by Michael Wood
For Reasons Unknown
MICHAEL WOOD
an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk
This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
Killer Reads
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015
Copyright © Michael Wood 2015
Michael Wood asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2015
Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2015 ISBN: 9780008158668
Version 2015-09-14
To Mum
Thank you. For everything, thank you.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Publisher
Prologue
It could have been any sitting room in any house throughout the country but it wasn’t. It was a room in the middle of South Yorkshire Police HQ, designed to give a relaxed, homely atmosphere. From the outside, it looked friendly and inviting, but if walls could talk they would tell a different story. Here, parentless children were comforted; victims of rape and sexual abuse were given tea and sympathy; and elderly victims of brutal crimes were consoled by fresh-faced WPCs with soothing tones and a never-ending supply of tissues.
Sitting on the floor was a blond, blue-eyed eleven-year-old boy dressed in a grey tracksuit that didn’t belong to him. He was surrounded by blank sheets of paper and an array of wax crayons, coloured pencils, and felt-tip pens. Squatting next to him was a young PC, who, against orders from his superiors, had not changed out of uniform.
The door opened and in walked Dr Sally McCartney. Unlike the PC, she had softened her appearance. Gone were the severe ponytail and conservative jacket. She had removed her glasses and suffered the anxiety of touching her eyes to put in contact lenses. She shot the PC a look of indignation. He could have at least taken off his uniform jacket.
‘Hello Jonathan,’ she said. The young boy didn’t look up from his drawings. ‘My name is Sally. I’ve come to have a chat with you if that’s all right?’
He continued to scribble on the paper. Sally McCartney knelt down to his level and looked over his shoulder. He had drawn a house and was colouring in a large tree next to it.
‘Is this your house?’
Jonathan nodded.
‘It’s very nice. That’s a lovely tree too. Do you climb it?’ No reply. ‘Which room is yours?’
He pointed to the top right window with the blue curtains, then went back to colouring in the tree.
‘Is the room next to yours your brother’s?’
He nodded again.
‘Jonathan, we’ve been looking for your brother but we can’t seem to find him. Do you know where he might be?’
Jonathan stopped drawing and looked up as if in thought. He looked across to Dr McCartney and fixed her with an expressionless stare, then returned his attention back to his drawing.
‘Jonathan, we need to find your brother. It’s very important. Do you know any of his friends?’
The door opened and Detective Sergeant Pat Campbell popped her head into the room. She looked haggard, having been on duty for more than twenty hours. She signalled for Dr McCartney to join her in the corridor.
‘Why didn’t that PC change out of his bloody uniform as I told him to?’ she asked before the DS could speak.
‘I don’t know. He should have done.’ The DS sighed and looked to the ceiling. ‘Has the boy said anything?’
‘Not yet.’
‘It is paramount we find his brother.’
‘I heard that his mother was still alive. How is she?’
‘I don’t know where you heard that from. Both parents were pronounced dead at the scene. They were hacked to death.’
‘Jesus. Well he doesn’t need to know any of that. Not now at any rate.’
‘We’ve managed to locate a relative in Newcastle. She’s coming straight down, but it’ll be a few hours before she gets here. Look, whatever happened in that house, he saw it, or at least heard it, and I need to know.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
Pat Campbell looked over the doctor’s shoulder, through the narrow glass window in the door, and into the room at the young boy drawing as if nothing extraordinary had happened. ‘How does he seem?’
‘He’s in a complete shutdown, which isn’t uncommon. When it comes to anything traumatic sometimes our brain takes time to come to terms with it and until it does, it shuts down. It’s a self-preservation thing.’
‘So he’ll soon come out of…whatever this is, and be able to tell us what happened?’
‘In theory, yes.’
‘Why only in theory?’
‘Depending on what he saw his brain may not want him to remember.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Campbell said, leaning back against the wall for support. ‘What’s with the drawings?’
‘It’s a way of helping young children come to terms with what they’ve witnessed. Whatever they draw is usually an indicatio
n of what’s going on in their heads. Hopefully it will help to understand what went on in that house, and then we can take our therapy from there.’
‘And what’s he drawn so far?’
‘He’s drawn his house with a tree next to it.’
‘Does that tell you anything significant?’
‘Not yet,’ she half smiled. ‘It’s early days. He’s clearly looking at what happened from the outside. If his next drawing is also a house, I’ll ask him about the inside and see what he draws when I talk about the rooms in the house.’
Pat shook her head. ‘My God, the mind is a powerful thing isn’t it? I don’t envy your job.’
There was nothing the doctor could say to that. There were times she didn’t envy her job either. ‘Is there any chance of getting him in some of his own clothes? That sodding tracksuit stinks.’
‘I’ll get something brought over from the house.’
‘And how about a glass of milk and some chocolate?’
‘Whatever you want.’
‘Thank you.’
She turned and went back into the room. Jonathan had drawn two adults, a child, and was currently on a second child: his family. Dr McCartney bent down next to him and watched him draw in the details: the hair, the clothes, the eyes, the smiles. He then picked up a red felt-tip and with a forceful action that caused the doctor and PC to jump, he scribbled all over the picture. He didn’t stop until his mother, father, and brother were completely covered in blood.
Chapter 1
Twenty years later
Matilda Darke had been looking forward to this day for nine months. In that time she had been through a painful miasma of emotions; from a deep depression where she wanted to spend the rest of her life under the duvet, to mild hysteria where tears would flow like a swollen river for no apparent reason. Now, after a long course of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, weekly sessions with a psychologist, and popping antidepressants as if they were about to be rationed, she was back to her fighting best, she told herself.
It was the first Monday in December. She’d woken two hours before the alarm, to a freezing cold house. The central heating had failed to switch on, and, according to the digital thermometer on her windowsill, it was minus four degrees outside. It wasn’t much warmer inside.
She showered longer than usual, until the blood in her veins thawed and was flowing around her body once more, then forced down a breakfast of black coffee and two slices of granary toast. Chewing was a chore. Part of her was excited to return to work, hold her head up high and show the world she was still a force to be reckoned with. Another part of her was crying inside and longing for the security of her duvet once again.
Her three-year-old Ford Focus stuttered in the cold but didn’t take too long to warm up. It was as if it knew she wanted a smooth ride with no trouble on her first day back.
The twenty-minute journey went without a hitch, and she was soon turning into the familiar car park. It was as if she had never been away. She took a deep breath, allowed herself a little smile, and turned left to her usual parking space.
Matilda quickly slammed on the brakes and gripped the steering wheel tightly. Her heart beat rapidly in her chest and the prickly sensation of an oncoming panic attack rose up the back of her neck.
‘Walpole, Compton, Pelham, Newcastle, Devonshire,’ she whispered under her breath.
She looked ahead at the brand-new black Audi in her parking space. Who did it belong to? Had the owner not been informed of her return? She had a lump in her throat that was hard to swallow. Suddenly she didn’t think coming back was such a good idea.
Fifteen minutes later, after finding an empty parking space at the back of the building, she was sitting on an uncomfortable chair, the padding in the seat dangling out, waiting to be called into her boss’s office.
She looked around the small anteroom at the cheap framed prints on the walls. There was a tall vase of plastic flowers in the corner; each fake petal had a thick layer of dust, dulling the lively colours to a pathetic grey. There was a sharp smell of pine disinfectant in the air, which was itching at the back of her throat.
The light above the door turned from red to green.
‘Shit,’ she said to herself. ‘Here we go.’
She stood up and straightened her new navy trouser suit. It was the first new item of clothing she’d bought in over a year, and it had been an unwelcome surprise to find she’d gone up a dress size. She ran her fingers through her dark blonde hair, which had been neatly trimmed only last week. Matilda was forty-one years old, and felt like she was about to enter the head teacher’s office to be told off for cheating on her maths test.
Before pushing down the door handle she looked at her hands; they were shaking. This was not a good sign.
‘Oh my goodness, look at you.’ Every word was said as if a sentence of its own. It was highly unprofessional, but Assistant Chief Constable Valerie Masterson leapt up from behind her oversized desk and took Matilda in a tight embrace. ‘Sit yourself down. I have a pot of coffee just made.’
They sat at opposite sides of the desk, which dwarfed the slight frame of the ACC. They examined each other in silence for a long minute.
To Matilda, Valerie looked much older than her fifty-three years. She was thinner than the last time they’d met, and she had more wrinkles, as if she had a slow puncture. Matilda briefly wondered if Valerie was thinking similar negative remarks about her; Can she tell I’ve put on weight. Is my hair a mess? Have I aged much?
‘You’re looking very well,’ Valerie lied convincingly.
‘Thank you. I feel well,’ Matilda lied back.
Valerie Masterson, a caffeine addict, did not like the black goo that came out of the vending machines dotted around the police station, so had her own personal Gaggia in her office. She poured them both a medium-sized cup, white with one sugar for herself and, remembering, black for Matilda.
‘So, your first day back. Are you ready for this?’
‘I really am. I want to put this past year behind me and get back to normal as quickly as possible.’
‘I’m sure you do. Unfortunately, I can’t return you to active duty just yet.’
The painted-on smile suddenly fell from Matilda’s face. ‘Why not? We discussed on the phone last week…’
‘What I mean is that I have to adhere to the conditions laid out in your psychiatric report.’
‘My what?’
Valerie leaned forward and pulled a brown folder from deep within her in tray. She took out the five-page report and began skimming through it.
Matilda was itching to lean across the desk, snatch the report from her, and find out what that belittling therapist had been saying about her.
‘Now there’s no need to worry. I don’t know any of the details of your sessions with Dr Warminster. Those, as you know, are private. However, Dr Warminster was asked to submit a report before you returned to work; giving her opinion on your readiness and the level of workload you would be able to cope with.’
‘She’s not happy with me returning to full-time duty?’ Beneath the desk Matilda screwed her hands into tight fists, her fingernails digging hard into her palms. Her knuckles were white. The pain ran up her arms and she could almost feel the instant relief.
‘Not at all. She has written a glowing report. She admires your courage and your recovery.’ The ACC smiled.
Was that a genuine smile or was it forced? There was no wrinkling around the eyes to express a sincere smile, but then there wasn’t much room on her face for more wrinkles. Matilda chastised herself for letting her mind wander. ‘But…’
‘She just doesn’t think you should be running a major department straightaway. She recommends you be eased back into work slowly, and I tend to agree.’
‘Is this a cosy way of telling me I’m being demoted?’ Throughout her nine months away, one of the main issues on Matilda’s mind was being stripped of the Detective Chief Inspector title she had worked so hard to achi
eve.
‘You are not being demoted Matilda. You are one of South Yorkshire’s leading DCIs. You’re well known for your work and dedication. But I can’t have you handling a major investigation until all parties concerned know you are ready to do so.’
‘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?’
