For Reasons Unknown: A gripping crime debut that keeps you guessing until the last page

‘Excellent,’ Hales said to himself. ‘Time of death?’

‘That’s not going to be easy seeing as it was bloody cold last night. I don’t think it got above freezing all day. He could have been here since ten o’clock last night or just an hour.’

‘Can’t you be more accurate?’

‘Not right now. Rigor mortis has been given a helping hand by the weather. I’ll take temperature readings but he’s stone cold.’ She shivered. The thin plastic suit she had over her clothes was not designed to withstand such cold temperatures. She couldn’t wait to get into her office and turn on the heater. ‘I’ve got my assistant coming. She’ll take some photographs, we’ll get him bagged, then back to the lab and we’ll take some samples. Give me a couple of hours and come by for the PM.’

‘Thank you, Adele.’

Hales turned his back on the crime scene and headed for the Audi. He tried to suppress his grin but this could not have worked out better. Last night he had hardly slept. Lying next to his snoring wife his mind had been a whirl of what was going to happen to him and his career now Matilda Darke was back. He’d had the creeping feeling he’d get a phone call over breakfast from the ACC telling him to return to the CID incident room, but now he could relax, for the time being. This was a fresh murder scene, and, judging by the gossip that had been doing the rounds at the station yesterday, Matilda was in no fit state to lead one. This would be his. All his. And, fingers crossed, so would every other suspicious death that happened within the South Yorkshire boundary.

Chapter 10

Matilda woke with a vodka-induced headache and had to force herself out of bed. It was only her second day back at work but it felt like she’d never been away, and not in a good way. As she dragged herself to the shower she wished she had never gone back.

The force of the hot water stung her aching body. She was tender and every muscle seemed to be screaming out in pain. She ignored the cries to return to bed and allowed the water to cascade down her body. To continue the torture she quickly turned the temperature from hot to as cold as it could go and the needles became sharper. She soon woke up and once again her brain was alert and ready.

Like yesterday she had to force down her breakfast of an extremely strong coffee and a slice of toast before dressing and leaving the house. She had sent a text to DC Fleming the night before, saying she would pick him up and they would go straight to the Harkness house in Whirlow to watch the demolition. It was pointless going into the station first. Or did she just want to avoid seeing her replacement, Acting DCI Ben Hales?

When she reached Rory’s terraced house in Woodseats she pulled up and beeped for him. Within a minute the front door was pulled open and he bounded out of the house like a puppy going for his morning walk. She heard him shout a cheerful goodbye behind him and head towards the car. He had a silly grin on his face. She tried to remember a time when she was as happy about her job as he seemed to be, but the memory didn’t appear to exist.

‘You’re looking chirpy this morning,’ she said, indicating she was about to pull out into traffic, before Rory had secured his seatbelt.

‘Well for the first time in I can’t remember how long I had an early finish yesterday. I cooked a lovely meal, then we curled up on the sofa and watched a DVD together.’

She glanced at him and noticed his smile was even wider. She could guess the lovely evening had continued into the bedroom. She would also bet they didn’t get to the end of the DVD.

Underneath his Jonathan Creek duffel coat Rory was dressed smartly in a navy blue suit, white shirt, and light blue tie. Matilda was wearing the same navy suit as yesterday; the trousers were creased, and there was a stain on a lapel she couldn’t remember getting. Compared to her subordinate she felt like a bag lady.

‘Another cold one this morning,’ Rory said, making conversation after a silence of a couple of minutes. ‘Forecast said there could be some snow by the weekend.’

Matilda didn’t reply. She didn’t feel as if she had anything to add to the pointless dialogue.

‘What’s the plan for today then, after the demolition I mean?’

‘Well I thought we’d track down Jonathan Harkness. He’s the only relative living in the area. We’ll tell him we’re having another look at the case and see what he has to tell us.’

‘And if he doesn’t have anything new to tell us?’

‘Then we work the file. There has to be something in there that someone’s missed.’

‘Do you think he’ll remember something new twenty years down the line?’

‘I’ve absolutely no idea. The brain is a complicated organ. It can block things out to protect a person from whatever horrors they’ve experienced or it can torture them by repeating it over and over.’

‘Fingers crossed for the last option then. Let’s just hope it hasn’t screwed him up too much.’

‘Well I’m expecting him to be a complete basket case. Anything different will be a bonus.’

By the time they arrived at the scene in Whirlow a huge hydraulic excavator was being slowly driven off a low-loader. There was a team of more than a dozen workers in HI-Vis safety gear milling about preparing to begin.

The house had been surrounded by large plywood sheets to stop potential thieves or squatters gaining access and this was now being taken down. Two members of the team donned hard hats and entered the property via the back door. They were to give the house a final sweep just to make sure a homeless person wasn’t taking shelter, before the house was pulled down.

Matilda pulled up a few hundred yards away from the house. From the back seat she lifted a pile of papers: the reports she had taken home and Charlie Johnson’s book, which she was almost halfway through, and began flicking through them.

‘I was talking to my fiancée about the Harkness case last night and she had a look on the Internet about it while I was in the shower. She thinks Matthew may have a part to play in the murders.’

‘Does she?’ Matilda replied, not paying much attention.

‘It makes sense if you think about it. He wasn’t in the house at the time and he went missing soon afterwards. It was days before he was found and he had no alibi.’

‘He had no motive either.’

‘All kids have a motive for killing their parents, no matter how tenuous.’

She wondered whether that was his opinion or that of his fiancée’s. She didn’t say anything.

‘Maybe they’d had an argument; maybe he was jealous of the attention his parents paid towards his younger brother.’

‘The attack was frenzied. Whoever killed them had nothing but hatred for them. It would have had to have been a pretty big argument for him to do that. Besides, if he was jealous of his brother, why not kill him too?’

Rory shrugged.

‘Read chapter ten,’ Matilda said, handing Rory the paperback. ‘Apparently, Jonathan was an accident. His parents rarely had time for him. There was no reason for Matthew to be jealous.’

Extract from A Christmas Killing by Charlie Johnson.

CHAPTER THREE: WHERE’S MATTHEW?

The police arrived quickly on the scene and Jonathan was escorted off the premises under the cover of a large blanket to shield him from the horror of seeing his parents in such a state. He was taken to Sheffield’s Children’s Hospital where he was assessed for injuries. At this point, he had not spoken a single word to anyone and police believed him to be in shock.

There was someone missing from this scene though; fifteen-year-old Matthew Harkness. He had not returned home from school but gone straight to the home of best friend, Philip Clayton, to play a computer game. He left later than usual and used Philip’s mountain bike to cycle home. The journey should have only taken ten minutes but he didn’t make it, and there was no sign of a bike. After interviewing neighbours, police launched a manhunt to locate Matthew. Nobody had seen Matthew since he left for school earlier that day. The back gardens of all the houses in the road, along with nearby parks, were searched immediately. However, it was dark and little could be seen. A full-scale search was to begin the following morning as soon as it was light enough. Fears were growing among police that Matthew could have been kidnapped by the killer(s), though this was never made public. A sharp frost overnight and freezing temperatures hampered the search for Matthew. Police turned out to search back gardens once again and the local community helped out however they could. Police spent the whole day searching the dense Ecclesall Woods before moving on to Ran Woods. Nothing was found. The search then moved to nearby parks including Abbeydale Park, Millhouses Park and Abbeydale Golf Course. Again, there was no sign of the missing teenager, or the red and black mountain bike belonging to his friend. By the time darkness fell on the first full day of the investigation Matthew was still listed as a missing person and no ransom demands had been made. All day the temperature had not risen above freezing. Police feared for Matthew’s safety. Wherever he was, he was obviously in danger from either his kidnappers or the severe cold weather.

‘I just find it odd that he went missing,’ Rory said. ‘I mean, you wouldn’t do that unless you had something to hide.’

‘According to Matthew, when he was eventually found,’ she began, casting her eye down his statement, ‘he had come home and saw the police cars with flashing lights outside the house. He thought his parents had called them as he was late coming home and he just panicked and continued cycling.’

‘But his parents weren’t thick; they’d have just called the parents of the friend he was staying with. They wouldn’t call the police.’

‘His parents weren’t thick but maybe he was.’

‘I’m sorry but I don’t buy it. He was missing for three days before just turning up out of the blue. If he was worried about getting into trouble for being late home he would have stayed away just the one night, not for three, not in the middle of winter.’

‘Unfortunately,’ Matilda began, flicking through the three-page statement, ‘it doesn’t go into a great deal of detail. It doesn’t even say where he was hiding, for crying out loud. All it says is that he was hiding in the woods. Sheffield is one of the greenest cities in the country; it’s surrounded by bloody woods.’

‘Is Matthew still in Sheffield?’

‘No. He moved away as soon as his education was finished. I’ve no idea where he is now. We’ll have to try and track him down. These case notes are pitiful.’

She closed the file in frustration and looked up as the roaring sound of the hydraulic excavator slowly moved onto the plot of the Harkness house. It was demolition time.

A few nosy neighbours had congregated. They were dressed appropriately in long coats, hats, and scarves. They had their hands firmly in their pockets to keep warm or their arms wrapped tightly around their bodies. Some people didn’t care about the cold; they just wanted to be witness to an event that would go down in local history.

From a nearby Mondeo a young man in his early thirties wearing an open-necked shirt, faded blue trousers, and scuffed black shoes climbed out from behind the steering wheel. From the passenger seat, a gruff-looking man close to retirement hoisted himself out with a large camera around his neck.

‘Bloody press,’ Matilda said under her breath.

‘Are we getting out?’ Rory asked.

‘No I don’t…’ she stopped when her eyes fell on something of interest. She quickly scanned through the reports in front of her once again and found what she was looking for: a photograph. She looked up through the windscreen then down at the picture again.

‘Do you reckon that’s Jonathan Harkness?’ She showed Rory the photo of an eleven-year-old Jonathan in school uniform. He was looking directly into the camera lens and had a forced smile on his face. It was obviously a school photograph and he didn’t seem too pleased to be having it taken.

Rory looked at the picture then up at the young man in the black coat who was standing away from the crowd on his own. ‘It looks like him. Same build, same hair.’

‘Come on then.’ She whipped off her seatbelt and jumped out of the car.

Shortly after arriving at his childhood home, Jonathan saw the journalist and photographer climbing out of their car. He hoped they wouldn’t recognize him and lifted up his coat collar. He was standing alone, away from the crowd of ghoulish onlookers, but wondered if this might draw attention to the reporter so he slowly edged back to join them.

As soon as the large hydraulic excavator made its way onto the overgrown garden where he used to play, his attention was firmly aimed at the home he was born in.

His heart was beating loudly in his ears and he took a deep breath. He was dressed for the weather, wrapped up in scarf and gloves, but he was shivering underneath his thick winter coat. His mouth was dry and he swallowed painfully a few times. He watched as the arm was slowly raised a little higher than the roof. The bucket was angled and just as it made contact with the house he closed his eyes tight. The crunching sound caused him to jump. He opened his eyes and saw the large hole in what used to be his bedroom.

A large section of the front of the house was soon torn down and for the first time in more than twenty years, daylight penetrated the rooms. He looked up at the damaged building and saw the blue and white striped wallpaper that adorned the walls of his sanctuary.

He hadn’t realized how much this was going to affect him. As soon as he saw the wallpaper he could feel a lump in his throat and tears gathering in his eyes. He was hoping for a cathartic experience, closure maybe, but he couldn’t cope with this. It was killing him. The crowd of gawkers around him gossiped among themselves; their voices fighting with the noise from the demolition site.

‘That used to be such a beautiful house. What a waste.’

‘That place always gave me the creeps. It should have been torn down years ago.’

‘Can you imagine what went on in there?’

‘I wonder what those poor kids are up to these days.’

‘I used to have that wallpaper in my back bedroom.’

As Jonathan walked away he was stopped by a tired-looking woman and a sharply dressed young man behind her. He wondered if they were more reporters. Bloody vultures.

‘Are you Jonathan Harkness?’ Matilda asked.

‘Who?’ His voice was gruff, his throat still dry.

‘You are aren’t you? Don’t worry; I’m not from the newspapers.’ She fished her ID from her inside pocket. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Matilda Darke, this is Detective Constable Rory Fleming. We’re from the Murder Investigation Team at South Yorkshire Police. Would it be possible to have a few words?’

Jonathan looked from Matilda to Rory then back again. ‘I’m sorry but I’m about to go to work.’

The sound of a wall collapsing behind them broke their concentration. Both Matilda and Rory looked in the direction of the house while Jonathan closed his eyes. The agony of grief and terror was etched on his face.

‘I understand this is a very difficult day for you Mr Harkness but we’d just like a brief chat.’

‘I don’t have anything to say.’

He looked sad. His face was pale and his blue eyes dull. He had the look of someone on the brink of tears.

‘We’re having another look at the case.’

‘What?’ Now Matilda had his full attention. He looked genuinely shocked. ‘Why?’

‘We review cold cases every so often, and with the demolition we’ve decided to take another look.’

‘Is there new evidence?’

‘We don’t know yet.’

‘Look, between the book and your archives you pretty much have all the information there is.’

‘You’re right, there is plenty of information, but there’s one thing missing: your statement.’

Jonathan looked up from the ground and into Matilda’s eyes. ‘My statement?’

‘I know you went mute after everything that happened, it’s hardly surprising, but your statement is vital to finding out the truth.’

‘I really don’t think…’

‘Mr Harkness,’ Matilda’s voice took on an edgier tone. ‘This is an official police investigation. We need your statement. Would you like to come down to the station now?’

The look on Jonathan’s face at the mention of going to the police station was one of horror. His eyes widened, his mouth opened a little and his bottom lip quivered. He took a deep breath as if to steady his nerves.

‘If you don’t feel comfortable at the station we can do it at your home. Your choice.’

Behind him the side of the house collapsed and exposed the living room. Jonathan turned to look at the wreckage and quickly screwed his eyes shut again.

‘We’ll go back to my flat.’

The crowd of onlookers had grown, some were even filming it on their mobile phones. One member in particular stood out from the rest as she was the only person not interested in the demolition. She took a step back and looked at Jonathan talking to a good-looking young man with shiny hair and a dishevelled woman who could win first prize in a Vera Stanhope lookalike competition. She had enough experience of police officers in her time to recognize who they were. What were they doing here? Surely a house being demolished didn’t warrant police interest, especially officers in plain clothes. The conversation between the three of them seemed very tense. She was itching to know what they were saying but didn’t dare risk getting closer in case she was noticed. Maun waited until they had disappeared around the corner before following.

Chapter 11

The journey from Whirlow to Jonathan’s apartment was a short car drive away, conducted in silence. When they arrived at the building Matilda was shocked to find he had moved so close to the house where his parents had been brutally murdered. He’d obviously not laid his demons to rest even after twenty years. Would she still be living in anguish at the loss of her husband two decades from now?

Jonathan pointed out the living room to his guests then hurried into the kitchen to prepare coffee for them all.

‘He doesn’t have a TV,’ Rory said straightaway in hushed tones.

‘Trust you to notice that,’ she replied, and she smiled.

‘Look at all these books.’

Both Matilda and Rory were agog at the collection. They were even more surprised by the neatness of the display.

‘Do you think he’s read them all?’

‘I doubt they’re there for ornamental purposes.’

‘I’ve never seen so many outside of a branch of Waterstones.’

‘Come off it Rory, when was the last time you stepped foot into a bookshop?’

A blank expression swept across his smooth face as he tried to think. Matilda thought she detected the smell of burning as the cogs turned in his pretty little head.

‘I bought the Guinness Book of Records last Christmas.’

‘Hardly a Booker winner.’

‘A what?’

Jonathan entered carrying a tray with three mismatched cups and a cafetière full of black coffee. He made for the middle of the room then turned away, setting the tray down on a small table in the corner. He looked down at the carpet and unconsciously put a hand to his neck. Matilda followed his gaze and noticed four indentations where a piece of furniture used to stand; probably an old coffee table.

‘We were just admiring your collection.’ Matilda pointed to the bookcases as if they needed pointing out. They dominated the whole room.

‘Thank you.’

‘Have you read them all?’ Rory asked, still bewildered by the display.

‘Of course,’ Jonathan replied harshly.

‘Where’s your TV?’

‘I don’t have one.’

‘Why not?’

‘There’s nothing of interest I want to watch. I believe that if you’re not a fan of soap operas or reality shows you’re not catered for.’

‘I have to agree with you there,’ Matilda said. ‘I pay my TV licence and a subscription to Sky but I certainly don’t get my money’s worth.’

‘I expect being a detective takes up a lot of your time too.’

‘You tell me,’ Matilda said. She nodded towards the crime fiction collection with a smile.

‘Would you like to take a seat?’ Jonathan smiled back at Matilda.

Matilda and Rory both unbuttoned their coats as they sat on the leather sofa. Jonathan remained ready to leave the house; coat buttoned, scarf wrapped around his neck.

With slightly shaking hands, he poured them both a cup of coffee. He told them to help themselves to milk and sugar while he drank his black. Rory looked disappointed at the small plate with half a dozen boring digestive biscuits; he’d been hoping for something chocolatey, a Hobnob or a Bourbon. Jonathan sat on a matching armchair next to a small wooden table that held about twenty paperback novels.

‘Why aren’t those on the shelves?’ Rory asked.

‘Because I haven’t read them yet.’

‘Where do you work?’ Matilda asked, taking a lingering sniff of the coffee.

‘Waterstones in Orchard Square.’

‘Really?’ Rory laughed.

‘Yes,’ Jonathan frowned.

‘Would you mind if I recorded this conversation?’ Matilda asked. She took a digital recorder from her pocket. Jonathan shook his head, so she pressed a couple of buttons then set it down on the small table between the two of them. ‘I’d like you to tell us your story.’

Jonathan sighed. ‘Why?’

‘As I said, we’re having another look at the case and I’ve been through the statements, reports, and paperwork and there doesn’t seem to be a statement from you. Did you ever make one?’

Jonathan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Subconsciously he was tapping each of the four fingers on his left hand against his thumb. After tapping twice with each finger, eight taps, he stopped for a second before starting again.

Matilda recognized the signs of anxiety; she should do, anxiety was a permanent house guest for her. She looked across at Rory but he was still staring at the books. She wondered if her traits were as obvious.

‘After it happened,’ he began. His voice broke. ‘After it happened I was in a state of shock. I didn’t speak for a very long time. The police came to see me many times. They kept bringing different kinds of specialists, all of them trying to get me to talk in their own unique way but it didn’t work. I seem to remember one woman using hand puppets.’ He gave a nervous smile at the memory.

‘How long was it before you talked again?’

‘About eighteen months.’

‘And you’d left Sheffield by then?’

‘Yes. I was living with my aunt up in Newcastle.’

‘When did you move back to Sheffield?’

‘About five years ago I think.’

‘Why did you decide to come back?’

Jonathan lowered his head. ‘My aunt died, and as much as I enjoyed living in Newcastle it was always her home, not mine. Sheffield is all I know.’

Matilda nodded then changed the subject. ‘On the night your parents died…’

‘They were killed,’ Jonathan interrupted with a solid, almost stern voice. ‘They didn’t die; they were killed.’

‘Sorry. On the night they were killed, you were all getting ready to attend a carol concert, weren’t you?’

Jonathan rolled his eyes. ‘Do I really need to go through all this again? I’m sure with all your reports and Charlie Johnson’s book you can piece it all together.’

‘Have you read Charlie Johnson’s book?’

‘Yes. My aunt bought a copy. She wanted to know how accurate it was.’

‘How accurate is it?’

‘In places it’s so spot on it’s like he was there making notes.’

‘Did you talk to Mr Johnson at the time of him writing it?’

‘No. He tracked me down to Newcastle and wrote to us and phoned us a few times. He even sent a signed blank cheque in the post asking us to name our price.’