A murder investigation was launched and Jonathan was taken to hospital. He had no physical injuries but he was unresponsive. He did not react to any test by doctors and did not blink when a light was shone in his eyes. He was in a catatonic state. He was placed in a private room at Sheffield’s Children’s Hospital and guarded by a police officer who stayed with him all night. A missing person investigation was simultaneously launched to seek the whereabouts of fifteen-year-old Matthew Harkness. Neighbours saw him leave the house that morning to go to school but nobody remembered him coming home. In the days that followed, police investigated the lives of the Harkness family both personal and professional. Media interest was high and the story had the whole country gripped. Stefan’s sister Clara came down from Newcastle to look after Jonathan, who, after three days, had not uttered a word. Matthew was still missing.
‘I don’t like this,’ Rory said, putting the book down.
‘What? Is it badly written?’
‘Not just this book, the whole true crime thing. I find it gruesome. It’s so detailed and graphic. And another thing, how did Charlie Johnson know all the little details, like Jonathan’s mum shouting at him for playing Lego? Who told him that?’
‘I thought the same thing. Maybe he’s just using creative licence. Have you noticed what’s missing out of all of these files?’
‘No. What?’
‘A statement from Jonathan.’
‘Well, he went mute didn’t he?’
‘Yes, but for how long? Surely he started speaking again at some point. There’s a psychiatric report on him suffering from shock but that’s it. From the file’s point of view his aunt took him back with her to Newcastle and that’s it. I’m beginning to see why this case was never solved.’
Rory went back to reading the book, his lips moving slightly over each word. ‘Do you have those photographs of Jonathan taken at the scene?’
Matilda had been reading the post-mortem reports. She lifted a folder and then another, eventually finding the pack of pictures he wanted.
Rory rifled through them. He was unfazed by the blood-stained bed, the saturated carpet, and blood-spattered ceiling. Towards the back of the pack he found the pictures of Jonathan he was looking for.
Jonathan had been dressed like his father: white shirt, underwear but no trousers. They were caught by their attacker unawares. The pictures of the eleven-year-old showed him with a blank expression on his face. His hands were red with drying blood.
‘What do you make of this?’ He held up one of the photographs and waited while Matilda marked her place in the report with a Post-it note. She took the picture from him and studied it carefully.
‘What am I looking at?’
‘His hands.’
‘OK. Go on.’
‘Why are his hands covered in blood?’
‘Put yourself in his position, Rory; he’s just found his parents dead, he’s frightened. What does any small boy want when he’s frightened? His mum. He’ll have run over to her and tried to rouse her in some way. Of course his hands are going to be covered in their blood.’
‘Yes, fair enough. It wasn’t long after Stefan was killed before Miranda was killed. If Jonathan had gone into the bedroom then surely the killer was still in there too. Why didn’t the killer murder Jonathan as well as his parents?’
Matilda frowned. ‘Maybe the killer’s gripe wasn’t with Jonathan. Maybe it was all about the parents.’
‘But Jonathan must have seen the killer if he’d gone into the room.’
‘Well, according to Jonathan’s aunt, his mother came up the stairs and saw Jonathan on the landing with blood on him. He’d obviously gone into the bedroom and come back out again.’ She thought for a moment and then continued. ‘Remember back to when you were a kid and you wanted your parents’ attention? You don’t just walk into the room and wait until you’re allowed to speak; you call for them on your way to the room don’t you?’
‘I suppose.’
‘So the killer heard him coming and hid in the en suite until he left. There’s a big difference between killing an adult and killing a child. The majority of convicted killers are appalled by crimes against children.’
‘Yes. That’s true. I suppose that’s why paedophiles are kept apart from everyone else in prison,’ he said. ‘Hang on a minute, Jonathan’s aunt said his mother came up the stairs and found Jonathan with blood on him?’
‘Yes. So?’
‘Where did you get that from?’
Once again Matilda rifled through the mess of paperwork on her desk before she found the two-page document she was looking for. ‘A statement by Clara Harkness given in May 1995.’
‘That’s what, six months after the killings? Jonathan was living in Newcastle by then. So he was obviously talking.’
‘Obviously.’
‘Yet there’s still no statement from Jonathan Harkness. Why not?’
Matilda had to admit that she had no idea why Jonathan was never interviewed. On the other hand, maybe he had given a statement and it had somehow disappeared from the archive over the years. As she looked around the room at the opened boxes of evidence, the stacks of files and packs of photographs, she wondered if she had really been given all the information the ACC had promised. Already the case was throwing up more questions than answers. She was surprised to find DC Fleming so articulate. Where had this sudden intelligence come from?
Rory coughed. Matilda looked up and saw he was studying his watch. She turned back to her post-mortem report and was interrupted by a louder cough. Rory was still staring at his watch.
‘Is something the matter?’
‘Well, it’s just that…’ he seemed nervous and unable to make eye contact with his boss. ‘The thing is…the time.’
Matilda looked at her own watch. It was just after 4.15. ‘What about the…oh. You’ve been told about my curfew?’
‘Yes, sorry.’
‘Don’t apologize; it’s not your fault. Thank you for reminding me. I’d hate to get a detention on my first day back at school.’
They both laughed, but it wasn’t genuine.
‘Shall I continue reading up on the case?’
‘No. Why should you have to stay behind and I go home? Have an early finish. Go home to that girlfriend of yours.’
‘Oh. We’re engaged now, actually,’ he said, his cheeks reddening slightly in embarrassment.
‘Really? Congratulations. When’s the big day?’
‘We’ve not decided yet. Amelia is aiming for promotion so wants to get that out of the way before having to plan a wedding.’
‘What does she do?’
‘She’s a junior solicitor. She wants to specialize in criminal law.’
Matilda was tempted to say something about the potential for a conflict of interest in any of his cases going to court in the years to come, but the sweet smile that lit up his face was full of the innocence of youth. She didn’t want to spoil it for him. She found herself relaxing in Rory’s company. Before her nine month enforced sabbatical she saw Rory as just an annoyingly loud, over-eager DC who would need a serious change of personality if he expected promotion. However, cooped up in the broom cupboard and working on a one-to-one basis she was seeing him in a different light. He was warm and approachable.
‘So what have the others in the Murder Room been up to in my time away?’ The question surprised even Matilda. She had never engaged in gossip before, and although the personal lives of her team were important for her to know in order to find out how they were going to approach particular cases, she kept the majority at arm’s length.
‘Well Sian’s been bitten by the Great British Bake Off bug. She’s been trying out her skills on us, bringing in muffins and cakes. She’s actually quite good. She’s also just inherited a boat which she’s been harping on about for months.’
‘Yes, she mentioned that this morning. It was one of the first things she said.’ Matilda smiled.
‘We think Aaron may be going through a mid-life crisis. Ever since he turned thirty-four he’s gotten all moody. I think there might be trouble at home. I know his wife wants a baby. I’m guessing he’s not playing with a full load.’
‘Blimey Rory, you’re worse than a bunch of women at a school gate.’ She didn’t tell him to stop though.
‘Oh, big news about Scott. You know we all thought he was gay? Well he went out with the blonde one from the press office for a couple of weeks but it didn’t last. Still, I won a fiver off Aaron so I wasn’t complaining.’
‘What’s the new girl like? Faith is it?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘She’s a bit of an enigma. She seems to think she’s been hand-picked to join the team, like she has something special to offer. She’s not even trying to fit in with us and she got Sian’s back up straight away by helping herself to the chocolate drawer and replacing what she took with nut bars and packets of seeds.’
‘How’s her work?’
‘She’s good at what she does; she’s just not much of a team player.’
‘Maybe she’s nervous.’ Matilda found herself sympathizing with a woman she didn’t even know. She could certainly understand what it was like entering an already established team. Even though she’d been with the Murder Investigation Team from day one, she found herself feeling like an outsider again.
She didn’t want to dwell on this for too long; her mood was beginning to sink again. ‘Look, you get off. I’ll tidy up in here. Tomorrow is the demolition of the Harkness house. We’ll meet there at nine o’clock; watch the house being torn down, then plan what we’re going to do next in the pub. OK?’
‘Fine by me. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
As soon as he had gone Matilda closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. The stale air in the room was not helping. She put the post-mortem report, a pack of crime-scene photographs, and witness statements in her bag. She may not be allowed to be in the station past four o’clock, but nobody had said anything about working from home.
Chapter 5
Jonathan Harkness was a timid, frail figure of a man. Standing at six foot tall and a little under ten stone, he looked almost emaciated. His icy blue eyes were sunken and his cheekbones prominent to the point of bursting out of his skin. His thin lips were red and dry. His skin was pale and lacked life, as did his unruly dull hair, which wasn’t styled, merely combed into a neat passable excuse.
He held himself rigid and constantly looked about him, as if frightened of the world he lived in. His body language was cold and unapproachable and his shoulders were permanently hunched. He never allowed himself to relax, not even for a second. He was constantly on his guard.
Jonathan hadn’t been a confident child and preferred his own company to that of his contemporaries. Twenty years ago, when he was eleven years old, his entire world was torn apart with the brutal murder of his parents in cold blood. Everything that happened to him after that night, every decision he made, was born from the fragile mind of a young man who was still unable to break free of that night in December 1994 when he had stood in the doorway of his parents’ bedroom and seen the nightmare unfold before him.
He was grateful for Aunt Clara, who took him away from Sheffield, but once the residents and local press in Newcastle realized who he was, the gossip began, the phone calls began, and they were all after his version of the events.
Eventually it died down and Jonathan could grow up in the shadows, just like he wanted. Now, with the stiff cream envelope in his post box and the logo of the company he knew all too well, his nightmare was about to return. He had been expecting this day to come and now that it had he was surprised by how sanguine he was about it all. It was only a letter after all. What damage could a letter do?
Richards and Rigby Publishing
3 rd Floor Muse House
Swansea Avenue
London
EC1 2BF
December 3, 2014
Dear Jonathan,
I hope this letter finds you in the best of health. As I am sure you are aware your childhood home is due to be demolished in the coming days. I have already had many journalists contact me asking if I will be willing to write a feature on the demolition and a review of the murder of your parents.
Coincidently, next summer I will be releasing a new book titled ‘Britain’s Unsolved Murders’ and will be revisiting some of the crimes I have covered in the past. Naturally I would like the Harkness killings to be at the heart of the book.
I have spent time looking online and chatting to journalists and I see you have never told your story. You must realize that yours is a story worth telling and the whole country would certainly still be interested in reading it.
For your own convenience I can be up in Sheffield in just a couple of hours and we can discuss your story and fees in person. Please contact me as soon as possible so we can get the ball rolling.
Kind regards,
Charlie Johnson
Bloody Charlie Johnson! Would he ever be free from this man? And how the hell did he know he had moved back to Sheffield?
Jonathan took Charlie’s letter into the kitchen and set fire to it over the sink. He dropped the burning sheet and watched as the paper curled and the yellow flames destroyed the neatly printed letter. He turned on the cold-water tap and flushed the scorched scraps of paper down the plughole. He knew more letters would come.
He looked at the calendar on the kitchen wall and saw the red ring he’d drawn around tomorrow’s date. He took a deep breath as he felt a tightness in his chest. He wasn’t sure if he was strong enough to get through this.
Tomorrow was a big day. The house he had been brought up in was being demolished. It was the end of an era and, hopefully, a chance to put the ghosts to rest.
He intended to visit the house in Whirlow and watch as it was razed to the ground. He was unsure how he would feel about it. He was never one for showing his emotions, not even in private. He doubted he would cry. There was one worry he had about tomorrow which he could not seem to come to terms with; would his brother Matthew attend the demolition? He hoped not. He was absolutely certain he couldn’t cope with seeing him again.
Chapter 6
Matilda Darke tried to make it out of the station without anyone seeing her. She wasn’t bothered about being accosted and forced into a hug and asked how she was feeling; she just didn’t want anyone to notice the files sticking out of the top of her bag.
As she made her way to the car park she sent a quick text to Adele apologizing for missing lunch and wondering if she was still free for a chat over coffee. The reply came almost instantly: COSTA ON DIVISION STREET. TEN MINUTES. YOU’RE BUYING. Matilda smiled to herself as she left the building. The smile dropped as she passed the Audi still in her parking space.
Costa on Division Street was in Sheffield’s City Centre, on the cusp of the student district. It was a large coffee shop with friendly baristas and comfortable seats. Adele was already waiting outside for her.
Adele Kean was the same age as Matilda, forty-one. She was a single mother with a son in his early twenties. Her short, sensible hair, and her eyes, were dark brown.
As soon as she saw Matilda she stepped forward and opened out her arms, scooping up her best friend and gripping her tight.
‘First day over with,’ she said quietly in her ear. ‘I knew you could do it.’
Matilda looked at her with a tear in each eye. ‘You knew more than me then. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve wanted to cry today.’
‘And did you?’
‘Not once.’
‘Good girl.’ Adele took a step back and held Matilda at arm’s length. ‘You look different, brighter, more relaxed.’
‘Well I don’t feel it. I actually feel physically drained. I’m shattered.’
‘No. You look years younger. There’s a sparkle in your eyes I haven’t seen in ages. Come on, let’s get those coffees and you can fill me in.’
Adele took the lead, linking arms, and heading into the warmth of the coffee shop. She went to find a seat while Matilda ordered; a large latte each, a mozzarella and tomato panini for Adele and a meatball one for herself. She slowly made her way with the drinks through the maze of armchairs to the back of the shop. Adele had already shrugged herself out of her knee-length cream duffel coat and was rubbing her hands together to warm up.
‘It’s a shame they don’t do a latte large enough to swim in,’ she said, taking the two-handled mug from the tray and cupping her hands around it.
‘I don’t know how you can drink as much caffeine as you do. I’d be bouncing off the walls.’
‘Unfortunately, I’m not allowed to drink vodka at work so I have to make do with caffeine. I need something to give me a kick when I’m elbow deep in dead bodies.’
Matilda shrugged herself out of her winter coat and hung it over the back of her chair.
‘That’s new,’ Adele said, commenting on her outfit.
‘Well I had to make a good impression for the first day back. Do you like it?’
‘It’s very professional.’
‘That’s a no then.’
‘Well it’s not what I would’ve chosen, but you look good in it.’
‘I’ve gone up a dress size.’ Matilda leaned forward and lowered her voice.
‘We all put on a bit of padding in the winter. It keeps us warm when the government runs out of gas.’
‘Well it’ll be coming off when the spring hits. Nothing in my wardrobe fits any more.’
‘Come spinning with me; you’ll love it.’
‘I seem to remember you saying that about pilates and I hated it.’
‘That was just a fad; nobody does pilates any more. So come on, let’s have all the gossip from your first day.’
‘There’s nothing to tell.’
‘There must be. Is everyone pleased to see you?’
‘The ones I’ve seen are. I’m guessing the ones who aren’t have stayed out of my way. I think Ben Hales has been avoiding me.’
‘He seems to have done a good job while you’ve been away.’
‘That’s not really what I want to hear Adele.’
‘I’m not saying he’s better than you but you can’t deny he’s good at his job. He’s not got the people skills you have. I was speaking to Sian a couple of weeks ago when that body was fished out of the River Don. She was telling me how the atmosphere changes when he enters the room. He just can’t chat to people.’
‘He’s never been able to. He can’t make eye contact. I heard he only made DI because of who he’s married to.’
‘Who is he married to?’
‘Sara Monroe as was. Her father used to be Chief Constable down in Southampton.’
‘Bloody arse-licker. Have you seen the car he drives?’
‘It’s not an Audi is it?’
‘A bloody great big Audi.’
‘I thought so. It’s been in my parking space all day.’
‘Paid for by Chief Constable Father-in-law no doubt.’
Their gossiping was interrupted by a young barista bringing over their food. He looked like a student who was working part-time. Adele admired that in the young generation. As he turned to walk away she also admired his bum.
‘Adele! He’s young enough to be your son.’
‘So I can’t even look now?’
They both laughed. It almost felt like old times – before Matilda’s life fell apart.
‘I was trawling the Internet this afternoon and did a bit of digging about the Harkness killings,’ Adele said between bites. ‘There wasn’t a shortage of suspects.’
‘I know. The Harkness case really was a mammoth task. Stefan was a researcher doing something with testing on animals. He’d received death threats from animal rights groups and I’ve got a file of over thirty interviews to go through. Miranda was a GP and was setting up a clinic to help teenagers know all about safe sex. That didn’t go down too well in the local community. If I was Poirot and I wanted to gather all my suspects I’d have to hire the Crucible Theatre.’
‘I don’t envy your task.’
‘Neither do I. The problem is I feel like I have to solve this to prove myself once again. It’s like an initiation.’
‘Did Masterson actually say that?’
‘Not in so many words. What with the house being demolished tomorrow it’s back in the press and it doesn’t look good for South Yorkshire Police to have a famous unsolved case on its hands. I just don’t think I can solve it.’
‘Come on, Mat, less of the negativity. Look at yourself; you’re back at work. You’ve made it. Show them what they’ve been missing out on while you’ve been away.’
Matilda threw down the remnants of her panini. Suddenly the weight of the task was back on her shoulders. She felt the room closing in on her, the lights seemed to dim, and the background noise of a hissing coffee machine and chatting customers all mingled into white noise. She closed her eyes and took in a slow deep breath.
Adele saw the signs of an oncoming panic attack. She had been through many of these with Matilda over the past nine months. She knew the drill. She placed her coffee mug on the saucer and leaned across the table. She put her warm hand on top of Matilda’s ice-cold hand.
‘Let’s start at the 1900s. Arthur Balfour,’ Adele encouraged.
Matilda didn’t say anything. She screwed her eyes tighter and took a deeper breath. Everything went dark. The background noise of coffee drinkers chatting and the machines spitting out steam grew louder and mingled into one undefinable squeal.
‘Clear your mind Matty. Come on, Arthur Balfour.’
‘Arthur Balfour…’ she said slowly.
‘You can do this, come on. Concentrate. Arthur Balfour.’
‘Arthur Balfour, Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman, Herbert Henry Asquith, David Lloyd George.’ Matilda’s breathing began to steady.
‘Two more.’
‘Andrew Bonar Law and Stanley Baldwin.’ She took a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Did someone have their hands around her throat, squeezing the breath out of her?
‘Another two more. Keep breathing.’
‘Ramsey Macdonald and Neville Chamberlain.’
‘Are you all right?’
Matilda took a final deep breath and felt her body relax. She slowly opened her eyes. ‘Yes I’m fine. Thank you.’
‘Don’t mention it. That therapist of yours might be a bit of a cow but she knows her stuff. Who would have thought the Prime Ministers of this country would have such an impact on mental health?’
‘It didn’t have to be Prime Ministers. It could have been anything; kings and queens, American states, anything.’
‘Doctor Who actors?’
‘I think I’d soon run out of those.’
‘How about James Bond actors?’ Her face almost lit up. ‘Though as soon as I got Sean Connery in my head I’d stop right there.’
Matilda was looking past Adele and out of the window. How could she function as a member of the police force if every time a sliver of doubt entered her head she fell into a maelstrom of panic? This wasn’t even an active case; it was a cold case that nobody expected her to solve. How would she cope under the pressure of a murder investigation in the here and now?
‘What are you thinking about?’ Adele asked.
‘I’m just beating myself up. I’m really not ready for this.’
‘Yes you are. You’re worth ten of Ben Hales. This is who you are. You’re going to get better and I’m going to help you.’
Matilda shrugged. ‘You’ve got your own life. You’ve got Chris.’
‘Chris can take care of himself. He’s a big boy.’
‘Yes and I’m a big girl…’
‘Who’s suffered a great loss,’ she interrupted. ‘There’s no shame in accepting help. Now, I will help you and not just with your panic attacks,’ she said, lowering her voice so she wouldn’t be overheard. ‘I’ll help with the Harkness case too. We’ll be like Cagney and Lacey.’
