by Michael Wood
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ he asked with a frown.
‘Yes I’m fine,’ Jonathan almost snapped. ‘Why?’
‘You look very pale.’
‘Well it is cold out.’
‘And you have a red mark around your neck.’
‘I do?’ Jonathan felt at his neck.
‘Yes. It looks sore.’
‘I probably had my scarf too tight. It’ll be a friction burn, bloody wool. Like I said, it’s very cold out there.’ He walked away from the tills leaving Stephen alone.
When Stephen looked up he saw another member of staff at the next till looking at him; she looked smug.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Never going to happen.’
‘Just get on with your work, Claire.’ He walked away, his face reddening with embarrassment.
It was almost lunchtime and Lloyds Bar at Barker’s Pool was filling up nicely. Sitting in the front window, Matilda glanced out onto the cold city centre. People were moving around in their own little world, wrapped up against the elements, carrying bags of Christmas gifts. The automatic doors of John Lewis kept yawning open and closed, open and closed as festive shoppers went in empty-handed and came out with heavy bags and a lighter wallet.
‘Can you believe people are still having their picture taken next to the post box even after all this time?’ she asked Rory.
He turned to look out of the window and saw a trio of Japanese tourists taking it in turns to stand next to the gold-painted post box in honour of Jessica Ennis-Hill’s triumphant gold medal at the London 2012 Olympics.
‘Me and Amelia have a picture of us standing next to it. It’s in a frame above the fireplace,’ he beamed.
Matilda rolled her eyes. ‘Did you attend her victory parade here too?’
‘Of course. It’s not very often Sheffield has something to celebrate. Our football teams certainly don’t give us much to cheer about.’
A barmaid arrived with their food: a shepherd’s pie for Rory with a side dish of mixed vegetables, and a cheese toastie for Matilda, not that she was hungry. She smiled her thanks then looked down at the limp brown sandwich and pushed the plate away.
‘Not hungry?’ Rory asked as he shovelled a laden forkful of minced beef and potato into his mouth.
‘Not really.’
‘I was thinking about Jonathan,’ he said between chewing. ‘Do you think he’s got that illness…?’
‘OCD?’ Matilda interrupted.
‘No, the one where they can’t make friends, what’s it called?’
‘Asperger’s Syndrome.’
‘That’s the one.’
‘I’m not sure,’ she said with a frown.
It would certainly explain a lot. Maybe he did have some kind of mental health issue. It would hardly be surprising given his tragic past. She looked through Rory and out of the window into the distance. She hadn’t even thought about Christmas and the nightmare of gift buying, food shopping, and the organization that went with it. She supposed it wouldn’t be necessary this year. There was no husband to buy for, no elaborate Christmas meal to cook; it would just be her. It would be a complete waste of money buying a tree, a turkey, a pudding, and all the trimmings.
The thought of her mother popped into her head. How long would it be before the phone would ring and her mother’s throaty voice tried to placate her youngest daughter? ‘Matilda, sweetheart, it’s Christmas. You shouldn’t spend your first Christmas without James alone. Come and see me and your father. Your sister’s coming with her husband and she’s bringing the kids. We’re having a goose and your father’s made his famous pudding. You wouldn’t want to miss that would you?’ The thought of having to fake enjoyment among people she loved but didn’t really know was enough to lobby Parliament and ask for a ban on anything festive.
‘Or is it autism?’ Rory asked, a puzzled expression on his face and a blob of mashed potato on his chin.
‘What?’ Matilda asked, snapping out of her daydream.
‘Autism and Asperger’s; are they the same?’
‘I’ve no idea Rory. Look, I don’t think we should speculate too much on Jonathan’s mental health until we know more about him. Let’s not label him just yet. When you’ve finished that, and you’ve washed your face,’ she said, pointing to his chin, ‘I want us to go and have a word with Pat Campbell.’
‘Who’s she?’
‘She was the DS working on the original Harkness killings. I’d like her to have…’
Matilda stopped talking as her gaze picked up on a man selling copies of The Star at a small kiosk. The headline on one of the posters he was fighting to attach to the stand against the fierce breeze had caught her attention. Rory followed her line of sight and understood why she had gone so deathly pale.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, almost choking on his mouthful of shepherd’s pie.
‘COLD’ RETURN FOR DISGRACED DETECTIVE
By Jonas Hamilton
Shamed detective, Matilda Darke, is back on the case – nine months after her lack of judgement led to the botched rescue of missing Carl Meagan.
Detective Chief Inspector Darke, 41, is no longer fronting the prestigious Murder Investigation Team and has been reassigned to working on cold cases.
She was seen in Whirlow earlier today at the demolition of the five bedroom house in which Stefan and Miranda Harkness were murdered in 1994.
As we reported last week, the Harkness case is being reviewed as the flattening of the murder house has brought the case back into the headlines. According to an unnamed police source there is no new evidence to warrant the case being fully reopened.
DCI Darke looked a shadow of her former self as she chatted with material witness Jonathan Harkness, 31, at the scene.
When asked if the review was a publicity stunt and merely a project for DCI Darke to work on while the force decided what to do with her, Assistant Chief Constable Valerie Masterson said in a statement ‘We never use criminal cases as a publicity stunt. The Harkness case is a major event in Sheffield’s history. The fact it has never been solved is a shadow hanging over us and I for one would like to see the brutal killer brought to justice.
‘DCI Matilda Darke is a well-respected member of South Yorkshire Police and I would like to welcome her back after such a difficult time. Matilda feels this case needs to be solved and is dedicating her time to doing so and I give her my full support.’
Seven-year-old Carl Meagan was kidnapped from his home ten months ago. He was being looked after by his grandmother while his parents were away for the night. His grandmother, Annabel Meagan, 72, was killed on the night he was taken. He has never been found.
ACC Masterson refused to comment on whether DCI Darke would review the Meagan case in the coming months.
Chapter 15
It took longer than usual for Matilda to regain her composure. She worked her way through the entire list of British Prime Ministers and still she was breathing heavily. She was hot and could feel her shirt sticking to her back with sweat yet when she took her jacket off the freezing temperatures made her shake with cold. She looked down at the copy of The Star on the front passenger seat next to her and read the headline ‘“COLD” RETURN FOR DISGRACED DETECTIVE’. Those five words were like five daggers sticking in her chest.
After seeing the newspaper she decided to give the rest of the day a miss. Pat Campbell could wait for another day. She left Rory in the pub, told him to read through Charlie Johnson’s book and she would see him tomorrow. She wanted to be alone.
The drive home was a blur. She wondered how many red lights she’d driven through or if she’d driven the wrong way down a one-way street. Her mind was elsewhere. It was bad enough her superiors were questioning her abilities, now the entire population of Sheffield would be talking about the competency of Detective Chief Inspector Matilda Darke.
‘I don’t deserve that title any more,’ she said to herself. It was the only sentence she’d said with any confid
ence all day.
Matilda opened the front door, kicked the mail from the doormat, and slammed the door behind her. The house was cold; she didn’t notice. The answering machine on the hall table was flashing three messages at her. Could this be the dreaded Christmas invitation from her mother? She headed straight for the kitchen, threw the local newspaper down on the counter, and went to the fridge where she knew a half-bottle of wine was waiting for her. The paper was calling to her and she couldn’t resist reading it again. And again.
A cold shiver brought Matilda back to reality. She looked around to find herself encased in darkness. How long had she been sitting at the kitchen table staring into space, her mind elsewhere? She turned on the lights and squinted under the brilliance of the neon. Once more her eyes fell onto the cruel headline.
‘Fuck,’ she said to herself in frustration. She popped two Venlafaxine from the blister pack, washed them down with the wine, and left the house, taking the newspaper with her.
Sitting behind the wheel of her car outside the apartment block where Jonathan Harkness lived, she was shaking and her head was pounding. The rage and tension building up inside her was agony.
Inside, Jonathan had eaten quickly; a cheese sandwich and a packet of ready salted crisps, and had taken a large black coffee into his library. In less than an hour he had finished On Beulah Height and was back in the living room choosing another book.
He picked up Ian Rankin’s latest hardback and was just about to close the door to his sanctuary behind him when the sharp sound of the intercom buzzer tore through the heavy silence of his home.
He stood stock-still for a moment. Nobody ever visited him from the outside world. Only Maun came to see him, and she lived directly upstairs. Her three little taps on his front door was her signature. This was an unexpected visitor.
He decided against answering and walked slowly into his reading room. No sooner had he sat down on the wing chair than the buzzer sounded again. It sounded louder this time even though he knew that was impossible. He would have to answer it.
‘Hello?’ he asked, his mouth too close to the speaker. His voice was quiet and there was a nervous shake to it. He was not used to receiving guests and, if he was truthful, he didn’t want to receive them.
‘Mr Harkness? It’s DCI Darke from South Yorkshire Police. I was wondering if I could have a word.’
Jonathan noticeably relaxed when he knew who his caller was. It was not a complete stranger. Although he hadn’t enjoyed talking about his past to DCI Darke earlier, it wasn’t the traumatic ordeal he had been expecting. She had a plain face and there was sadness in her eyes that he was drawn to. Since their chat, he had spent most of the afternoon wondering if she had a similar tragedy in her past to cause such a faraway look of loneliness.
‘Yes, OK. Push the door.’
He pressed the buzzer and waited for the click before he released his fingers. He took the Ian Rankin novel into the reading room and placed it on the small table next to his chair and closed the door behind him. He had a brief look in the living room to make sure it was neat and tidy; it was never anything but, and then looked at his cold reflection in the mirror. His eyes were wide and starry. He looked at his neck and the red marks. Were they ever going to fade?
He opened the front door before Matilda had a chance to knock and let her into his flat. In the hallway he offered her a coffee, which she accepted, and he ushered her, once again, into the living room while he disappeared into the kitchen.
She headed straight for the wall of bookshelves. ‘Your collection certainly is impressive Mr Harkness,’ she called out.
Jonathan smiled to himself as he prepared the drinks. He was proud of his collection and it warmed him when others were impressed.
‘I wish I had the time to read more,’ she continued, ‘unfortunately this job doesn’t give you much free time for anything.’
Jonathan entered carrying two large black mugs. He handed her one and invited her to sit.
‘Is it just mysteries that you read?’ Matilda smiled and nodded at the bookcases.
‘Yes.’
He looked at his collection as if he were seeing it for the first time. It was a collection he had spent years building and he was incredibly proud of his library. Jonathan had every published novel by the likes of Minette Walters, Val McDermid, Peter Robinson, Mark Billingham, Reginald Hill, Ian Rankin, M. R. Hall, Stuart MacBride – the list was endless.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know most of those authors.’ Matilda scanned each shelf from left to right and stopped when she found someone she recognized. ‘Simon Kernick. My husband used to read him. Once he picked one of his books up I wouldn’t get a word out of him until he finished it.’
The conversation dried up. Jonathan smiled and turned towards his books. He felt comfortable among them. Just reading the titles and the name of the author gave him a relaxed feeling. It was as if he was among friends. All he had to do was look at the books and he felt a warm glow grow inside him and a sweet smile spread across his face. He slowly reached out a hand and his fingertips lightly touched the spines. They felt warm and comforting. They didn’t judge him or hate him. They offered him a release from his agonies and he loved every single one of them for it.
‘I wanted to come and see you because of the local newspaper. Have you seen tonight’s edition?’ Matilda asked.
‘I saw it in the staffroom at work.’
‘Ah. Well, I wanted to explain. I didn’t want you thinking your parents’ murder was being used as a way to ease me back into work.’
‘I didn’t think that. I thought the article was very unfair.’
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘I remember the Carl Meagan case. You mustn’t blame yourself for what happened. People who kidnap for money are always thwarted in their task. They will have turned up at the exchange, I’m sure of it. They will have seen how they couldn’t possibly have gotten away from there without being caught and simply bolted. No amount of ransom money was going to save them from capture, and if they had got away, they would have been looking over their shoulder for the rest of their lives. It was much easier for them to run empty-handed.’
‘They were hardly empty-handed. They had Carl. They still have Carl.’
‘I think it’s a safe assumption to say that Carl Meagan is dead,’ Jonathan said matter-of-factly. He showed no emotion for Carl.
‘You sound like you know what you’re talking about.’
‘Probably too much crime fiction,’ he said.
‘Well I just wanted to allay any fears you may have that the reopening of your parents’ case was a publicity stunt.’
‘Thank you. I appreciate you coming here to tell me that.’
There was a long and awkward silence while they drank their coffee and gazed around the room. Apart from the books there was very little else to focus on.
‘May I ask you a personal question?’
Jonathan looked across at her from the top of his coffee mug. He didn’t like the sound of this. ‘Of course,’ he said through gritted teeth. He braced himself.
‘After your parents were murdered and you moved away, did you ever have counselling or see a therapist?’
‘I saw one straight away. While I was in the hospital here a counsellor was sent to my bed. She kept telling me that it wasn’t my fault and wanted me to open up and tell her what I saw but I didn’t trust her.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not sure. There was just something about her I didn’t like. She told me that whatever I told her would remain between the two of us but I knew she was going to run straight to the police and tell them. She had a devious look about her.’
‘What about when you went to live with your aunt, did you have any counselling then?’
‘My aunt was always taking me to the doctor. She was petrified that I would never speak again. I was sent to a quack who charged about a hundred pounds per hour. He saw me alone; my aunt was in the waiting room. He clo
sed the blinds and turned the lights off and told me to close my eyes and hold my hands out. He put something in my hands that was cold and slimy. He asked me what I was feeling.’
Jonathan had no idea why he was opening up so much to Matilda. He had never told anyone about his visits to the many therapists before, not even Maun, and she had asked on several occasions. Talking to Matilda seemed easier. He didn’t feel he was being judged.
‘What did you say?’
‘I didn’t. He asked if it brought back any memories. He took whatever it was out of my hands then told me to open my eyes. I looked down at my hands and they were covered in blood. I just screamed and screamed. That’s when my aunt came rushing in.’
‘What was it he put in your hands?’
‘It was meat. Cold raw meat that was all bloody and sticky. I could smell the flesh.’ He took a deep breath to control his anxiety at the memory.
‘That must have been horrible.’
‘It was. My aunt was livid. She ranted at him for ages. I think she even hit him with her handbag.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘Strangely, I’ve not been able to eat meat since.’
‘Are you on any kind of medication?’
‘No,’ he lied quickly. He didn’t know why he suddenly decided to lie. He didn’t like people thinking he wasn’t able to get through life without prescription drugs. ‘I used to be when I was a teenager but I read something once about being dependent on them and it put me off. I didn’t like the idea of drugs controlling my thought patterns.’ Jonathan genuinely believed that, but it still didn’t stop him popping a few pills when he felt particularly anxious.
‘Were they controlling your thought patterns?’
‘I think they were.’ He looked up at her and, for the first time, they made eye contact. He quickly looked away.
‘Have you been diagnosed as autistic or having any mental health issue?’
‘Why are you asking all these questions?’
‘You seem to be extremely nervous and you’re finding it difficult to make eye contact. You don’t look relaxed at all even though this is your home. I just want to know a bit more about how you’re coping.’
