Michael Wood - For Reasons Unknown

‘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.

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.

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.