by Michael Wood
Jonathan took a deep breath. ‘If you want to know how I’m coping then I’ll tell you. I’m not. It doesn’t take a psychologist to know that I lose myself in fiction because I’m frightened of facing my own reality. I read far too much but I do it because if I stop, if I sit down and allow myself to think for one minute, I’ll be back in that house at the age of eleven wondering why my parents are covered in blood and not moving.’
Matilda put down her coffee and clamped a hand over her mouth. ‘You really should seek professional help,’ she said with a quivering voice.
‘No thank you,’ he said stoically. ‘I’d rather continue the way I am. I know I’m not really living or using my life to its full potential but I’m coping with this situation in the best way that I can.’
‘How have you coped, over the years, with the attention from the press and the fact that the case has often been referred to whenever a murder isn’t solved?’
‘I don’t bother with newspapers so I don’t know what’s getting said about it. The only reminder I get is when Charlie Johnson contacts me.’
‘If he contacts you again and it upsets you, let me know. I can have a word with him or you can apply for an injunction to stop him from contacting you.’
‘That’s taking it a bit far isn’t it?’
‘Not if he’s upsetting you.’
Jonathan gave a weak smile and a slight nod of appreciation.
‘I’d like to talk to Matthew at some point,’ Matilda said. ‘I know you don’t know where he’s living now, but do you know anyone who might?’
‘No I don’t. I’m sorry but like I said earlier, we’re complete opposites. I don’t know anything about him.’ He thought for a second and his eyes widened at a flash of a memory. ‘You could go through the medical archives. When he disappeared he was living in a den he made in the woods for a few days. When he was found he was freezing and had to have a couple of toes removed due to frostbite. That will be on his medical records. I’m sure there aren’t many people in the country who are missing two toes.’
Chapter 16
In the last days of her husband’s illness, Matilda gave a key to Adele Kean for her to check on him whenever she was held up at work. She knew her husband was going to die, what she didn’t want was for him to die alone.
Whenever Matilda had to work late Adele would go round and sit with James until she returned. When he died and Matilda fell into a deep depression of grief, Adele hung on to the key and used it more and more. Now, she used it whenever she visited.
It was just gone eight o’clock in the morning and Adele opened the front door of Matilda’s house only to be hit in the face by a wall of heat. The central heating was turned up high and even though it was well below freezing outdoors it was far too hot inside.
In the living room, Adele found Matilda asleep on the sofa wearing the same clothes she wore yesterday. The coffee table was a mess of paperwork. On the floor was an empty bottle of vodka, and in her right hand, Matilda held tightly onto a glass half filled with the clear alcohol.
Adele rolled her eyes at the scene of self-destruction laid out before her. This could not go on, not if she wanted to keep her job.
‘Matilda, come on, wake up.’
Matilda didn’t even stir. Adele took the glass from her hand and picked up the empty bottle from the floor along with a few sheets of paper that had spilled out of the Harkness files.
‘Matilda, it’s morning, you have to get up now,’ she said loudly. Matilda gave a grunt in reply as she adjusted herself into a more comfortable position.
Adele leaned over her friend, she was almost unrecognizable. Her hair was tangled, her skin dry and flaking, and the dark lines under her eyes were deep and cavernous. She looked down on her with sadness. It was upsetting to see the once confident and stable woman turn into a ruin, but there was nothing Adele could do. Only Matilda could decide to change.
She grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her hard. ‘Matilda, wake up. It’s time to go to work. Come on.’ She continued shaking vigorously until Matilda’s bloodshot eyes opened.
‘My God, you look like a basset hound.’
Matilda tried to talk but her mouth was dry. She coughed a few times and leaned down to the vodka bottle that wasn’t there. ‘What time is it?’
‘It’s just gone eight.’
‘Is it?’ She struggled to get up from the sofa, wincing with each muscle that ached. ‘I should get ready for work.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What? Why not? Is it Sunday?’
‘You’re not going anywhere until you’ve showered, had something to eat, and you and I have had a good chat.’
‘I don’t have time for this.’
‘I don’t care. You’re going to make time.’
‘Adele, not now.’
Adele left the room and came straight back in carrying the mirror from the hallway. She held it up for Matilda to see her reflection.
She blinked hard a few times to clear her blurred vision and sighed at the tired face staring back at her. ‘So?’
‘This is not you Matilda.’
‘It looks like me.’
‘No it doesn’t.’ She put the mirror down and took the silver-framed picture of Matilda and James on their wedding day from the mantelpiece. ‘This is you. This is Matilda Darke; neat hair, well turned out, confident and smiling.’
‘That Matilda’s dead.’
‘No she isn’t, she’s just in hiding. She’s feeling low because of what’s happened this past year but she’s still with us. You just have to make the effort.’
‘I don’t have the energy for this.’
‘Then what do you have the energy for?’
‘Going back to sleep.’ She tried to lie back down on the sofa but Adele grabbed her by the shoulders again and hoisted her up.
‘Do you honestly think I’m going to let you stay here in this mess? What kind of friend would I be if I just allowed this to continue; drinking every night so heavily that you pass out on the sofa, not eating, and wallowing in your own self-pity?’ She waited for a reply but didn’t receive one. ‘What do you think James would say if he could see you now?’
‘Well he’s not here is he? If he was I wouldn’t be like this,’ she snapped.
‘Do you think he’d want you grieving for him like this? This is not the Matilda he married.’
Matilda’s bottom lip quivered in emotion and a single tear fell from her left eye. ‘I just miss him so much.’
Adele sat down and put her arm around Matilda. Adele could feel her best friend sink into her. It wasn’t long before she could feel Matilda’s body begin to relax and the tears began to flow freely. ‘I know you do, sweetheart. He was a good man; one of the best, but you’re still here and you can’t allow yourself to suffer in this way.’
‘I know but I don’t know how else to cope.’
‘Yes you do. You go out there fighting like you’ve always done. You hold your head up high and you don’t take shit from anyone.’
‘I don’t think I have the energy for that.’
‘Yes you do. You have a hot shower; you have a good breakfast, take a deep breath of toxic air out there, and stick two fingers up to the world. We’re two of a kind you and I; we get kicked in the teeth but we keep getting up and showing the big man upstairs that he can throw anything he likes at us and we’re going to carry on regardless.’
There was a long silence while Matilda took in Adele’s words.
‘I went to see Jonathan Harkness last night. He’s not living either, he just exists. You should see his flat Adele; it’s just full of books. He spends every waking hour reading, throwing himself into fiction to get away from his own life. There’s not a single photo of any friends or family, hardly any furniture, just books. He’s just waiting to die.’
‘And you don’t want to end up like that.’
‘I am like that,’ she shrugged.
‘No you’re not. Not yet. It’
s not too late to save you.’
‘And what about Jonathan?’
‘Not to sound heartless but he’s not your problem. It’s sad what happened to him, tragic even, but he’s just a case you’re working on. He’d have been offered counselling and therapy all those years ago after his parents were killed. Even as an adult he could have gone to see a professional and talked through his problems, but he’s obviously decided the way he’s living is the best way he can cope with it.’
‘But he’s not living.’
Adele shrugged. ‘Then maybe he’s punishing himself for what happened. Maybe he thinks he should have died along with his mother and father, and by living in a self-induced exile he’s denying himself the life he believes should have been taken from him.’
Matilda looked at Adele with wet eyes and a deep frown. ‘Where do you get all this crap?’
‘It just comes to me,’ she said with a smile.
‘It’s lucky you work with the dead and they can’t hear you,’ she chuckled.
‘Look, go upstairs and have a hot shower. I’ll tidy this mess up and make a start on breakfast. It won’t matter if you’re a bit late for work. Go on.’
She nudged Matilda with her elbow until she eventually stood up. Adele watched as Matilda had to hold on to the wall to steady herself. It was only when she was out of the room and slowly plodding up the stairs that Adele turned to the mess in the living room and began tidying up.
Following DCI Darke’s visit last night, Jonathan didn’t return to his reading room and begin the new Ian Rankin novel; he went straight to bed. He spent several hours wide awake as his mind took him on a journey through his past. He remembered the many therapists he saw and how useless they were in trying to unlock his sealed memory. He was suspicious of their motives for wanting him to open up. He didn’t trust a single one of them not to sell his story to a newspaper the second he left their office.
That was part of Jonathan’s problem; he didn’t trust anyone. Even when his parents were alive he didn’t accept their love as true. He saw the way they allowed Matthew to get away with murder and how they continued to lavish gifts upon him even though he defied their rules. To their faces Matthew had the smile of an angel, behind their backs his halo slipped and the smile changed to a lethal sneer.
On the sidelines, Jonathan watched this behaviour unfold. If Matthew’s love for his parents was false then was the reverse true? Did Stefan and Miranda really love their children or were they just there to be used as props to show the world they had the perfect family life? Either way, Jonathan didn’t trust anyone and that wariness continued into adulthood.
The only person he came close to trusting was his Aunt Clara. It took him a while to see she had no ulterior motive for taking him into her home. She made sure the press stayed away and stopped the police from pressuring him into answering the same questions over and over again, even to the point of giving a false statement saying Jonathan had told her everything that had happened on the night in question, when in fact he still hadn’t uttered a single word to her. She wanted him to have a normal childhood, as normal as possible under the circumstances, but when she saw Jonathan isolate himself from the other children she decided to allow him to live his life the way he wanted. It was this freedom that earned her his trust.
During the darkest hours when he struggled to sleep, Jonathan examined his life. It wasn’t a life, merely an existence, but he was content with his lot. He just wished people would leave him alone to get on with it and stop trying to rake up the past.
Despite having only an hour’s sleep, he was dressed and ready to leave the flat for work at eight o’clock. As usual he was smartly turned out in his black trousers and shoes and a freshly laundered Waterstones’ shirt. His hair was bland but neatly trimmed and brushed forward; he didn’t use any fancy products. He spent time putting on his coat, scarf, and gloves, making sure the buttons were fastened and he was well protected against the bitter wind outside.
Before leaving he went on a tour of every room. He made sure all the windows were closed and securely locked, all the plugs were pulled out and a good distance away from the sockets, the fire was turned off and the central heating was timed to come on one hour before he returned home. Satisfied, he left the apartment.
He just stepped out of the foyer into the cold light of day when a car pulled up in front of the building.
‘Jonathan,’ called the driver to get his attention. ‘Jonathan,’ he called again when he was ignored the first time.
Who was calling his name? There wasn’t anyone who knew Jonathan by name, to call out to him and have a chat in the street. He stood stock still and surveyed his surroundings. He was too far away from his apartment block to dash back inside and there was no side road or alleyway he could run down. He could feel a cold sweat flow down his back. He took a deep breath to compose himself and tried to slow down his rapid heartbeat. With trepidation Jonathan turned around. He bent down to look through the window and saw the smiling face of his boss Stephen Egan.
‘Get in,’ Stephen said with a smile on his face.
‘What are you doing here?’ Jonathan asked, not moving closer to the car. Despite knowing the driver he was still reluctant to relax. Seeing Stephen out of context was worrying.
‘I’m offering you a lift to work.’
‘But you don’t live anywhere near here.’
‘I had to drop something off for a friend. She only lives a couple of streets away. I thought I’d come and give you a lift.’
‘That’s very nice of you, thank you. I have my weekly bus pass though.’
‘You’re not telling me you’d rather sit on a bus full of moaning people than get driven there in my car with heated seats?’ He smiled and leaned forward to open the passenger door. ‘Get in.’
Jonathan thought for a while. He assessed the situation in his mind before deciding it was safe to proceed. He found himself smiling as he lowered himself into the car. Stephen was right; the seats were heated and very comfortable too.
‘I almost bought a house around here a few years ago,’ Stephen said after a couple of minutes of silence.
‘Really? Why didn’t you?’
‘After the viewings and putting mine on the market and all the fuss with redecorating the deal fell through and I just couldn’t be bothered searching again. Shame really, I could have given you a lift to work every day.’
‘I think I would have got used to that, especially with these seats.’
‘I told you they were comfortable. How come you don’t drive?’
‘I’m not sure. It’s just something I’ve never really thought about. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with public transport.’
‘There’s a lot wrong with public transport,’ Stephen scoffed. ‘For a start the buses never run to time, the drivers are surly, the other passengers always seem to fit into one of two categories; the ones who have a body odour problem or the ones who wear far too much perfume. Either way they’re all an assault on the senses.’
Jonathan laughed. ‘That sounds like everyone who’s ever sat next to me on a bus.’
From inside the apartment block, Maun was looking out of her window as Jonathan, with what looked like a genuine smile on his face, eased himself into his boss’s car. She watched until it turned the corner and was out of sight before turning away from the window. She was still in her dressing gown, with no reason to get dressed and leave the flat, until now.
Chapter 17
Acting DCI Ben Hales looked harassed. He was alone in the Murder Room and hunched over his laptop. Yesterday he had sent Charlie Johnson twenty-three emails and not one had been replied to. He wondered if there was any way you could tell if an email had been read. He guessed the officers who worked in computer fraud would know, but then it would get out that he’s contacting Charlie Johnson when he shouldn’t be. He opened his email once again and composed another message.
FROM: “Ben Hales”
(BHales@SYPoli
ce.gov.uk)
TO: “Charlie Johnson”
([email protected])
SUBJECT: URGENT!!!!!!!
Message: Charlie, I need you to email me, text me or call me immediately. You’re leaving me hanging here and I need information from you. How can I help you if you won’t help me? Please get in touch with me today. It really is bloody urgent now Charlie. Ben
The door to the office opened and he quickly snapped shut his laptop. It was Sian. She was wrapped tightly in her winter finery.
‘Blimey it’s cold in here, has the sodding heating not come on again?’ she asked, removing a glove and placing her hand on a lukewarm radiator. ‘I bled them only a couple of weeks ago. Aren’t you cold?’
‘I’ve not noticed it.’ He was looking into the distance, the weight of the world on his shoulders.
‘I’ll make us a coffee. You want one?’
‘Please.’
‘So what’s the plan of action for today then?’ Sian asked as she filled up the kettle and flicked the switch. As it started to boil she tentatively placed her hands around it to warm them up.
‘I want to know who our dead man is and who killed him,’ Ben replied, almost spitting his words out in frustration. ‘Not a single person has called to say they’re missing a relative, friend, or colleague. Not one person saw him get beaten to death. It’s like he just fell out of the sky.’
‘Maybe he did. People are busy; they don’t want to get involved in things that don’t directly involve them any more.’
‘Well that’s a reassuring sentiment. Since when did you become so cynical Sian?’
‘It’s working in this job that’s done it.’ She smiled, handing him his coffee mug. She took a packet of Bourbon biscuits out of her bottom drawer and placed them on his desk for him to help himself. The caffeine and the chocolate seemed to perk him up – a little. ‘We’ll get him identified today. There’ll be a record of him somewhere and he shouldn’t be too hard to track down with his missing toes. Once we’ve got an ID we’ll soon find out who killed him.’
