For Reasons Unknown (15 page)

To the untrained eye, the unconscious passer-by, the large, double-fronted detached Victorian house on Manchester Road looked like any other family home. It was only when you opened the front door and saw one of the front rooms had been turned into an open-plan waiting room that the true purpose of the building was revealed.

As soon as Matilda looked up at the large imposing façade she felt her heart sink. She had hoped returning to work would signal an end to her biweekly meetings with the patronizing and plain Dr Warminster. When the ACC told her the return to work was on the proviso the meetings continued she could have screamed. Was she ever going to be free of this woman with her ugly floor-length skirts and pastel cardigans?

The petite blonde twenty-something at the reception desk looked up when Matilda entered. Did she wonder about the mental capacity of the people who came here, or was this just a job to her? As she gazed around the room, taking in her fellow patrons with their anxieties on display, she pondered whether the receptionist pigeon-holed her with the man with the facial tics, the woman who gently rocked from side to side, and the elderly gent who looked as if he was about to burst into tears at any moment.

It had been six months since Matilda’s first appointment. Why was she still coming here? Despite Dr Warminster’s diagnosis, she wasn’t depressed. Yes, she missed her husband. Yes, she questioned her ability to perform her duties at work. At a push she would admit to using alcohol to mask the pain of her loss, but depressed? Absolutely not.

Matilda looked at her watch. Her appointment should have begun five minutes ago. She was always late going in; something she believed all therapists did on purpose to render their patients into a sense of anxiety so they could witness them at their worst. Eventually the door opened and she was asked to enter. She took a deep breath and did as she was told.

Dr Sheila Warminster was indeed wearing a pleated floor-length skirt, a cheap white blouse, and a pale blue cardigan. She was a tall and wiry woman with an uncontrollable shock of dyed red hair. Her complexion was rough, as if she’d just had a vigorous wash with a scouring pad. Her perfume was strong and French; her accent south-western and very deep.

Matilda disliked therapists. She considered them to be nosy and expected them to get together once a week and have a good laugh at their patients’ expense. Sometimes, paranoia got the better of Matilda.

Upon meeting Dr Warminster, Matilda had tried, literally forced herself, to like her, but it wasn’t possible. It wasn’t the woman she took a dislike to, it was her profession. If Sheila had been a shop assistant or a bank clerk she could have been lovely to chat to. Once the sessions began, Matilda realized Sheila wasn’t as bad as she first thought, but the shocking dress sense and sickly smile were difficult to warm to. She was tolerable, but for a whole hour?

Matilda sat down on the leather sofa while Sheila took her usual place in a large leather office chair. Between them was a low coffee table, which had the obligatory box of tissues, and a small digital clock facing Sheila.

‘So, you’ve been back at work a few days now. How are things?’ Sheila crossed her legs and balanced an A4 pad on her knee. With a silver ballpoint pen in her right hand she was poised for Matilda to pour her heart out. She would have a long wait.

‘Very well thanks,’ Matilda said. She smiled. Her reply came out louder than expected. Who was she trying to convince; Sheila or herself? It had been her plan to come across as happy and cheerful; she was back at work and loving it and had no reason to come here any more. Unfortunately it wasn’t coming across that way.

‘And the four o’clock finishing time; are you OK with that?’

‘Not really, but those are the conditions I must abide by. Besides, it won’t be for long.’ Now Matilda was the one sporting a fake sickly smile.

‘How have your colleagues taken to your return?’

‘Very well.’

‘Good. So, no animosity?’

‘Of course not. Why would there be?’ she asked with a frown. She had promised herself to just answer Sheila’s questions with ease and the most basic of information and not ask any in return. She had barely been in the room five minutes and she had broken her promise to herself.

‘You have been away for a very long time; things change, people change, attitudes change.’

‘I have a very loyal team.’ She tilted her head and smiled.

‘So they’ve all welcomed you back with open arms?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s good then.’

Matilda looked around the room, which was decorated in soothing tones. It was supposed to resemble a living room and have a relaxed atmosphere, but she wasn’t convinced. The smell from the air fresheners was overpowering, the soft furnishings were trying too hard to be comforting, and the framed prints on the walls were lifeless and boring.

‘How are you coping with the job?’

‘Very well.’

‘Not getting tired or too bogged down with things?’

‘Of course not. I’ve been doing this job for years.’

‘But you’ve been through a great trauma, it takes time to readjust.’

‘A trauma? You make it sound like I’m the only survivor in a plane crash.’

‘Your career is very important to you Matilda. Your position is something you have been working towards your whole life. Almost a year ago something happened to destroy that. That is a trauma. Your husband, the man you loved more than anything in the world was cruelly snatched from you in the most horrific of ways. That is a trauma.’

Would smashing you in the face be a trauma?

‘It’s life.’ She shrugged, trying to hold back the tears. ‘These things happen to people all over the world every single day. We get knocked down but we get back up again and move on. It’s all manageable.’

‘Has Carl Meagan been mentioned at work?’

Matilda’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Yes.’

‘Who brought it up?’

‘I did.’
You big fat liar, Matilda.

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’ For a brief second she wondered if the ACC would hear about this conversation and confront her with her lies. She shrugged the thought away. She didn’t care.

‘And how were you?’

‘I didn’t break down in a flood of tears if that’s what you’re hoping.’

‘You don’t like coming here do you?’ Like a dog pining for a treat, Sheila tilted her head to one side. The raising of an eyebrow indicated she expected an answer. If one didn’t come, she’d tilt her head to the other side.

Give me a paw and I’ll answer your questions.

‘No.’ The pretence was too much for Matilda to keep up. Despite what she told herself she couldn’t fake in front of Dr Warminster and her smug self-righteousness. She could feel the pretend cheerfulness slipping away.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I think it’s a waste of time. I’ll admit I had difficulty when James first died and when the Carl Meagan case collapsed, but I’ve managed to work my way through it all and out the other side. I’m fine now.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes.’ She honestly meant it this time too. Well, until the next breakdown.

‘How is the work/home-life balance?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ve said in previous sessions that you don’t allow your colleagues into your private life. I was just wondering how you’re able to keep your work and home life completely separate.’

‘My colleagues are my colleagues. I work with them. I see the grim side of society with them, the evils people do to each other. I don’t want to be reminded of that in my social life.’

‘What about your best friend, Adele Kean?’

Matilda adjusted herself on the sofa. She was uncomfortable, or was it irritability? ‘What about her?’

‘Would you describe her as a colleague?’

‘Yes I would. She is a very good colleague. She is also a very loyal friend.’

‘What is so special about Adele that has allowed her to cross the divide between colleague and friend?’

‘Adele is a warm and caring person. I have known her for many years and I know that whatever I tell her will not go any further. She’s been through her share of heartache too. She knows what it’s like to have to bring yourself back from the brink and start again.’

‘So she’s been using her life experiences to help you through yours?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re very lucky to have Adele in your life.’

‘I know.’

‘It’s important not to rely on just one person though. You need to open yourself up to allow other people into your circle. Would you allow any of your other colleagues in?’

Why do you want me to be best friends with my colleagues?

‘I’m not sure. It’s difficult. I work with them every day. They chat, things get passed around and, like Chinese whispers, they get altered.’

‘Is that what you think; that they’ll gossip about you and talk about you when you’re not there?’

‘Just because we’re detectives it doesn’t mean the usual laws of an open-plan office don’t apply. People gossip; they slag each other off, make fun of a new haircut. It’s what people do to get through the day. I don’t want to be a part of that.’

‘But you’ve just described your team as being loyal. Surely they wouldn’t do that to you?’

Matilda took a deep breath. She could feel her hackles rising. Everything she said was being twisted, misinterpreted. She loathed coming here so much.

‘I’m their DCI,’ Matilda said with a forced calm tone. ‘Their boss. It wouldn’t be good for a boss to socialize with their employees. I don’t socialize with the ACC so why should I with my DS and DCs?’

‘But you do go to the pub with them at times?’

‘Yes of course. After a hard day or in celebration at solving a case, I like to share a congratulatory drink with them; a thank you for their hard work. I’m not a complete robot. I wouldn’t expect you to invite me round to your house for a meal. Professional relationships are completely different things.’

Again Sheila paused and did the head-tilting thing. ‘Are you still taking your medication Matilda?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you missed a dose?’

‘No. Why do you ask?’

‘You seem a tad irritable. You’re jittery.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m getting the impression you’re not telling me the whole truth. You’re placating me aren’t you? You’re giving me the answers I want to hear so you can go.’

‘I am very busy and have a twenty-year-old murder case to solve.’

‘But it’s after four o’clock. You wouldn’t be working now even if you weren’t here with me.’

It was Matilda’s turn to pause the conversation. She took another deep breath, crossed her legs the other way and tried, but failed, to relax. Her shoulders were aching with all the tension she was holding on to. ‘Just because I’m not in the office it doesn’t stop me thinking about the case.’

‘Do you have difficulty turning your mind off at the end of the day?’

‘You’re reading far too much into this. If you have a client who talks about how they were abused as a child do you stop thinking about it when you leave the office?’

‘Of course not.’

‘There you go then. I’m trying to solve the double murder of a married couple who were stabbed to death in front of their eleven-year-old child. That kind of case stays with you.’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘No.’

‘Can it be solved?’

‘Every case can be solved.’
No it can’t.

‘Will you solve it?’

‘Yes,’ Matilda said doubtfully.
Your pants should be on fire right now.

Sheila turned a page in her notepad. It was the first time Matilda had noticed she had filled a whole side of A4 with notes. She wondered what she had been writing and whether she would be able to read her own file at some point.

‘I’d like to see you again. Maybe next week rather than in a fortnight.’

‘Why?’

‘Your return to work and its progress needs to be closely monitored.’

‘ACC Masterson is monitoring me very closely. I am having regular meetings with her.’

‘I need to assess your mental well-being.’

‘There is nothing wrong with my mental health,’ she almost shouted. ‘I’m fine. I just want to return to doing my job. Why won’t people allow me to get on with it?’

‘Because you’ve been through…’

‘A great trauma, I know,’ she interrupted. She needed to get out of this room. The overbearing heat from the single radiator was causing her to feel sick. She could feel beads of sweat running down her back. She also needed a drink. ‘How’s next Wednesday for you?’ Matilda asked standing up, ready to make a mad dash for the door.

‘That’s fine. Same time?’

‘I have nothing else to do with my evenings.’

Usually when a client leaves a therapist’s office they feel lighter; as if a great weight has been lifted from their shoulders. They have shared their deepest, darkest thoughts and talked through what problems and obstacles they are having difficulty overcoming. Solutions may have been offered, talked through, and the client would be able to see the world not as a place to fear, but as a manageable place to live.

When Matilda left Dr Warminster’s office she was a seething mass of pent-up frustration. She didn’t like therapy. She didn’t like talking about herself, and she hated going over old ground every single session.

As she climbed into her car behind the wheel she wondered if she had any vodka left at home. Surely a visit to a therapist shouldn’t leave you aching for alcohol?

By the time the ambulance had arrived at the scene of the hit-and-run, Jonathan was sitting at the edge of the road hugging his knees. His eyes were staring and he was visibly shaking. He was cold and his chattering teeth echoed along the silent highway. His vision was fixed firmly on the still, broken body of Stephen Egan not three feet away, yet his mind had placed him back in time to the night his parents were murdered.

He was sitting at the top of the stairs, his thin pale arms wrapped tightly around the bannister. He was cold, and his breathing was rapid and shallow. His white shirt was forever stained with the flecks of drying blood from his mother and father in the next room. He felt sick but he couldn’t move; he was frozen to the spot. The rest of the house was silent. He could hear the distant ticking of a carriage clock in the living room; the whirring of the fridge from the kitchen, and the rasping painful breaths as his mother died.

When the initial shock had worn off, and Jonathan emerged from his trance, the junior doctor at the Northern General Hospital let him leave the emergency room. He immediately went in search of Stephen.

At first the receptionist was unwilling to tell Jonathan about Stephen’s condition or even which department he was in. It was only when Jonathan told her he was the closest person to a next of kin he had outside of the Republic of Ireland that she relented.

The impact of the car resulted in a broken left leg, but it was hitting the tarmac with such force that had caused his greatest trauma: a subdural haematoma. The impact created tears in the bridging veins that crossed the subdural space in his head. An increase of intracranial pressure was squeezing his brain and urgently needed to be released. By the time Jonathan had located Stephen’s whereabouts, he was already in the operating theatre.

There was nothing for him to do now but wait. He found an uncomfortable plastic chair close to the theatre and settled in. It was happening again. Someone had tried to get close to him and now their life was in danger.

Matilda was driving through the dark streets of Sheffield, her mind going over the conversation with Dr Warminster. It was strange that, although she didn’t want to go and she found her therapist to be patronizing, she did have good ideas; the reciting of British Prime Ministers definitely helped with her anxiety and panic attacks. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to let more people into her social life. She had a sort-of relationship with Sian out of work; surely it wouldn’t be the end of the world to meet Aaron Connolly or even Rory Fleming out of working hours? Well, maybe not Rory.

She was waiting at a red traffic light when her phone lit up with a text message from DS Sian Mills. Matilda read the message while putting the car into first gear as soon as the amber light shone. STEPHEN EGAN IN NGH. HIT&RUN. DOESNT LOOK GOOD. At the next available opportunity Matilda performed an illegal U-turn and headed for the Northern General Hospital.

Matilda flashed her warrant card and demanded information from the same receptionist that Jonathan had had difficulty with. Within seconds she was storming down a corridor, and stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the lonely sight of a despondent Jonathan Harkness sitting on the edge of a seat, gazing out into a world of his own.

‘Jonathan.’

At first he didn’t look up. She could guess the thoughts racing through his mind: the murder of his parents, the lifeless body of his Aunt Clara, the battered form of his estranged brother, and now the image of his boss, Stephen Egan. This was not a fragile young man living on his nerves; this was a broken young man.

Matilda called his name again and this time he looked up. His face seemed paler, if that was possible, his eyes wide and hollow: utter terror was etched on his face.

‘What happened?’

His voice was barely above a whisper. ‘A car came out of nowhere.’

‘Are you hurt?’ She pulled a chair up next to him and sat down.

‘No. I was walking in the opposite direction. We’d just said goodbye and I was going home. It was the noise that made me turn back. The sound he made when he hit the ground.’

‘Did you get a good look at the car?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you get the registration number?’

Jonathan was on his knees looking down at the man who had declared his love for him. For a brief second, for the first time in his life, he had known happiness, and now it had been snatched away from him. Something caught his eye and he looked up. The bright red of the reversing lights caused him to squint. A few seconds later and the car started moving, heading straight for Jonathan. The fight or flight tendency did not enter his head. He was trying to make sense of what had just happened. He looked down at Stephen, who was still unconscious. He didn’t have the strength to pull him out of the way and he didn’t have the time either; the car was gaining momentum. He had two options; run and allow the car to run over Stephen again, finishing him off, or stay and become a victim of the hit-and-run too. In the space of a blink of an eye he made up his mind. Running away was not an option. He held Stephen’s cold hand firmly in his and closed his eyes tight, waiting for the impact. The wheels crunched over loose stones as it reversed. Ten seconds went by, then twenty. Jonathan could smell the exhaust fumes and feel the heat coming from the car. It was almost upon him. Eventually he opened his eyes. The car had stopped in front of him, less than a yard away. He was staring straight at the number plate: YS08 DPT.

‘Jonathan,’ Matilda repeated his name, ‘I know you’ve been through a lot tonight but I need to ask you these questions now while the events are still fresh in your mind so we have a chance to catch the person who did this. Did you see the registration number?’

‘No I didn’t. It happened too quickly. One minute he was standing there just walking away and the next he was…I told him this would happen.’

‘What?’

‘I told him that if anyone tries to get close then this would happen. People don’t last very long when they know me; my parents, my Aunt Clara, my brother, and now Stephen. I’m jinxed.’

‘That is ridiculous. You’re not jinxed. It’s just one of those things.’

‘No. One of those things happens just the one time. My entire family has been killed. All of this does not happen to just one person.’ He looked up at Matilda with wet eyes.

‘Look, Jonathan, there is nothing I can say to make you feel better and I’m not going to even try to placate you, but you mustn’t dwell on everything. You’ve been through hell I understand that, but you can’t stop that from living your life. You can’t live in the past.’

Jonathan was silent for more than a minute. He sniffled a few times then looked up. ‘Are you saying that to me or yourself?’

‘Sorry?’ she asked, taken aback.

‘I’ve read up on what happened to you. I know you went through some personal crisis while you were investigating the Carl Meagan case. That’s why you blame yourself for it going wrong. Your mind wasn’t one hundred per cent on the case. I bet you feel as jinxed as I do right now.’

‘But I’m getting on with my life. I’m back at work. I have friends around me. I’m getting there. It’s a slow process, but it’s something we have to do.’

‘Do you drive?’

‘I’m sorry?’ She was shocked by the sudden change of subject. She sat back in her chair, distancing herself from Jonathan.

‘Do you drive?’

‘Yes I do.’

‘Did you pass on the first attempt?’

‘No. Third actually,’ she replied with a frown, wondering where this was leading.

‘What caused you to fail on the previous two occasions?’

She smiled at the memory. ‘Reversing around a corner always stymied me.’

‘What would you have done if you’d never mastered it? Would you have continued learning to drive, taking test after test after test?’

‘Probably not. I would have given up if I’m honest. I’m not a very patient person.’

‘There you go then. I’ve tried living. I’ve tried life and I can’t do it. That’s why I don’t allow people to get close.’

‘Why did you allow Stephen in?’

‘He told me he loved me.’ Jonathan smiled at the memory. ‘Nobody has ever said that to me before. It felt…nice. I believed him too. He actually made me feel happy.’ He paused. ‘And I think I made him happy too.’

‘So there’s still life out there for you.’

‘No. Look at what happened. The first hint of happiness and it’s snatched away.’

‘You can’t give up, Jonathan.’

‘Why not?’

She had no answer for him. ‘You just can’t,’ she said quietly, not believing it herself.

A harassed-looking doctor came through the doors. She had a sheen of sweat on her forehead. She gave a weak smile and asked Jonathan if he was the next of kin. He told her Stephen’s family was in Ireland and he was the closest to a relative he had. The doctor didn’t seem convinced and was reluctant to continue until Matilda pulled rank and flashed her warrant card.

‘Mr Egan suffered a subdural haematoma. We had to perform a craniotomy to release a build-up of blood and control the bleeding. Unfortunately the bleeding was too heavy and the site of the tear was difficult to find. He lost a lot of blood before we could locate the trauma site. Mr Egan developed a brain oedema, which is when the brain swells up due to the trauma. I’m afraid there was nothing we could do for him.’

‘So what does that all mean?’ Jonathan asked.

Matilda placed her hand on his arm and turned him towards her. ‘Jonathan, Stephen died.’