Outside Looking In

by Michael Wood

  ‘Sorry?’

  He looked back at his clipboard. ‘You’re not going to stand there while I bring thirty-seven boxes into your house are you?’

  ‘What?’

  Adele joined Matilda on the doorstep. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Somebody seems to have sent me a few dozen parcels.’

  The delivery man made his way up the pavement carrying one box. It looked heavy. ‘This is the first one. There’s a letter attached.’

  Matilda took the box from him. It was heavy. She carried it into the living room and placed it carefully on the table. She tore off the envelope with her name handwritten on it. She scanned the two-sheet letter before stopping at the end to read the sender’s name.

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘Who’s it from?’

  ‘Jonathan Harkness.’

  ‘But he’s dead.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So this is a letter from the other side.’ Adele teased.

  Jonathan Harkness would always occupy a place in Matilda’s head. He was the first case Matilda had worked on following her husband’s death. She had grown fond of Jonathan, seeing something of herself in the emotionally fragile young man. The fact that she had read him all wrong did not change how she thought of him.

  Dear Matilda,

  I never thought about making a will before. I didn’t think I’d ever have anything worth leaving to anyone. I’ve just realized how fragile life actually is. Stephen Egan died tonight. As I’m writing this letter to you I’m grieving for a man I guess I didn’t really know. He wanted to make me happy but fate got in the way. I told you at the hospital people who come into my life don’t last long and it’s true.

  I’m making myself out to be some kind of saint aren’t I? We both know I’m not. I’ve killed three people and I’m not sorry in the least. They deserved to die for the pain and torment they inflicted upon me. All I’m sorry for is that Stephen became involved. He is on my conscience and he always will be.

  Now, to business. I have employed a solicitor to take care of the sale of my flat and my bank accounts. I hardly touched the money I inherited from my Aunt Clara and with the sale of her house in Newcastle and caravan in Whitby it came to a tidy sum. I’ve spread the money out over a number of children’s charities. Children deserve a good start in life and we don’t all get one. I hope I can help. I know it won’t make up for what I’ve done but I’m not doing it for that.

  I don’t have many possessions to leave and I don’t have anyone to leave them to. I’ve instructed my solicitor to sort out a house clearance. However, I wanted you to have my books. You showed a great interest in them on the occasions you came to my flat and I know you’ll give them a good home. I am aware there are a lot of them but I get the feeling you’ll look after them like I did. They meant a lot to me and they helped me through the difficult times. I know you’ve been through a great trauma too so I hope you can get some pleasure out of them.

  You’re a good woman Matilda and I’m pleased I met you. I hope you manage to overcome your demons and be a force to be reckoned with.

  Kind regards,

  Jonathan Harkness.

  ‘He’s left me his books.’

  ‘What?’ Adele asked carrying in a second box.

  ‘Jonathan Harkness has left me his entire book collection in his will.’

  ‘But didn’t you say he had thousands of them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ she laughed.

  ‘Adele, it’s not funny. Where am I going to put them all?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. You may want to think about that later though. You have a very disgruntled delivery driver out there.’

  Between the three of them it took just under forty-five minutes to bring all the boxes into the house. Matilda offered the driver a cup of tea, but he declined. Adele offered him the Carbonnade a la Flamande. He looked at her with astonishment as if she’d said something dirty.

  ‘Well, the British Library would be jealous if they came in here,’ Adele said as they surveyed the living room.

  The room, usually a cosy yet minimalist environment, now resembled a warehouse with boxes piled high.

  ‘What am I going to do with all these?’ Matilda asked, shocked by the state of her home.

  ‘Change your surname to Waterstones?’

  ‘I mean, what was he thinking of?’

  ‘Well it’s your own fault for showing an interest in the first place.’

  ‘I must admit, it is a very impressive collection. I haven’t got room for it though.’

  ‘Mat, you live alone in a five-bedroom house, you’ve got plenty of room.’

  ‘You think I should keep them, then?’

  ‘It’s entirely up to you. He left them to you though. He could have easily have donated them to Oxfam or a library but he didn’t. He cared about his collection. It was the only thing in his life he did care about and he wants you to act as caretaker.’

  ‘I suppose if I did give them away or split the collection up it would seem a bit disrespectful.’ She suddenly remembered who she was talking about. ‘Hang on, respect? The guy was a murderer. He killed three people for crying out loud.’

  ‘You liked him though, didn’t you?’

  Matilda thought for a second. She nodded. ‘I did. I did like him. He was tormented, tortured, lost. He reminded me so much of myself. We even took the same medication.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘In his suicide note to me, Jonathan told me not to think of his parents as being the victims. He didn’t want the whole world remembering Jonathan Harkness as being a sadistic, cold-blooded murderer. I don’t think he was. He didn’t kill for the enjoyment. He killed for … well, I still don’t know the reason for it. However, this collection represents the real Jonathan Harkness.’

  ‘You’re going to keep them aren’t you?’

  Matilda took a deep breath. ‘Do you know a carpenter who can build me a few dozen shelves?’

  With their appetite gone and the Carbonnade a la Flamande dried up, they both picked at their food in silence, eating very little.

  ‘I always find a stew tastes better the day after. Warm it up tomorrow night and have it for your tea,’ Adele said, looking on the bright side as always.

  They moved into the living room with the second bottle of wine and a box of chocolates Matilda had in a cupboard. Sian at work had a snack drawer for people to help themselves to (providing they replaced it with something equally tasty); at home, Matilda had a spare cupboard full of junk for when she was hungry but couldn’t find the energy to cook for one. Crisps, chocolate, biscuits, cakes – all stacked neatly, waiting for when a sugar rush was needed.

  ‘Are they all crime fiction?’ Adele asked opening the first couple of boxes she came across.

  ‘Yes. That’s all he read. I’m telling you, Adele, his flat was like the crime fiction section of a bookshop. The way it was set up and organized.’

  ‘Didn’t he work in Waterstones as well?’

  ‘Yes, the one in Orchard Square.’

  ‘I bet they’ve noticed a drop in sales since he died. Look at this, Messiah, by Boris Starling. I remember seeing that on TV. It was brilliant. Very chilling. I might have to borrow this,’ she said reading the back of the paperback.

  ‘Providing you don’t break the spines, fold over the corners or rest your coffee on it.’

  ‘Yes Jonathan,’ she joked.

  ‘This one is full of Lee Child novels. James loved reading him. He had a few but I don’t think he read them all. I read one once on holiday, can’t remember which one. Jack Reacher is a very attractive man.’

  ‘Tom Cruise?’ Adele asked, pulling a face.

  ‘No. The Jack Reacher in the books is well over six foot. He’s all manly and rugged and sexy.’

  ‘Blimey, Tom Cruise was definitely miscast there.’

  ‘I haven’t seen it. Look at these; Mark Billingham, Ruth Rendell, Val McDermid, Michael
Robotham, Peter Robinson, Peter James. He must have spent thousands over the years,’ Adele said carefully unloading them. ‘Reginald Hill, Chris Simms, Stephen Booth. Oh look, The Sculptress, by Minette Walters. I remember watching that on TV too. Now that really was chilling.’

  Adele looked up and saw Matilda staring into space clutching a couple of hardbacks to her chest.

  ‘Mat, what is it?’

  There were tears in Matilda’s eyes. ‘James would have loved these,’ her voice was breaking with emotion. ‘He wasn’t a massive reader, but he loved a good thriller, especially on holiday. I can almost see him going through these boxes wondering which one to read next.’

  Adele stumbled over the mounds of books and boxes and found a gap to squeeze into next to Matilda. She put her arm around her and pulled her close.

  ‘I can’t believe it’s been a year, Adele,’ Matilda continued. ‘A year and I still miss him like he died yesterday.’

  ‘It takes a long time to get over something like this. If he’d been old, it would have been different but he wasn’t. He had a full life ahead of him. That’s what’s so hard to comprehend and that’s why it’s taking a long time for you to come to terms with it.’

  ‘I just miss him so much. Sometimes it physically hurts how much I miss him.’

  Adele comforted Matilda and stayed with her for another hour. They left the books until Matilda could decide which room to renovate to house them in. When the second bottle of wine was empty and Adele made sure Matilda was fine on her own, she said her goodbyes.

  Sitting among the boxes, she took in the collection she had inherited. It was almost surreal. She remembered standing in front of the shelves in Jonathan’s apartment, which ran from floor to ceiling. She hadn’t heard of the majority of authors but she had been genuinely impressed, and slightly jealous too. Matilda always wished she had more time for reading.

  Opening up the box nearest to her she pulled out a hardback copy of an early Ruth Rendell; Wolf to the Slaughter, from 1967. She saw it was a first edition. This must have cost Jonathan a fortune. Reaching further into the box she discovered they were all hardback copies of Ruth Rendell novels, not all first editions, but all in excellent condition. He must have really cherished his favourite authors to have amassed such a collection.

  She picked up one book that took her back to her childhood: An Unkindness of Ravens from 1985. Matilda remembered her grandmother having the exact same copy. It was the first grown-up novel she’d read and she had loved every page. She closed her eyes and smiled at the memory; a summer holiday spent in her grandmother’s home on the south coast, sitting in the back garden with a book, a jug of orange juice, and a rapidly melting Tunnock’s teacake under the sun’s rays.

  The phone rang, bringing her back from her reminisces of her halcyon youth. She reached across a pile of boxes, picked up the handset from the coffee table, and looked at the display. There was no number; probably a sales call.

  ‘Hello,’ she answered half-heartedly.

  ‘Are you enjoying your books?’

  This woke Matilda up. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Which are you going to read first? I’ve heard James Oswald is quite good.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘You’ll want to hang on to those books. You’re going to have plenty of free time on your hands soon. You’re not fit to work in the police. There’s blood on your hands.’

  The caller hung up.

  Matilda went around the house closing the curtains. Since James had died she felt more vulnerable living alone. Was a five-bedroom house too big for one person? Of course it was. But James had designed this house from the rafters to the basement. There was no way she was going to leave it. However, during the hours of darkness, she felt nervous at the slightest noise, and even questioned a car as it drove past the house.

  She looked out of the spare bedroom onto the main road. There was nobody about, nobody watching the house. Or was there? The caller could have been a neighbour; one of the local children playing a sick joke.

  Matilda’s phone rang again. She didn’t look at the display.

  ‘What?’ she snapped.

  ‘Boss?’

  Now she looked at the display. ‘Rory, sorry, I thought you were someone else.’

  ‘Are you plagued by companies wanting you to claim for PPI too?’

  ‘Something like that. What’s up?’

  ‘I know it’s late but I thought you might want to know – Lois Craven is conscious.’

  Matilda breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, she could get somewhere with this case.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Martin Craven had taken a leave of absence from CJS Pharmaceuticals to look after his three children. They were all at a delicate age where they needed stability and with their mother in hospital for God knows how long, Martin was going to have to be a single parent.

  At eighteen, Jack was studying for his A-levels. He was a naturally bright young man but he didn’t need the horror of what had happened to prey on his mind. Fifteen-year-old Anna was studying for her GCSE exams next year. Anna was not as clever as her brother and she struggled academically. She had also taken the attack on her mother very hard. Both teenagers needed reassurance, Anna more than Jack, so Martin made sure they received it. Eight-year-old Thomas was gradually finding out what happened to his mother, but he didn’t need to know all the gory details.

  Lois’s mother had insisted on coming to stay with Martin. She was adamant he wouldn’t be able to look after himself, three children, and a house. She had been wrong. The house was neat and tidy, and the kids well fed. Anna and Thomas arrived at school on time and on their return home there was a parent waiting for them with a hot meal. Lois wasn’t a domesticated person and the evening meal often came out of a packet. Martin, a talented chef, when he put his mind to it, whipped up something hearty with plenty of vegetables and red meat. The children needed stability at a time like this and Martin was determined they get it.

  ‘Do you want me to take Thomas to school today?’ Margaret asked.

  ‘That’s OK. I’ll do it,’ Martin replied. He was busy preparing Thomas’s packed lunch. Since he had been creating excellent sandwiches and snacks for Thomas, Anna had asked for a packed lunch too; doubling his morning routine. Jack was jealous but taking a packed lunch to college would seriously damage his reputation.

  ‘Won’t you be late for the hospital?’

  ‘No. The police aren’t coming until eleven.’

  ‘I’d have thought you’d want to get there before eleven.’

  ‘I do. And I will.’

  ‘Do you want me to come to the hospital with you?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘She is my daughter, Martin,’ Margaret sounded put out, struggling to maintain a grip on her emotions.

  ‘I’m aware of that Margaret but it’s not going to be easy to listen to. She was beaten half to death, raped, and shot. Do you really want to hear the details?’

  Margaret closed her eyes and looked away. She flinched at the word ‘rape’. ‘No I don’t.’

  ‘There you go then. Look, I don’t want to hear it either but I need to be there for Lois. I need to … understand.’ He returned to concentrating on the sandwiches. His face was a picture of doubt.

  ‘She does love you, Martin,’ Margaret said quietly after allowing a silence to build.

  ‘Then why was she having an affair?’ he snapped.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve asked myself that question a thousand times since it happened. All I keep coming up with was maybe she was bored.’

  ‘Bored? She’s a woman in her forties, not an eight-year-old child. She has a job, three kids, friends, me. She shouldn’t have had time to be bored.’

  ‘We all get bored, Martin.’

  ‘I don’t. You were married to Brian for over thirty years. Did you ever get bored?’

  ‘Well no but then I—’

  ‘What? But then you loved Brian. Is that what you were goin
g to say?’ He raised his voice loud enough to sound angry but not so loud that the kids upstairs could hear him.

  ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘How could she do this to us? I can understand couples splitting up but there are three children involved here. Did she honestly think she would get away with it again; that we wouldn’t have found out about it eventually?’

  ‘Martin, the kids don’t know do they?’

  ‘Of course they know.’

  ‘Oh Martin, you didn’t tell them, surely.’

  ‘I had to tell them something. You’ve read the newspapers. They’re not stupid, Margaret. They knew something was going on. Besides, their mother has been lying to them for over a year. I’m damned if I’m going to lie to them too.’

  The silence grew once more. Margaret knew Martin was right. Lois may be her daughter but she had behaved incredibly selfishly, putting her own needs before those of her children.

  ‘Are you going to leave Lois?’

  ‘I haven’t even thought about that yet. To be honest, I don’t know what I’m going to do. The kids need support right now. They’re my main priority. I’ll worry about me and Lois when she’s back home.’

  It had rained heavily overnight and was almost dawn before it stopped but the sky still remained threatening. Despite it being warm for the time of year the oppressive clouds hung over Sheffield as a reminder: winter was far from over.

  Scott Andrews drove with Joseph Glass in the front passenger seat. The newest member of the team was yawning loudly.

  ‘Didn’t you sleep much last night?’ Scott asked.

  ‘No. I was out until just gone one, got piss-wet through going home.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Just to a few pubs with a couple of mates, then a club. What did you get up to?’

  ‘Not much. I was in bed by ten,’ he said.

  ‘Ten? Why?’ Joseph sniggered.

  ‘Nothing to do.’

  ‘You should have come out with me.’

  ‘I’m not really into clubs anymore,’ he lied. Scott had never been into the club scene. On the rare occasion he did go out socially it was for a meal or the cinema.