For Reasons Unknown (9 page)

It took longer than usual for Matilda to regain her composure. She worked her way through the entire list of British Prime Ministers and still she was breathing heavily. She was hot and could feel her shirt sticking to her back with sweat yet when she took her jacket off the freezing temperatures made her shake with cold. She looked down at the copy of
The Star
on the front passenger seat next to her and read the headline ‘“COLD” RETURN FOR DISGRACED DETECTIVE’. Those five words were like five daggers sticking in her chest.

After seeing the newspaper she decided to give the rest of the day a miss. Pat Campbell could wait for another day. She left Rory in the pub, told him to read through Charlie Johnson’s book and she would see him tomorrow. She wanted to be alone.

The drive home was a blur. She wondered how many red lights she’d driven through or if she’d driven the wrong way down a one-way street. Her mind was elsewhere. It was bad enough her superiors were questioning her abilities, now the entire population of Sheffield would be talking about the competency of Detective Chief Inspector Matilda Darke.

‘I don’t deserve that title any more,’ she said to herself. It was the only sentence she’d said with any confidence all day.

Matilda opened the front door, kicked the mail from the doormat, and slammed the door behind her. The house was cold; she didn’t notice. The answering machine on the hall table was flashing three messages at her. Could this be the dreaded Christmas invitation from her mother? She headed straight for the kitchen, threw the local newspaper down on the counter, and went to the fridge where she knew a half-bottle of wine was waiting for her. The paper was calling to her and she couldn’t resist reading it again. And again.

A cold shiver brought Matilda back to reality. She looked around to find herself encased in darkness. How long had she been sitting at the kitchen table staring into space, her mind elsewhere? She turned on the lights and squinted under the brilliance of the neon. Once more her eyes fell onto the cruel headline.

‘Fuck,’ she said to herself in frustration. She popped two Venlafaxine from the blister pack, washed them down with the wine, and left the house, taking the newspaper with her.

Sitting behind the wheel of her car outside the apartment block where Jonathan Harkness lived, she was shaking and her head was pounding. The rage and tension building up inside her was agony.

Inside, Jonathan had eaten quickly; a cheese sandwich and a packet of ready salted crisps, and had taken a large black coffee into his library. In less than an hour he had finished
On Beulah Height
and was back in the living room choosing another book.

He picked up Ian Rankin’s latest hardback and was just about to close the door to his sanctuary behind him when the sharp sound of the intercom buzzer tore through the heavy silence of his home.

He stood stock-still for a moment. Nobody ever visited him from the outside world. Only Maun came to see him, and she lived directly upstairs. Her three little taps on his front door was her signature. This was an unexpected visitor.

He decided against answering and walked slowly into his reading room. No sooner had he sat down on the wing chair than the buzzer sounded again. It sounded louder this time even though he knew that was impossible. He would have to answer it.

‘Hello?’ he asked, his mouth too close to the speaker. His voice was quiet and there was a nervous shake to it. He was not used to receiving guests and, if he was truthful, he didn’t want to receive them.

‘Mr Harkness? It’s DCI Darke from South Yorkshire Police. I was wondering if I could have a word.’

Jonathan noticeably relaxed when he knew who his caller was. It was not a complete stranger. Although he hadn’t enjoyed talking about his past to DCI Darke earlier, it wasn’t the traumatic ordeal he had been expecting. She had a plain face and there was sadness in her eyes that he was drawn to. Since their chat, he had spent most of the afternoon wondering if she had a similar tragedy in her past to cause such a faraway look of loneliness.

‘Yes, OK. Push the door.’

He pressed the buzzer and waited for the click before he released his fingers. He took the Ian Rankin novel into the reading room and placed it on the small table next to his chair and closed the door behind him. He had a brief look in the living room to make sure it was neat and tidy; it was never anything but, and then looked at his cold reflection in the mirror. His eyes were wide and starry. He looked at his neck and the red marks. Were they ever going to fade?

He opened the front door before Matilda had a chance to knock and let her into his flat. In the hallway he offered her a coffee, which she accepted, and he ushered her, once again, into the living room while he disappeared into the kitchen.

She headed straight for the wall of bookshelves. ‘Your collection certainly is impressive Mr Harkness,’ she called out.

Jonathan smiled to himself as he prepared the drinks. He was proud of his collection and it warmed him when others were impressed.

‘I wish I had the time to read more,’ she continued, ‘unfortunately this job doesn’t give you much free time for anything.’

Jonathan entered carrying two large black mugs. He handed her one and invited her to sit.

‘Is it just mysteries that you read?’ Matilda smiled and nodded at the bookcases.

‘Yes.’

He looked at his collection as if he were seeing it for the first time. It was a collection he had spent years building and he was incredibly proud of his library. Jonathan had every published novel by the likes of Minette Walters, Val McDermid, Peter Robinson, Mark Billingham, Reginald Hill, Ian Rankin, M. R. Hall, Stuart MacBride – the list was endless.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know most of those authors.’ Matilda scanned each shelf from left to right and stopped when she found someone she recognized. ‘Simon Kernick. My husband used to read him. Once he picked one of his books up I wouldn’t get a word out of him until he finished it.’

The conversation dried up. Jonathan smiled and turned towards his books. He felt comfortable among them. Just reading the titles and the name of the author gave him a relaxed feeling. It was as if he was among friends. All he had to do was look at the books and he felt a warm glow grow inside him and a sweet smile spread across his face. He slowly reached out a hand and his fingertips lightly touched the spines. They felt warm and comforting. They didn’t judge him or hate him. They offered him a release from his agonies and he loved every single one of them for it.

‘I wanted to come and see you because of the local newspaper. Have you seen tonight’s edition?’ Matilda asked.

‘I saw it in the staffroom at work.’

‘Ah. Well, I wanted to explain. I didn’t want you thinking your parents’ murder was being used as a way to ease me back into work.’

‘I didn’t think that. I thought the article was very unfair.’

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘I remember the Carl Meagan case. You mustn’t blame yourself for what happened. People who kidnap for money are always thwarted in their task. They will have turned up at the exchange, I’m sure of it. They will have seen how they couldn’t possibly have gotten away from there without being caught and simply bolted. No amount of ransom money was going to save them from capture, and if they had got away, they would have been looking over their shoulder for the rest of their lives. It was much easier for them to run empty-handed.’

‘They were hardly empty-handed. They had Carl. They still have Carl.’

‘I think it’s a safe assumption to say that Carl Meagan is dead,’ Jonathan said matter-of-factly. He showed no emotion for Carl.

‘You sound like you know what you’re talking about.’

‘Probably too much crime fiction,’ he said.

‘Well I just wanted to allay any fears you may have that the reopening of your parents’ case was a publicity stunt.’

‘Thank you. I appreciate you coming here to tell me that.’

There was a long and awkward silence while they drank their coffee and gazed around the room. Apart from the books there was very little else to focus on.

‘May I ask you a personal question?’

Jonathan looked across at her from the top of his coffee mug. He didn’t like the sound of this. ‘Of course,’ he said through gritted teeth. He braced himself.

‘After your parents were murdered and you moved away, did you ever have counselling or see a therapist?’

‘I saw one straight away. While I was in the hospital here a counsellor was sent to my bed. She kept telling me that it wasn’t my fault and wanted me to open up and tell her what I saw but I didn’t trust her.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m not sure. There was just something about her I didn’t like. She told me that whatever I told her would remain between the two of us but I knew she was going to run straight to the police and tell them. She had a devious look about her.’

‘What about when you went to live with your aunt, did you have any counselling then?’

‘My aunt was always taking me to the doctor. She was petrified that I would never speak again. I was sent to a quack who charged about a hundred pounds per hour. He saw me alone; my aunt was in the waiting room. He closed the blinds and turned the lights off and told me to close my eyes and hold my hands out. He put something in my hands that was cold and slimy. He asked me what I was feeling.’

Jonathan had no idea why he was opening up so much to Matilda. He had never told anyone about his visits to the many therapists before, not even Maun, and she had asked on several occasions. Talking to Matilda seemed easier. He didn’t feel he was being judged.

‘What did you say?’

‘I didn’t. He asked if it brought back any memories. He took whatever it was out of my hands then told me to open my eyes. I looked down at my hands and they were covered in blood. I just screamed and screamed. That’s when my aunt came rushing in.’

‘What was it he put in your hands?’

‘It was meat. Cold raw meat that was all bloody and sticky. I could smell the flesh.’ He took a deep breath to control his anxiety at the memory.

‘That must have been horrible.’

‘It was. My aunt was livid. She ranted at him for ages. I think she even hit him with her handbag.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘Strangely, I’ve not been able to eat meat since.’

‘Are you on any kind of medication?’

‘No,’ he lied quickly. He didn’t know why he suddenly decided to lie. He didn’t like people thinking he wasn’t able to get through life without prescription drugs. ‘I used to be when I was a teenager but I read something once about being dependent on them and it put me off. I didn’t like the idea of drugs controlling my thought patterns.’ Jonathan genuinely believed that, but it still didn’t stop him popping a few pills when he felt particularly anxious.

‘Were they controlling your thought patterns?’

‘I think they were.’ He looked up at her and, for the first time, they made eye contact. He quickly looked away.

‘Have you been diagnosed as autistic or having any mental health issue?’

‘Why are you asking all these questions?’

‘You seem to be extremely nervous and you’re finding it difficult to make eye contact. You don’t look relaxed at all even though this is your home. I just want to know a bit more about how you’re coping.’

Jonathan took a deep breath. ‘If you want to know how I’m coping then I’ll tell you. I’m not. It doesn’t take a psychologist to know that I lose myself in fiction because I’m frightened of facing my own reality. I read far too much but I do it because if I stop, if I sit down and allow myself to think for one minute, I’ll be back in that house at the age of eleven wondering why my parents are covered in blood and not moving.’

Matilda put down her coffee and clamped a hand over her mouth. ‘You really should seek professional help,’ she said with a quivering voice.

‘No thank you,’ he said stoically. ‘I’d rather continue the way I am. I know I’m not really living or using my life to its full potential but I’m coping with this situation in the best way that I can.’

‘How have you coped, over the years, with the attention from the press and the fact that the case has often been referred to whenever a murder isn’t solved?’

‘I don’t bother with newspapers so I don’t know what’s getting said about it. The only reminder I get is when Charlie Johnson contacts me.’

‘If he contacts you again and it upsets you, let me know. I can have a word with him or you can apply for an injunction to stop him from contacting you.’

‘That’s taking it a bit far isn’t it?’

‘Not if he’s upsetting you.’

Jonathan gave a weak smile and a slight nod of appreciation.

‘I’d like to talk to Matthew at some point,’ Matilda said. ‘I know you don’t know where he’s living now, but do you know anyone who might?’

‘No I don’t. I’m sorry but like I said earlier, we’re complete opposites. I don’t know anything about him.’ He thought for a second and his eyes widened at a flash of a memory. ‘You could go through the medical archives. When he disappeared he was living in a den he made in the woods for a few days. When he was found he was freezing and had to have a couple of toes removed due to frostbite. That will be on his medical records. I’m sure there aren’t many people in the country who are missing two toes.’

In the last days of her husband’s illness, Matilda gave a key to Adele Kean for her to check on him whenever she was held up at work. She knew her husband was going to die, what she didn’t want was for him to die alone.

Whenever Matilda had to work late Adele would go round and sit with James until she returned. When he died and Matilda fell into a deep depression of grief, Adele hung on to the key and used it more and more. Now, she used it whenever she visited.

It was just gone eight o’clock in the morning and Adele opened the front door of Matilda’s house only to be hit in the face by a wall of heat. The central heating was turned up high and even though it was well below freezing outdoors it was far too hot inside.

In the living room, Adele found Matilda asleep on the sofa wearing the same clothes she wore yesterday. The coffee table was a mess of paperwork. On the floor was an empty bottle of vodka, and in her right hand, Matilda held tightly onto a glass half filled with the clear alcohol.

Adele rolled her eyes at the scene of self-destruction laid out before her. This could not go on, not if she wanted to keep her job.

‘Matilda, come on, wake up.’

Matilda didn’t even stir. Adele took the glass from her hand and picked up the empty bottle from the floor along with a few sheets of paper that had spilled out of the Harkness files.

‘Matilda, it’s morning, you have to get up now,’ she said loudly. Matilda gave a grunt in reply as she adjusted herself into a more comfortable position.

Adele leaned over her friend, she was almost unrecognizable. Her hair was tangled, her skin dry and flaking, and the dark lines under her eyes were deep and cavernous. She looked down on her with sadness. It was upsetting to see the once confident and stable woman turn into a ruin, but there was nothing Adele could do. Only Matilda could decide to change.

She grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her hard. ‘Matilda, wake up. It’s time to go to work. Come on.’ She continued shaking vigorously until Matilda’s bloodshot eyes opened.

‘My God, you look like a basset hound.’

Matilda tried to talk but her mouth was dry. She coughed a few times and leaned down to the vodka bottle that wasn’t there. ‘What time is it?’

‘It’s just gone eight.’

‘Is it?’ She struggled to get up from the sofa, wincing with each muscle that ached. ‘I should get ready for work.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘What? Why not? Is it Sunday?’

‘You’re not going anywhere until you’ve showered, had something to eat, and you and I have had a good chat.’

‘I don’t have time for this.’

‘I don’t care. You’re going to make time.’

‘Adele, not now.’

Adele left the room and came straight back in carrying the mirror from the hallway. She held it up for Matilda to see her reflection.

She blinked hard a few times to clear her blurred vision and sighed at the tired face staring back at her. ‘So?’

‘This is not you Matilda.’

‘It looks like me.’

‘No it doesn’t.’ She put the mirror down and took the silver-framed picture of Matilda and James on their wedding day from the mantelpiece. ‘This is you. This is Matilda Darke; neat hair, well turned out, confident and smiling.’

‘That Matilda’s dead.’

‘No she isn’t, she’s just in hiding. She’s feeling low because of what’s happened this past year but she’s still with us. You just have to make the effort.’

‘I don’t have the energy for this.’

‘Then what do you have the energy for?’

‘Going back to sleep.’ She tried to lie back down on the sofa but Adele grabbed her by the shoulders again and hoisted her up.

‘Do you honestly think I’m going to let you stay here in this mess? What kind of friend would I be if I just allowed this to continue; drinking every night so heavily that you pass out on the sofa, not eating, and wallowing in your own self-pity?’ She waited for a reply but didn’t receive one. ‘What do you think James would say if he could see you now?’

‘Well he’s not here is he? If he was I wouldn’t be like this,’ she snapped.

‘Do you think he’d want you grieving for him like this? This is not the Matilda he married.’

Matilda’s bottom lip quivered in emotion and a single tear fell from her left eye. ‘I just miss him so much.’

Adele sat down and put her arm around Matilda. Adele could feel her best friend sink into her. It wasn’t long before she could feel Matilda’s body begin to relax and the tears began to flow freely. ‘I know you do, sweetheart. He was a good man; one of the best, but you’re still here and you can’t allow yourself to suffer in this way.’

‘I know but I don’t know how else to cope.’

‘Yes you do. You go out there fighting like you’ve always done. You hold your head up high and you don’t take shit from anyone.’

‘I don’t think I have the energy for that.’

‘Yes you do. You have a hot shower; you have a good breakfast, take a deep breath of toxic air out there, and stick two fingers up to the world. We’re two of a kind you and I; we get kicked in the teeth but we keep getting up and showing the big man upstairs that he can throw anything he likes at us and we’re going to carry on regardless.’

There was a long silence while Matilda took in Adele’s words.

‘I went to see Jonathan Harkness last night. He’s not living either, he just exists. You should see his flat Adele; it’s just full of books. He spends every waking hour reading, throwing himself into fiction to get away from his own life. There’s not a single photo of any friends or family, hardly any furniture, just books. He’s just waiting to die.’

‘And you don’t want to end up like that.’

‘I am like that,’ she shrugged.

‘No you’re not. Not yet. It’s not too late to save you.’

‘And what about Jonathan?’

‘Not to sound heartless but he’s not your problem. It’s sad what happened to him, tragic even, but he’s just a case you’re working on. He’d have been offered counselling and therapy all those years ago after his parents were killed. Even as an adult he could have gone to see a professional and talked through his problems, but he’s obviously decided the way he’s living is the best way he can cope with it.’

‘But he’s not living.’

Adele shrugged. ‘Then maybe he’s punishing himself for what happened. Maybe he thinks he should have died along with his mother and father, and by living in a self-induced exile he’s denying himself the life he believes should have been taken from him.’

Matilda looked at Adele with wet eyes and a deep frown. ‘Where do you get all this crap?’

‘It just comes to me,’ she said with a smile.

‘It’s lucky you work with the dead and they can’t hear you,’ she chuckled.

‘Look, go upstairs and have a hot shower. I’ll tidy this mess up and make a start on breakfast. It won’t matter if you’re a bit late for work. Go on.’

She nudged Matilda with her elbow until she eventually stood up. Adele watched as Matilda had to hold on to the wall to steady herself. It was only when she was out of the room and slowly plodding up the stairs that Adele turned to the mess in the living room and began tidying up.

Following DCI Darke’s visit last night, Jonathan didn’t return to his reading room and begin the new Ian Rankin novel; he went straight to bed. He spent several hours wide awake as his mind took him on a journey through his past. He remembered the many therapists he saw and how useless they were in trying to unlock his sealed memory. He was suspicious of their motives for wanting him to open up. He didn’t trust a single one of them not to sell his story to a newspaper the second he left their office.

That was part of Jonathan’s problem; he didn’t trust anyone. Even when his parents were alive he didn’t accept their love as true. He saw the way they allowed Matthew to get away with murder and how they continued to lavish gifts upon him even though he defied their rules. To their faces Matthew had the smile of an angel, behind their backs his halo slipped and the smile changed to a lethal sneer.

On the sidelines, Jonathan watched this behaviour unfold. If Matthew’s love for his parents was false then was the reverse true? Did Stefan and Miranda really love their children or were they just there to be used as props to show the world they had the perfect family life? Either way, Jonathan didn’t trust anyone and that wariness continued into adulthood.

The only person he came close to trusting was his Aunt Clara. It took him a while to see she had no ulterior motive for taking him into her home. She made sure the press stayed away and stopped the police from pressuring him into answering the same questions over and over again, even to the point of giving a false statement saying Jonathan had told her everything that had happened on the night in question, when in fact he still hadn’t uttered a single word to her. She wanted him to have a normal childhood, as normal as possible under the circumstances, but when she saw Jonathan isolate himself from the other children she decided to allow him to live his life the way he wanted. It was this freedom that earned her his trust.

During the darkest hours when he struggled to sleep, Jonathan examined his life. It wasn’t a life, merely an existence, but he was content with his lot. He just wished people would leave him alone to get on with it and stop trying to rake up the past.

Despite having only an hour’s sleep, he was dressed and ready to leave the flat for work at eight o’clock. As usual he was smartly turned out in his black trousers and shoes and a freshly laundered Waterstones’ shirt. His hair was bland but neatly trimmed and brushed forward; he didn’t use any fancy products. He spent time putting on his coat, scarf, and gloves, making sure the buttons were fastened and he was well protected against the bitter wind outside.

Before leaving he went on a tour of every room. He made sure all the windows were closed and securely locked, all the plugs were pulled out and a good distance away from the sockets, the fire was turned off and the central heating was timed to come on one hour before he returned home. Satisfied, he left the apartment.

He just stepped out of the foyer into the cold light of day when a car pulled up in front of the building.

‘Jonathan,’ called the driver to get his attention. ‘Jonathan,’ he called again when he was ignored the first time.

Who was calling his name? There wasn’t anyone who knew Jonathan by name, to call out to him and have a chat in the street. He stood stock still and surveyed his surroundings. He was too far away from his apartment block to dash back inside and there was no side road or alleyway he could run down. He could feel a cold sweat flow down his back. He took a deep breath to compose himself and tried to slow down his rapid heartbeat. With trepidation Jonathan turned around. He bent down to look through the window and saw the smiling face of his boss Stephen Egan.

‘Get in,’ Stephen said with a smile on his face.

‘What are you doing here?’ Jonathan asked, not moving closer to the car. Despite knowing the driver he was still reluctant to relax. Seeing Stephen out of context was worrying.

‘I’m offering you a lift to work.’

‘But you don’t live anywhere near here.’

‘I had to drop something off for a friend. She only lives a couple of streets away. I thought I’d come and give you a lift.’

‘That’s very nice of you, thank you. I have my weekly bus pass though.’

‘You’re not telling me you’d rather sit on a bus full of moaning people than get driven there in my car with heated seats?’ He smiled and leaned forward to open the passenger door. ‘Get in.’

Jonathan thought for a while. He assessed the situation in his mind before deciding it was safe to proceed. He found himself smiling as he lowered himself into the car. Stephen was right; the seats were heated and very comfortable too.

‘I almost bought a house around here a few years ago,’ Stephen said after a couple of minutes of silence.

‘Really? Why didn’t you?’

‘After the viewings and putting mine on the market and all the fuss with redecorating the deal fell through and I just couldn’t be bothered searching again. Shame really, I could have given you a lift to work every day.’

‘I think I would have got used to that, especially with these seats.’

‘I told you they were comfortable. How come you don’t drive?’

‘I’m not sure. It’s just something I’ve never really thought about. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with public transport.’

‘There’s a lot wrong with public transport,’ Stephen scoffed. ‘For a start the buses never run to time, the drivers are surly, the other passengers always seem to fit into one of two categories; the ones who have a body odour problem or the ones who wear far too much perfume. Either way they’re all an assault on the senses.’

Jonathan laughed. ‘That sounds like everyone who’s ever sat next to me on a bus.’

From inside the apartment block, Maun was looking out of her window as Jonathan, with what looked like a genuine smile on his face, eased himself into his boss’s car. She watched until it turned the corner and was out of sight before turning away from the window. She was still in her dressing gown, with no reason to get dressed and leave the flat, until now.