Michael Wood - For Reasons Unknown

‘I’ll remember that when I’m tearing my hair out. Did you know the house is being demolished tomorrow?’

‘Is it? Well I’m not surprised. It’s stood empty for years, even Dracula would apply for rehousing if he lived in there.’

Matilda laughed and felt herself relaxing.

‘It’s good to hear you laugh, Mat. Fancy meeting for lunch? Panini on me.’

‘Yes OK. I’d like that. I’m not sure what time I’ll be free though.’

‘That’s OK. I’m off today. Give me a call.’

Matilda promised that she would, said goodbye, and hung up. She realized she was still smiling and had an air of confidence about her. This always happened in Adele’s company. Her positivity was as infectious as a baby’s giggle. Adele should be bottled and issued on the NHS to people with depression.

A knock on the door brought Matilda back to reality. She looked around at the drab office and felt her stomach somersault. How was it possible her mood could leap up and down so rapidly? She made a mental note to bring her antidepressants tomorrow.

She called for her visitor to enter, but her mouth was dry. She cleared her throat a couple of times and tried again.

The door opened a small amount, the hinges creaking loudly. A head peered around the door. It was DS Sian Mills.

‘Hello, I heard you were back,’ her voice was soft, almost timid, as if talking to a patient who had just woken from major surgery.

Matilda was not sure she had the strength for this. All the old familiar faces she had seen, known, and worked with would hunt her out one by one to have the same welcome-back conversation. Some would be genuine, Sian in particular, others would be more perverse. They would want to see the state she was in, and get the gory details of her absence. Matilda suddenly realized she was the human equivalent of a car crash.

She took a deep breath. ‘Sian, good to see you. Come on in.’

‘Welcome back Mats. You’ve been missed. You really have.’

‘Thank you. I like your hair.’

‘Thanks. I wasn’t sure at first. I thought it made me look like a twelve-year-old boy. Stuart likes it though.’ She ran her hand around the back of her neck. ‘You’re looking…well,’ she said for want of a better word. She tried not to stare too much at the woman who was, in effect, still her boss. It was difficult, however, not to notice such a drastic change in her appearance.

‘Thanks. I feel well.’ Would the lies this morning never stop?

‘I didn’t realize you were coming back today. If I’d known I’d have made some muffins or got you a card.’

‘That’s really sweet but I don’t want a fuss.’

‘No. Of course not. You’re right. Start as you mean to go on and all that,’ she half laughed.

‘Something like that.’ She gave a weak smile and glanced at the Harkness files.

‘You’ll have to come up to the Murder Room, see us all, have a coffee.’

‘I will. Maybe a bit later.’ Another lie.

‘How about lunch? We can catch up. Did I tell you Stuart’s father died? He’s only left us his boat. Can you believe that? What are we supposed to do with a boat in Sheffield?’

‘Some other time perhaps. I’ve got plans this lunchtime.’

‘Oh. OK. No problem. I understand. Well, let me know when.’

‘Will do.’

‘Well I’d better be going.’ She made her way to the doorway. ‘It really is great to have you back.’

Matilda offered a painful smile as a farewell. Any words would have choked her.

As soon as Sian left the room, closing the door behind her, Matilda felt her body begin to relax once more. She had been tense throughout the conversation. Why should she feel on edge around Sian? She had known her for years, worked with her on many investigations, cried and ranted at the state of the judicial system when a killer went free, and had a few too many Martinis together at Christmas parties. If she couldn’t relax around a friend, how was she going to react around others she considered to be mere colleagues?

Pitt the Younger, Addington, Pitt the Younger, Grenville, Cavendish-Bentinck.

Maybe she had returned to work too early, but then how much longer could she keep putting it off? Surely nine months was more than enough.

She shook her head as if dispelling the dark thoughts, and busied herself with the evidence boxes scattered around the room. She lifted one up, expecting it to be heavy, but was surprised by how light it was, and placed it on her desk. She removed the lid tentatively and peered inside. There was only one item in it: sealed in an evidence bag was the neatly folded white shirt belonging to a small boy. Standing out against the pure white cotton material, pools of dried blood covered the front.

Matilda reached in and lifted it out. She held it firmly in both hands. Searching back in her memory twenty years, she briefly remembered eleven-year-old Jonathan Harkness being found alone at the crime scene. How long had he been there? Had he been present in the room as his parents were butchered in front of him? If so, why hadn’t the killer turned on him too? Respectfully, she gently placed the shirt back in the box and returned the lid.

Another knock at the door brought her back from her reverie. She sniffled and realized she was on the brink of tears, clearly from the effects of the bloodied shirt belonging to an innocent child mixed with her already fragile emotional state. Maybe she would feel better once she started on the case properly.

‘Come in.’

This time the door breezed open and in bounded DC Rory Fleming like Tigger on Ecstasy.

‘Rory, good to see you. What can I do for you?’ She tried to sound jolly but it came out rather laboured.

‘I’ve been assigned to you ma’am, for the Harkness case.’

‘Oh right. Well come on in. Have a seat, if you can find room.’

He shut the door and sat on the hard wooden seat on the opposite side of the desk. They eyed each other up in painful silence.

‘So, are you pleased to be back?’

‘Right,’ she began, slapping her hands on the desk, ‘let’s get things settled before we begin. Firstly, you don’t need to treat me like I’m made of glass. I’m not going to break. Secondly, you don’t have to be careful about what you say. There’s bound to be some mention of missing children or kidnapping at some point, and while it will bring back memories, they’re my memories and not yours, so don’t worry. Thirdly, the length of time I was off was due to personal reasons, which have no effect on my work, so you don’t need to know about them. Is that all right?’

Rory looked taken aback by the speech. He nodded as if summing it up. ‘That’s fine by me,’ he gave a pained smile.

‘Good. So, how are things with you?’

‘No offence but that’s a personal matter, which has no effect on my work, so you don’t need to know about that.’

Matilda threw her head back and gave out a natural laugh straight from the pit of her stomach. Yes, she definitely had made the right decision to return to work.

DC Rory Fleming was a good-looking young man in his late twenties. He had the clean-cut look of a fresh-faced Premiership footballer with brawn to match. He took care of his appearance; always wore well-fitted, clean suits, which hung on him like they did on the shop dummy, and seemed to have a new tie every day. Now, trapped in an office the size of a prison cell with a mountain of paperwork to wade through and with no natural ventilation, his skin was dry, his hair ruffled from the many times he had run his fingers through it in exasperation, and his once crisp white shirt creased, with the sleeves rolled up.

He had just finished reading a section of Charlie Johnson’s ‘definitive book’ on the Harkness killings. Twenty years ago Fleming was still an infant, overly excited about the upcoming visit from Father Christmas, and stealing chocolates from the back of the Christmas tree.