. Matt? What’s happened?’

‘Best sit down, Steve. Coffee?’

‘Thanks.’ Steve sat at the table, followed by Hermia, cradling her cup. ‘I’ll explain, Matt,’ she said gently. She turned to Steve. ‘Dad was killed today, and Johnny is in a critical condition, head injuries. He’s in hospital. We don’t know any more than that; forensics are still doing their job. Matt will be back there tomorrow once they’ve done everything they need to do.’ She allowed the tears to roll unchecked down her cheeks, and Steve stood and walked round the table, pulling her up into his arms.

This was where he’d always wanted his mate’s sister, but not under these circumstances. He felt her head drop to his chest and not for a million pounds would he have moved.

Eventually she pulled away from him and he waited until she was seated before taking his coffee from Matt. The three of them sat in momentary silence, each lost in thoughts of Dave Forrester, and what he had meant to all of them.

‘You busy tonight, Steve?’

Steve shook his head and sipped at his drink. ‘You need me for something?’

‘Stay here with Hermia while I nip over to the Northern General?’

‘Of course.’

Hermia interrupted. ‘I don’t need babysitting.’

‘You need company,’ Matt said. ‘I’m the expert in crime, don’t forget, and I say I’m not leaving you on your own. I can’t take you with me because I’m pretty sure the hospital won’t allow you in, but they will allow my warrant card in.’

‘Hey, no arguments,’ Steve said. ‘I’ll nip next door and have a shower; it’s been a hard day and I’m filthy, so give me half an hour?’

Harry sobbed, and both Matt and Becky held him tightly as they explained what had happened. Matt left after half an hour, promising to either ring or call round the next day, and he felt tears prick his eyes when he looked back and saw Harry and Becky standing in the front doorway, their arms around each other, both crying.

So late at night, Matt easily found a parking space near the entrance to the massive hospital, and headed towards A&E reception, keen to find out where Johnny had been taken. He finally reached Critical Care and had a word with the PC on duty before flashing his warrant card as proof of his identity. The nurse smiled at him and said she knew him, he was such a frequent visitor.

She led him towards a bay where Johnny lay, assorted tubes and wires connected to him, and a breathing tube performing its necessary function.

‘He’s not opened his eyes?’

She shook her head. ‘Not for a second, but he’s under sedation to rest his brain. It was a hell of a smack he took. God knows what he was hit with, but it worked. Try not to worry, he’s doing as well as can be expected.’

‘Bit of a cliché.’ Matt smiled and reached across to touch Johnny’s hand. ‘Is it okay if I stay for a bit? He’s not just a victim of crime, he’s a close family friend.’

‘Of course. I’m here all the time anyway – he gets one-on-one nursing until he starts to come out of the induced coma. Then we can ease off a little, because when he surfaces, it’s the start of his recovery.’

Matt stayed for an hour, his mind racing as he stared at the face of the man who had been a brother in everything but name to Dave Forrester. Johnny would be devastated by Dave’s death, and Matt knew he would have to be the one to break the news to him.

The nurse was constantly checking his vital signs and expressing satisfaction that all was as it should be, until eventually Matt stood. He needed to go home, get some sleep and be at the station gathering the closer members of his team for a trip back to the shop. All forensics should be checked by now, so they could be in the shop and working by eight, with a team out on the streets door-knocking with questions to be asked of residents about anything in the slightest suspicious that had happened the day before, or even in the few days prior to the attack. He suspected he wouldn’t be allowed to be on the case for too long, so he wanted to take full advantage of everything until somebody said stop.

He gave Johnny’s hand a gentle squeeze, but there was still no reaction, and after thanking the nurse for her care, he left the ward and headed downstairs towards the car park.

He sat for a moment in his car before starting the engine, wondering just who the hell could attack a disabled sixty-year-old man in a wheelchair, and an even older man with a gentle sort of frailty about him. He felt his anger build inside him, and he knew they would pay, whoever they were.

And the first place he would start looking would be the last known haunts of Andy Beardow, the man who had seemingly disappeared from the known universe since the shooting of the man now lying in the morgue, Dave Forrester. There was nothing to link the nine-year-old case with this one, but he couldn’t ignore it. It needed ruling out, so they could move on.

If he had come back to finish off the job he had started in 2013, Matt would find him. If he was in this country, he would find it impossible to hide; his picture would be on every television news station, in every newspaper, and he would become public enemy number one all over again.

The difference now was that he wouldn’t survive. Because now he wasn’t dealing with Dave Forrester, he was going to eventually face Matt Forrester, a whole new ball game.

Matt turned his ignition on, slipped his car into drive and headed out of the hospital