Michael Wood - For Reasons Unknown - A gripping crime debut that keeps you guessing until the last page

‘All parties?’

‘You, me, Dr Warminster, the Chief Constable. We are all behind you one hundred per cent.’

Newcastle, Bute, Grenville, Rockingham, Pitt the Elder , she said to herself. Why was the mere mention of her therapist’s name causing her such anxiety? She managed to control her stress by reciting the names of British Prime Ministers; a technique suggested by Dr Warminster in the first place.

Matilda knew that the support of her superiors was a hollow promise. Yes, she had made a mistake. Yes, she had suffered for it. ‘Look, there’s no denying I’ve changed in the past year, but I am still a DCI. I’m still capable of doing my job. If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t be here now. I know I can do this.’ She wondered who she was trying to convince.

Valerie reached into her top drawer and pulled out a thick file. The folder had seen better days and was covered in coffee-mug rings and splashes. ‘Do you remember the Harkness killings?’ she asked, interlocking her fingers and resting her hands on top of the file.

Matilda knew where this was going. ‘You’re giving me a cold case aren’t you?’

‘I just want you to look at it. A month, six weeks at the most.’

‘Is there any new evidence?’

Valerie looked down at the file. ‘Not as such.’

‘What does that mean?’ Matilda folded her arms. She could feel the prickling heat in the back of her neck.

‘Do you know the case?’

‘Everybody does. It’s part of Sheffield folklore.’

‘The house is being demolished tomorrow.’

‘About time.’

‘I had a reporter on the phone from The Star last week asking if the case was up for review.’

‘I’m guessing that it is now.’

‘Due to budget cuts we no longer have an active review board looking at resting cases. The house being demolished isn’t only going to have local interest but national too. It was a big story. I don’t want them thinking people can get away with murder in South Yorkshire.’

‘So it’s a PR exercise?’

‘Matilda, I believe this case can be solved. It may have been a long time ago but the killer is within these files. I know it. If anyone can find the killer of Stefan and Miranda Harkness, it’s you.’

Matilda knew she was being placated. With the botched Carl Meagan kidnapping still fresh in the minds of the Sheffield people it would not look good if a DCI with a heavy cloud over her head was leading a major investigation. If, on the other hand, she could solve a well-known cold case there would be smiles all round. She reached forward for the file, but pulled her hand back quickly.

Grafton, North, Wentworth, Petty, North and Fox.

‘I’ll need a DC.’

‘I’ll assign one to you.’

‘And an office to work in.’

‘Not a problem.’

‘Where’s all the evidence?’

‘On its way from storage. You’ll have access to everything pertaining to the Harkness case and carte blanche on interviews.’

Matilda rolled her eyes. The files were on their way. The decision had already been made. She began to wonder if this was the beginning of the end for her. Did anyone want to work with her any more? ‘What if I can’t solve it?’

‘I have faith in you.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

‘Then it remains a cold case.’

‘Will I be able to return to the murder team when all this is over?’

‘That will be reviewed at the time.’

She could feel a tension headache coming on. The impulse to throw her ID on the table and resign was bubbling up inside her, almost at eruption level.

‘Are you still seeing Dr Warminster?’ Valerie asked when she saw the DCI chewing her bottom lip.

‘I have no choice in the matter. A bit like the situation here.’

‘Matilda, a great deal has changed in this past year. Work on this case, keep seeing Dr Warminster, and everyone will be happy.’

‘Everyone except me.’

‘Did you honestly think you’d be able to return to front-line duty as if nothing had happened?’

‘Yes I did. A review panel cleared me of any wrongdoing. I should be able to pick up where I left off.’

‘And you will. This is the final hurdle. Look, South Yorkshire Police isn’t exactly going through the best of times at the moment; the Hillsborough Inquiry and the child abuse scandal in Rotherham are just two major headaches I have to contend with. I cannot be seen to have you return to front-line work as if nothing’s happened.’

Grudgingly, Matilda picked up the file. She feared that the second her fingers gripped the folder there would be no going back.

‘There’s one more stipulation…’ Valerie began.

Of course there is.

‘Dr Warminster has recommended reduced working hours.’

Matilda didn’t say anything. She was already being stripped of her powers, her role within the force taken away from her, segregated from her colleagues; anything else they added was out of her control and not worth fighting over. This was a battle she was not going to win.

‘You’re not to start work before 9 a.m. and you’re to be out of the station by 4 p.m. Is that understood?’

Matilda rose from her seat clutching the cold-case file firmly to her chest. ‘That’s fine,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll be able to get home in time for my game shows.’

She turned on her heels and swiftly left the room. She wanted to slam the door, but would wait until she arrived home, and, at the top of her voice, would scream into a pillow from the pit of her lungs – another stress-relieving exercise from the two-faced harpy Dr Warminster.

The detached five-bedroom house in Whirlow sat in its own grounds. It was set back from a main road, and a boundary of neatly trimmed evergreens sheltered it from view. A gravel driveway forked off; one way leading to a double front door, the other to a detached garage, which sat proudly next to the house. Made of classic red brick in the Victorian era, it also included two impressive chimney stacks, and large windows.

A house and grounds of this age needed regular attention to remain looking grand. Unfortunately, nothing had been tended in over twenty years. The evergreens had been left to wild abandon, the branches drooped lifelessly, and the once brilliant green was now dull.

The garden was overgrown, the driveway almost hidden under weeds and brown leaves. The house itself was dead. Windows had been smashed and boarded up with cheap plywood. One chimney had collapsed, and the lead stolen from the roof, which had very few tiles remaining. The garage door was covered in graffiti.

A strong wooden fence surrounded the entire plot. Crudely attached stickers informed passers-by that the house was due for demolition. The once grand building was now an eyesore to everyone in the neighbourhood, and had a knock-on effect to selling prices of nearby properties.

Towards the back of the plot there was a gap between the last fence panel and the evergreens. It was a tight squeeze, but just manageable for someone thin enough to wriggle through without being seen from the main road.

Once through, the man dressed in black dusted himself off and stood up to look at the house. It was pathetic and sad to see such a wonderful building fall into a state of decay.

There wasn’t much to see; the downstairs windows were all boarded up. The padlock on the sheet of plywood covering the back door was rusted and didn’t take much striking from a rock to break it. He pushed open the door and entered.

The back door led straight into the kitchen, once the heart of the family home. It was dark and had the bitter smell of death. Cobwebs hung from the walls and light fittings, and a thick film of dust covered every surface. The kitchen had all the mod cons a wealthy family could wish for, though everything was now dated. The food processor was the size of a microwave oven. A yellowed salad spinner sat on the work surface next to the cooker. Did people still use salad spinners?