For Reasons Unknown (16 page)

Jonathan had lost all sense of time. If asked, he would have difficulty recalling what day it was. He declined Matilda’s offer to drive him home saying that he wanted to walk, to clear his head and think things through. He had been walking for half an hour before he stopped in his tracks and looked around him. It was dark and he had no idea where he was.

As he walked the streets of Sheffield, Jonathan’s mind went over everything in his past; that was one of his problems, he was never able to relax, his mind was always ticking over, remembering mindless conversations and bus journeys, people he met during his working day he’d never see again. Why did they all occupy a space in his head?

His mind went to his Aunt Clara, the one person in his life he had loved and trusted. Her death was sudden and a shock, just like Stephen’s had been. She was a wonderful woman, strong, determined, funny and full of love and kindness.

At first, Clara tried to engage Jonathan in interaction with the neighbourhood children. She invited them round to her large house and played games, but Jonathan was reluctant and eventually the other children stopped visiting. In the end, she left Jonathan to his own devices. He spent the majority of his childhood in his room reading Dickens. The only way to expel the horrifying memories of life in Sheffield and to silence the seemingly endless screams in his head was to immerse himself in Victorian fiction.

Eighteen months after arriving in Newcastle, Jonathan eventually spoke. It was a Sunday evening in mid-June and, not surprisingly, summer had yet to arrive in the north-east. Heavy rain was falling and a strong wind battered tree branches against the living-room window. The television was turned up louder than usual to block out the sound of the intense weather.

‘Can you turn the volume down please?’ Jonathan asked.

Did Jonathan just speak? Surely not. It was probably the television, or maybe she had fallen into a light sleep and had dreamt it. She looked over at Jonathan, who, in his usual armchair, was reading her battered paperback copy of
Bleak House
.

‘Did you just say something?’

‘I just wondered if you could turn the volume down a bit.’ His voice was quiet and fragile, not much louder than a whisper. ‘It’s a bit loud.’

‘You’re talking. My God, you’re actually talking,’ Clara said, sitting up from her slouched position and quickly muting the television.

Jonathan smiled. The look on his aunt’s face; wide eyes and beaming grin, was infectious.

Clara jumped up, grabbed Jonathan into a tight embrace and held him against her breast. ‘My darling boy, you’re actually talking,’ her voice quivered and tears began to fall.

After that evening, Jonathan began talking like a regular teenager and they would spend their time together talking about the family. Clara would tell stories about her long-dead husband and his experience as a fire fighter. She’d tell him about her brother, his father, and what the two of them were like as children. She became more animated; she had someone to share her life with. She never pressed him on what happened in the house. Not once did she initiate the conversation. She waited for Jonathan to broach the subject; but it would be another six years before he brought it up again.

As Jonathan grew older, he became more awkward – with himself, society, and life in general. He often joked that he was born one hundred years too late and yearned for a lifestyle not so dependent on modern technology. He refused to invest in a mobile phone and, although he was computer literate, he never wanted one in his home.

He was relaxed around Clara and joined her on weekends away to her static caravan in Whitley Bay, but apart from that, human relationships eluded and baffled him. From Jonathan’s point of view, he could function perfectly well alone. Following the horror of what he had witnessed in Sheffield he thought it unfair to inflict his dark, depressive personality on another individual. Providing things stayed how they were he would be fine in his own self-induced cocoon.

Things didn’t stay the same. Four days after her sixtieth birthday, Clara died peacefully in her sleep from a massive heart attack. It was not a surprise. Where her brother Stefan was trim and athletic, Clara was obese. Her diet comprised fried foods, packets of crisps, and bars of chocolate. She spooned sugar in her tea and coffee by the tablespoon and smoked forty cigarettes a day.

Jonathan had lost the only person in his life he had loved. There was nobody else left. He had been hurt for the final time. He was truly alone.

Clara had left everything she owned to Jonathan in her will, hoping he would continue to live in the stable environment she had created for him. However, after a short period of mourning, Jonathan sold Clara’s house in Blaydon-on-Tyne, and the static caravan, and found himself heading back to Sheffield. To him, Newcastle belonged to Clara and that life was now gone forever. Sheffield was calling him home.

Jonathan was standing in the middle of a generic street with semi-detached houses on both sides of the road. He could be anywhere in the country. The pavements were dotted with leafless trees. Most of the families had one, two and sometimes three cars; all fighting for a parking space. In the dead of night with all occupants at home, traffic was restricted to single file only.

Most of the houses’ downstairs lights were off with just a few of the upstairs ones lit; people reading before going to sleep presumably. Jonathan envied their lives; coming home from work, sitting down to eat a meal with the family, talking through the events of the day, watching a few hours of television before retiring to bed to recharge. The next morning they would wake up and begin another day in their mundane lives. Mundane they may be, but in these large Victorian houses, at least they had someone to live them with.

It had been Jonathan’s choice to live a solitary lifestyle. What he had told Matilda was true; he remained alone so he couldn’t ruin anyone else’s life. What was he going to have to do to make sure people stayed away? Was he going to have to move?

He turned a corner onto yet another street, which could be in any city throughout the country. Ahead was a brightly-lit corner shop he recognized. He had been here before. He knew where he was and he wasn’t far from home.

Home. His lonely flat in a concrete block of eight apartments. Apparently, home was where the heart is, but what if you had no heart? What if your heart was so cold and damaged that it didn’t know a place of comfort? He didn’t consider his flat to be his home; it was somewhere to close himself off from the rest of the world. He didn’t feel comfortable there, just safe.

As he headed for home a car pulled up just ahead of him. Jonathan should have been more alert of strange cars after what had just happened, but he continued walking in his own little world.

‘Jonathan Harkness.’ The driver had stepped out of the car and was now standing in the middle of the pavement.

Jonathan turned. The stranger was tall and solidly built. He was wearing dark clothing and his face was hidden by the shadow of a nearby tree. Usually, when confronted with the unknown, Jonathan would be a mass of fear, but the events of the past few days had dulled his emotions. If this man was to be his killer then so be it; just please let it be quick and as pain-free as possible.

‘Are you Jonathan Harkness?’

‘Yes,’ he replied with confidence as if in a stance of defiance. His last stand.

The stranger reached into his inside coat pocket slowly. What was in there, a gun, a knife? He pulled out his warrant card and held it aloft.

‘I’m DCI Ben Hales, South Yorkshire Police. Jonathan Harkness, I’m arresting you for the murder of your brother, Matthew Harkness. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’

Acting DCI Ben Hales was doing everything wrong. He was about to conduct an interview alone and he had told the custody sergeant to look the other way while he led Jonathan Harkness to interview room two. Should anything go wrong, Ben promised to take the blame. For the benefit of the station’s CCTV cameras, the custody sergeant went to the toilet giving Ben the opportunity to escort his prisoner unseen.

Hales left Jonathan in the interview room for over an hour. He was watching him for the majority of the time from the observation room next door; Jonathan would say more with his body language than in actual conversation. Hales knew this type of criminal; he’d clam up during questioning, but left alone, his unconscious mind would give him away.

Jonathan was unaware he was being watched. At the height of his anxiety, when the urge to release tension was at its most prevalent, he rolled up the sleeve on his shirt and bit down hard on his arm. Ben Hales winced at the sight.

Jonathan’s right arm was covered in healed bite marks. The sudden pain caused his mind to concentrate on what was causing it. A rush of adrenaline shot through his entire body and as he slowly exhaled, he began to relax. Hales could only compare it to a drug addict taking their next hit; the immediate effects were the same. Jonathan visibly relaxed.

The detective entered the interview room with a folder in his hands. He informed Jonathan that his interview was going to be recorded and videoed and once again read him his rights.

‘I’ve been very busy over the past couple of days,’ Hales said sitting back in his chair. ‘And I’m not the only one am I?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Jonathan said.

Ben Hales looked harassed; he had the weight of the world’s problems on his shoulders. His face was drawn and his eyes drooped like sleep had eluded him for weeks.

‘Where were you on Monday night?’

‘I was at home.’

‘All night?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can anyone vouch for that?’

‘No. I live alone.’

‘Did you have any visitors?’

‘No.’

‘So you came home from work and didn’t see another soul until you went into work the following morning?’

‘I didn’t go straight to work the following morning. My childhood home was being demolished. I went to see it come down.’

‘Did you know your brother was in Sheffield?’

‘No.’

‘He didn’t contact you beforehand, or even on the day itself, telling you he was planning to come back to Sheffield?’

‘No.’

‘I find that very hard to believe.’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what to tell you. I honestly cannot remember the last time I heard from my brother. I had no idea he was back in Sheffield.’

Ben leaned back in his seat and folded his arms. He looked at Jonathan for a while in complete silence, studying him. ‘What I don’t understand is how two brothers could be so estranged following such a horrific event. Your parents had been murdered, brutally so, yet you didn’t forge a bond. There was no brotherly love. You just went your separate ways. Why did you do that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Jonathan answered.

‘Surely you must agree that it was strange; the final two members of the Harkness family being split up rather than uniting in your shared grief.’

Jonathan didn’t reply. He bowed his head. He really didn’t want to have to think about any form of relationship with his brother.

‘Does the name Aoife Quinn mean anything to you?’ Ben asked suddenly.

Jonathan frowned. ‘No. Should it?’

‘How about Andrea Bickerstaff?’

‘No.’

‘I am surprised. Surely you remember the name of the women who rescued you from your home on the night your parents were murdered.’

‘Oh.’

Jonathan looked down at the scratched table in front of him. He wondered how many people had sat here under interrogation and how many of those were innocent, like himself. The table was covered in a pattern of coffee rings, some relatively fresh, some faded long ago.

‘Oh indeed. Do you remember them now?’

‘Yes,’ he said to the table.

Their faces came back to the front of his memory. He remembered being picked up by a friendly smiling face, though the eyes looked terrified. He remembered the strong smell of a cheap perfume as he was held tightly to someone’s chest and carefully led down the stairs. He remembered clinging to his saviour as a red blanket was wrapped around him and the same woman carried him into the back of an ambulance.

‘Would it interest you to know that they both remember every single detail of that night? I’ve tracked them down. I’ve interviewed them. I’ve talked to other people who were in your life around that time too; your head teacher, your babysitter. They all remember you in glorious technicolour.’

He opened a brown folder and lifted out its typed contents. ‘Aoife Quinn calls you a strange boy. She said you’d just stare straight through people. You used to play with her son but she had to put a stop to that after you bit him on the arm and drew blood.’ He looked up at Jonathan, as though searching for a reaction.

‘Andrea Bickerstaff says there was an incident with you at school where you held a young boy’s head under water. Do you remember that?’

Jonathan didn’t reply. He continued to look straight ahead of him. He wished Matilda Darke was here. He didn’t like this man with his frightening eyes and his constant fidgeting. He was like a caged animal waiting to pounce. Jonathan started scratching his hand again.

Ben continued. ‘Your head teacher was even making preparations to have you removed from school as you were disruptive to other children, some of them were afraid around you.’

‘What does this have to do with my brother?’ Jonathan asked.

‘You never got on with him did you? He resented you and you hated him. I suppose it’s just pure luck I’m talking to you and not your brother. I think you killed him before he had the chance to kill you.’

‘What?’ Jonathan seemed genuinely shocked to be accused of murder. ‘This is ridiculous. I had no idea my brother was even in Sheffield. I didn’t know where he was living.’

‘Do you know Holly Lane?’

‘Of course I do. It’s close to where I work.’

‘Exactly.’

‘It’s close to where a lot of people work. Look, I did not kill my brother.’

‘Really? I have a report here that says otherwise.’ He moved the witness statements to one side and pushed the report across the table to Jonathan to read.

DCI Hales waited until Jonathan had finished reading the report before he continued with the interview. He looked at his watch; it was incredibly late. The station was quiet and a skeleton staff was operating during the night-time hours. He hadn’t called his wife since yesterday lunchtime, he didn’t even text to say he wouldn’t be home, not that she would have noticed.

‘Well?’ Hales asked. He leaned back in his seat and folded his arms.

‘This is just…it’s…how can you take the word of a man who has never even met me? I have never even spoken to Charlie Johnson. My aunt refused to allow him to meet me when I was a child and I’ve refused all interviews with him since. What he has written is baseless and untrue. He’s not even a qualified psychologist; this is just the ramblings of a hack.’

‘You weren’t well behaved at school though, were you?’ Hales asked, moving the psychological report out of the way and placing the witness statements on top.

‘Taken out of context anything can be made to look worse than it is. Yes I bit Joseph Quinn on the arm, but that was because he had me on the ground; he was trying to choke me. The only thing I could do to get free was to grab his arm and bite him. I don’t have any memory of holding a boy’s head under water.’

‘What about the statements from your neighbours calling you a loner and weird?’

‘I was a loner, so what?’ He shrugged. ‘My parents didn’t have any time for me, Matthew was out living his own life, so who did I have to hang around with? Nobody. I had to look after myself. Your so-called evidence carries no weight whatsoever.’

Hales was defeated. He was sure he could prove Charlie Johnson’s report if he had a psychologist talk to Jonathan. He would have to speak to the ACC in the morning for permission.

‘Tell me about the night your parents died.’

‘I thought you arrested me for killing my brother? What, you’re now accusing me of killing my parents too? I was eleven years old.’

‘Answer my question,’ Ben said with deep determination in his voice. He was beginning to lose patience with Jonathan. His hands were flat on the table, his arms tense as if in a position to pounce.

‘You know it all. There is nothing I can say that will add anything new. I can’t do this any more.’ His voice broke and he was almost crying.

‘Why not?’

‘Because it hurts,’ he yelled. ‘I have to live with this every single day. How can I move on with my life when I’m being constantly asked to go over it again and again and again? You have files, you have statements, you have Charlie Johnson’s bloody book. You know everything I do.’

‘Oh come on. Do you honestly expect me to believe everything that went on in that house is in the public domain?’

‘I’m sorry but it’s true.’ Jonathan leaned on the table and put his head in his hands. He appeared to be shattered – both mentally and physically.

‘Tell me again about your brother.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Oh come on, he’s your last surviving relative, or was, surely you remember the last time you met.’

‘I don’t. It was years ago.’

‘How many?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘So you didn’t see him on Monday night, the night he was killed?’ He was asking the question for a second time, hoping for a different answer than before.

Jonathan paused. ‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me who Dawn Marwood is.’

Jonathan’s face looked blank. He was too tired to think properly yet he knew the name from somewhere. ‘She’s a woman who lives in my building.’

‘Which apartment number?’

‘Number one.’

‘That would be the first apartment on the ground floor?’

‘Yes,’ Jonathan sighed.

‘On Monday night, Dawn Marwood was in a lot of pain and couldn’t sleep. She suffers with arthritis and the cold weather leaves her joints stiff. She was awake until the small hours of Tuesday morning. She was in her living room reading a book when the sound of shouting distracted her from her book. Do you know where the shouting was coming from?’

Jonathan didn’t reply. He continued to look straight ahead. He could see the enjoyment on Hales’s face.

‘The shouting was coming from your apartment, Jonathan. At first Ms Marwood thought it might have been the television but then remembered you don’t have one. When she heard the sound of breaking glass she decided to investigate. As luck would have it, Ms Marwood isn’t a fast walker and she took some time getting to her front door, when she did and she looked through her spy hole, do you know what she saw?’